Monthly Archives: November 2012

Free

Posted on November 12, 2012 | Leave a comment

I’m typing. 

I’m watching.
I’m typing again.
I hear it. It’s a need, a cry, a want. I shudder. 
“Up, up, uppie!”
She wants me. 
I lift her up in my lap.
I slowly feel my insides melt into gelatinous goo. I’m green, slimy, I’m nothing. I’m no one. I’m a giant mass of waste.
She wants me.
She wants everything I have.
I have nothing left to give her.
She jumps down from my lap.
I’m a pool of slime on the floor. I’m trying to lift myself up, but I keep slipping. I’m melting into the hardwood floor. 
I want to scream
Someone help me!
Lift me up.
Bring me back to life.
I can hear her crying. I can’t get up. I’m liquid. 
I’m nothing, I’m no one. 
I feel the anger surge like electricity through me, a pile of liquid on the floor. I’m glowing, electric. I’m rising up above the floor, above the crying, above the sounds. I’m charged, plus, minus, electricity emanating through my veins. 
I can feel.
Wings spread through the electricity. They are white, fluid, long, soft. 
I can breathe.
I will not escape this feeling. 
She cries louder. My wings spread and I float upward.
I am electric.
I am charged. 
I am someone. 
My wings flutter, and the room begins to spin. I’m spinning, the crying is louder. 
She rises up and meets me. 
We are electric together. She and I. I am terrified of her charge, her eyes.
She reaches her hand out and touches my wing. I breathe, and float downward.
My wings contract and I float down down down to the ground. 
I am curled up in a ball on the floor. She strokes my wings softly while I cry. She curls up beside me. Together we are calm. Together we are one. 
We fall into a deep comfortable sleep. 
There is silence. 

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The Dance - Back to Sixth Grade

Posted on November 11, 2012 | Leave a comment

“We’re having a Halloween party today. The kids missed out on Halloween because of the hurricane.” the principal told me. “Help your kids with their costumes and the party will start at 1:10.”
“Okay, great.” I said rushing to my advisory room.

I had a Dracula, Dr. Who, and a vampire among others. There was one boy dressed as Lady Gaga running amuck in the hall.

I helped my kids with their costumes and then it was time.

We all rushed in droves into a dark room with florescent green lights and cobwebs. There was a DJ with his hand on a record player ready to go. He released his hand and the music began to blast. All at once my stomach began to turn. 33, 32, 31, 30, 29, 28, 27…16, 15, 14, 13…12.

I’m 12 years-old again. Standing in the corner of a large gymnasium. Looking at the boy dressed in baggy jeans and a black tee-shirt with spiky hair.

I want him to look at me. If I nod my head to the music and do a little half smile, maybe he’ll notice me. I move to the beat. I tap my foot. I’m cool. I’m cute. I’m going to lick my lips and fix my hair. I hope he sees me. He doesn’t, he’s too cool for me.

Maybe I should have worn a different dress.

He leans in against the wall. A girl approaches him, she’s noticeably taller than him. Her hair reaches beyond her waist. She smiles, reaches over and touches his baseball cap, pushing it over his eyes. He pushes her playfully. She walks away to get some candy from a table in the center of the room.

He’ll never notice me.

He turns his cap sideways and places one foot up against the wall with such confidence that I blush.

I approach the candy table and shove ten pieces of candy corn into my mouth to distract myself from…

“Ms. Fader? Would you mind handling the raffle?”

33, I’m 33 again. I’m responsible for collecting money for the raffle and selling candy.

The baseball capped boy is back in 1991.

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Poetry Corner With Deborah

Posted on November 8, 2012 | Leave a comment

My friend Debbie is a wonderful writer.


We compare poetry and stories all the time. Today, I’m giving up my blog to her. She’s here to share with you her latest work about a man behind a wall. Please do comment, interpret and share your thoughts on this piece. Take it away Debbie!

Hi, my name is Deborah, and I will be finishing my Associate’s degree in Accounting in a small school in Michigan this year, than moving to New York to finish my BS, and possibly continue on to higher education. I love to write poetry and short stories, and once, I had five minutes and wrote a small poem for a Facebook poetry group. 

I wasn’t impressed with the end result, but others thought I was insane. I guess one can go into the whole significance of whether it is the audience or the poet who needs to be impressed with a specific piece, but I was hoping to gather opinions on this poem. I love it and I hate it, because while it fills the specific goals I had in mind, I feel as if I have completely missed the essence of what I was trying to say. The problem is that I have a working body, and it looks pretty good, but I am missing the soul of what would make this poem unique. However, there is an option that I am standing to close to it, and am being too hard on myself for this poem, so, I am going to leave it entirely to an unknown audience to judge and rip apart. I can’t promise I will take everyone’s advice, but it would be interesting to have some type of sounding board.
The Wall
There is a man who stands behind the wall.
Is he mine? Can he hear my call?
If so, he’s still standing behind the wall.
Does he see when I bring home
A friend? Does it matter to him that night
After night after night the friend is different.
More than it matters to me, I’d think
But still, he doesn’t move,
From his place behind the wall.
Does he watch or turn away
Giving me some modesty I don’t deserve.
I don’t know because he’s standing behind the wall.
I rip into their backs with my nails
And pretend I am tearing down the wall
But I don’t want to see him standing there.
A face of silent sorrow, or a mask of hatred
How would my man look on?
As he’s standing behind the wall.
Does he stiffen with each scream?
Faked or unwilling?
Can he hear everything behind my wall?
—————————————————
Who is the man?
What does this poem mean?

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A Staten Island Shoe Mitzvah

Posted on November 6, 2012 | Leave a comment

Out of all the boroughs, Hurricane Sandy hit Staten Island the hardest. One of Ari’s teachers (Ms. Y) lives on Staten Island.

I took Ari to school the other day, only to find that Ms. Y was not there. Ms. X (Ari’s main teacher) greeted us as we entered the classroom.
“Where’s Ms. Y?” I asked “Is she okay?”
“No,” Replied Ms. X. “Her house was flooded. She’s got a crew of people helping her clean it up at the moment.”
“Is there anything we can do to help?” I asked.
“That’s really sweet of you to ask.” She replied. “I’ll ask her and let you know.”
But that simply wasn’t enough for this Jewish mother.
When I arrived home, I busted out my laptop and searched through my email and found a mass email that Ms. X sent out a while back to all the parents in Ari’s class. 
I hit “reply all” and said:
Hi All,

It’s come to my attention that Ms. X’s home has been adversely affected by the hurricane. What can we do to help?
By the way, I still don’t really know the difference between “affected” and “effected.” I think I used the correct word, but I did google it before I sent the email. Was I right?
Shortly thereafter, I got an email back from Ms. X letting the parents know what Ms. Y was in need of. Ms Y needed (among other things) a generator, and shoes. Ms. Y’s home was severely flooded. She, her husband, and her son were left without any shoes. Sneakers and winter boats were mentioned. 
I wrote Ms. X back and promised I would buy Ms. Y’s son some shoes, boys size 6.5.
Today, Ari, Samara and I went to Payless. I scanned the boy’s section and found a pair of Airwalk sneakers. Then I noticed that there were a pair of winter boots right above them, the same size, Ms. Y’s son’s size. I couldn’t afford both pairs of shoes. I only intended to buy one pair. But my brain wouldn’t stop…
It’s cold. 
Sneakers are not enough…
His feet will freeze. 
Fuck it, I’ll buy both. 
It was a mitzvah, I told myself. Now Ms. Y’s son will have shoes.
We arrived at school, today election day. Ms. X told me I could drop the shoes off with her, but she wasn’t in her classroom. 
I went to the office. I asked Marisa, the secretary, if she knew where Ms. X was. She told me she would be here. I started to panic. 
“You could leave them here, I’ll give them to Ms. X for you.”
No, I thought. What if they never make it to Ms. X. It’s not rational, but I want to physically hand them to Ms. X. That way I’ll know they’re going to get to Ms. Y. They’re going to get stolen in the office. I know it. Also, I’m completely insane. 
“Would you mind calling upstairs? I just want to drop these shoes off to Ms. X. They’re for Ms. Y.”
“Sure, no problem.” Said Marisa.
Marisa thinks I’m insane. 
Shoes!
Ms. X came down from her meeting.
“Hi,” She said “Thank you so much, I’m sure Ms. Y will love these.”
“There’s a receipt in there, in case they don’t fit,” I said frantically searching through the bag.
Why am I so weird?
“Thanks again.” Said Ms. X. “I have to run back to my meeting. See you tomorrow!”
“Bye!” Ari chimed in.
Finally, Ms. X had the shoes, and they were on their way to where they belonged, Staten Island.
A mitzvah has been done! 

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Hot Air

Posted on November 2, 2012 | Leave a comment

I close my eyes and travel to a place I’ve seen many times before. There’s a vast expanse of green. In the field is a multi-colored hot air balloon. Sitting next to the ballon’s basket are two sand bags. The field is entirely empty. There are trees in the distance.

I stand there in a green dress. It flutters in the wind.

I want to step into the balloon’s basket, but I’m scared.

The wind gets stronger. I look up at the sky. The clouds turn a shade of dark gray and move toward the center of the field. I feel my chest tighten. I step one foot into the ballon’s basket followed by the second foot. My dress gets caught on something. I feel a drop of rain, and I panic. I pull at my dress and it doesn’t budge. It begins to rain. It’s a gentle rain, but  know I don’t know have much time.

I tug hard at my dress and it rips, but I’m free.

I get into the basket. I bend down and remove one sand bag, followed by another sand bag. The balloon releases; it rises up. I’m floating upward. I can feel the mist on my face. It’s cool and refreshing. My dress is wet.

I am flying.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I’ll get there.

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