Sandra Ramos O'Briant

Free Museum Days in Los Angeles: Happening Now!

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 02:27:00 +0000

MUSEUMS FREE-FOR-ALL - GRATIS admission this weekend
Free Admission Days January 28th and 29th, 2012

In a joint effort to present the arts and culture to the diverse and
myriad communities in Southern California, the Museum Marketing
Roundtable announces the seventh annual ‘Museums Free-For-All’
Saturday-Sunday, January 28th and 29th, 2012. The museums—presenting
art, cultural heritage, natural history, and science—will open their
doors wide and invite visitors free of charge.*

Following is a list of the Participating Museums (check their websites
for more detailed information):

The Annenberg Space for Photography - Both Days
2000 Avenue of the Stars
Los Angeles, 90067
213-403-3000
www.annenbergspaceforphotography.org

The Autry National Center - Both Days
4700 Western Heritage Way
Los Angeles, 90027
323-667-2000
www.theautry.org

California African American Museum - Both Days
600 State Dr, Exposition Park
Los Angeles, 900376
213-744-7432
www.caamuseum.org

California Science Center - Both Days
700 Exposition Park Drive
Los Angeles, 90037
323 - SCIENCE
www.californiasciencecenter.org

Chinese American Museum of Los Angeles - Both Days
425 N. Los Angeles St
Los Angeles, 90012
213-485-8567
www.camla.org

Fowler Museum at UCLA - Both Days
Sunset Blvd/Westwood Blvd
Los Angeles, 90095
www.fowler.ucla.edu

The Hammer Museum - Both Days
10899 Wilshire Blvd
Los Angeles, 90024
310-443-7000
www,hammer.ucla.edu

The Getty Center - Both Days
1200 Getty Center Drive
Los Angeles, 90049
310-440-7300
www.getty.edu

The Getty Villa - Both Days (timed tickets are required, call for more
info)
17985 Pacific Coast Highway
Pacific Palisades, 90272
310 440-7300
www.getty.edu

Laguna Art Museum- Both Days
307 Cliff Drive
Laguna Beach, 92651
949 494-8971
www.lagunaartmuseum.org

Los Angeles Fire Department Museum and Memorial (Both Hollywood & San
Pedro Locations)- Saturday, January 28th Only
1355 N. Cahuenga Blvd
Hollywood, 90028
323-464-2727
lafdmuseum.org

The Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles (MOCA) - Saturday, January
28th Only
250 S Grand Avenue
Los Angeles 90012
213-626-6222
www.moca.org

Museum of Tolerance - Sunday, January 29th Only
9786 W. Pico Blvd
Los Angeles, 90035
www.museumoftolerance.com

Museum of Latin American Art - Both Days
628 Alamitos Ave
Long Beach, 90802
562 437 1689
www.molaa.com

Pasadena Museum of California Art - Both Days
490 E. Union St.
Pasadena, 91101
626-568-3665
www.pmcaonline.org

Santa Monica Museum of Art - Saturday, January 28th Only
2525 Michigan Avenue, Bldg G-1
Santa Monica, 90404
www.smmoa.org

Skirball Cultural Center - Saturday, January 28th Only
2701 N. Sepulveda Blvd
Los Angeles, 90049
310-440-4500
www.skirball.org

Zimmer Children's Museum - Sunday, January 29th Only
6505 Wilshire Blvd, Suite 100
Los Angeles, 90048
323 761 8984
www.zimmermuseum.org

Sex and Death

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 21:27:00 +0000

Beardsley, "Climax"

In 2012, my birthday falls on the launch of the Chinese New Year, and I'm happy to report that I've maintained the positive attitude toward aging that I wrote about in 2009. While I regret the loss of certain parts of my youth, namely the snap back from physical injury (I'll never jump off a 17-foot-high cliff into a river again), I'm enjoying the flow into my demise. I credit my husband for making the transition easier. We didn't do a lot of things right in our marriage, but the sex has only gotten better.

Circa 2009, I wrote the following:

Sex and death seem to be team players in literature, in movies, and with dangerous people we all know.

Never quite made the connection until this past weekend. Had a major birthday on Friday the 23rd. Been railing against it for over a year, resenting any indication of being assigned to the crone heap of outdated thinking, and wondering if my options in life were inescapably narrowing.

My friends refused to let me forget my birthday. I made a breakthrough, past resistance, past resignation and arrived at rejoicing. Spent the weekend in Palm Springs with my husband, ate lightly, made love deeply --- part calisthenics, part practice made perfect. Add imagination, resourcefulness, humor, and finally that rare ingredient missing from my youth: recognition of death. Specifically, my own. For the first time, I let it play a part in my life, especially my love life.

Many older couples weekend in Palm Springs. I like looking at the affectionate ones, their veiny, blotched hands intertwined, wrinkled faces smiling at each other, still engaged with the personality of the other. I wonder if they see the wrinkles?

I never thought I’d live this long, certainly never thought I’d stay married this long. My adolescent self was sure death would prevail, and tragedy, dark and merciless, would snatch any joy right out of my grasp. Back then I focused not so much on real death, but on suffering since that’s where the drama is. It’s also part of my birthright; all the females in my family suffer.

Thought I’d cast that emo teen out of my life long ago, but she’s still there, lurking along the edges of what I’ve done in my life. She’s the sadness in Sandra, the underside of what I show the world. I’ve learned to treasure her pain, it flavors my writing, and it sometimes makes the world an exquisitely beautiful place to be. Recognition of death’s nearness made every moment of my birthday weekend special.

Sex and death, oh yeah, baby. Now, I wear my cronedom like I wear my halter-tops, with cleavage showing. If you’ve got it, flaunt it.

Then and Now

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 02:24:00 +0000

Cleaning my office is like an archeological dig. My attempts at organization are evident in research files for two novels, but they're not just in one place. Then, there’s the financial stuff that I couldn’t make my mind up about, the old payroll receipts from my previous career, and certain emails which I print and treat as a diary, labeling them by year. I have every intention of rereading them at some point in the future. There are also letters and cards from friends with description worth keeping because I mentally and emotionally chart their lives alongside mine. My sons made holiday cards for me when they were in grade school. I especially love the Valentine’s Day ones, back when I was their only sweetheart.

Photographs are everywhere interlaced between folders like the special sediment created in a volcanic blast. What seismic event rained down the array of photos that seem to crop up everywhere? My children's pictures span their lifetime – holding a soccer ball, a violin, sulking in front of the camera. My plan has always been to organize everything into scrapbooks when I retire, in those hazy, long-into-the-future days when I have nothing new to do but consider the past. But how can you look at a photograph, especially one with you in it, without a nostalgic backward glance?

Take the Christmas photo when our son was four. He was the first grandson so my in-laws went nuts with the presents. Eric is in a frenzy over his loot, and is stretched out full length on top of his hoard reaching into the recesses under the tree for more. His brother, 4 months, is in the stroller looking like a chubby replica of his brother at the same age. My husband is behind the $800 video camera we gave to each other. His mouth is curved in speech because he’s narrating the present for the future. What a clever man I married.

There I am, holding court over the proceedings, a young self-conscious mother. I look uncomfortable and avoid the camera while still holding my head erect, acting like I’m royally pissed about something. My diffidence disguises shyness, my sharpness masquerading as matriarchy. No smiles from me. Not like now.

I look at myself, and think that I was beautiful, and that all my bravado hid a deep well of fear. Did I find joy in myself? I think not. Those were days of stress, and overwork, and pervasive loneliness. Now is better than then, but then is still in my now.

Masturbation or Blogturbation: your choice

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 21:33:00 +0000

My friends probably think I’m flogging a dead horse (I am not the horse in this cliche, thank you very much), because I do tend to think about sex a lot, and where my mind travels my lips are sure to follow. Wait, that came out wrong. I mean I’m not afraid to talk about sex (I could have been a Kinsey researcher; I would have loved interning with Masters & Johnson). The problem is finding people who are equally enthusiastic about the topic.

Which is why blogging is so wonderful, because you don’t need to have another person there to share your thoughts. Like masturbation, it’s another form of self-stimulation. It’s blogturbation.

Still with me? Then let us agree that masturbation is a good thing. Too much of a leap? Then substitute the word blogturbation. Same thing.

Masturbation is all about self-reliance, and who can argue with that? Ditto, self-love, which means you're taking yourself seriously and thereby improving your self-esteem (expressing yourself, for you blogturbation enthusiasts).

From there, it's an easy springboard into self-knowledge, the mind-body connection, and how many times you can orgasm within a pre-determined span of time --- yes, masturbation teaches one to set goals (how often you post). With it, you learn to recognize your limits. You can identify a sexual impulse --- not misread it as romance or something more than exactly what it is --- your body is speaking to you, and you learn how to answer it (is the subject noteworthy, or is it just a blogfart?). Furthermore, through masturbation you know where that impulse is centered and how to relieve it, take the edge off so you can think clearly.

In my last blog, I responded to an essay on Pornography and (male) Masturbation, only I didn’t get into the masturbation question because (1) people don’t like to admit they do it, (2) people think it’s potty talk, (3) they get too stimulated thinking about it, or (4) they don’t know how to do it (mainly women).

In a recent discussion with several women of varying ages (35-80), and ethnic backgrounds (American, Asian, and Middle-eastern), both married, single, and widowed, it became clear to me that many women are (still) abysmally ignorant of their own bodies. The one thing we all had in common, other than being women, was that we have or have had teenaged children.

The conversation started with the subject of premarital sex, and segued into a discussion of women being in control (or not) when sexually propositioned, and the liberal nature of western society.

“Masturbation,” I said, and the room became silent, “will solve societies’ ills.” Okay, I didn’t say that, but I did put forth the crazy notion of female masturbation being a good thing. And the room did fall silent.

Females need more encouragement on the masturbatory front. We need to know more about what works for us, and not expect the guys to have all the answers. Premarital sex would take a dive, or the nature of it would radically change if more women engaged with themselves on a sexual basis.

Women don't need to take the risks associated with premarital sex to learn what works for them. They don't need experimental penetration and serial lovers to judge a possible marriage partner (one of the standard arguments for living together, or at least doing the sex part).

I’m horrified by stories of teenaged girls performing gratuitous blow jobs, and not understanding the power of “NO.” This is not a call for chastity. It’s a hallelujah for more knowledge.

To understand the pleasure our bodies give to men, rather than just being a tool for that pleasure, a woman needs to experience the sublime herself, with herself. We were born with the capacity for it. Whereas blogging is an acquired tendency. For you slackers out there, I say if one can blog, one can masturbate.

Masturbation is the skill of a lifetime. It's nature's blessing. Go now, my brethren, and spread the word.

On Pornography

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 23:22:00 +0000

I did a petty thing recently. I read an essay entitled, “On the Value of Masturbation and Pornography,”and felt compelled to respond to it (posted below).

The subject matter is so not my primary focus, but I do confess to a passing interest in it. The author’s main argument seems to be guys need sex and if they don’t get it bad things can happen. The secondary point is about women’s lower sex drive, lack of masturbatory skills or interest, their disinterest in porn, and their bad attitudes when he tries to pick them up.

I sympathize with most women’s lackluster response to current porn — it’s too stylized and garish. Porn should be about well-intentioned Pizza Delivery Girls on roller skates, or creative Housewives sharing recipes (preferably shot in black and white). The Repair guy series is always good with mute on. Lawn Boy — need I say more? Okay, one more — Girl’s Dormitory (with Reform School Girls a close second).

My favorite is the vintage porn from the 30's — 50's. Badly lit and scratchy, the underwear alone is worth the watch — giant panties and garter belts. Brassieres with a capital B. The men wear droopy drawers, some with buttons and muscle T-shirts under their regular shirts. The body hair on both the men and the women adds texture, roots the scene, makes it organic. The word Muff comes to mind.

The female bodies in porn today are comic book sculpted. I don’t know who to pity more — the women who have this done to themselves or the generation of males brainwashed into thinking this actually looks good. The breast enhancement alone is a frightening transfiguration, like they’ve been exposed to gamma rays, radioactive material, or really bad karma. Woody Allen’s rampaging giant breast in "Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex*But Were Afraid to Ask," comes to mind.

I bet there are many young men scared to death that the female breast as depicted (mimed? impersonated?) in porn might either smother them or put an eye out.

Response to author on the value of P & M:

I feel your pain, young man. Very shocked and dismayed that young women today are so cruel to you. In my day, we ignored a man’s shortcomings. Even if we pitied him, kindness and generosity were part of the feminine creed. You need to broaden your scope, try to find different women. If that is not possible, then go ahead and watch porn, and masturbate, and write more one-handed essays.

Are women the pursuers?

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sat, 15 Oct 2011 18:38:00 +0000

Are women now the hunters on the sexual frontier?

According to my dentist, whom I’ll call Dr. Q, the answer is a resounding Yes! He reclined the chair in which I sat, while his assistant readied the tools of their trade behind me. Dr. Q aimed a bright light at me, and while he examined my teeth, told me this story:

A good friend of his, thirty-two, good-looking and divorced, was having lunch at Sunset Plaza {a posh area with several restaurants and sidewalk dining for those who like car exhaust with their meals), when three gorgeous women arrived and sat at the table next to him.

"They were young, but legal," Dr. Q said, pausing in his examination, "over eighteen." I looked up into his serious brown eyes, unsure whether I should close my mouth and offer a comment. He continued, his voice full of wonder.

The girls’ conversation was giggly and silly, lightening the smoggy afternoon air (authorial conjecture). Turns out they were all nineteen, barely out of high school (the exact age I’d been when I started an affair with a thirty-two-year old man). Soon two of them rose and left. The remaining female did not look stranded, or scamper off to the safety of a fashionable boutique. She stared right at our hero, and asked if she could join him.

Dr. Q paused, searching for the right words to describe what happened next. Once again, I was uncertain what to do: close my mouth or leave it open. Eternity stretched before me. I said, "So did they hook up, or what." Behind me, the young dental hygienist laughed, I laughed, and my dentist laughed. This was better than nitrous.

"Yes, they went to his condo that afternoon, and after that she would call him and say, ‘I want you to get undressed, get into bed, and wait for me." Another pause. Another look into Dr. Q’s soulful eyes. I closed my mouth, sure that my dentist was censoring the more colorful things our femme fatale said. "She would come over, they would make love, and then she would leave. Just like that." Dr. Q could not suppress the amazement in his voice. I thought his friend must be good in bed, but boring, and started to say so, but Dr. Q said, "Open, please," and, "Can you believe it?"

Don’t you just love it when dentists ask you questions while they have your mouth crammed full of sharp instruments? I’ve long suspected that they get special training in these oral interrogations. Perhaps they study the Interpretation of Mumbles because they continue to talk as if a conversation were actually taking place.

"Wait, it gets better," he said, as if I were leaping to freedom. "She tells him one day that she’s getting married and won’t be able to see him anymore, but that she’s going to give his number to her girlfriends."

"I have girlfriends," I said, unselfishly, only it came out "eh hv gullfens." He laughed, the dental hygienist laughed, and I managed a totally serious heh-heh.

"So, the tables have turned," Dr. Q said, "women are the pursuers, the users."

I thought of my nineteen-year-old self. I’d laid a web to catch my older lover because I’d wanted to inflict damage on a co-worker who’d been with him first. Victory was sweet, but my lover had been interesting as well as skilled in lovemaking. My web unraveled and tripped me up. I’d fallen in love. That was almost forty years ago. He’s been married four times since. I’ve managed once. We still talk. Life goes on.

"I want to see you in six months," Dr. Q said.

Maybe this time I’ll get his friend’s number. Any takers out there?

Memories of Mom, or Why I Enjoy the Macabre

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 20:52:00 +0000

Mom left Dad, again, and we were driving from East Texas to New Mexico. There was a horrible accident on the flatlands, and Mom pulled over to do the looky-lou thing. I might have been six.

Cars were turned over, and the windshield of one had a head-sized hole in it. There was hair and blood around the jagged edges. People were talking about searching a field for an infant that had been thrown from the car that rolled.

There were bodies strewn around and covered with blankets. Under one, a woman's manicured left hand protruded. Mom stared for a long time at the hand, so I did, too. The hand didn't look particularly dead. Their were dimples at the knuckles, and the skin around her wedding rings was puffy, like she'd been retaining water. Water retention and weight gain was a hot topic with mom and her friends.

We stared a bit longer. Then, in a tone like she wished Dad were present so he'd see what she saw, Mom said, "Those are exactly the style of ring I've been telling your dad I want."

Sexy Screen Gems: Old Guys and Male Sexual Magnetism With a Side Trip Down the Slopes of Brad Pitt’s Lips

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 06:32:00 +0000

Some of you probably don’t even know who Robert Mitchum is. Ask your Mom. Mention Cape Fear, or The Night of the Hunter, in which he played villains.

Watched Mitchum in The Yakuza last night (1975, shot on location in Tokyo with a lot of respect for the landscape, architecture and culture). Not a great movie, but okay while doing paperwork. In it, Mitchum spoke Japanese free and easy, especially with the women. His character exudes sexual confidence, that clipped language flowing smooth and sexy over his thin, manly lips set above a huge vagina-clefted jaw.

He could have been describing machine parts, but he made it sound like an appreciative review of intimate acts — pillow talk. Mitchum made me believe he’d been in that situation with exotic women before, maybe in WWII where lean young men — shiny torsos more sinew than muscle — discovered women, possibly for the first time.

In the Army, Mitchum was a medic assigned the duty of "pecker checker" — visual screening for syphilis. Ah, the innocent days of STD-yore.

The Yakuza in the film presented a very different form of manliness. Their boyish bodies --- unlike the current rendition (Bruce Lee, Jet Li) --- sported beautifully tattooed backs and shoulders. But for all their murderous sword-wielding they seemed a little light in the pinkie finger department if you know what I mean.

Some men stay friendly and flirty well into their 70's. Gene Hackman in Bonnie & Clyde (1967) was already losing his hair, his body soft, and out-of-condition at 37. I didn’t respond to him then, but paid closer attention when I saw him in The Firm (1993) with Jeanne Tripplehorn, who plays Tom Cruise’s wife (I’m focusing on Hackman when Cruise is in the picture??!!??). He’s 63 in this movie, and his character is ready to bed Tripplehorn, accept her luscious gifts with gratitude, able to recognize he’s in the right place at the right time (until he realizes that he’s not only not going to get laid — he’s going to die). Maybe I was responding more to Tripplehorn.

Sam Neill, Daniel Craig, George Clooney, Pierce Brosnan, Samuel L. Jackson, Clive Owen, Guy Pearce are the new sexy old guys. Bruce Willis projects that kind of sexual magnetism. Ryan Gosling (The Notebook) looks like he might generate some long-term heat; Kevin Costner, sometimes; Ben Affleck, never.

I can’t make up my mind about Brad Pitt. He was all cocksure and hard buns and (hopefully chapped) pouting lips in Thelma & Louise, but his movies since then haven’t gotten me over the line. It’s those iconic lips.

People with extra large lips have a cross to bear; they have to be just a little better at whatever it is they do. It’s hard not to watch their lips, to wonder what it’s like to have that kind of power. They must long to have people accept them as normal, to really hear them when they speak.

Personal Power up at Label me Latina/o

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Fri, 02 Sep 2011 05:30:00 +0000

New Story

Personal Power

Scroll down past essays and poetry and you'll find my latest story.

clicky

CALL FOR SCHOLARLY ESSAYS AND CREATIVE WORKS FOR

Label Me Latina/o

Label Me Latina/o (www.labelmelatinao.com) is an online, refereed international e-journal that focuses on Latino Literary Production in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. The journal invites scholarly essays focusing on these writers for its biannual publication. Label Me Latina/o also publishes creative literary pieces whose authors self-define as Latina or Latino regardless of thematic content. Interviews of Latino authors will also be considered. The Co-Directors will publish creative works and interviews in English, Spanish or Spanglish whereas analytical essays should be written in English or Spanish.

Deadline for the Spring 2012 issue: December 9, 2011.

Label Me Latina/o is indexed by the MLA International Bibliography and is listed in the MLA Directory of Periodicals.

The Trip

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sun, 24 Jul 2011 16:55:00 +0000

Saw "The Trip" last night, a different sort of buddy movie.

Scenery of The Lakes district in UK breathtaking. Also of the food these guys eat at upscale places on their driving tour.

Funny stuff, but not in the usual slick American buddies with perfect teeth getting drunk and acting outrageous way. They're non-royal British so the teeth, well you know. But they know how to entertain themselves in a civilized manner where the testosterone fueled competitiveness is roiling beneath the surface.

The other thing I liked about the movie is that seeing it was an unplanned event. Spontaneity rules.

Dreams and My Life

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sat, 25 Jun 2011 18:00:00 +0000

My adult dreams are always an indication of my deepest concerns, the kinds of things that I shove aside in the day. They are not matter-of-fact; symbolism is rife in them - people and places are not the same - but their meaning is still plain to me.

My adolescent dreams were vivid and full of music and art and love: they were my escape from an ugly world. I dreamt entire symphonies then, sparkling bubbles floating in the sky, and color-washed paisley landscapes populated with fantasy creatures.

I was not on drugs, maybe too much co2 from slumbering so much, and so deeply. My dreamworld was my life; I slept sixteen out of every twenty-four, more if I could get away with it. I missed school and dreamt. I missed meals and dreamt. I missed all family involvement and dreamt. When I awakened, my unfinished dreams would continue and prevent me from hearing or seeing. Even when I tried to focus, the dreams would cast a web over my consciousness, their siren call impossible to resist.

On my few forays into public education, I'd come home and struggle with my algebra homework. I solved the equations in my sleep. That's when I discovered a measure of control over my dream life, which led to more control over my waking life.

That was a good and necessary feat . . . then.

Now, I seek release again into the chaos and delight of no control and imagination set free from worries and responsibility. Dreams are an escape valve, a diary, canvas, sieve, an internet (internal networking) of all things past and possible.

Does age diminish the siren call of dreams? Does the sum total of one's past overpower the x factor in what is still possible? I'll try to solve for that tonight.

CYBERNATION: SEDUCTION & FLIRTATION

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Fri, 17 Jun 2011 16:20:00 +0000

Technology and flirtation has been in the news over the past several years, and most recently with a now humiliated congressman. He's gone, but his weinerisms remain. But before his outing, sexting was the hubbub with parents and how to keep their teens from receiving and/or sending it. Is it just sex?

Usually Eros as Cupid is represented flying around or sneaking up on two human lovers with his quiver of arrows. This is a rare print (in my experience) of Cupid kissing. Perhaps he has already shot himself in the foot and she is Psyche. Is the shot in the foot the essence of Seduction?

The following was posted anonymously in Paulo Coelho's blog: “I feel that I always have to be relating with someone – and so I am forced to be fascinating, intelligent, sensitive, and exceptional. The effort of seducing makes me give the best of myself, and that helps me. Besides, it is very hard to live with myself.”

I think this was written by an unmarried person, but the sentiments expressed also apply to married people.

I felt uneasy after reading this person's thoughts. I’ve had good reason to contemplate flirtation recently. It does bring out the best in me, as well, and I like myself very much during these provocative flare-ups. I identify with much here, but my distrust of the feelings expressed goes deep. Is this a statement a soul afraid of the roiling in one's mind when silence prevails and pretense is not required?

I think so. I treasure solitude and my own thoughts, living inside my skin, pleasing myself until I’m open to another interlude . . . of my choosing. Not because I’m compelled to relate, to beguile, to subjugate my consciousness to another, but because I nourish myself with the exchange. Reciprocity is key; there is a creative flow.

But if one flirts, does that mean they are open to seduction, and more importantly, can we want what we already have?

The MRs Degree

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Tue, 07 Jun 2011 17:48:00 +0000

Blast From the Past A definition of MRs degree from the Urban Dictionary.

Overheard at dinner last night in a room filled with recent graduates from pricey private schools and the parents who had financed their attendance:

“What did your daughters study in college?”

“Sociology and psychology,” the father said, and paused, shrugging. “Don’t get me wrong. We think it was important they got an education, but they were really after their MRs degrees.” His wife sat next to him, beautiful and inscrutable.

All sound fell away for me as if I’d been sucked back to 1976 where I first heard the very same comment from some burly guy with a ruddy complexion. He swept his arms wide to include all the women sitting at the cafeteria table, in the dining hall, registered at the university, and on the planet earth, "They're just here to nab a husband."

One of my suite mates giggled, and said, “I want to graduate in June, and get married in July.” She batted her heavily mascaraed eyes at him, and he sat down and shut up. She didn’t even have a steady boyfriend, but seemed sure one would materialize within her time frame. Clearly, she was after her MRs degree and wasn’t shy about saying so.

He made me angry, and she made me feel dirty. I joined the ranks of the second wave on the spot.
But I thought all that had changed for younger women. Surely, they’d never say their sole goal in life was to marry. And what if that was their sole goal? I’m all about choice, and we all know elderly people, still married, still taking comfort from each other’s presence. Did they achieve that blessed state with each marching forward intent on their singular goals or did one subsume his/her path, realign it, walk behind or at least slow down in order to make it work?

Hell if I know.

If you can have that, what does personal achievement matter, and does personal achievement have to be defined by a career?

And more importantly, why am I so agitated over this subject?

1976 to 2011. For many, the clock has stood still.

A Woman Should . . .

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Thu, 26 May 2011 01:23:00 +0000

Maya Angelou wrote this and each one is worth a blog post:

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...enough money within her control to move out and rent a place of her own, even if she never wants to or needs to.

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...something perfect to wear if the employer, or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour.

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..a youth she's content to leave behind.

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to retelling it in her old age.

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE .....a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra.

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ..one friend who always makes her laugh... and one who lets her cry.

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ....a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family.

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...eight matching plates, wine glasses with stems, and a recipe for a meal, that will make her guests feel honored.

A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ...a feeling of control over her destiny.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...how to fall in love without losing herself.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...how to quit a job, break up with a lover, and confront a friend without ruining the friendship.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...when to try harder... and when to walk away.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...that she can't change the length of her calves, the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents..

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...that her childhood may not have been perfect...but its over.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW..what she would and wouldn't do for love or more.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...how to live alone... even if she doesn't like it...

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW.. whom she can trust,whom she can't, and why she shouldn't take it personally.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...where to go...be it to her best friend's kitchen table...or a charming inn in the woods...when her soul needs soothing.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW...what she can and can't accomplish in a day...a month...and a year...

This Stuff is Mine

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Fri, 20 May 2011 03:20:00 +0000

The image at left says: Housewife: The best job in the world.

I keep waiting for my inner hausfrau to burst forth from within, someone with good knees who keeps an immaculate house. Why is the archetype German? Surely there are other ethnic archetypes of the person I am not. I'm 50/50 Irish and Mexican. Both these ethnic groups fall to the negative on the good housekeeping continuum. I think (vows to do internet search to disprove point).

I’d rather do the research than dustbust the dirt that dripped from the burro’s tail I transplanted. Not cleaning is as obsessive as cleaning too much or thinking about cleaning, or in my case — thinking and writing about not cleaning. It’s also a form of self-hate, because who likes dirt? I don’t. And this dirty floor and dusty stuff is mine, and even though I’m a lousy housekeeper (distracted is more descriptive) I don’t really respect other lousy housekeepers, and I hate that about myself because it goes against my promise to love all things Sandra.

It’s all here, people: inner turmoil, angst.

Some of you are feeling smug, and maybe even vaguely nauseated because cleaning and straightening, picking up and putting away require no thinking on your part. It’s your innate quality, what you were born to do. It’s like you’re programmed, preset and predetermined. On the other hand, you probably have no injuries. I’m an actuarial nightmare.

Yesterday I was dusting in my little area. Not dusting dusting because I usually wait until I need a damp cloth. I highly recommend this method; the dust comes off in a satisfying sludge on the white face cloths that I use. They get recycled into dust rags after one of my dusting sessions. Nothing gets them white again. These preordained dust rags are never nearby when I decide to dust, so I use another face cloth. The pile is growing. Soon, I will venture forth and purchase more white face cloths.

I’ll probably end up an old lady with a room full of dust rags. They’ll fall on me in my hospital bed and I’ll suffocate. Unless I manage to raise one arthritic paw and create a pocket of air. Or maybe the cat laying next to me will tunnel us out.

That was exciting. Even under spectacularly ridiculous circumstances I imagine the angles for survival. I love that about myself. Which reminds me of the flaw that brought me to this self-examination.

While I was dusting I knocked down this teeny perfume bottle and it cracked on the tile floor. My only thought was to pick up the top half quickly to save some of the essence. I picked up a few pieces of glass, but didn’t examine the floor very closely. Through sheer luck I didn’t step on the littlest shards. Just dustbusted those babies. Decided to let the perfume soak into the tiles. Strong, but not unpleasant scent the first night. Today — very nice, sensual, like your mom’s favorite cocktail dress hanging in the closet, evocative even years after she last wore it.

Yoga Retreat: Crone Power

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Fri, 13 May 2011 00:42:00 +0000

These experiences are almost four years gone, but still live within me:

Just back from my first Yoga Retreat. Not so great at yoga, but needed a weekend getaway, and this one was held at La Casa de Maria which is part of San Ysidro Ranch in Montecito (near Santa Barbara), an easy and beautiful 90 minute drive north of L.A. It's on a bosque, which is Spanish for forest, and it originally stretched down to the ocean, which is very close. I could smell it over the eucalyptus and oak.

There's an Immaculate Heart Center for Spiritual Renewal on the property, and nuns disguised as ordinary women. There were several groups seeking renewal on the grounds this past weekend including an assemblage of mostly older women attending a conference: Gather the Women, Save the World based on Jean Shinoda Bolen's work. She wrote Goddesses in Everywoman back in the 80's, which I own and haven't looked at in years. Also The Millionth Circle, a sort of tipping point for focusing women's circles and thereby changing the world (I imagine ever-widening ripples on a lake), and the intriguing, Crones Don't Whine.

Her conference was a call to action for women of all ages to save our planet, our society, our economy. A big bite. Huge. But I admire the strength and energy of post-menopausal women since I've arrived there, intact, and full of curiousity and not afraid to ask questions and challenge one and all. Even myself.

All the various groups gathered at the same cafeteria, so I had a chance to meet many of these women. I met some gorgeous 80-year-olds. Not in the hiked-up, pulled-back look of the unfortunate women I see in Los Angeles, but women who have lived a life --- done stuff, knew they were doing it and lived to tell about it. "There was a time when I knew the streets of Paris better than the streets of Santa Barbara," one told me. Now, why didn't I ask her for her telephone number so I could hear more?

The 80 + year olds were fascinating. An inspiration. Bhavani, my yoga instructor, didn't want us to discuss politics in our group, but the Crone group had received no such warning. They were eager to share their opinions: they liked Hilary, but had a soft spot for Obama. A few felt the two were unelectable, so were counting on Edwards. If there were Republicans present, they didn't speak up.

Of note were the women my age, all of whom looked, dressed and acted older than me. Not sure if I should take comfort from that or clean up my act.

I slept in a room with four other women, yoga aficionados one and all. Never went to summer camp. This may be as close as I'll ever get. Didn't sleep much (curse of the light sleeper) what with the alien snoring (not my husbands's) and middle-of-the-night bathroom visits (theirs, not mine). But I'd selected my narrow bed well. I faced a bank of windows (the vertical blinds were inoperable so the windows were bare) where the tops of trees swaying in the wind were my first visual.

Plus there was a 6:00 a.m. meditation, which I think is insane, but probably means I'm not evolved enuf to get it. Three yoga sessions a day. Figured I would do one. Brought my laptop and the first draft of my vampire novel. It's all marked up and I planned on working in the rose garden, but it never left the trunk of my car. On the first day did two yoga sessions. Skipped out on the third yoga class and sniffed the flowers in the rose garden, befriended the black cat named Poki (who killed a lizard for sport, gutted it and walked off flicking his tail), and talked to an ex-nun who gave me the history of the gigantic stump (at least 15 feet in diameter) of an oak which formed the centerpiece of the rose garden. It had a vine with orange flowers encapsulating it.

In addition to the two yoga sessions (one at 7 a.m. because I was awake and had nothing else to do), I subjected myself to an arousing five-mile hike in search of a waterfall with a young woman from Baltimore who does construction. The hike was easy for her, but I was breathless, probably because I was flapping my lips most of the way. She asked me if I needed to rest. I said, "Where there's shade."

I pointed out a small corner next to the back gate of another Montecito megaplex-in-construction (a private home) with a hose snaking beneath a gate. "Would you like me to spray you?" she asked. I flashed on prison movies and the unfortunate inmates being tortuously hosed down. Conversation as follows:

"Do I look like I'm about to have a heart attack?"
She said, "No, you look hot."
I tested the hose --- it had a trigger handle. "Okay," I said, handing it to her. "Point it up."

The water burst forth in all its pressurized glory. At that moment, a Mexican construction worker came out. The drops fell, cooling my skin and the Mexican worker smiled, and we --- the sprayee and she, the sprayer, smiled back.

Also went shopping at a huge fund-raising event in Montecito --- May Madness --- a giant garage sale at the Music Center where I stood in line and spoke to yet another interesting 80-year-old woman discussing dragons (she wore heavy, solid silver, two-hundred-year-old bracelets with dragons on them that were once worn by Chinese farmers). Went inside and found a whimsical iron dragon! Will try to post a picture of it later.

Mother’s Day and Pubic Hair Memories

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sat, 07 May 2011 03:48:00 +0000

Pubic hair runs deep in my family, and probably long. Our history is bushy with secrets and revelations. In the 50’s, my mother didn’t hide her pubic hair from me. I'd accompanied her to the bathroom when she peed and watched her dry off after her bath. I assumed all women had black pubes until, at the age of eight, I faced a flaming-red snatch. A divorced woman with a four-year-old lived next door. I was supposed to be watching him while she bathed. He ran into the bathroom and I ran in after him just as she rose from the tub. My absolute stupefaction at her fiery pubis stopped me in my tracks. She looked down at herself as if she’d encountered this sort of shocked behavior before, and then she took a deep breath and calmly told me to take the kid out. She was a nurse. A beautiful, smart nurse with a huge red bush.

The hairstory continues.

If you were in college in the early 70’s, you may have let the hair on your legs grow to carpet-like density and considered cornrowing your armpit hair. Shaving my legs had been a rite-of-passage that forever separated me from my girlhood – in my father’s eyes, at least. The man never recovered. So, unlike my peers, I refused to stop shaving my legs or armpits, but compromised by letting my pubes curl out the sides of my bathing suit. I told people I was Italian.

Don’t judge me too harshly. Consciousness-raising was all the rage on campus. Pelvic self-exams were cutting edge. All you needed was a plastic speculum. A roving nurse arrived at our meeting with a gooseneck lamp and a bored expression to show us how to use the speculum. She explained what we were looking at. We examined our own and one another’s cervixes. While roughly similar, each was unique in its own way. The high point was one woman whose period was just beginning.

Weeks later I was invited by the Dean of Women to team teach a class called “Modern Woman,” at the University (Arizona State). The registrants were women returning to college after having children and putting their husbands through school. I invited the bored nurse to do her thing; it was like a mission for her. She hustled her gooseneck lamp into a good position on a table and plugged it in. Then, in what seemed like one fluid motion, she got up on the table, spread her legs, slid the speculum in and reached out a free arm to adjust the light.

I invited the class to take a look. They got in line and one-by-one stood a good three-feet away. Some stood on their toes as if that would give them a better vantage point. No one got up close. I wished I’d brought binoculars. At the end of a very quiet queue – I’ve heard more conversation at a viewing of a corpse - I thanked the nurse. She gave me a disinterested shrug and strode off. Needless to say, I got a flurry of phone calls from the school administration. The main complaint was that the nurse had shown her “pubic hair.” She showed more than that, but no one was able to get past the external signs of an adult woman. I was not invited back to teach the class. As a matter of fact, I think it was never taught again, or even mentioned in polite circles.

Mom fostered my pubic hair élan not only by not hiding her body, but by showing me a shaved female pubis – her own. It was 1957 and my brother was three-weeks overdue. Mom acquired a book that showed the stages of fetal growth inside the womb. The vaginal canal was depicted sans vulva and, of course, pubic hair. In those days, they “prepped” the mother for childbirth. This means they shaved her pubes, considering them unsanitary. Since my bro was late, she kept having to go back to be prepped. After one such appointment she explained what they did. I must have looked perplexed because she asked me if I wanted to see. Of course I did. Her pubis was desecrated, thorny, and with a five o’clock shadow that just looked criminal. She told me not to tell anyone.

I told all the kids in the neighborhood who were so dismayed they told their moms who called my mom to say that Sandra Mae was talking about “down there” to anyone who would listen.

Happy Mother’s Day to all!

I owe this blog to the memory of my mom. Without her influence, I probably wouldn’t have pubes and I’d be just like everyone else.

Wikipedia explains the major pubic hair waxing techniques. There are pictures. There’s also an historical reference which seems to say that hairlessness in the pubic region is equated with innocence. “Give me the Pedophile’s Preference” you might request at your local Brazilian Wax Coffee Shop. You know, the one that also has the internet. There’s one in your neighborhood. Google it.

Acapulco: 1967

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Wed, 04 May 2011 03:29:00 +0000

Today I was discussing Mexico with a friend and remembered my trip to that country during Spring break, 1967. I turned 18 on the trip and traveled with three friends by car from Albuquerque, New Mexico. One fellow was from Juarez, one from Venezuela, and the other from Española. I think we were in a Chevy.

We visited Mexico City, Guadalajara and Acapulco. In Acapulco, I bought my first bikini which was more like a hip-hugger. In those days, I was thin and flat-chested so I'd brought along special bra inserts to pad the top and large safety pins to secure them.

My friends didn't want me to shop alone, but I enjoyed my independence and insisted on shopping without a male chaperon. I walked back to the hotel, happy with my purchase. Two young men passed and one of them grabbed my crotch. I screamed and swung my bag at him. They laughed and walked on, slapping each other on the back.

When I told my friends, they shook their heads and tsk-tsked at the risk I'd taken. They were in love with me and I was in love with their love. Undaunted, we danced that night at the Tequila A Go-Go. Yes, I am so old I danced at the precursor to disco.

At around 4 a.m. we loitered on the curb outside the club and my friends befriended a taxi driver. Did I make it clear that my friends were all guys and they all spoke Spanish? The cabbie promised us something unusual. We piled in and he took us to the red light district:

We travel on an unpaved road to an unlit area. In the distance we see dim light. People - male tourists - roam a rutted lane with shanties on either side. Women sit outside the shanties. The structures are crudely constructed with gaps in the siding where light - candlelight? kerosene lamps? there are no power lines visible - shines through. Tall, blond Nordic-looking men dressed in tennis whites peek through the gaps at what's going on inside.

I'm sitting in the middle of the back seat of the taxi with a man on either side of me. My other friend is sitting in the front seat next to the driver. We pass a woman sitting outside one of the shanties. The taxi pauses. She lifts her skirt and spreads her legs.

In unison, without consulting one another, every guy in the taxi, except the driver, presses the lock button on their door. Ha! My friends were only a year or two older than me. Where are they now?

The next day we went to Revolcadero Beach where the waves were so strong they ripped the padded inserts right out of my bikini top, giant safety pins and all.

The Icing Twins

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sun, 24 Apr 2011 02:31:00 +0000

The old man’s hooded eyes focused on the photo of two teenaged girls smashing their faces into slices of birthday cake. He tapped the picture and said, “Snuck up on them for this one, but they heard me coming. Yep, last picture of the girls we have.”

The reporter glanced at the picture. “That’s the picture the FBI used?”

The old man nodded. Sighed. “Lotta good it did them. Change their hair color. Use a different color of icing and all youse got is a headline—”

“The Icing Twins Strike Again!” the reporter said in the exaggerated tones of an anchor announcing late-breaking news.

The old man nodded. Proud. “Most successful bank robbers ever. Never been caught. Never heard from them once they began their life of crime.” He looked down at the picture again. His hand trembled. “Broke her mother’s heart.”

The reporter consulted his notes. “Debbie and Ellie swore they were twins even though they had different parents?”

“They had a connection. It ran between them strong. You ever have a dog and an electric fence?” The old man didn’t wait for the reporter to answer, but continued on, warming to his subject. “It was like that, a line of electricity between them that warned everyone away, like they might get shocked if they got too close. We figured it was just teenaged lesbo stuff.”

The reporter cleared his throat. “Yes, well, according to reports Debbie and Ellie finished each other’s sentences, had the same gestures and facial tics, and made the same impulsive decisions.”

“Yep, they sure did. They got tired of people saying, ‘But you don’t look anything alike.’ It made ‘em angry. ‘Nobody sees us,’ our Ellie said. It was then they decided to never have their pictures taken.

“Why do you think they started their life of crime?”

“If I knew that, mister, I wouldn’t be sittin’ here in my pajamas talkin’ to you. Oh sure, maybe we shoulda told Ellie she was adopted, but how was we to know Debbie was adopted, too.” The old man set the picture down and twisted his arthritic hands together, agitated. “What are the chances of them endin’ up in the same neighborhood? Plenty of folks is adopted and they don’t rob banks!”

“Hmm, do you think Ellie and Debbie, um, became lovers?”

The old man struggled to his feet. “What kind of a sick sonabitch are you? That’d be incest.”

He showed the reporter to the door, and went over to the mantle to raise a picture he’d lowered just before the reporter arrived. He smiled down at the photo of Debbie and Ellie with their children, each with their face smashed down in birthday cake.

Sister, Sister

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 05:05:00 +0000

Now for something personal:

This is my sister. She recently forged our elderly mother’s name and stole thousands of dollars from her.

My mom worked six nights a week for years to support me, my brother and my sister. In her fifties, she took the GRE and got a job with the state. She was only able to save this money by living like a pauper. Once she retired, Mom insisted on subsisting on her social security checks, and banking the small pension she’d earned from the state.

It’s amazing how much interest can accumulate if you save every nickle and never spend a dime. She said the money was for her old age, so she wouldn’t be a burden to her children. Mom was sure she’d get cancer. She did. On her tonsils. Had chemo and radiation (The Tattoo Lady, Mother and Me), and beat it, although she still smokes.

Mom rescued my sister countless times from abusive relationships (White Lies), bought her cars, paid for repairs, saved the cars from repossession, paid down payments on homes, rent, and the list goes on. Every single one of my sister’s husbands and boyfriends were welcomed into Mom’s house where they mostly laid around. In order to discourage them from staying too long, Mom engaged in a peculiar form of domestic warfare where she put the lowest wattage light bulbs in their room and hid the toilet paper.

We — the sibs and Mom — laughed in those days at our mother’s eccentricities. We thought my sister would change, that things would get better. Why not? She’s smart and articulate, just has bad taste in men, and an addiction. To substance, yes, but more to a losing way of life. She's dedicated herself to bad decisions.

Mom’s heart is broken. She tried so hard to fix my sister, even lying to protect her when it put me in jeopardy. Mi familia. I got out, that’s my salvation, but my escape is only one of distance. I used to feel sorry for my sister, but this latest cut to our mother goes deep, beyond the blood, all the way to the bone.

"She’s bad, bad, bad," Mom says, all the orneriness gone out of her voice, making her sound feeble and old.

I think I might lose her any day, any hour, any minute, and it makes me so angry that my sister did this now.

All photos by author.

Where to Get a Good Bite

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Wed, 23 Mar 2011 21:21:00 +0000

Let’s start with vampire bats. These creatures are so cool in all their creeping stealth. In full frontal photos, they look like mini Nosferatu's caught by the paparazzi.

They nip the flesh, usually around the lower leg of an animal, and then lap it up. They are all about sneaking up on a sleeping animal, not disturbing it, having their meal, and getting away asap so they can return and feed another day, I mean night. Their method does not require a vein or an artery, which is where we enter the realm of the undead.

The classic vampire of fiction and film traditionally prefers the neck, and more specifically the jugular vein. Dracula just wouldn’t have the same cachet if after gazing deeply into Mina’s eyes he then bypassed her creamy neck and heaving bosom to lift her skirts and bite her on the ankle. Hmm, actually now that I think of it . . . . so many places to bite, so little time.

The undead are obsessed with the jugular, but their knowledge of human anatomy may be limited. The carotid is located on both sides of the neck and right next to the jugular. It’s the artery in the side of your neck where you take your pulse. Only a true artiste in bloodsucking could narrow their bite to pierce one and not the other.

Since the carotid is a part of the aorta, the usual six- foot stream of blood would be apparent, not all of which the vampire could swallow. A huge mess would be made. More than likely the vampire wouldn't drain a victim. They need to hide things a little better. How do you explain a corpse with no blood left in it? You don't. Assuming discretion is somewhat important in the vampire world, the undead might take a few lessons on tidiness from the vampire bat.

Folktales suggest vampires bite above the heart, or between the eyes (Ouch! On the temple, maybe. Very thin people sometimes have visible veins there, some even look knotted and throbby.)

Other places to get a bite:

The median cubital vein-- This vein is the one in the elbow where, if you've ever had blood drawn, that is where they stick you.

The ulner artery-- This is the artery in the wrist. After the neck it seems to be the second favorite place for vampires to bite.

The greater saphenous vein-- This vein runs along the inside of either thigh. The vein is large and deep; it would take a big bite to get down into it.

The femoral vein-- This vein is the one at the back of the knee. It lies close to the skin and is an easy bite if you have a victim face down and not kicking.

I think the big toe would be a good source. Earlobes are full of blood, and erect penises. The list goes on.

I've squeezed the bloody pulp out of bloodsucking, but please comment if you have some juice to add.

Dead, and Almost Buried

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Sat, 05 Feb 2011 12:30:00 +0000

The black cat dies is my refrain, and with her flies childhood. Theirs – my children’s – not mine.

I dug two graves this morning. The dry, funnel-shaped one left me unsettled. It meant I’d have to arrange the body, curl her like an ouroboros, nose tucked into tail. I struck the ground harder with my shovel trying to widen the hole, repeating the poem my son wrote when he was eight:

Akasha the cat is bad

She’s black and rad

And altogether glad

To be a cat

He sang it to her, and when he left for college, his brother took over the recitation. He’s all grown up now, too, but Kasha still seemed to recognize the cadence of the words, even up to her end.

For me, the poem was an incantation. Like a witch reciting verbal charms over her cauldron, the black cat sat on my lap and those words invoked images of afternoons filled with outings with my boys, like the one to animal rescue where she spotted us. My young sons answered her silent siren call when she extended a paw through the bars of her cage. I was not impressed and pointed out sleek and shiny cats, ones requiring little grooming. This fluffy-tailed feline no doubt would get knots in its fur, kitty litter stuck to its backside, and plum-sized hairballs. She licked their fingers; cat and boys looked up at me.

She was with us for over twenty years, and the first grave just wouldn’t do. It was too narrow, and I never once saw Kasha go to that area of the yard. The back of my tiny garden where the tomato trellis grows up the wall in summer seemed perfect. It was easy to dig there, the soil black and loamy. I lined her grave with clippings of lavender and perennial basil, and covered her with them, too. I imagined looking out at the garden while I write. The vine growing out of her would be heavy with deep red tomatoes, the fruit another invitation to reverie, to memories of youth. Hers, theirs, mine.

My husband said it was unsanitary to bury an animal where food is grown. He’s digging a third grave in an unvisited place.

The black cat is dead, and childhood has flown. I see now the fruitlessness of incantations to the past. My sons are men, but motherhood persists. It shifts form. One only has to imagine a cat blossoming into an heirloom tomato to understand the possibilities.

The Mothers of Invention

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 18:09:00 +0000

The Mothers of Invention live at Cafe Irreal. Straight from my heart and twisted intellect: http://bit.ly/g1d8SB

Family Traditions up now at In Posse

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 23:14:00 +0000

Goya's Saturn Devouring His Son speaks to me. My mother kept secrets and tried, but failed, to teach me to keep them, too. "Never tell a man anything," she said, "he'll just throw it in your face later."

She left my father and returned to her father taking me and my brother with her. Her life was hard, made more bitter by my insistence, finally, on setting the record straight.

Given a choice, she might have preferred Delacroix's Medea, below, especially if she thought it might prevent me from publishing the following:

‎"Family Traditions: Writing Fiction From Real Life

Poetry and Prose from In Posse Review

Start with a personal tragedy, something that haunts your relationships. It helps if you have a colorful family chock-full of sociopaths, if not outright felons. It’s better if you don’t quite understand the impact the event(s) had on you. You’re solving the mystery of yourself. more

Imagine | Playing for Change | Performed around the world.

noreply@blogger.com (sandra) — Fri, 17 Dec 2010 01:12:00 +0000

I still embrace these words. Put together by Playing for Change.