Shrink

From the Laundry Room

I don’t think my daughter ever played dress-up.

She had some gypsy stuff and leftover Halloween costume props that would surface as perfectly acceptable school accessories, but she never walked around in my heels or wanted to wear my work clothes.

Now I know why.

Katlyn is my oldest and today she turns twenty-three. She has one semester, one class actually, left until she graduates and she now has a full-time job working for the Mayor of Phoenix.

She dresses up every day and seems a little pissed there aren’t tiaras or animal crackers in a cup as a morning snack.

I’m not really one to say “time flies” because it didn’t. I was there through her Band-aids, braces, boys, and boobs, in no particular order. She’s grown into the woman she is today gradually, which is a good thing because she has never, ever, ever wanted to grow up.

View original post 260 more words

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

In Praise of Old Hotels – Las Vegas, New Mexico

This gallery contains 12 photos.

Originally posted on Brick and Stone: Architecture and Preservation:
I stopped off in Las Vegas, New Mexico, on the way home from a short visit with friends in Colorado Springs. I didn’t know much about Las Vegas. My only experience…

Gallery | Leave a comment

Cat Tails/Tales

nbsmithblog...random digressions and musings

DSC_0013 crop Flash

It has been suggested, and more than once, that I’m a crazy cat lady-to-be; that I will probably own twenty cats (or more accurately they will own me) or more when I am old and alone. Frankly, I don’t think that will ever happen, but I admit to being a cat person.

In fact, at any time in the past, the maximum number of cats that lived under my roof was three, and the third one was a stray picked up by our cat-sitter when we were away on vacation. In other words, when we left, we had two cats and when we returned, there was another one living in our home. The cat-sitter left, leaving us with an extra cat. Why she never took the one with her when she left or decided that it was a good idea to add a cat to our household without asking…

View original post 588 more words

Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Cannibale Verité

Stories live inside stories. Like Matryoshki dolls, they nest inside each other. The walls are permeable, the delineations indistinct, and viscera moves from one to another to another, and so, osmo…

Source: Cannibale Verité

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Cannibale Verité

The Proximal Eye

Stories live inside stories. Like Matryoshki dolls, they nest inside each other. The walls are permeable, the delineations indistinct, and viscera moves from one to another to another, and so, osmotically, verisimilitude emerges with reference and resonance. We recognize the truth of stories because they remind. Even when we’ve never heard that particular story before, the lexical and symbolic soup, sometimes called culture, we swim in makes certain elements part and parcel of what we recognize as truth.

Fiction depends on this mantle of story sediment. The better a writer understands the essential reality of the material, the more potent the experience is for the reader. The more we identify with character, connect with setting, and surrender to the flow of the narrative, the more substantive is the story and the truer it feels.

It’s a risky thing for a writer to make the nesting itself part of the story…

View original post 842 more words

Posted in Uncategorized | 1 Comment

Untitled

nbsmithblog...random digressions and musings

Still working on a title (suggestions welcomed).

What is the sound of one hand clapping?

Or having the ability to wash itself,

or tie a shoe?

For me, it is but temporary, a mere blip.

But what about those whose loss is more permanent?

Those who have lost an arm? A leg? More?

And the unseen wounds of war? The PTSD?

for those twenty and thirty year old kids?

The time away from family

in deployment after deployment

The experiences of the battlefield,

friends and foes alike lying in their own blood,

with their own losses.

“They volunteered,” the old white men say, the ones

too old to do battle themselves.

Complaints fall on deaf ears as the soldiers are sent

again and again

to Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, and beyond.

“Let’s send in ground troops,” the hawks say, the ones

who rake in the profits,

never considering the loss to

View original post 47 more words

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Numbers really don’t matter

Box o\’ Ducks Skip to contentHomeAbout

Source: Numbers really don’t matter

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Numbers really don’t matter

Reblogged on WordPress.com

Source: Numbers really don’t matter

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Update on The Late Orphan Project

The Backpack Press

Thank you to everyone who has expressed interest in this project!

We are now 25 writers, expressing our thoughts, feelings, confusion, realizations, even humor after the death of our mother or father. In many cases, grief was delayed by activity. In some, the role of parent was pushed off on the child. In others, something was learned after cleaning out the family home.

But in each case, the writing exhibits a portrait of a family, a loss, a complicated or troubling relationship, or the lack of one. The stories are human, personal, and ultimately universal by nature.

It is an honest assessment of how the death of a parent impacts the child.

The fact that the child is also an adult is what makes these stories so rich. They are filled with regret, with questions left unanswered, with late admission of the depth of the parent’s love, or the ever-present…

View original post 216 more words

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Adrian Blevins: Word Gluttons and Rhythm Sluts, Book Letches and Paragraph Drunks — The Magic of Metaphor

Vox Populi

We all know that Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize truth.

                 –Pablo Picasso

With your permission I’d like to take a few minutes in this time of war and ruination and buying and selling to sing literature’s praises. That’s because I want to remind myself, probably, that metaphor, or the primary means by which writing gets written and moves, in some cases, into the realm of literature, says, in addition to the many other things that it says, that we are not alone. Here’s a masterful poem by the masterful Southern poet Rodney Jones:

THE BRIDGE 

These fulsome nouns, these abbreviations of the air,

Are not real, but two of them may fit a small man

I knew in high school, who, seeing an accident,

Stopped one day, leapt over a mangled guardrail,

Took a mother and two children from a flooded…

View original post 1,795 more words

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment