Originally posted by Amy
Sent: 9/18/2005 12:26 PM
Writing in a treehouse
by Amy
There is thunder in the air today, and it pleases me. I like these days, when the sky is pushing its weight down against me.
The summer go to the beach water the lawn turn up the car radio sun is tedious, and I want more of these gray and heavy days. I tell my mother this when she calls me. Oppressive sky, my mother says. No, dangerous and beautiful, I say. They sky is boiling. I want to see it erupt and overflow. It’s a waiting sky.
My mother says, “Sweetheart, are you out of valium?”
I am not, but I say, “Hell yes, if you’re giving it away.” She thinks this is funny.
I climb to my tree house to be closer to the sky. It’s not really safe there. The boards are covered with moss, and the steps nailed into the trunk crumble under my feet. The roof blew away ten years ago. The tree has grown beyond the original construction, and the floor is buckled and splintering. The walls are gone. I don’t care. I am hidden there, in shades of shifting green. Leaves and boiling sky and me.
It’s a very fine place to write and eat sandwiches. I think the moss is beautiful.
My husband yells up at me to get the hell out of the fookin tree. He says it’s going to rain. He says I have books to balance, and I need to go to the grocery store. He says laundry needs doing. I ask him exactly which of those things is supposed to entice me out of the tree. He says he has no socks. There is something incredibly sad about men without socks, but not sad enough to make me come down.
The leaves smell of spice and a faint bitter maple. They make sounds like the whispers of pages turning.
Go away go away go away. This is my tree.
When I was seventeen, I ate LSD and fell in love with her. I put my arms around her, and felt her heart beat against my own. I hung my gloves on her branches, and a silver framed mirror next to them. I was afraid to look in the mirror. I rested my face against her twisted bark, and she whispered to me. I don’t eat hallucinogens anymore, but the tree still loves me.
When I was twelve, Robbie Patricelli and I shared a cigarette here, and he tried to stick his tongue in my mouth and I bit him hard and he called me a clucker and we were not friends anymore.
When I was ten, I read Tom Sawyer here. Everyone should read Tom Sawyer in a tree house. The floor becomes a raft, and the leaves make river sounds.
It’s a very different place at night. The houses and sounds die away, and it is like floating on a ship. The clouds slip by like silver boats drifting in a circle. I imagine who might be in them. I hold my hands out to the sky, and the stars come closer. If you watch long enough, they move. I need to learn the names of the constellations.
It is too dark to write. I stay there all night, watching stars and feeling the sky against my skin.
My husband is angry when I come down. “What the cluck,” he says. “What if the neighbors saw you? It’s not bloody sane. You’re lucky the floor didn‘t give way.”
I’m not stupid. It isn’t a safety issue. It isn’t even a sanity issue. It’s a being naked outside in the moonlight issue. People should say what they mean.
“People sunbathe naked, all the time,” I tell him. “I won’t get wrinkles from the moon.”
He thinks I am missing the point. I think he is. People who sunbathe look like bacon. I am luminous and calm. You can’t buy this from Estee Lauder.
I am sure I heard the stars singing. They were singing the Dance of the Blessed Spirits, from Orpheo ed Euridice. I could be wrong, of course. I tend to confuse titles and composers. But I remember very clearly how the music felt against my ear, the first time I heard it. I had a single gardenia in my hair that night, and a smart black dress. The music sounded like my mother’s hands against my face, in the moment that she says everything will be all right.
I cried, because I cry a lot, or maybe because I was happy, or maybe I was jealous of the composer who could create sounds like stars.
“Who wrote Orpheo?” I ask my husband. I am trying not to cry, remembering the sound. I think it might be Gluck. I hope not. It is a terrible name, and has no business being associated with music like that.
He looks like the question pains him. He says my name, twice, quietly. It has a bitter sound.
I am feeling merciful today, so I decide not to tell him about the stars.
“Never mind,” he says at last. I can see by his scowl that he is still having naked outside issues, and he can see that I have moved somewhere beyond that, and have no intention of coming back to join him.
“What if you fell out in the middle of the night?” he demands. “You could die.”
I imagine the newspaper story. It would be funny. Not now, but perhaps when I am eighty. Octogenarian dies in fall from tree house.
“It isn’t funny,” he says.
Hell yes, it is.
My seven year old draws a picture of me, floating in a sea of leaves and stars. I have hands like mittens and corkscrew springs for hair. It says, Mom Is Good, in very large letters. He tries to tape it to the tree trunk, but the wind carries it away, and he cries. I kiss his pure and perfect face, and tell him don’t cry, don’t cry. Everything will be all right..
From: temperamental_taurus74 Sent: 9/18/2005 12:53 PM Oh Amy - what a beautiful short story... so filled with depth and humor...
This made me laugh so hard... "My husband yells up at me to get the hell out of the fookin tree. He says it’s going to rain. He says I have books to balance, and I need to go to the grocery store. He says laundry needs doing. I ask him exactly which of those things is supposed to entice me out of the tree. He says he has no socks. There is something incredibly sad about men without socks, but not sad enough to make me come down.".
Ah, yes, there is something incredibly sad about a man who can't take care of his own needs...
I used to write, and draw and paint... I used to be funny a long time ago too. I find that I have no time or patience (or something) to do these things anymore. If I even attempt to sit down and try, I find that I'm easily distracted, frustrated - can't concentrate... How do I get back there? To that place? Or is it lost to me forever? I would love to just sit in the sun and create, create, create... it's been too long...
I loved your words - thank you for sharing them...
- Temp
From: amy Sent: 9/18/2005 1:15 PM I should be doing dishes, but I have to thank you. Truly. It's always hard for me to post writing.
Temp, you said...
I used to write, and draw and paint... I used to be funny a long time ago too. I find that I have no time or patience (or something) to do these things anymore. If I even attempt to sit down and try, I find that I'm easily distracted, frustrated - can't concentrate... How do I get back there?
Being with Ns hurts our creative abilities. Because bottom line, it takes a certain amount of courage to create. To write a story, to sing, to paint a picture and say to the world, I can do this. Look. It's good enough.
Because we've spent so much time feeling inferior. We don't feel free or confident. When we get our selves back, and heal, and don't feel afraid, then we become brave again. We stop judging our efforts, and let them rip.
Take a lesson from kids. The way they create without fear and say "Ta-DUM!" and take a bow and are proud. They never worry that it isn't good enough for the fridge door.
We should all feel good enough about ourselves to do the same.
I really really am going to do dishes now.
From: Infertile_Zoot_ Sent: 9/18/2005 3:23 PM I'm glad you posted your story, Amy. I love it! The part about your husband and his socks cracked me up too.
I hope we get to see more of your stories.
Zoot
From: Time Sent: 9/18/2005 4:17 PM Amy, I'll come do your dishes if you'll write some more. That was awesome. Thank you for sharing that. Hope you'll feel comfy adding more. There is a wonderfull creative pulse under the surface of this site. Something tells me you will be helpfull in bringing it out.
-Time
From: Scowlin_Pixie Sent: 9/18/2005 4:24 PM Gosh Amy,
That was awesome, I can relate to it as well. it made me cry (in a good way).
xo ursie
From: RestNowChild Sent: 9/18/2005 7:02 PM Amy-
You see, I knew I would find you! Thank god you arrived, and right on time!
This is so deeply beautiful. I have books on tree houses. Two of them and I have my eye on a tree to build one in. I plan to spend a lot of time in a tree house. One day. I may even start today, the world is full of possibilities.
You understand things that others could not possibly understand my dear one. That a tree is a better home than some that are on land, filled with disappointing creatures who cannot understand simple questions. Show me someone who does not understand a tree house, and I'll show them the nearest EXIT. They might think that their life is all about having clean socks or appearing sane to the neighbors.
"Wake up, Time to Die." -From the Movie Bladerunner .....
If Tom Ford, former Gucci Guy now fired and living high in trees in the City of Angels has his way, Estee Lauder will have moonlight in a bottle. But it won't matter. The trees will still hold us closer to the moon, as we are the beloved and the beloved is we.
Your question is the answer. Your longing, is your reply.
The LSD is merely a tool for the tree, to let you know of tree love. And moss love. And ant love. And the love of things that other people would consider broken, or consider breaking.
When I was small, and a little wild child in the desert, I used to climb the white aspens. There was a group of them all twined together, like ballet dancers to me. There were others around me, who I knew never saw the trees dancing in the moonlight. But it didn't matter to me, because I saw. And The Dog, a hound named Clementine, she saw. We would stare and watch this impossible ballet played by trees. There may have been wind involved, or not. Regardless I would stroke her ears with my small hands. Her ears felt like velvet and were long and I would whisper, "Do you see the dancers Clementine?"
Once when I was 10, I wished on the moon for green eyes and when I turned 13, my blue eyes turned green. In my mind, when I see the moon, I always thank her for the green eyes, which I really did want. A thoughtful gift, from the Moon. If you ask the Moon what she is made of she will whisper, "I am made of cheese." And then she will laugh uproariously at her own joke. The moon is full of humor, and likes a good joke. But she prefers that most people would never discover this, and silently she circles, pretending to be serious and sober.
When adult human people introduced Clementine, they always used to say, "She was the runt of the litter." And Clementine would give me a good long dose of side eye ... as if to say .... "These people are nuts ... why don't we run away and live somewhere else?"
Long trips in the desert Amy. The long drive from New Mexico to California, I would plan what abandoned shack I could live in. Which one would be best? I believe I started doing this when I was 6 years old, and that drive, now that I am 38.2 STILL makes me think ... "What shack can I live in with Clementine?" Though Clementine was brutally murdered by the dog my Stepfather brought into the house when I was 16. The dog that belonged to the Psycho Stepfather .... Her name was "Princess" ... she bit Clementine thru the throat. My Mother told me that it was Nature's way .. that Princess did it because Clementine was old and weak.
It makes me winder if my Mother would think that it was somehow natural if her own throat was torn out when she grew old ... Is that Nature's Way Mom?
What matters is that Clementine was once with me watching trees dance. That she slept next to me in a tent. That she woke up at 2am when there were meteor showers and that she always always howled at the moon. Other than her song to the moon, she would not bark, or make much sound.
And that of she were here still, I would allow her to come up in my currently non existent tree house.
When I was 8 I used to race with the Wind. It turns out that the wind is quite alive. Did you know? If you listen she talks thru the mesas and the canyons. She will tell you secrets, but only in dreams. And she will challenge you to a foot race any day. I believed when I was 8, and I still believe but I don't tell.
I listen to the Man in the BMW I bought him to appear as if he were successful curse at the wind. (And I hear the wind curse him back. Wow! The wind has a mouth like a sailor under the right conditions!)
Once while I was living said psychopath, I put a picture of a woman sitting in a tree house ... with a bed and a computer and a chalkboard counting how many days had gone by I suppose on the refrigerator. He asked me why and I told him that one day I wanted to live in a tree house. He spent hours a day on Realator.com looking at Mansions when in fact, he had no job, and the food put in said refrigerator was put there by me.
I even carried it all inside. With my bad back. And my aching heart. How lonely do you have to be to sit up all night staring at homes you can never afford, but think that ... if you could it would make you? A better person? A happier person? A person worthy of respect? Does it make you a person who does not steal? Who does not lie?
I have been alone in the desert with a dog for 10-12 hours and never been lonely til I met a Man who promised me everything I wanted. Except the tree house. One day I awoke and found he'd crumpled it up and threw it in the trash can. It was a sad crumpling .. not even any effort to hide he'd thrown it in the trash can.
I stood and stared at it.
I looked at him. He had one eye that was slightly different than the other. It was the left eye. At the bottom of the pupil there was .... a fleck of gold that didn't belong. He asked me once why I liked it. "Because I said, it is not like the other one. The other one is too perfect."
He explained that he needed to have a clean front of the refrigerator. Turns out, we didn't need anything similar.
Love and Empathy,
Rest
From: CZBZ Sent: 9/19/2005 10:07 AM Dear Amy,
What an sensitive short story. It is so rich with human understanding I had to read it several times to 'feel' the ommm of your words...
Love and hugs,
CZBZ
From: amy Sent: 9/19/2005 11:39 AM I cried a little. Because I am a notorious weeper. It’s one thing to have an editor say, good work, nice writing.
It’s another thing altogether to be understood, as the person beneath the writing.
(Funny, I hesitated to post anything because I thought my stories didn’t have anything to do with Ns. I took a second look. Well. It’s like not seeing your lost car keys sitting right in front of you on the table.) Thank you. I mean a lot in those small words.
Rest- wow. Incredible tree house connection there. You have a wonderful burning writing voice yourself. Yes, a tree house is not just a tree house. It is the place that lifted me above where I was to where I longed to be. Reaching for the moon, listening to stars, and hiding from what was beneath. I love the wind, too. Thanks for understanding everything I was trying to say. (and not long ago some N "writer" who will not be named told me I didn't get his work because I didn't understand symbolism. Hah! I am vindicated.)
Yes, there is a tremendous creative pulse in this group. A part of ourselves that gets neglected and suppressed and crippled by living with Ns. We should all be hanging our stories and pictures and collages and needlework on the refrigerator door.
...Thank you all, again. I think that's three or four times. For the welcome, the empathy, the understanding. I think I've landed in a safe place. Grazie. (Thanks is so pretty in Italian. A little closer to the word "grace.")
From: Ellie50301 Sent: 9/19/2005 11:51 AM Dear Amy,
what a beautifully melodic and hypnotic story. Like CZ, I had to read it several times to feel all the textures and each read brought out a different colour, sound, feeling.
Thank you very much for sharing. I look forward to reading more!
And Rest - I love the moon. In South America they call it, the bunny in the moon. I always thought it interesting that from their perspective they can't see the man and from ours, we can't see the bunny. How many perspectives do you think there might be to the moon.
Ellie
From: Time Sent: 9/19/2005 4:45 PM OMG, Amy...I am supposed to be preparing for a 7 am speach to a bunch of Rotarians tomorrow morning at 7:00 am. I am dreading this. I think I would rather just read them some of your writing. I can't wait until I have a chance to read all of your stories. Can't you imagine their shock when they sit down to a presentation on "Bellevue Transportation" from a traffic engineer standpoint, and I instead I read to them about burning things in the back yard. What a wonderful fantasy...probably as much for them as it is for me. I have so much to ask you. To pull out of your writing more from you. And to discover that you live somewhere in my neck of the woods....I am just left hungry for more. I want to hang out with you in the kitchen and make red sauce and drink red wine. I miss the Bellevue DeLaurenti's so much. I went to Italy in June to sate my Italian Jones. I got the tortollini thing down that would go oh so nicely with your red sauce. While I have written a few things, I feel so untapped. Your work is so inspiring. Not that you make it look easy...but you convey so much in such clever ways.
From: PreciousLadyonachain Sent: 9/19/2005 8:31 PM Amy, I read your story the other night and found it to be beautiful. Thank you for sharing.
PLC
From: amy Sent: 9/20/2005 11:29 AM I hate bumping my own threads, but thank yous are in order.
I am a little embarrassed by the praise and attention. Feels like being small and when everyone sings happy birthday and I'd turn red and hide my face. And felt loved at the same time.
Thanks.
And Time- I am sooooo jealous. You've been to Italy. I would give my eyes to see it. Well. uhm. No, that wouldn't work. But that's my dream. Not the eye thing. Italy. It is a pretty heady dream for someone who has anxiety attacks going to the grocery store.
I am waving North at you. We're in the Deep South. The suburburban sprawl south of Seattle. My kitchen is small and shabby, and not very Bellevue. But it's a happy place, now that the Prince of Darkness is gone.
My grandma says that any work is easy, when it's undertaken with love. I feel that way about writing.
You said deLaurentis and tortellini. Yum. Now look what you've done. The last of the basil plants will have to be sacrificed.
(Reading Burning Things at the Transportation Planning meeting would be riotously great. I would love to see that on film. It sounds very Monty Python.)
From: Time Sent: 9/20/2005 12:10 PM Yes, Amy, I know that birthday party scene. I blush and tear up just thinking about it. Well, I may live on the "east side" and was with my N in a nice Bellevue area but things are different now. I have a small 50's rental, still on the east side, small kitchen with bright yellow tile, on which the red sauce shows up very nicely. And life is mostly wonderful, without my "Prince of Darkness" also. Our divorce was just weeks short of our 20th Anniversary and we have been in this rental for 11 months now. I am in rebirth.
I love my little rental: I can pull into the driveway and know I haven't let anyone down or screwed up something major. I can sing outloud (badly) and wear outrageous pyjamas in the middle of a weekend day if I want. Well, my 17 year old son is with me, and he did ask me to move my new 14" Super Hero dolls that I bought at the garage sale back to my bedroom lest any of his friends mistakenly think they are his playthings, but the cool thing is that i bought them for myself and I GOT NO DIRTY LOOKS for doing so. Right now my social life is pretty limited. Those people at Tully's that smile at me and the friendly barristas have no idea how they are helping me rejoin the living world. I look forward to talking to you more about your writing. My dream is to retire while I still have the imagination and creativity, pack up a few things and move to Italy and write my heart out. Here, for you is the table in Southern Amelia Romana that I picture us eating at and watching the sun go down. Some of the home made tortellini that we made in a cooking class held at this very spot. Now how's that for inspiration?
Time
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