Friday Fiction on Saturday - Retellings

(sorry for the delay, 'tis the season...")

Retellings

I was in San Francisco. This is one of my favorite cities; the people, the geography, the climate, the politics, just about everything feels right to me, so I was really happy about the visit. Shortly after I settled into my hotel I decided to take a walk, I was just too excited to stay still and I wanted to see what was in the neighborhood.



Now, every time I visit San Francisco, there is one thing that strikes me beyond all else. While I certainly notice the bridge, the fog, the architecture, it’s the sheer number of homeless people that gets me. Maybe it’s the weather or the legislation, but San Francisco consistently has a greater density of homeless people than anywhere else I’ve visited in the US.

I believe that everyone should be treated with dignity, so I try to make eye contact, talk with people, treat them like human beings, even while I won’t give money, but by the 25th or 50th person who asked me for a dollar I was getting tired. I was getting tired of saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t, not today.” I was tired of seeing the far greater exhaustion in their faces. I was tired of the persistence of poverty and my own feeling of helplessness as I kept saying, “No.”

I began to walk back to my hotel, averting my face, turning into one of those people who just walk by, when I saw her up ahead; she was hard to miss. A big woman, wearing bright pink sweatpants and a red shirt, she saw me coming. When I was half a block away she began calling to me.

“Miss! Miss? Can I ask you a question? Hey miss, can you help me out? Just a little bit would help.”



She kept asking me, pivoting her body as I ducked my head and passed. She didn’t stop calling until I was a block away, her voice trailing behind me. 

“Miss? Hey miss?”


I don’t like this story. I don’t like this story. I do not like this story.



I would prefer to tell you this story:


I was in San Francisco. It’s one of my favorite cities, one of those places that feels like home, so I was happy about the visit. Shortly after I settled into my hotel I decided to take a walk; I was too excited to stay still and I wanted to see what was in the neighborhood.

Now, every time I visit San Francisco, one thing strikes me beyond all else. While I certainly notice the diversity, the microclimates, the quirky stores, it’s the sheer number of homeless people that gets me. Maybe it’s the weather or the legislation, but San Francisco consistently has a greater density of homeless people than anywhere else I’ve visited in the US.

I believe that everyone should be treated with dignity, so I try to make eye contact, talk with people, treat them like human beings, even while I won’t give money, but by the 25th or 50th person who asked me for a dollar I was getting tired. I was getting tired of saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t, not today.” I was tired of seeing the far greater exhaustion in their faces. I was tired of the persistence of poverty and my own feeling of helplessness as I kept saying, “No.”



I began to walk back to my hotel, still looking at people, still acknowledging them though with admittedly less enthusiasm, when I saw her up ahead; she was hard to miss. A big woman, wearing bright pink sweatpants and a red shirt, she saw me coming. When I was half a block away she began calling to me.

“Miss! Miss? Can I ask you a question? Hey miss, can you help me out? Just a little bit would help.”


I thought about crossing the street. I thought about just walking by. Then I remembered that I was close to my hotel, that I had a hotel to go back to. I was lucky. When I got to her, I said, as I had to so many people, “I’m sorry, I can’t not today.” She stepped back and turned to ask the next passer by; I was as invisible to her as she was everyone else.


This is a better story. I wish I could tell you this one:


Not too long ago I visited San Francisco. It’s one of my favorite cities, someplace I can slide into as though I never left. Shortly after I settled into my hotel I decided to take a walk; I wanted to stretch and reacquaint myself with the neighborhood.



Now, every time I visit San Francisco, one thing strikes me beyond all else. While I certainly notice the history, the quality of the Pacific light, the interstices of the neighborhoods, it’s the sheer number of homeless people that gets me. Maybe it’s the weather or the legislation, but San Francisco consistently has a greater density of homeless people than anywhere else I’ve visited in the US. 


I believe that everyone should be treated with dignity, so I try to male eye contact, talk with people, treat them like human beings, even if I won’t give them money, but by the 25th or 50th person who asked me for a dollar, I was getting tired. I was getting tired of saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t, not today.” I was tired of seeing the far greater exhaustion in their faces. I was tired of the persistence of poverty and my own feeling of helplessness.

I began to walk back to my hotel, still looking at people, still acknowledging them though with admittedly less enthusiasm, when I saw her up ahead; she was hard to miss. A big woman, wearing bright pink sweatpants, a red shirt and a thrift store jacket from the 1980s, she saw me coming. When I was half a block away she began calling to me. 



“Miss! Miss? Can I ask you a question? Hey miss, can you help me out? Just a little bit would help.”


I thought about crossing the street. I thought about just walking by. Then I remembered that I was close to my hotel, that I had a hotel to go back to. I was lucky. When I got to her I said, “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

She looked at me and said, “Why not?”

I was taken aback, usually people don’t engage with me when I say no.

“Well, I don’t have that much money myself. But moreso because I don’t know if you’ll use that money for food or to hurt yourself.” As I said this I realized just how pompous I sounded. She looked at me for a moment, so I added, “I’d be glad to buy you a sandwich.”

“Okay.”

I took her order to the scraggly convenience store across the street, then delivered meal.

“Thanks,” she said, cramming it into one of her bags. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you.” Without waiting she gathered her belongings and began walking.

I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t hesitate, of course I did, but sometimes you go anyway. Sometimes you just do things like that. She led me up one of those steep San Francisco hills and I have to admit, for all that she outweighed me and was carrying shopping bags full of god-knows-what, I was panting to keep up with her. We turned down a few narrow streets and then found ourselves in Chinatown.

Like every tourist, I love San Francisco Chinatown. I especially love the architecture, with the few pre-1906 earthquake buildings still clinging to their neighbors. I wanted to linger and look, but she kept her pace brisk and led me off the main road to a narrower street, then stopped so abruptly that I almost bumped into her.

“There,” she said, “It’s down there.”

She was pointing down a narrow alley, a crevasse of the city. She looked at me expectantly, as if saying Why wouldn’t you? I looked around. There were few people on this residential street, those that were nearby had no interest in a tourist and a bum. I took a deep breath and stepped into the alley, back in time.

The buildings arched high above me, seeming to lean into one another. Small balconies jutted out at random while enticing, unfamiliar smells drifted everywhere. A woman cutting up chicken with a cleaver sat outside her narrow door. I could feel my guide behind me propelling me forward.

The end of the alley was blocked by a tall, wooden fence painted a brilliant blue. “There,” she said, a voice in my ear, “Look there.” I could see a hole cut in the fence.

Standing on tiptoes I peered through and saw paradise. Trellises of brilliant orange and red and blue flowers snaked across the brickwork. Potted green trees so lovingly cared for that they bore fruit even in this urban eden; mangos on their ropey stems and papaya just waiting to give up their sweetness. Small pots of herbs cut a spicy note through the sweetness and every green leaf glistened with drops of water catching sunlight from far above.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the lush living scent. I heard a rustle of wings that grew to a furor then opened my eyes in time to see a rushing shadow pass over the garden and out to the city beyond. The plants barely bobbed their leaves in response to the breeze from the flight.

When I turned around my guide was gone. I walked back down the alley and somehow found my way back to my hotel, where I dreamt of green growing things and brilliant blue skies full of flight.

(c)2009 Laura S. Packer

A top 9 list

If you've been reading this blog for awhile you know I like lists. Lists help me think in a more organized fashion, something I often need help with. This time of year lists are everywhere. They're inescapable. The artificial close of the year drives the media to produce Top 10 lists on a near-infinite variety of topics.

I wanted to write a top-ten list for 2009, but I kept stumbling. The last couple of months have been hard, so it's challenging to think of the top ten books/moments/films/creative endeavors/etc for the past year. What I keep coming back to are the things that I didn't enjoy about 2009 and would like to do differently next year.

I don't believe in dwelling on past crappy stuff; it gives it too much power and energy in your current life. I certainly don't manage to do this all the time and recognize that sometimes your old stuff just keeps getting in the way, but naming it and then moving on can provide a path forward. In that spirit, I was going to present my top ten list of things I can avoid in 2010.

Writing this list was unexpectedly hard. While 2009 was tough I learned so much that I found it challenging to really come up with stuff I regret about the year. So this led me to the following, which I think is ultimately much more important. Try it yourself, you might be surprised.

Top 9 unexpected gifts of 2009

1. The written word. I have returned to writing this year with a passion I thought I had lost. In no small part I have this blog to thank for it.
2. The importance of self-care has been borne home quite dramatically. I really, really get it now. I'm working on it, though the question remains - how do I take better care of myself without stressing over it?
   
3. Silence. Sometimes being confronted with myself, with the ticking clock, with the hum of the world is the best possible thing.
   
4. The grace of a good death.
5. The purity of grief. The understanding that love yields grief and is worth it.
6. The intricacies and meditations of small tasks - chopping, sorting, digging, walking.
7.  Discovering that I am more capable than I feared. Remembering that fear is feeling like any other.
8. Remembering that I can make better choices. Making a bad choice and taking note of it so I can do better next time. Beckett had it right, though he may not agree with my context.*
9. Completion and knowing when to let go, whether a life, an art project, or a list.

I hope your year was full of gifts and that the coming year give you light, creativity and joy. May you notice the gifts when they are offered.

*Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.
 
(c)2009 Laura S. Packer

Friday Fiction: How to tell the future

Part 1
For eleven year old girls

What sleepover is complete without a good ghost story? Well ladies, this goes even further, here’s how to summon the ghost of Bloody Mary herself! All you need is a candle, matches (you can get those from Mom’s purse) and a bathroom with a mirror.

This works best if you do it at midnight, as close to witching hour as possible. Every girl should be in her nightgown, teeth brushed, hair in curlers and ready for a good scare.

Gather in the bathroom and turn out the lights. Take a moment in the dark. Some of you might giggle, but remember, you are summoning the dead – this is serious business!

Light the candle. Be careful not to light your hair, Aqua Net is highly flammable. The most timid of you may want to stand watch and give warning if an adult or older brother should pass nearby.

The bravest girl should hold the candle in her left hand and stand in front of the mirror.

Together, everyone must chant “Bloody Mary” ten times. Blow out the candle and look into the mirror.

Some people say Bloody Mary will appear in the mirror, dressed in red and dripping gore, ready to answer your questions about the future. Others say she’ll appear to tear the eyes out of the closest girl, as retribution for disturbing her rest. No one knows for sure. The question is, are you brave enough to find out?

Part 2
For women of a certain age

First, try not to be too surprised when the moment comes, when you want to know with such
ferocity it consumes you. The question will vary – it might be about children or career or secret longings or something less expected, but it will be there and it will sear you.

Second, don’t waste much time denying your need for an answer. No matter what the question, the need for the answer may matter more than the answer itself.

Third, and everyone does this, talk it out with your girlfriends. They will each answer differently and each will be wrong. Don’t be distressed, they're doing the best they can. The wisest one might refuse to answer and instead will direct you to me.

Because, fourth, you will come eventually to me. I will not give you the answer either, though I’ll shuffle the cards and give veiled hints; it’s never clear. If I like you very much and see the right kind of hope in your eyes, I will suggest the -

Fifth. Go home. Turn off the lights. Light a candle and gaze at your reflection in the mirror for a long, long time. Remember, mirrors used to be sacred; we dismiss them too easily now. Wait. See what happens. Welcome whoever appears and who you are when the candle burns out.

(c)2009 Laura S. Packer

Finally! I finished it!

I've written before about the need to break our own boundaries in order to stretch creatively. There are all kinds of ways you can do this so I urge you to do something new - draw with crayons, knit, scribble, doodle, play with clay, something.

I make collages, usually out of paper and other media.

I finally finished an ambitious shadowbox project, my own cabinet of curiosities. It's taken me far longer than I expected to complete because I gave myself some fairly rigorous guidelines for completion.

• the objects in the shadowbox had to be found. I broke that rule only once. Can you guess what the one purchased object is?
• the arrangement of the objects had to fit within some fluid and arcane rules I made up as I went along
• and nothing could extend further than the edge of the box, so it could be enclosed by a sheet of plexiglass.

I'm really pleased with it. If you want to see more detail you can go to the flickr image. I'd love to see some of your creative endeavors, please send or post links in the comments section!

I'm working on my next cabinet of curiosities, this one with a more concrete theme and limited scope. I'm hoping to have an exhibit of assemblage art sometime in 2010, I'll keep you posted.

(c)2009 Laura S. Packer

Ten things you can tell a story about

I regularly get one of two responses when I tell people I'm a storyteller. They either say, "You're a what? So you read to kids?" Or they say, "Cool! I could never do that."

To the first response I take a deep breath, smile and explain that, while reading to kids is great and important, I tell stories, mostly to grown-ups. The conversation can go in many different directions from there and, if I'm lucky, it leads to a really good discussion. It often does.

It's the second response that I love, because it gives me a chance to do a magic trick. Everyone is a storyteller; if you've read this blog before you already know that. You may not be a performing artist, you may never stand on a stage nor have any desire to, but we all tell stories. It's a crucial part of how people understand their lives and connect with others. The magic trick is helping someone see that the everyday communication they already engage in is really storytelling and how, if they wanted, they could expand on it and tell a more polished story.

All I do is this:

• I talk about storytelling as part of every day life
• Then I let the conversation move onto something else
• Within a few minutes I ask them a leading question and I listen to their response. I let them tell me a story. I listen with interest and maybe ask another question or two
• And then I thank them for telling me their story, mentioning something I enjoyed about the story.

At which point they realize it's a trick. Some people get embarrassed, but just about everyone is pleased. They did it. They told a story. They didn't die. Maybe next time it will be easier.

So what can you tell a story about, even if you don't think of yourself as a storyteller? Here are some suggestions for stories; these are all topics that can take a moment or an hour, none are the be-all and end-all of storytelling, nor is this list comprehensive.

• What was your best birthday ever?
• What did you want to be when you grew up? Why? If that didn't happen, what would life be like if it had?
• A time when you misheard something and what happened
• How was your drive today? How about yesterday? Anything interesting along the way?
• If you could have a superpower, what would it be? What are the implications of having a superpower?
• What's the farthest you've been from home?
• What could you give up? What couldn't you?
• What was your first car?
• Who is your hero? If you don't have one, make one up.
• What makes you happy?

I'd love to know what other topics you find useful, both as a teller and listener. Remember, the trick is that you are genuinely interested in what you're telling, so it must appeal to a broad audience and you must be interested in it. I don't generally recommend talking about the esoteric details of your job to someone you just met at a cocktail party (Unless they ask, of course). Please bear in mind, you could use these as writing prompts, but I'd urge you to take one of these and tell someone a story about it. See what happens when the words come from your mouth instead of your fingers. Have fun. Let me know how it turns out!

(c)2009 Laura S. Packer

Friday Fiction: Winter to Summer

Four men stand outside on a mild winter day. All have big, solid bellies and the broad callused palms of those who have spent their lives working with tools and rope and dirt. Their hard-hats in their hands, they shift back and forth as they feel the strain in their necks, heads bowed toward the ground. No one speaks. A few ice crystals glisten in the mound of newly turned earth.

“I’ll sure miss her,” says one. The others all nod and grunt their agreement. One sniffs slightly, pretending it’s the wind.

After awhile they turn and go back to work. The morning light catches on a foil-wrapped soda bottle graveside, sprouting plastic flowers. Later, one man, not the one who spoke nor the one who sniffed, returns and sets a ring of stones around the mound. By the next morning a yellow wooden cross is planted by the grave, inscribed with the words, “Nance. A good cat. 2001-2008.” No one mentions the cross. No one asks.

Winter flows into spring. The grave settles into the earth. The mice seem to have left out of respect for the dead. Work in the yard continues as it always does and the men make no mention of the cross by the fence. Nor does anyone comment on the occasional new flowers that appear by her resting place, or the saucer of milk placed by the ring of stones once a week, or the reluctance everyone shares in finding a new garage cat. Spring is a busy season, full of muddy axles and tire changes; there is little time to think of such things.

By summer the grave is almost flat. The stones that mark its border are so dark with mud and time, they could have been there forever. The cross is faded to the color of butter, the black lettering to grey. The plastic flowers still shine red and vibrant, no one looks closely enough to see the spatter of dirt. The milk that appears once a week is sipped away by squirrels and a stray cat that has taken to loitering by the fence.

By mid-August the stray has enough courage to sit in the sun outside of the garage while the men eat lunch. “Willya lookit that,” says one of them. “Bold as brass that tom is. Whaddya think, should I give him a little of my lunch? It’s been a long time since we had a cat around here.”

(c)2009 Laura S. Packer

World AIDS Day

Today is World AIDS Day. If you're reading this in the US or another Western country, then it's likely that AIDS and HIV aren't really on your radar anymore. The current medication cocktails have made HIV a condition someone can often live with for years, though their quality of life may be effected. HIV may not seem like the immediate death sentence it once did.

But if you're in Africa or South America or if you're poor or if you or someone you love has HIV then you know that this disease is still a significant and terrible threat. You don't have to be gay, black, white, promiscuous, a drug user or somehow irresponsible to get HIV. Anyone can contract it. You may already know someone who has HIV. I could have it. You could. You don't know unless you get tested. You won't know unless you ask, unless you hear and tell stories.

When I first heard about AIDS I thought That's it, we're all dead. A fatal sexually transmitted disease seemed like the end of humanity. Now I recognize it's far more complex. Among other things it's a call to action.

Act with compassion for all people; this illness inspires prejudice, but it can and does effect anyone. It gives us the opportunity to be our most compassionate selves.

Act with determination; by educating ourselves and others, by funding and supporting new research we can come closer to beating it. Along the way we learn more about ourselves, our bodies and how to live with each other.

Act. Don't be a passive, silent witness to your own life. While you are alive, live so you make the world better for all, whether that means wearing a ribbon, so this disease isn't allowed to become something only "they" get or do something else to connect with the world.

(c)2009 Laura S. Packer