Snorky’s brown belly and back end are married together by a band of hamster white. His whiskers twitch and his tiny hands fondle food like Play-doh.
This morning I found Snorky curled into a frozen smile.
I will bury him in the sandy cemetery below the clothesline where our underwear already hangs in sad-mouthed shapes.
(Some childhood memories dig in like hamsters on spinning wheels-my siblings and I had quite a sandlot)
Beside the bright berries of the mountain ash, the bird’s eyes are dull. His heart — races. Will this be the creature I save? Into its parched mouth, I administer a drop of water. The frail ribs expand up and down like a bullfrog’s throat. The dull eyes go glassy. The breast stops flying.
My small sweating hands wrap the limp bird in tissue. I dig out a hole and bury the tiny thing beside the tree. Tears fall. The ground turns moist. I mutter a child’s prayer for things I don’t understand. The morning sun shifts. The ground has nearly dried.
Should I stand beside this grave for the remainder of my life—
This piece is dedicated to my children
I am thrilled my CNF piece, “Missing Knuckles,” was selected to be part of the amazing anthology, Death Lifespan Vol. 12, published by PURE SLUSH, independent publishers since 2010.
“I was twelve the year I noticed her missing knuckles. My perfect mother was missing the section of her pinky where there would have been ligaments, bone and a knuckle. Her right pinky was noticeably shorter than its left counterpart. And the finger with the diamond I sometimes lost my eyes in, though normal in length, was also missing a knuckle. Mom’s ring finger could only bend using the knuckle closest to the palm of her hand.
What other secrets did my mother have? What else hadn’t I noticed? She laughed when I accused her of not coming clean sooner and was surprised I hadn’t noticed before.” —excerpt from Missing Knuckles
PURE SLUSH has put together an entire LIFEspan series. These remarkable anthologies are worth checking out, and it’s always wonderful to support our independent publishers.
Thank you,
am:)
I hope you’re all managing the heat.
In 1975 and for many years afterward, I wanted nothing more than to look and sing like Bobbie Gentry, and emulate Carl Kolchak, the mildly insane journalist, who investigated supernatural crimes while wearing a goofy smile and a slanted straw hat.
Today, I continue to play my favorite Gentry album Ode to Billy Joe while the guitar sitting in the corner of my studio listens along. And I strive to pile my hair higher than is normal.
As for becoming a boots-on-the-ground monster-chasing reporter, I daily arm myself with art supplies to track down creatures, and I type prose on a typewriter keyboard. The wide-brimmed straw hat resting on a pile of books in my studio sees action when the sun is out.
Maybe, I did become who I wanted to be all along. Maybe…
Pencil sketch of Bobbie Gentry done about two months ago. I continue to use a giant Ticonderoga pencil. I’m not allowing myself to get into details using sharpened points and varieties of leads in the hopes of focusing on shape and form.
I’ve not done much writing these last few months. I’ve been madly creating monster collage mini-paintings like Shunka Warakin (below) for the upcoming UFO Fair in Pine Bush, NY. Such fun:)
I hope you are all doing well.
am:)
(Above, a recent sketch I did of my dear friend, DS Levy. My reference was a photo taken when the amazingly talented writer known as little Deb had a typewriter already growing in her heart)
Man, it has been a long time since I’ve posted. Like you all, I’m juggling coffee mugs attempting to make a Venetian decanter. I’ve been doing quite a bit of writing and ‘arting’ offline. ‘Tis difficult wanting to do it all with the damn clock dictating the days.
I do hope you, your families and friends are doing okay.
Here’s a piece I wrote sometime ago while sipping coffee in the kitchen of my previous home:)
The Lollipop Vanishes
The cold isn’t done yet. It remains bluster-blue out there. Steam from my morning coffee marinates my face while a pen hanging from the calendar on my pantry door doodles pictograms. The wind spirits are still dancing. Shouldn’t have cracked the kitchen sliders open so early. Perhaps the swinging pen is scrawling a message from beyond, should I pray or wipe the door down?
Time flips on its head whenever clouds sail by that fast. Between sips of luke warm coffee, I remember me as a little girl in brown polyester, a tomboy with a pageboy, and a half-shirted party girl. Young woman with a career, an apartment, a sports car, a motorcycle.
As a lefty, I never learned biker right-hand turns. The bike went away. I totaled my car. The car went away. I bought another car. Got married. We moved from New Jersey to New York. We had children. Moved into a bigger house. Our large dog died. We got another dog. Plus a smaller dog for child anxiety. My children earned degrees.
Our family had a bad eleven weeks that killed my father and mother-in-law and gave my mother a massive stroke. My mother died three years later. I don’t remember being her caregiver. My children moved into their new lives. We downsized into a new “old” house. My husband’s hair turned grey. My older relatives are nearly done dying. A box of Clairol waits in the wings for me.
In one of my book clubs, I’m the oldest, in the other, I’m the youngest. I worry the elder members will pass on before reading the next book selection.
The lollipop vanishes, and the goddamn stick can beat you into the ground if you let it.
Look out there, the gray is fading to light purple. How lovely. That’s something I haven’t seen in a while.
am:)
Bringing the Misfits Home
A Sentimental Christmas Memory
we embrace every relative
load up the wagon, pack in tight and leap onto the highway
Staten Island to New Jersey
chrome steeds try galloping past our Country Squire, but Dad fantasizes he’s lead stallion
from the rear-facing seat, I watch the mesmerizing herd of headlights
trail farther and farther behind
no other man (driving 90 miles an hour) will ever replace this depth of faith
my fierce childhood possession, always
into the cold, dark Jersey night, we arrive home
the V-8 shudders, the presents cushioning our sleepy heads rattle
my little sister’s pigtails shift on my shoulder, I shake the bones to wake us up
Tima’s barking gnaws the sleep crust from our eyes
while we unpack every last ounce of Italian cheer and clamp our gifts
beneath all available arms
my brothers, sisters and I march like weary soldiers across the snowy lawn
we trudge up the brick stoop and into our warm home
pajamas quickly managed, we mime brushing our teeth
Mom tucks us in and kisses our cheeks with her smile brighter than winter
I surround myself with stuffed animals, swaddle in blankets
and stare out my bedroom window to search for the blazing star of my picture books
(I’ll later learn that I’d been praying to Venus all along)
tomorrow, like clockwork, Emile will stop at the corner of our street
yell out in his mildly, terrified mailman voice, “WHERE’S TIMA?”
one of us will step into the cold to coax our hefty German shepherd
away from her favorite place on the front stoop to bring her inside
and just like that, Christmas is officially over
(Opening image, 1980 – Christmas Tree)
(Image directly above, 1980 – my little brother, Vito, me and our goofy shepherd, Rosie
Unfortunately, I couldn’t find an image of our childhood shepherd, Tima, a much more serious-minded shepherd )
Hope you’re all doing well ❤️
am:)
For those unfamiliar with the poem The Two-headed Calf, it was written by Laura Gilpin (1950-2007). This force of nature came to me by way of my dear friend, DS Levy.
Ms. Gilpin’s tragic, yet beautiful portrait reminds us of the choice each one of us can make regardless of our circumstance or time on this earth. The Two-headed Calf is taped to my computer where my singular brain absorbs it daily.
When I was a child, my brothers and sisters often visited the Blauvelt Museum (shown below) to gaze at its many taxidermy displays. One animal in particular always tore at my heart — the two-headed calf mounted on the wall above the mantle who looked through me with her six dark limpid eyes. How I wish I knew of Ms. Gilpin’s poem back then.
Hiram Blauvelt was a philanthropist, conservationist, art and animal collector. Ironically, Hiram was a big game hunter, and his kills provided the conservationist displays.
“Through his big game and private wildlife art collections, Hiram hoped to promote the cultural value of wildlife art and the need for conservation of its subjects and their habitats.” “Founded in 1957 as a natural history museum, the Blauvelt Museum introduced students, scouts and youth groups to the need to support wildlife and habitats conservation. Visiting artists created drawings and paintings from close observation of the specimens.”
In searching for the images for this post, I was elated to learn of Blauvelt’s direction. When the ‘hunt-then display to promote conservationism’ philosophy fell out of favor, “…the Board of Directors of the Blauvelt-Demarest Foundation decided that the original objectives would be best achieved by redesigning the museum to feature the works of contemporary wildlife artists, built on the artistic foundation of the Blauvelt’s early collection of works…” And among its many wonderful events, today’s Blauvelt also hosts an art museum residence program.
Dear Dad,
Your eyes flashed the colors of a summer storm.
Thunder rolled along the pink of your mouth.
Your shadow filled our home whether you were with it or not.
All this hurricane in one man.
But as terrifying as the clouds of my childhood could be at times, you were the sky.
How I miss the steady blue firmament of your presence in my life.
Today, somewhere out there in the nebula, you’ve turned 92 years old.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
Love,
AnnMarie
May this year be spent in noble pursuit of your dreams, met simply, one day at a time
am:)
photo: my beautiful daughter back before she knew anything of bucket lists or books with titles like, 100 Places to Travel Before You Die
I’m a week late posting this piece in the gem of a journal that is Microfiction Monday Magazine. The micro form transforms one’s writing heart into a fluid and raw state. For me, writing micros frees my mind from the baggage it so often carries while trying to impress. I hope you stop by Microfiction Monday. And while you’re there, check out all the marvelous micros; Edition 116 boasts beautiful pieces by David Hensen and G.J. Williams!
(image or highlighted text will transport you to Microfiction Monday Magazine)
anntogether 