Flying






I read somewhere that when you think there is no love in the world you should go to the airport. Love is all around us every day, we step over it, we misplace it, we even take it for granted but at the airport it's difficult to do that. Airports are places we say good bye and then places where we are reunited with people we've missed (and isn't seeing someone you've missed oh so sweet?). I can remember sobbing unconsolable in an airport long before Richie was born in LA knowing I'd never see the blond skiing lover again only to run into him years later in San Francisco wishing I hadn't. And I found myself at the airport, a kind of an airport, people coming and going, looking, moving on and finding adventure. For the past few weeks I have been struggling, kicking back the blues trying to figure out what is missing, I was negotiating a deal in my head sure that if I struck the right balance I could satisfy something broken in me and not risk the space of comfort I had established. I was a hunter, Artemis, again.

I will tell you that I can't remember the first thing he said to me to get my attention. I can tell you that the ease with which he shared himself was alarming. As a woman I tend to be more comfortable around men that are nervous or fidgeting or wary of me. I think the really brave women seek out those that are comfortable with themselves because they aren't going to be injured with a jab when we feel defensive, even the subtle jabs. He carried a log book so I surmised he was a traveling salesman or a pilot. He was a pilot and I was certain someone who had been in the service or was. They never lose the haircut. My father was a marine until the day he died. I remember as a child finding his uniform and putting it on, thinking I'd wear it for halloween only to be scolded and reminded that I hadn't earned the right to wear that uniform and that if I touched it again I would be very sorry I had.

Surrounded by people, by noise, by the comings and goings of life; he told me about flying. "aren't you ever afraid?" I asked. Driving a car was difficult for me, so flying seemed impossible. Best Friend is very nervous about flying, I love it. I didn't really give a thought until now how it had worked, only knew there would be adventure at the other side, a land unexplored, someone or something waiting for me, toe tapping. "The white clouds are exciting, it's the dark clouds that will break your plane." They wouldn't wreck your plane I thought later, just break you. You can fix a break, you can't fix a wreck and he was certain there was no situation he couldn't fix, you can break a leg you can't wreck a leg. Dark clouds are like dark men, they too will break you.

Behind every set of eyes there is a story. These days my story was sitting too close to the surface and if you poked hard enough a delluge of tears would show up, not out of sadness I haven't had a day of sadness in a very long time. The tears would be frustration, anxiousness and uncertainty. These weren't issues someone could help you through, merely distract you from. When he told me of the colors of the sun, the strips of light and the colors, I wanted to see them, give him another set of eyes so they could transmit the images back and let them sit in my head, to hold the beauty without the risk, impossible. And behind his tender eyes, that story just sitting there a puzzle piece wedged in around others that may fit, but if you closely maybe not. Sitting alone here? he wondered. What's the story? I'd quote the asking part but I can't remember he just knew like someone knows if it's raining. You can't tell someone you are dying just a little. "it's a secret."

We talked of our mothers, missing them. For a moment I imagined my mother arranging this, having tea with his mother, cutting her hair, the two of them baking bread. My mother would pick this one for the same reasons she picked my father years ago. I knew my father had no involvement, he would have picked a guy with a wonky eye to make me comfortable and laughed and laughed. When we were children, camping with my parents my brother and I had gone swimming only to arrive back and the campsite where my father had befriended a group of carnival freaks. He was cooking for them on an open campfire, a lady with a beard, a short man with some problem I did't understand at my young age, a woman large enough to sit on back of my father's truck bed, small people in costumes who flew through the air every night. It was surreal to watch him interract with them like he'd know them a hundred years listening to johnny cash music on an old 8 track player that looked like a stick of dynamite. You had to "set off the bomb" to change tracks. He'd feed them as he thought feeding people was taking care of them. My father was drawn to the unusual he liked the challenge of loving the unlovables.

"So when you are up there and there's trouble (Isn't there always trouble?)," I asked him, "do you have fast anxious thoughts or are you slow and careful when you are in a dark cloud?" I knew the answer before it fell out and of course I was wrong. I can't remember the last time I was surprised by an answer. He told me it was both, but there was a photo quality like snapshots, thinking through things exciting and yet careful at the same time. Sitting there with him was exciting and yet careful and the little snapshots of his life were sitting on my lap like polaroids, the images of his mother laughing wondering if her hair was dark like his or blonde and whispy. When he was talking I thought that if we left here we could travel up to the big lake where you can feel very small. We could make a big red kite, write all those little troubles that were biting at me, his oh so beautiful girlfriend, my oh so powerful boyfriend and what to do with them, to ponder the next step. I'd jot my fears of summer making you old, he'd write a secret thought he hadn't shared with anyone else and we'd let the line run out flying so fast through our fingers it would cause a cut, the blood tasting sweet like melted licorce.

He held out his hand
"If you put your secret here I'll take it flying with me and when I am twisting between the ribbons of white I will throw it there and you'll be free of it."

"It's fire and will burn your hand."

"No, it won't. You've made that part up in your head. Nothing you do can hurt me."

"How would you know that? I've caused hurt."

"You don't know me but you should listen to me, especially about this."

I thought on it over what seemed days. When you are figuring your life days can pass in an instant or each day can be a year and I could hear emily in my head she had the voice of an old librarian, slow and methodical (If you were coming in the fall I'd brush the summer by with half a smile an half a spurn as housewives do a fly. If you were coming in a year i'd wind the months in balls, putting them in their separate drawer until their time befalls) A few days I found myself sitting there again, in the same outfit, sipping the same diet coke, listening to my ipod humming a little thinking: some day I will be born.

This time his face seemed closer. Objects in the rearview mirror may appear closer but when they are striking the windshield they really are closer. We spoke of first kisses that tasted like lemon and the mysterious boy who would show up at my house late into the night not afraid of my father warrior, taking me walking until the wet from the grass made my feet ache in my white Keds a little. Oh to be that girl again, to feel lips brush my young lover's for the first time. I'd like to build a time machine and be in Kentucky watching him kiss this girl seeing him smile a few moments later when he'd walk away from her knowing it was the best day yet and being near the street lamp down the block on Mayfield kissing my first true romance and not wanting it to ever end thanking the night, seeing him in school the next day wanting it to be dark. I picked the home coming dress with more thought than that some women pick their wedding dress. A pleaser to the point of exhaustion.

"ready?"

Oh gods his hand was there again, this time balancing on my knee, palm up and I looked at each finger a few times.

"terrified." His eyes said, of course it's supposed to be like that, even a little bit of a smile that if we hadn't talked of mothers and kisses and the tender mercies of love I would have taken as a sarcasm.

"it's ok."

"I want to believe you."

I closed my eyes and could picture letting him drive in the snow, knowing we didn't even need to drive in the snow. We could stay in, I could make an excuse. I make excuses all the time not to be here or there and the people who love me understand or pretend to understand. The snow would melt in a few days and nobody would miss us. We could play scrabble and he could tell me about flying. I'd show him my scar and he'd tell me about longing. Or he'd show me his scar and I'd tell him about longing. There was no telling, no play book and if there was a log book he wasn't giving a hint. Play your hands close to your chest darling otherwise I will have figured all this out and the last thing sitting in that oh so confident hand will be my secret.

I went home and drew a map. From midway you drive south down Cicero to 79th street, west, a right to Mayfield, past the place I grew up until the end of the block a quick right and the street lamp, now older overlooking a new school but most of the same houses. I left the map at the airport, where I had been sitting. I waited until dark and went the house, sat on the curb, it belonged to another family now, another set of dreams. Out of the sky there was a whoosh that sounded almost like a storm. In the middle of the street landed a plane, certainly a surprise and quite out of place. I lived here almost half my life and nothing like this had ever happened. The most exciting thing that happened was the stoner girl down the block who fell out of the second story window or when I hit Jimmy Mandernack in the head with a lunchbox full of rocks because he bullied my little brother.

The door opened and he just fell out like he'd done this a thousand times and then some.

"Carrie, cmere" he held out his hand again and this time I wasn't going to hesitate. "You can't leave that here," I was pointing to the plane.

"Why don't you let me worry about that." this time his smile was large amused with my astonishment.

We walked quietly, I didn't lead. When we approached the corner he pulled me to him and he kissed me hard. I just had to close my eyes and let go. The ground opened up and I fell through for a few moments and I could feel the air flying through my hair and he caught me, whispered to open my eyes and see all the cloud cover. He carried me back down the block and put me in the grass and the plane was gone.

When I turn on the bat signal he won't show up right away. But when I am in the studio working, when the little gray cat is in my lap sipping an ice coffe; I'll hear the whoosh. I can glance up and there in the driveway with no end and there will be the plane. This will cause me to squeal like a little girl. Soon we'll be in my room at the top of the stairs. It will be quiet and in one pinch he will pop off my bra and every time he smiles he looks 17 again. We'll dance and make merry and he'll tell me something I didn't know, just leaving little footprints in the garden so I will be sure later that he was really here.

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When someone holds out their hand you can look away.
When someone stands in helpless abandon you can look away.
When someone is hungry you can feed them or you can always look away.
Or you can be a hero.
The path you take is the way you will be rememberd.

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You can always reach me at Summerpoet@msn.com and find my work at www.poetsummer.etsy.com.

Carrie.

Ferris Wheels

Don't give yourself Away

Being a creature of the night I used to believe that the very late night was my favorite time of the day, but anymore I love the mornings. Summer has been moderate this year and while I know it makes my brother insane because he's a creature who almost eats the sun, for me it's been wonderful. I will often leave my bedroom windows open and the window in my studio so I can still hear the animals and birds and yet have the air conditioning suck the humidity out of the air and keep my feet cool. So there I was in bed this morning waking softly to hear the birds. I reached over for my ipod to listen to Joni. Joni was singing Both Sides Now and I was thinking about how many times I've listened to that song and the mix of comfort and sadness she's given me. She doesn't just sing the song she draws the words out so if you know the lyrics you wait for them to pour over you like sunshine each word feeding a bit of your soul:

Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I've looked at clouds from both sides now

From up and down, and still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all

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I had one earphone in and left my other ear to hear for the different chirps in the trees and looked for a cloud, not one today. I noticed the painting in the corner was moved a little because Fat Fat Leroy Brown, the fattest cat in this whole damn house was looking for a place to hide from Richie, his pounding footprints could scare a circus elephant let alone my tender fat cat. They'd come one after the other to see me in the morning when I am quiet and still, listening to Joni sing to me. I felt like Michael Corleone at his Son's communion party, each taking their turn to come lay beside me and let me love on them, kissing behind their ears and singing to them a little. When one would leave another appears listening to the birds and sometimes launching themselves in the air to the window above my bed to listen to watch for them. Last night before I fell asleep I could hear Richie and Chrissy taking the junk from the garage they had cleaned this week to the curb. They were dragging things because kids are lazy and they were giggling, like lovers do, like friends do and I wanted to hug them both and say, good for you. They laugh like Tricky and I do when it's quiet and I can say any one of 300 phrases that will make him burst out laughing. They laughed like Suzy and I do when we both see something funny or when she sees some nut job talking to himself on a park bench and nudges me to say "this is your last chance to save his soul and love him forever." Later in the morning she will text me to ask if I am feeling ok, as yesterday I felt wonky all day long. She loves me like that. And while I was counting the blessings in my head, Joni was still singing to me:

Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As ev'ry fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way

But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away

I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all

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It's loves illusions I recall. The cool gray light of morning was just floating there and I was thinking that if I died tomorrow I would mostly be worried about someone finding my ipod and flipping through it someone who loves me thinking, "what the hell was going on in that head of hers?" They'd wonder why I was listening to Dh Lawrence and know I had probably read Lady Chatterly's Lover, but I never have. Strange. Best Friend texts me from the office, "your mission today if you choose to take it." I was already on her mission and sent her a secret. She responded with "we should all get what we want." Oh hell who am I kidding, I called her last night when I was sure she was sleeping but she was awake and we laughed until I was sleepy. She still fights off sleep to love me. I am so blessed. I'll mention that if i run into him I will give him her number but hesitate like I shouldn't. She responds "don't hesitate hell give him all the numbers." She won't answer them anyway, she's clever like that.

Can you be surrounded in love and sometimes feel a little hint of lonely creep in the edges? When the pastor of my church says "be happy with what you have." I will feel full of shame, my mother would hardly be happy with me, she lived a small life and wanted the same for me. There are days when the world doesn't feel large enough and you think it will be an ordinary day. You go through the motions, find iced coffee, fill an order, white to a customer, hope the post office finds what's missing, keep the TV turned off (keep down the white noise), eat what's right, cheat and look for some mercy. I did that yesterday as I do most days finding joy in the tiny details that make my life what I've created. And then out of nowhere a really fluffy cloud passed by. I almost missed it as it was dark, dust really that gloaming moment of acknowledging the past day and wondering of the next. I had started a few new pieces, clipping away, and there this cloud showed and it wasn't dark or fluffy white, no shade of gray. There was a cloud of purple passion and it just parked itself over my door.

And when the cloud lingered there
I pretended not to notice
until it reached down mixed in summer breeze
and played with my hair
lingering there until it left again

"I am so tired of shades of gray." Sometimes you hope for something and time passes and you think hope is for suckers who sing about ferris wheels. Other times, it parks there and you think, I'm a fan of hope. Hope wins the day. He'll find me later. He'll use the word baby. He'll know I needed the rain not the rain that washes off the dirt but the rain that leaves your hair purple.

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Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way

But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day

I've looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all
I've looked at life from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all

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Joni was done. Best Friend was off saving the world for democrats. Richie was stirring he's taking me to the DMV today to change up my license, more proof that summers make you old. The cats are wrestling all over the house sounding like fallen soldiers on the battlefield as they fling their bodies to the ground. Morning is waiting downstairs, a few emails to answer and maybe today I'll find the salad I love with the little peas. If the purple cloud shows up at your door, pour it out, say what you must, it won't be around long, don't hesitate, or you'll wonder.

If you need to find me, I'm at summerpoet@msn.com. You can find my work at poetsummer.etsy.com. I'm never far.

Carrie.



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Do not give of yourself to the dead

D H Lawrence

My friend Tony introduced me to D H. I think lawrence is most famous for his line about feeling sorry for yourself. I've never seen a wild thing feel sorry for itself. A small bird will drop frozen dead from it's bough without having felt sorry for itself.

A few days ago I was thinking about Wilde and his fairy tales, the story of the happy prince and the little bird that flew over the city, finding ways to make the prince happy while the prince's life was falling down around. The prince so unhappy with the way his life has turned out hardly noticed that the little bird had sacrificed his entire life without feeling sorry for himself for even a moment.

Lawrence danced with dark love. I was listening to Robert Polhemus on NPR speak about Lawrence and about women in love. Women in love was so progressive sexual for it's time that reviewers called his work "pure dirt." As with most of Lawrence's works, Women in Love caused controversy over its sexual subject matter. One early reviewer said of it, "I do not claim to be a literary critic, but I know dirt when I smell it, and here is dirt in heaps — festering, putrid heaps which smell to high Heaven.

Anyone who knows me know I have been attracted to older men my whole life. Even when I was a teenager I was drawn to older men, their calm cool, collected nature. I was drawn to them. Lawrence plays with that notion. Women in love is filled with extraordinary passages and now I am tearing them apart and then putting them back together again. I was taken by a passage where Ursula (the woman so interested) catching Birken the boy she was fascinated by standing in the dark under the moon throwing rocks into the water, angry, and talking to himself. It reminded me of Romeo catching Juliet in the night listening to her talk to him even though he wasn't even there. Birken threw rocks one after cursing the moon, cursing his life, decisions he'd made. Ursula was dazed. She had never been witness to an outburst like this. He'd always been so composed and there she was in the dark watching him come unglued and wondered how she'd carry this little secret around with her wanting so much to offer him comfort ever so certain that nothing about her would change this situation or make him whole. He'd throw more rocks as the water struggled against the agitation of the rocks and she'd wait for him to be whole and at peace again.

But like me, Urusla can't ever just let it go. She always has to know. It drives me insane, this piece of me that needs to know. Why oh why can't I just push it aside? Best Friend will tell me, men play their hand close to their chest and they will give over their soul to a woman who will do the same. They appreciate the chess match. For the most part, not many people matter to me really. Its not that I have a disdain for the world but I hold few in close company. I have learned to keep people at a distance but then...then now and again I will forget and I will just have to pose the question and I think that's why I love Urusla so much because she just needs...

Birkin lingered vaguely by the water. Ursula was afraid that he would stone the moon again. She slipped from her seat and went down to him, saying:

`You won't throw stones at it any more, will you?'

`How long have you been there?'

`All the time. You won't throw any more stones, will you?'

`I wanted to see if I could make it be quite gone off the pond,' he said.

`Yes, it was horrible, really. Why should you hate the moon? It hasn't done you any harm, has it?'

`Was it hate?' he said.

And they were silent for a few minutes.

`When did you come back?' she said.

`Today.'

`Why did you never write?'

`I could find nothing to say.'

`Why was there nothing to say?'

`I don't know. Why are there no daffodils now?'

`No.'

Again there was a space of silence. Ursula looked at the moon. It had gathered itself together, and was quivering slightly.

`Was it good for you, to be alone?' she asked.

`Perhaps. Not that I know much. But I got over a good deal. Did you do anything important?'

`No. I looked at England, and thought I'd done with it.'

`Why England?' he asked in surprise.

`I don't know, it came like that.'

`It isn't a question of nations,' he said. `France is far worse.'

`Yes, I know. I felt I'd done with it all.'

They went and sat down on the roots of the trees, in the shadow. And being silent, he remembered the beauty of her eyes, which were sometimes filled with light, like spring, suffused with wonderful promise. So he said to her, slowly, with difficulty:

`There is a golden light in you, which I wish you would give me.' It was as if he had been thinking of this for some time.

She was startled, she seemed to leap clear of him. Yet also she was pleased.

`What kind of a light,' she asked.

But he was shy, and did not say any more. So the moment passed for this time. And gradually a feeling of sorrow came over her.

`My life is unfulfilled,' she said.

`Yes,' he answered briefly, not wanting to hear this.

`And I feel as if nobody could ever really love me,' she said.

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Oh brave Ursula. He didn't write because he had nothing to say. He had nothing to give you, he had no insight, no power, he was nothing special. How do you write to someone, how are you? and guess what I'm a fraud? Ursula, you need a Best Friend who will take you to a park bench where it's very quiet and let you lean into her shoulder and let you say anything you'd ask him and she will give you the answers you don't want to hear. She will tell you he wasn't the man in the photo. Imagine that? He paints this oh so love picture and its not him. How does he tell you that? He can't tell you he's as confused as you are because then you'd never give yourself to him. The challenge will be over, the game finished, a stale mate. You will have your heart broken either way dear ursula and you get to pick now take your ball and go home. Or...you could entertain it for awhile longer, be like the Prufrock's love song and let the moment linger, don't force the crisis and have one more dance, make love one more time, and let it be over later. I've done both. Haven't we all?

Someone I know, knew, kinda told me this story once about a woman he loved. They were quick friends and he loved everything about her. They worked together, they slept together under under the watchful or not so watchful eye of his gatekeeper. Now mind you he adored the gatekeeper, she was beautiful (cover of cosmo beautiful) but let's say she wasn't the most compassionate woman, and of course not the sharpest tool in the shed, the brightest bulb in the box (feel free to mix those up as it drives best friend perfectly insane) and she knew going in she was "better" than him and would settle.

Now this man loved his secret lover. She was a good sport, she would understand when things were canceled and she looked at him in a way he never really earned. Hell when he gave the gatekeeper the diamond he wasn't sure he could afford she didn't look at him like this woman did. When she laid next to him she touched him like he was gold. She told him one night "you'll have to make a decision soon ya know." He laughed inside. Where would she go? All he'd have to do is whisper her name and she'd be more than accommodating. Love is like that.

A few weeks later she didn't show up for work. He looked for her, called her, and finally hours later wandered down to human resources to ask about her. "she's left, put in notice weeks ago." Imagine that. She's gone. He went to the apartment, key fit the door but everything was gone. Two days ago he was there with her, they were making cozy, the gatekeeper sure he was at the Jewish Guys get together and decide stuff meeting but there was with no pants on eating chinese food from a container, feeling so loved and wanted. Now, not a piece of furniture, no forwarding address, no note, nothing. The absolute pure fucking genius of this move. I have wanted to meet this woman since I heard this story, maybe more than my friend who thinks of her every day, who doesn't let a month pass that he doesn't punch in her name to some search engine looking for her and she's poof, gone. There's no letter to pour over, there's no ticket stub for the opera, you can't save that stuff when you have a gatekeeper. Nothing.

I need that woman in my life. I need her to sit Ursula and I down and teach us the musings of love and the chambers of a man's heart. I need her to show me how just to make a clean break, not just with the men you don't want around any more but with the men you think are tortured, sure you can fix them.

I am off to fix myself today, working while listening to a little DH Lawrence. My son is home for a few weeks, days or hours depending on his ability to be a human being. Best Friend will be here soon. I am working on some new pieces. You can find me at Summerpoet@msn.com. You can always find my work at www.poetsummer.etsy.com. Summer's moments are fleeting so I will try to put some sun on my face today, I hope you get to do the same.

Carrie.

Love Letters

Tucked in my room is a box of old postcards from the early 1900s, that time before people even had addresses. It was the instant message of the time, not a real letter, no just a few words that would take a few weeks to arrive. This is why I think love is king. In all my travels, in all my time, translated, real post cards, in it all, never once have I found a postcard that was ill intentioned. It's the scribblings of love, one to another sent out to the air in the hopes it would reach it's destination. I have that kind of hope and I have that kind of love. I was born with it I think from another lifetime in the cosmic swirl of the world.

Best Friend and I used to pour over valentines, sending some to complete strangers so they would know someone thought of them. We'd be covered in glitter, the floor littered with pieces of paper with hearts cut out of the center in pink and red and white, white the sign of real love. We'd shop for weeks for the little glitter and in a box upstairs I have all she's given me and a few little cards from a secret lover who would just sign his cards always sent with the perfect flowers, "for a speedy recovery." It was our shorthand for "I wish you were here with me or me there with you, yes soon." My brother gives good card. He writes the most heartfelt things in cards and when writing him a card once I was thinking of my sweet mother teaching us about kindness and grace while in the midst of some argument over Scooby Do or Land of the Lost reminded in all her wisdom "one day all you will have is each other so be kind." Oh gods, she was right. How right she was. She would delight in the fact that we laugh so hard when we see eachother and that we both love the plants.

Love you see is all around us, even in the most unlikely of places. It lives in the cracks in the sidewalk and with enough warm sun and water it's real. I love that when someone contacts me about my art, it feels like a love letter. Good and bad. I recently received a letter from a woman who purchased some jewelry from me. The thing you see about chance and love is that you never know when it will hit. Sometimes its just a fly buzzing around your head and other times it sits on your shoulder like Sheba sitting on the back of my hair while I work. This woman L, I will call her for here lives in south. She's elegant and funny, and so charming. We write back and forth about our lives. You see she has a son she'd like to strangle on days and my son as much as I love him, there are days when I am ready to pack a rocket ship and ship him out of here to another orbit. Thankfully his visits home are less frequent, shorter stays and full of more joy. L and I exchange the stories of being a mom. We both love the animals, have birthdays in the summer and love dangling charms of things. Well she writes me a letter inviting me to her home for her birthday.

Carrie....In many ways you are so like me....and while we are on the subject it is so much easier to give than receive......you have done so many neat things for me all ready. I don't need a spoecial project....
I have started wrapping stuff for the birthday (sure you don't want to come?). The girls are very nice and everyone fits in immediately.....everyone becomes "family" right away. Anyway, when I was wrapping the rings it gave me the best feeling. That was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done.....
Anyway...I have 12 of everything...and 11 invitees....if you want to come I would only need to get your shirt done....and your present...and I would promise to do a wildly outrageous activity....and we eat lots of junk. (and Diane , the widow, can tell you all about computer dating) and you could see Dana's dog (Diva), 3.4 pounds, and she never goes out without taking Diva and Diva's feet have never touched the ground....and Sharon, my friend since kindergarten who is bossy (like me), and doesn't realize I want to be the only boss that day, and Mary who is your age, and adorable...married to a jerk and lives in Orlando. Sherry flies in from Detroit....Edith, my red haired friend,who lives in Delray....they are retired.
Raynne is the oldest (75) and very pretty...good heart, she loves me......but, loves to talk about her dead husband although she has been happily married to Bart for 25 years.
Marcy...she is a 2 year friend although recycled from years ago.
Rhonda is totally unpretentious and easy....another frustrated director. I am her best friend, oldest friend, worst friend...try only friend. She likes men better.
Marty...a CPA..pretty and thin....
Patty a died in the wool Republican...married to a tax attorney.....bridge player....a little out of the normal circle but she and her husband like to go on gambling trips with us.
I am afraid to read this over, or they would all sound weird as shit.
Anyway...all you would need is rolled up jeans, Keds tennis shoes (the original canvas) and and a pair of pajamas...I would do the rest.....
and you could share a suite with Sherry and I....and spend a couple of nights at my house, with the cats and dogs...
Think about it before you say no.........it could be a China test :)
L

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A love letter from a stranger, well not really a stranger, a friend now of sorts. I read that and think, she shares her life and I am so blessed, my cup runs over. I think of all the people in the world so isolated and so alone and even when I am blue I manage to find some place where I feel loved either in the arms of friends or a family that I cherish or my work. Love lingers here in the corners where the cats sleep and in the photos magnetized to the fridge to the notes reminding me to call someone about this or take care of that detail. Then a few days later Craig writes. Craig and I are old friends I think I can call him that, honored to even. I have to nudge him from time to time to tell me something I need to hear from him. So I write him a long rambling Carrie letter, kinda like this and he writes me back the most personal lovely letter and in each line something about how he is and what he is about the love of the land, the nature of trees and advice, something to ponder. And while waxing poetic and pondering on love I've been writing writing writing. I leave myself little notes about poems I'd like to write.

I've always fancied Love a decision
not something that happens to you
like being caught in the rain in your only real wool suit
I found comfort in love being a choice;
some sweet man ties your shoe for you
at the bus stop
to KEEP you from falling and
in his eyes you see a light and you fall
and you fall
and you fall
fall like rain
fall like autumn
because of his tenderness and your choice

No one would choose a scoundrel
unless of course you had a thing for scoundrels
if cross and underhanded were your trigger
if you would toss aside batman for the joker
so you could get the laughs and wear his lipstick


Besides love being a choice I have always believed
that people know the difference between right and wrong
it's inherent in us to know
we are born knowing
it is the hand of God,
the last touch before we decend to earth
and unless
we are very sick or very lost or even full of melancholy
we'd pick right
we'd walk the path of right
like el camino
until our feet were blistered
we'd choose right like we'd choose love

And what if on a rainy day like today, when the sky
is a bruise, the color to match my heart
what if today I played the lottery
planted a seed in the garden that had no package
no little flower to tell you what was waiting
what if on a day full of chance I simply decided
to stop loving you
nobody would notice really
i'm not even sure you would
not for days and then what
gas up the steed?
dust off the shield from the garage?
behind the weed cutter that doesnt work
hasn't worked


I thought it might work today and plugged it in
only to have it cut my leg
and while the blood trickled over
my dollar store flip flops with the little
blue hearts on them
I thought of writing in the muck that
is my heart's desire
This blood now on my toes was beating
through my bruised heart just a few seconds ago
and now it will soon wash away in the rain
and every muscle in my body is keeping me
from bending down and writing
on the cement: You'll miss me
sway with me back and forth until
he makes promises he won't keep
all to keep from getting a finger dirty.

********************************

I haven't given it a name yet. A love letter to the world, whoever is reading, listening, out to the void wondering what will come back, if anything. If you have a thought you can email me at Summerpoet@msn.com. You can always find my work at www.poetsummer.etsy.com.

Ring Around The Rosie

Why give me a ring
when you own my heart?
When I feel your love I want to
throw my arms in the air and twirl
in circles and just maybe
one of those circles
would turn into a ring
you could wear on your finger
and look down and know
little pieces of of my heart
are in every turn

I LOVE LOVE LOVE to make rings. I love the wire, the idea that even when I just figured out how to put a whole world of fun on a bracelet, that even smaller I could put it on your finger. I made a little globe ring with an elephant dancing over the top under an umbrella. Oh what an afternoon of whimsy and delight. I even found a way to put the photo charms on rings with the back of typewriter keys working as the perfect little steampunk frames. When I went to the pumpkin farm with family people would stop and say, "is that a little circus ring?" ha. I am working on a book of rings, different styles, a do it yourself little zine. I have been working on it for months and I so get sidetracked. Being the be all end all of your own business sounds like fun until 40 people want something and you realize you have two hands, a worthless child and the phone is ringing. Fuck me. So things get put aside but I am making Christmas cookies this year, two kinds, a few dozen, some kolachky to take to Best Friend and that's it.

It snowed last night. It didn't just dust, it really snowed, enough snow so that this morning I could see a thousand little animal footprints in the driveway. Summer's done. The fall, just a few more days and that's over. We'll be all done eating turkey soon and it's on to the remainder of the Holiday season. If you'd like me to make you a funky scarf (I've been known to make the longest scarves in the world) drop me a note and I'd be glad to get it started. I have a new store on etsy called Hersteria and there are some offerings there. Hersteria is from an Eliot poem about love and laughter and fun. Did I mention how much I miss Best Friend this time of the year? I will get to see her soon and all will be good with the world. I am traveling to visit family for a little weekend (if I can get myself away) and that will be my holiday treat to myself.

I am working on bracelets for Marshall Fields, Suzy Snowflake and Frosty The Snowman. Do you have some Christmas treasure of your heart you'd like to see on a bracelet? I'd love to design something just for you. You can find my art at Poetsummer.etsy.com and on feebay at Poetsummer. You can always email me at summerpoet@msn.com. Thanks for spending this time with me and take care of yourself, pamper yourself a little and 20 minutes a day at least for a little meditation, prayer and thanks. You will be better for it. Carrie.

THE PERFECT STORM

This has been an exciting week, I must say. First let's start with how much I love etsy. I was working late last week when I get an email from Courtney Love, yes the Love girl herself telling me she needs something unique made and I may be the girl for her. She buys a bunch of my jewelry and get this..she's nice. She's as down to earth as anyone you'd know and chats me up in emails like she's been a long time girlfriend. If you don't know Courtney and her work, it's time to check her out,

We all get our glory
Our little bit of fame
But there's no truth at the heart of any of it
Just the brilliance and the passion
And the bitterness remains

Hold on to me
Aaahhh
Hold on to me
Hold on to me
Aaahhh
Hold on to me

She's sad and settled and girlie and fun and interesting and her blog is fascinating. So I start working on some really personal stuff, stuff that touches me and my heart and I get an email from another etsy person telling me I've made Courtney's blog, you have to check this out, I almost crapped my pants:

http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=165705423&blogID=447057143

Yeah. I was freaking out. Not only is courtney going to be wearing a globload of my jewelry but she thinks I'm a genius. How fucking cool is this? No she's not some washed out vampire writer, she's not a blue haired nut stalking me on ebay, she's courtney fucking the coolest of love. I am still thrilled. When I am working on a piece I want her to see I feel a little special and I start thinking about the THOUSANDS of other really wonderful people who have purchased my jewelry and I feel a little oogie inside wondering about their lives and wanting to be there to watch them flip their wrist this way and that way showing off my work.

YAHOOOOOOOO

Then Friday I am packing boxes and notice a bunch of the sales are local and email one of my patrons asking her where she found my art. She found it here...http://astrology.yahoo.com/event/holiday-gift-guide/10-top-online-shopping-sites-and-fun-deals-you-ll-find-on-them-298739/#photoViewer=1

Yahoo shine puts my little etsy store up as a great place to holiday shop and I was so overwhelmed with new sales that I needed to take a few hours this weekend and just breathe a little. I feel so freaking great and excited about having new people notice my work but I wanted to take a moment to throw a shout out to those chickies who are always so supportive...

http://www.fourchooks.com/2008/06/poet-summer-plug-for-seller-on-etsy.html

http://crazybeatnick.wordpress.com/2008/11/03/donuts-pleasenow/

http://b-moviestar.com/recomendations-from-the-b-movie-star/halloween-shopping.html

http://sassyjavababy.blogspot.com/2008/10/starbucks-charm-bracelet.html

http://sassyjavababy.blogspot.com/2008/10/starbucks-charm-bracelet.html

http://fashionmefabulous.blogspot.com/2008/04/etsy-shop-of-week-poetsummer.html

http://pulpsushi.typepad.com/pulp_sushi/2008/08/friday-etsy-finds---cinderella.html

http://www.smitteniche.com/2008/08/treasured-gems-peachy-keen/

http://dragongems.wordpress.com/2008/09/19/octo-eight/

http://wists.com/everyone/9ae41d9a78f4906e632e21c4c29c3112

http://ivonnardonascreations.blogspot.com/2008/09/black-and-orange-by-poest.html

http://lolaruby.blogspot.com/2008/08/filligree.html

http://aviatrix827.blogspot.com/2008/09/inspiration-persiration.html

http://trimtimepetgrooming.blogspot.com/2008/11/giving-awesome-art-buy-handmade-this.html

http://michabellacreations.blogspot.com/2008/10/as-october-comes-to-close-i-wanted-to.html

http://kotibeth.blogspot.com/2008/10/friday-favorites-steampunk.html

http://grandiaroad.blogspot.com/2008/06/monday-on-etsy_09.html

http://jobarberphotography.blogspot.com/2008/10/i-heart-pumpkins.html

http://michellecarver.blogspot.com/2008/09/bracelets-for-me.html

http://cryptstitch.typepad.com/crypt_stitch/2008/06/birthday-bling.html

http://thesimplelifeofthestars.blogspot.com/2008/10/few-of-my-favorite-things.html

http://prettyoungthing.wordpress.com/2008/05/30/quite-frankly/

http://customcreationsbysydnei.blogspot.com/2008/05/todays-theme-ishorses.html

I couldn't even begin to list all the treasuries as there are hundreds. How do I thank you all for your constant support and inspiration? Other than to tell you how much you all mean to me. My art and my work doesn't feel like work when I get to share it with you. I expect support from my family and my friends because they love me and that's what family and friends do but when that support comes from a stranger who just loves my work, well it's an unexpected surprise and I feel overwhelmed with happy. This was certainly a week of a perfect storm and I am swamped with jewelry, piles everywhere of this and that to do and mixed in with the beads and the photos and the charms is love. My cup over flows. The support from other artists on etsy has been the glue that keeps me there, creating and in awe of what they create. I am going to start featuring more of those artists here and sharing their work with you and I hope that you check out their stores and their blogs and their lives. If you have an interest in my art, I would hope that you'd look for me at poetsummer.etsy.com or email me at Summerpoet@msn.com as I'd love to hear from you. Take care yourself and reach out to love another. I've been reached by all of you and am better for it. Carrie.

It's Time Again to stand UP

To Vote or Not To Vote

I came into the election open minded. Well, I had hoped the Clintons would make another spin at the white house and then the Clintons slowly reminded me that above country they are always for the Clintons and it seemed that Hillary had lost her sparkle. Standing around the corner stood Hope. I am from Chicago so when someone tells me about a politican from Chicago I am leary. There are backroom deals here, things done on the sly so the idea of one of those southside bullies from Hyde Park occupying the White House did not thrill me. I kept thinking "let's see what the Republicans throw at me."

I like John McCain. I think he's an American Hero. He spent his life serving our country. He sacrificed his childhood in a sense because his father and his father's father was at war defending our country. This is an honorable man and an honorable family. I like his wife, her efforts to bring food and medicine to starving children around the world are admirable. I guess I'm a one issue girl. I don't get that McCain has any interest in inhibiting a woman's choice in regards to having or not having a baby. I don't think he'd allow the religious right to mess around with Roe V. Wade. But...John didn't pick a moderate running mate and he's not a young man. He's an older man who picked Sara Palin. I just can't sit with that decision. Forget that she seems nervous about giving an interview because she isn't one of the Washington rehearsed. Forget that she hunts moose with a rifle out of a helicopter (not really a fair chance for a Moose to get away.) Let's just drop the idea that I'm not always comfortable with a teenager showing up pregnant and a parent looking a little dumbfounded not having impressed upon their children how important birth control is. I remember when my son was a teenager I kept a giant crystal bowl of condoms on his bathroom sink as a constant reminder that if we make the choice to have sex we best be having safe sex. Even when I put all that aside. Women should support other women. I'm not necessarily a Gloria feminist but when given the choice I support other women and the choices they make for their life and the efforts they make to not only break the glass ceiling but to stomp on the pieces until my feet bleed. Sarah picks when she says she doesn't support abortion rights and it's no inconceivable that she'd be president. There are three justices up for retirement in the Supreme Court and as I'm not all that confident in John's choices, the idea that Sarah would pick one of them just doesn't sit will with me.

Am I thrilled with the unfair redistribution of wealth in this country? No. Do I want people who make more than $250K a year to be taxed unfairly? No. I am a little nervous about a Junior Senator running the most powerful country in the world but...I have to trust in Hope. I have to believe that maybe someone who isn't jaded by the Washington crowd may be able to walk us out of this war and into some economic development for those that have been overwhelmed by rising gas prices and an economy that has just recently exploded with bad debt.

The horrible part of a close election is that half the country gets to feel as though they've lost and it pulls us in two directions rather than bring us together and this is a time when we need to stand together as Americans. We need to bring our troops home from the middle east, to help these men and women reunite with their families and to take care of them. We need to build our economy and to teach our children that you don't buy a $400K house when you can only afford a $200K house. We need to pull together the great minds in America to find alternative fuel sources and to help small business people expand.

No matter how your heart is torn, vote. Men died for our right to vote. It only takes a few moments and you're counted. Your opinion matters and when we stand together for what is right, things change. I like the audacity of hope. Hope changes hearts and changes our lives and most importantly the lives our children.

Thanks for spending this time with me. If you have an interest in my art, you can find it at poetsummer.etsy.com. You can always write to me at Summerpoet@msn.com and I welcome your insight as long as you aren't nutty Jeannie.

Nostalgia

I was at a show this weekend and a woman approached me asking me question after question about my jewelry and she said "my mom had bracelets full of charms, little moving pieces of history." I think that's why I love to make my charm bracelets because I get to use components of this and that, things my grandma had on her dressing table, things my mother loved, the cameos, the rhinestones. My parents were never big on excess. They didn't spoil their children the way I spoil my son. We were first told to work for what we wanted and sometimes I feel the guilt of just handing over things to my son just because I want his life to be easier.

But I have a different relationship with my son than I had with my parents. We are closer, more friends, confidants. We take the time to have lunch together and share all about our lives. He has a genuine interest in what makes me happy and although I knew what made my parents happy I didn't really have an investment in it. I had major heart surgery a few years ago and my son took time out of his life to help me heal, taking care of me in a way I didn't even know he was capable of taking of someone else. I had to remind myself of his caring when all I wanted was a cup of broth to feel comforted when I was writhing around in pain and he had to preach to me about the salt content of broth. I wanted to choke him.

No matter how hard we try we are like our parents. I am proud like my parents, and a little set off from the world. I am careful about letting strangers close. Not my Richie. He embraces the world with such a fervent gesture of hope that it takes me by surprise. The last time he was traveling I went to the post office to ask them a question about a shipment. During the summer, when he's home he's the mail person, the mail bitch. The people at the post office not only know him, but know his girlfriend, that he loves the cubs and that he loves to travel. Not one mail person asked me if he had landed ok, four did. They knew when he was leaving and wondered if he was having fun with his brothers. Later that afternoon I wander into 711 to get a cord of firewood. "Hey did Rich call? Is he having fun?" I didn't even know this clerk but he knew Richie and he knew I was Richie's mom and it put a smile on my face for the afternoon.

It's so easy to love our children but to know them and to like them quite another issue. We get to stand back and watch them make decisions and know they aren't our choices but hope against all odds that they are the decisions that make them happy. When he's short tempered I know he has my quick temper. When he's outside playing basketball and 1am it's hard to be irritated when I know he's close and safe and has a little pounce in his step. It's hard to have any authority over a grown man, especially after you've sat in the car with him, his big grandpa boat of a car singing kid rock lyrics together hyped up on iced coffee. He doesn't love poetry like I love poetry and I will never understand Math the way he loves the numbers. When I listen to the same Paula Cole song 10 times in a row he shakes his head and quietly curses me and when I've made his favorite dinner and it's just the two of us and he's busy telling me about his new class schedule I know he's mine forever, a little piece of him is mine forever. When he started working at a bank when he was 16 and loved the idea of counting money all day I wonder what alien tucked him in the crib in the other room and where my real child is out there in the universe.

I miss the little blonde kid digging in the beach behind the lake house, his hair full of sand and his skin tanned from April until October. Everything I do is about those tiny memories that make who I am. When I am putting a mermaid on a bracelet I am with little Rich at the beach and I've taken the day off work and pulled him out of kindergarten for the day and headed to water to watch him build sandcastles. In those quiet moments he became this person he is now.He loves the little animals the way I love them. He loves adventure because his auntie taught him the love of adventure. He has his father's love of children and his Uncle Andy's love of pure laughter just for the sake of laughter. He loves the cubs because his first memories of his uncle Stan were about Cubs games. He reminds me of my dad when he's bitching about me taking a short cut doing anything and when he complains about my driving. He reminds me of my mom when I find the little box in his room full of one earring his aunt loved, movie tickets from his first date with Christina and the tickets from the Cubs Yankees game a few years back.

The other day I was wondering who I was. My knee jerk reaction is to say I'm a mother, I'm an artist, I'm a businesswoman, I'm a best friend, a sister, someone's lover blah blah blah. But it's changed now. He's a man this son of mine. I'm an artist, a business woman, a mother, a best friend, a sister, and aunt and cousin, and someone's lover, someone's secret, and mostly I am loved. thanks for spending this time with me. If you have an interest in my art you can find me at poetsummer.etsy.com. Carrie.