11/28/19: POEM: The Seeds of Must

11/28/19
Poem: The Seeds of Must
by Holly Winter


It's hard to breathe.
(That lasted longer than
a plate of gospel songs.)

I choke on the seeds of must
as lizard trails leave treasure maps
in their own time signature.

The stars reflect on the page
as the weight of the world
fills the in-between spaces.

Please push the off button.
I want off the indecision.
Must I hug myself
first or last?

11/25/19: Digital Choices

11/25/19
Digital Choices
by Holly Winter


For the past two months I have paced back and forth past various computer displays in every computer store in the area. I photographed specs so I could study them at home. What kind of computer did I want?

There are so many choices in graphics, speed and storage capabilities. 

In Sam's Club the young man who worked there whispered as he leaned close and told me not to buy a computer at Sam's Club. They're old. And the warrenty isn't good. He suggested I go anywhere else.

I went to Best Buy and found the computer I wanted. It had a small screen size--all the better to travel with--and a smaller keypad--all the better to travel with. And the keyboard was rated ok on some random website I found.

Last night I was ready to jump. I paced in front of the display until I chose the $300 computer over the $550 computer, which disgusted the young man working there. He tried to tell me that this was a very old and very slow computer.

Those specs defined my ability to type: very old and very slow.

Seemed like a perfect match.

I stopped by the Geek Squad desk to ask how much they would charge to take off all of the bloatware from the computer as I swore to myself I would hire someone else to do that next time.

$40.

That's so worth it. I just had to take the computer home and turn it on and get my credentials entered, then I could return and let them take the advertisements off my computer.

No problem.

I smiled all the way home, a new computer with a keyboard that worked. Imagine that, no sticky T and no missing spaces between words.

After unpacking the computer and plugging it in, I sat waiting while the computer set itself up with a woman's voice who asked me to be patient while the computer warmed up.

I remember what it was like, 30 years ago, when I bought a computer and had to type in DOS commands every time I turned it on or wanted the computer to do anything. My, how times have changed.

Voice asked me to enter my wifi password. I did. Voice then asked me to wait for the uploads.

I waited. And waited. 

Nothing. I waited some more.

Nothing.

I wondered if having the computer at home for a half hour would invalidate the warranty. I turned off the computer and turned it back on. It restarted to the same spot where it froze before. It wouldn't budge.

I waited. And waited. Nothing. Stuck. Frozen.

I packed the computer back into the box as fast as I could and drove to Best Buy. The guy at the door raised his eyebrows and said hello as if he was wondering if I carried my computer around as a security blanket of some sort.

"It doesn't work." I said.

He pointed me towards the service desk. The young man working didn't meet my eye.

They'd better take it back. If they tell me to call the company or wait for some technician to fix the computer, I'm going to scream.

I was ready to scream.

The guy at the register asked if I wanted him to get me another computer.

He's kidding, right? Nope. No computer today. Just my money back.

If they can't guarantee that the computer works, I don't want it.

11/23/19: "I Know You" she said.

11/23/19
"I Know You" She Said
by Holly Winter


I met my sister Heather at the farmer's market and showed her where to buy the best organic ginger. Then we went to Herzog's and I watched as she picked out new hardware for her new cabinets. Antique silver pulls. Antique silver knobs.

In the grocery store we bought the things we forgot we needed, maple syrup and broccoli for me. Rare roast beef and cheese for her. Our sister-in-law, Sharon and 3-year-old great niece (Sharon's granddaughter), B were in the meat isle. B was so shocked to see me there that she paled.

"I know you." she said to me as we approached, which made Sharon look up.

I love bumping into family in the grocery store.

We greeted Sharon with a kiss on the cheek and I told Heather that B saw me when I visited her classroom at school and said, "I know you. You came to my house and brought forks and knives."

Heather laughed.

B stared at me, like children from my school do when they see a teacher outside the confines of learning.

"I know you." she said again. She stood with her hands clasped behind her back as she does when her class walks down the hall. She stared hard at me and I wondered if she was trying to place me: teacher or aunt?

"Yes." Sharon said. "You know her. It's aunt Holly."

B stood patiently as we talked, then asked to sit in the grocery cart where she stared at me, as if she were trying to memorize me.

As we parted ways, B yelled after us. "Goodbye Aunt Holly!"

I walked back and asked her if she would rather I kiss her cheek goodbye (a family tradition) or would she prefer a hand shake? (a school tradition.)

She stuck out her hand and I shook it.

As Heather and I headed to the registers, B yelled after us. "Bye Aunt Heather."

"Goodbye !" Heather yelled back.

"Goodbye" B yelled back.

"Good to see you!" Heather shouted over the shelving where Sharon had pushed their cart.

"Good to see you" her enthusiastic voice replied.

Heather laughed and said, "Sharon's going to kill me." then yelled, "See you soon!" over the shelves.

"See you soon!" the child's voice called back.

We checked out and I drove to Heather's house to see her new kitchen. Wood floor. Dark gray cabinets. Fancy fridge. The antique silver hardware she chose will match perfectly. The sink now looks out the back window of the house. Oh the possibilities a new kitchen holds when one's husband is a contractor.

We joined my nephew, Hunter (Heather's son), and made roast beef sandwiches with smoked Gouda  and Hunter told me about his chorus concert schedule. Nursing homes. Restaurants. Hospitals. UPAC. The high school.

I love living close to family.

11/22/19: Poem: The Questions

11/22/19 Poem: The Questions

by Holly Winter

The wound you harbor
isn’t yours to keep,

you were only meant
to borrow it.
Dismiss the sour bits
like a wind you no longer need.

Dance where you dwell,
where the noise is,
where the soup simmers,

where the questions
don’t have to be answered.

11/21/19: Deflating Inflammation

11/21/19
Deflating Inflammation
by Holly Winter

The Pleurisy remains. It hurts to breathe. It's difficult to sleep. The doctor said it would be gone in 2 days to 2 months. We're on 7 weeks of this heaviness in my chest.

I've drank my weight in broth and ginger-aide and raw vegetables--juiced. I've walked and sweated out toxins. I've had massages and acupuncture treatments. All things that are said to deflate inflammation.

I am very literal: if you say the illness will be gone in 8 weeks, then I expect it to be gone. As the calendar days add up, I'm worried the pain will outlive the diagnosis.

My patience is evaporating.

11/20/19: Pick Your Problems

11/20/19
Pick Your Problems
By Holly Winter


There isn't one man from my history that I wish were still with. After a relationship is over, it's easy to see the reasons it wasn't right for me. (Verbally abusive. Boring. Mood swings. Politically aggressive. Not hard working. Addiction issues. TV was his best friend. Not ready to love.)

Sure I miss the occasional memory like watching him standing in the kitchen in boxers and making me onion jam. Or that man who brought me to a remote island for a week of playtime. Or that man who cooked me elaborate meals then fed them to me in bed. Or that one who made me laugh over every topic imaginable. Or that one who got me talking, ME, about the things I never talked about.

(How did he do that? I would ask him. "How did you start the conversation and then get me to do all of the talking about sensitive topics I rarely discuss?" He would smile this knowing smile and shrug and then wave his hand and do it all over again.)

My mother always said that in a relationship, you get to pick your problems. Would I prefer a functional alcoholic or a man who refuses to take medicine to balance his brain or a man who insists on living off the grid--no car, no credit cards and no rules?

No thanks.

Single and alone has never scared me.

11/19/19: Poem: Somewhere to Go

11/19/19
Poem:
Somewhere to Go
by Holly Winter

The creek darkens:
Our fashionable visit is over.

Let money fill your pockets
As your face scratches against time.

Pretend you have somewhere to go
Now. Hurry through the noise.

You left your wallet here.
Your loss.

11/17/19 Words Matter More

11/17/19
Words Matter More
Holly Winter


I've been limiting my writing to only ideas that are illustrated with a photo.

No longer.

So rather than letting a photograph I've taken be worth 1000 words of writing, I'll only write the words.

Outside it is gray and cold and the creek appears to be flowing backwards. I've never figured out why this happens on cold days and likely you won't believe me because you haven't seen it for yourself.

I could take a video of this backwards swing and post it here.

But I won't.

Words matter more. To me. It's OK if you think I'm exaggerating or delusional; I own that possibility.

While you are busy judging me, I'm going to sit and watch the water flow the wrong way and marvel at how nature never plays by the rules.

So why should I?

11/13/19: Luck it Is

11/13/19
Luck it Is
by Holly Winter

I happened upon people dressed in 18th century Revolutionary War era clothes outside the Matthewis Persen House Museum in Kingston, NY. I slowed to watch the actors of the 1st Ulster Militia Colonial Winter Camp. They each held a rifle which they pointed at the ground, then up in the air, then down at the ground. 

(Wouldn't it be awful if an old rifle took this very moment to start working?) 

I was the only audience member other then the women dressed in period clothes bent over a campfire, cooking. The women didn't watch the men, probably because they were annoyed that women's lib was not a part of the olden times and so they had to cook while the men played with guns. 

(Don't worry about me, I tend towards men who want to cook for me.) 

I held my phone up and framed the perfect photo that would include the old things set out on a table and the militia, lined up and holding their rifles in front of them. When the men pointed their guns up in the air, I inhaled quickly: yes, hold the guns up, a little higher...  this will be a perfect photo.

Long ago I attended a photo workshop put on by Nikon where a master photographer (Gosh, what was his name?) told us the stories about how he would hold his camera in place and whisper inside his head to the bird or the penguin or whatever he was about to photograph, "Turn this way, please. A little more. A little more." and then when the model did exactly as he'd hoped it would, he would snap the photo and then whisper, "Thanks. One more." as if his manifested wishes were easily documented in his photographs.

He told stories of climbing a tree then waiting for hours to get a perfect twilight photo of giraffes or waiting in fly-infested locations for a wild animal to fall asleep. He talked about how getting a good photo is equal parts luck and patience (and travel and persistence and ability to work a camera in any light and the ability to frame a photo and the ability to know when you've taken a good photo.) I think getting a good photo might involve skill, too, but who am I to argue with a famous photographer?

Ok. If he says so, luck it is.

That's how I felt when the actors raised their guns into the air and I snapped that photo on cue. Lucky. I got a great shot. I whispered, "Thanks, one more." as taught long ago by that photographer.

I held my phone to snap another photo and hit the button just as the men fired their guns into the air. Loud bang. Unexpected loud bang. Those guns work? What? I jumped with a guilty start; my brain believed that they were shooting at me for taking their photo which was not realistic, but terrifying all the same.

Relax, Holly. Exhale slowly.

Smoke filled the area about their heads as if they shot a giant spirit floating above them. 

 After I picked up my phone off the ground, I checked the photo and whispered the required, "Thanks" then walked away.

That was enough luck for me. 

11/9/19: What if?

11/9/19

What if
by Holly Winter

I sat by the fireplace planning out the next months of my life. I could either write my book about traveling in Turkey, or I could travel every weekend to somewhere exciting. This or that? Maybe I could write blogs about my weekend trips. Small posts. Small posts hidden in a small, dark corner of the internet like a box filled with old photographs.

Or maybe I could write small things without trying to define them.

For a woman who is comfortable observing life from behind her journal, I've always worried that the isolation of writing would snuff out my connection to the world. Shouldn't I be out having fun rather than sitting in my office?

Yes. That was it. What if writing makes me feel even more alone?

I've written online before and had a sizable fan base who emailed me insisting that I ate certain foods or gave up certain foods. My readers were experts on bossing me around.

"If you don't start eating pineapple..."

"He is your soul mate, you need to step-it-up and propose to him by the third date, or you'll lose him forever."

"Do you like to have sex with chickens?"  (I wrote back to this one, asking for more information and did not get an answer. Pity, We'll never know.)

These readers flew into fits of love when they approved of what I wrote and then raged ugly when I didn't. They wanted me to get back together with the wrong man or travel to a different country, or go back to the man who would become Governor of Colorado and properly introduce myself.

In case. Just in case.

Their mad attention weighed on me. Tiresome. So tiresome. I just wanted to write.

I'd never shied from leaving people or places and so after my website readership grew to six-digit numbers every month, I killed my darlings and dumped the heavy, heavy burden of fans into the internet void, refusing to copy their email addresses in case I changed my mind. It was like burning my little black book of contacts, but it was for my sanity not in the name of love for another.

I wrote my memoir and several fans of long ago found it.  How do they hold on when I gave so little in return? You'd think they'd care that I didn't know how to love them back. 

And now that I've been sitting in the land of forgotten writers, which is a perfect hideaway, I've decided it's time for me to sneak back into the online world, not as a promise but as a project. I will write. (Hello World. This blog is NOT required reading.) This fodder is for my hobby of writing, my growth. No fixing. No rearranging phrases and words. My writing.

Writing small. Just because.

(I think I am writing the word "I" too much, that's a sure fire way to tell that I'm too focused on myself. Weren't you going to watch TV so I could wash my hair?)

This experience in writing-RAW where (Again, that self-centered pronoun.) I don't fix my words and don't plan out what I will write here. I will tell nobody about this blog. (If you found this gem, enjoy it or run away, it matters not.)

These words are public in a private way. I like that.

I will let words flow, if they're in the mood to flow. 

Just for fun.

Because I enjoy writing.

Sometimes.