Archive for November 4th, 2007

Rudy, he was found by Jenny. He was in a ditch, a puppy, and I picture him barely holding on, clinging to the side like balsa wood that gets caught with the foam and bobs about before finally being pulled under.

Things found, I’ve found interesting stores, although they’re not really found. If you think about the word “found” or “discovered,” you realize nothing is actually ever lost, necessarily. Columbus “found” America, yet here were the indigenous peoples, Aztecs and others, just living and being, not wanting at all to be discovered.

I’ve found finds, my mind keeps traveling back to Asian antiques or modern outdoor furniture, like those places I stumbled on in the Pearl District in Portland Tuesday night. I’ve found great restaurants.

Oh how I wish I could write about finding something else, a pure find, like finding my inner artist, finding a piece of my heart that was frozen or not functioning, discovering a new compassion, a kindness for people or animals or children, my own. That’s the kind of discovery I want to make.

I want to discover the warmth of Dad’s hands, his perfect fingernails, how meaty yet solid his palm is, like it’s built-up muscle, and I want to discover the deep understanding of why a father’s hand can be so powerful.

I want to see on Dee’s chin the same beauty mark that belonged to Mom, find it there, as if I had never noticed that Mom lost it (of course she did, she had it burned off years ago).

-NOTE: I did this writing practice with one of my writing groups.

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Things that are lost, and really I feel like taking a gulp of my coffee. I feel like lying on my tummy at Dr. L’s place and having him adjust whatever it is I lost and has been relocated just behind my shoulder blade. Maybe he’ll find a little trinket, one of Em’s sparkly necklace pendants that she picks up.

Things that are lost, and I picture myself at age 9, or 7, standing on the inside of a women’s clothing rack. I am in the hollow in the center, and all around me are the slacks and skirts and blouses on hangers. I have torn off the bottom half of each price tag, the portion normally taken by the saleswoman when she checks you out. I’ve collected a stack of them, quietly and without drawing attention to what I am doing, while Mom shops.

And now, standing in this center of the rack, in the semi-darkness, I feel lost. Lost in an urban center or lost in a crowd, lost in a stack of clothing, lost while all around me I hear voices of mothers like mine, talking to the salesgirls or to one another, but not to other children. I am alone in my size and in the fact that my mother drags me on her shopping trips. Lost to her, I am like a purse or the lipstick, something to remember about before and after but not in between.

Lost, I am a lost thing found, now, sitting here. My coffee still beckons, coffee is never a lost thing. It dawns on me that some objects, persons, places, things have a lost energy to them, others a found energy. Or maybe it’s not found as much as landed. Solid, rooted, and that’s the way I want to go. If I am on a road traveling, I wouldn’t mind being lost if I knew in my heart I were found.

Lost, lost in space, lost in a world. Keys, wallets, credit cards, what are the things in my life that are lost? I’ve lost jewelry, the blue-and-white round earrings I borrowed of Dee’s. I’ve lost clothing, I couldn’t find my green sweater and later it turned up in Em’s chest of drawers.

-NOTE: I did this writing practice with one of my writing groups.

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Um, hel-loooo… can someone let me in?
They’re lining up to do a drumline.*

Hey, you just let Rafie in. Come on, you guys.
Don’t leave
me out here alone with ’em.

OK. Everyone into formation. Not you, duck.

Quacky idea…stupid turkeys. Hmmph!

Line ’em up, turkeys, straight and narrow!

Watch this…they’re fluffin’ up for the finale…

Woo-hoo, show some tail! Duck, get out!

We’re done…let’s get the flock outta here.
Wait a sec, is there any food?

*Drumline = a name suggested by one of red Ravine’s readers during a lively conversation about what to name our 11 “turklets.”

These turkeys are so advanced that they took it upon themselves to learn amazing turkey tricks, such as “doing the Drumline.”

Perhaps they were scared into action upon hearing some of the other names suggested, namely Butterball, Giblet, Barbie-Q, Stove Top, and Drumstick.

Although we’d like the turkeys to be wild, they haven’t taken well to the idea. Still, we have high hopes that these turkeys will make a mark in this world (and I’m not talking about turkey scat), forever burying the notion that they might be better served on a platter this Thanksgiving.

[Oh, and, the photos? Taken with my cell phone camera. Still waiting…]

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