Gabi Girl and her Babbles

Kneading Her

I woke up in the middle of the night and found myself grasping for Corrine.

A blind reach, almost flailing. I don't remember having a nightmare, and I didn't have the telltale symptoms either: shortness of breath, cold sweats, racing heart.

I just woke up and suddenly had to touch her.

She sleeps a quantum distance away most of the night, because we have two children: two-year-old Gabrielle and 9-month-old Griffin, both of whom start the evening in their own beds but always end up with us.

I love and hate this. I love it for all the reasons you parents reading this might be able to enumerate yourselves: the indescribable feeling of love one gets from knowing your children still need you; the way a child's warm body feels next to yours; the fact that for each passing night, they grow older and therefore - by human nature - are looking for ways to get the hell away from you.

I hate it because, well, nothing kills the rising tide of intimacy than knowing your child is sleeping in the same bed as your lover.

The early-morning awakening was not that though. I wasn't looking to get a little, if you know what I mean.

I had a heaviness in my chest. The kind of emotion that feels like there's a hole there, but it also feels weighted.

I get this every so often. It's a feeling of loss. And my immediate reaction is reach out. Cling. Smother.

The best therapy for me is to place my hands on her back, beneath her shirt, and to rub. The way a cat kneads. An almost desperate massage, starting at the lower back. I put my thumbs together and fan the fingers out and press them into her flesh.

I use the heals of my hands and drive them up her spine, the fingertips coursing ahead, making sure the entire back is touched. To the shoulder, then back down. I'll take my left hand and knead her left side, while the right hand traces up and down her back. It's this constant motion, a deep, forceful massage.

I'm not doing it for any other reason than to appease my own fears. And I couldn't elaborate on what those fears are. I don't know what they are. It's like I said, I wake up and feel like I've suffered a loss in some way. Do I dream of losing her? No. I've never dreamed that. In fact, I don't even remember what I was dreaming when these episodes occur.

It's a trigger. I wake up and I'm fully awake. I feel heavy-chested but hollow. The message fills the vacancy. The connection recharges the batteries, I suppose. Fills me up and, like a child who finds himself momentarily lost in the supermarket, the touch is like that moment the child finds his mother again, in the bread aisle.

You catch your breath and you sigh relief, but the fear is still lingering and it forces you toward her. You have to touch her. She has to be tangibly there. And when you are by her side, all is right again and you feel kind of stupid for getting lost and feeling like it was the end of the world.

I know the last thing she needs is to be woken up. Again. In the night. By someone needy. Corrine has not had a full night's sleep since 2004, when she met me.

But I appreciate her being there. Boy do I ever.

Boost Me Baby

The student health center of the University of Maine at Farmington informed me, by letter, that I am not in compliance with Maine State Law.

They even capitalized Maine State Law, in defiance of every grammatical rule I know, just to give it added weight. Oooh. It's not just the law, it's Maine State Law. I better sit up and take notice. The Maine State Police might Come and Arrest Me.

It seems that when you apply to college you have to be immunized against everything. Even if you're 41, like me.

There's measles, of course. And then there's German measles, which is measles on diesel.

There's something called a titer 2MMR, which is immunization against measles, mumps and rubella all at once. This is confusing. I mean, am I being vaccinated against the possibility, at 41, of getting all three at the same time? Jesus Christ, what goes on at UMaine/Farmington? Is there a germ warfare laboratory near the creative writing building? Do my professors all wear protective suits like they did in The Andromeda Strain?

Also, proof that you had the mumps is not enough proof of immunity.

Now, my mom would argue against this. She always used to say "You already had the mumps. You can play with Timmy Johnson. Just don't touch his sores."

Who's right here? UMaine or Mom? Do I take a stand? Can we have a debate, them against her? I know who would win.

My last tetanus/diphtheria booster was in 1984. Administered in the event that I stepped on a rusty nail or scratched my hand on a record player needle listening to DEVO. I need to get it again because the boost is gone. They tell me that it has to be done within 10 years of enrollment. Nothing more than this fact illuminated for me the sobering reality that I will be old enough to teach these classes let alone attend them. When you're tetanus booster has worn off, you're fucking old, man.

Corrine made an appointment for me to get the 2MMR and tetanus shots. Just so that I can be in compliance with Maine State Law. I'd hate to risk, you know, coming down with diphtheria right there in Introduction to Ebola, which is a prerequisite to the creative writing degree.

My Provocateurs

This was going to be a post in the form of a long list of those in my life who, directly or indirectly, knowingly or subconsciously, goaded me toward accepting who I am.

That's right. I'm coming out.

I. Am. A. Writer.

I mean "goad" in the pejorative sense of the word, by the way. Like, as in, "fucking pissed me off with something they said or did enough to get me to act."

I'm learning that you are either a writer or you aren't. The number of published works has nothing to do with it. It's not a profession, but a way to live. You don't qualify your existence with a quota.

You wake up and say "I'm a writer" and then you believe it or you don't.

For a long time, I allowed the well-intentioned (and not-so-well-intentioned) to convince me that writing was for the talented only. Meaning: you were not a real writer until you were published. And, if you were published, you were not a real writer still until you've made the cover of Publisher's Weekly.

Their objective is to discourage you from throwing your life away on such a pursuit. Some do so because they genuinely care, others because they are genuinely jealous.

Did you know that a poll was taken of Americans and 81 percent said they wanted to write a book someday?

Here's what that says to me: most of the people you meet are closeted writers. And when you spring upon them the words "I'm a writer" or "I work at home writing" or "I published my first novel ..." deep inside they are stabbing you with a letter opener.

Your proclamation is as brazen as a slap across their face in front of their family and friends. It exposes their own failings as writers. And in a sense, when they say "I wanted to write a book once" what they are telling you is "If you fail at this - and you will - then I was right in not quitting that job at the bank that I loathe so much."

I'm convinced of this.

For years - well, until just the last couple of years - I never told anyone "I'm a writer" it was always the downcast-eyes, timid "I want to be a writer" revelation.

It started early, this sense of low-self writer's worth.

I think back to the English teachers I had in high school. What a miserable bunch of tweed-wearing, coffee-addicted ass hats.

I had one - ONE - English teacher who publicly applauded my writing to my peers.

Every Monday morning he read three 500-word essays we had written the week before. They could be about anything. He would not reveal the name of the author, ever. And we would sit around and dissect the piece. It was actually a healthy exercise and I loved it. Of course, mine was never read.

Until one Monday morning. He said he was only reading one that day because, "You'll know why when I read it."

Wow we were intrigued.

He cleared his throat and, before jumping in, said "You will read this person's name one day. I guarantee it."

He only had to say the first few words for me to know he was reading mine. And that day has been and always will be my most favorite and least favorite high school memory.

The class discussed it vigorously and the response was overwhelmingly positive. He then asked the students to guess who had written it. He never did this.

They all agreed it was written by a girl (it had a lot of "feelings" in it they said); that it was probably one of three girls in class; and that this girl would win the coveted senior English composition scholarship (we were only sophomores then.)

When the teacher revealed the author, my moment of triumph was abruptly over.

I had outshone, in anonymity, the best so-called writers of the class. The kids who were constantly having their praises exalted by the faculty. The kids with certain last names. The literary and academic jocks of our class. The loudest ones, who participated in every class discussion, who were always witty and shared coffee with the other teachers when school was out.

Boy did I despise them.

For one, they WERE great writers. Their stuff was so much more advanced than many of our own. But I despised also that they were so full of themselves, so arrogant, so self-assured. I was not taught to be that way. I was taught to be humble. What it got me was a back seat to the show, but in my heart of hearts I knew then what I know now: it's not a competition. Writing is not about winners and losers.

My so-called teachers perpetuated this. This culture of literary capitalism in which the cream (see: the loudest and most connected and most popular) floated to the top while the rest of us sunk like coffee grounds.

In short, I hated that writing had to be about "who you know".

My peers that day never complimented me again. Once the cat was out of the bag that this short, timid, wallflower might actually have some writing chops, I was shunned.

I was grateful for that teacher and I still hold him up to be my favorite. Everyone has one, right? His words of encouragement - although they marked me for social death thereafter - had elevated this shy kid out of the mire of pubescent high school angst, if for only a fleeting moment. I was a king and a pauper in the span of an hour.

The pecking order didn't ever cease. The popular kids stayed that way, while the rest of us - the ones with zits both literal and metaphorical - remained huddled in the corner, unworthy.

And into adulthood, I have heard the echo of their footsteps when someone I know says something like "A writer? Wow. But what do you do for a living?"

It has the same crippling effect. Worrying about all those other writers out there who are better than you is replaced by worrying about your friends and family thinking you're a fucking nut job for choosing a Peter Pan, pie-in-the-sky hobby.

They are my provocateurs now. They are the people who have goaded me into throwing a life of 9 to 5 away and jumping into the frigid waters of art with no clothes on. It's hard and numbing and probably the craziest thing you could do. But it is, in the end, what I do. Not what I want to do.

Or what I'd like to do.

Or what I'm leaning toward, when I get a chance.

Not anymore.

I'm a writer. Not the best nor the worst.

I just am.

Glad Tidings

And they'll lay you down low in the easy
And the lips that you kiss will say christmas.
And the miles that you traveled the distance

So believe no lies, dry your eyes and realize
That surprise
La, la, la, la la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la...
And the businessmen will shake hands and talk in numbers
And the princess will wake up from her slumber
Then all the knights will step forth with their arm bands
And every stranger you meet in the street will make demands
So believe no lies, then dry your eyes and realize
That surprise
La, la, la...

And we'll send you glad tidings from new york
Open up your eyes so you may see
Ask you not to read between the lines
Hope that you will come in right on time
And they'll talk to you while you're in trances
And you'll visualize not taking any chances
But meet them halfway with love, peace and persuasion
And expect them to rise for the occasion
Don't it gratify when you see it materialize
Right in front of your eyes
That surprise

College Bound?

I applied to college a week or so ago. This being the second time in my life to do so.

The first time, when I was in high school, there was no internet and CDs were still way too expensive. The best personal computer you could get was a TRS-80 with a whopping 250K memory. Shazam!

I applied back then to Abilene Christian University, a large college in west Texas affiliated with a dyed-in-the-wool, non-denominational, fundamentalist christian church.

I should never have gone.

I was an average high school student, and did enough to graduate. Talk about lazy. College was high school without my parents telling me to get out of bed every morning.

So I didn't. And I left after one year with a 1.2 GPA.

So, 22 years later, I'm applying again. This time to the University of Maine.

I've sent them everything I need to: transcripts, fees, writing samples, essays, and of course the application itself. Now I must wait for a response.

So why try it again? Well, honestly, I wouldn't if they didn't have the degree in Creative Writing.

I happened to do a random search one day for creative writing classes and discovered that UMaine's Farmington college has an actual degree. Classes in creative writing are common at most liberal arts schools. A degree is not, so I jumped at the chance.

I've always been a student of writing. I've purchased so many books on the craft that the bulk of my six-level, wall-to-wall library is nearly filled.

I love reading what other writers have to say about the business of writing. Now, this gives a chance to get a degree in it. If for nothing more than to deepen my understanding and to be among fellow (miserable, anxious, depressed, desperate) writers.

Of course, college means taking all the classes that gave me high anxiety back in the day. Primarily the maths and sciences. My older kids are in high school and they bring home math homework that I can't even stomach to look at.

This is going to be a real challenge. A difficulty that I need to get through. I have something to prove to myself, at the age of 41. When I was 18, I had no motive for doing well at all. There was no incentive. I was there on my parent's dime. I was 18. I didn't even want to be there.

This is different.

Giddy About Mud

I love mud.

Today, I love it. Tomorrow, I will love it too.

I look out my window and can actually see the snow melting. Our driveway slopes away from the house and therefore, the snow melt runs in streams away from the house and it's a pleasing sight.

The snow dinosaur the child care kids built just a month ago is now merely two humps. (insert giddy laughter)

The kids come in from their play time outside caked with dirt and mud (insert maniacal snort)

The dog comes in from doing his thing, and his paws are slick with mud (insert girl-like tittering)

Spring is sprung soon and the death of snow is my favorite snuff story. I want to film it and market it. Call it "White Death" or "Gone With The Mud" or "Puddles, A Love Story."

I once wrote in a recent blog how March 4th, my birthday, was always a turning point of the year for me, because it marked the end of winter. Even though we almost always got dumped on a few times afterward, the snowstorms lacked luster. The snow would accumulate, but then nearly as quickly shrink.

Scrubby, dead grass spots would appear on the lawn here and there. Twigs fallen from the trees during the winter began to appear like the bones of excavated prehistoric reptiles. The blinding whiteness of days was turning into dirty, muddy blandness.

And I love it.

I went for a walk for the first time since last fall, and was hit with the smell of melting snow, the change in the direction of the sun. The very air itself held promise.

I love mud. Mud is great. I worship mud.

It means a trip to Jack's Greenhouse is not far away. And raking and mowing. Tilling and planting the vegetable garden. Drinking a beer on the deck while grilling burgers.

Ahhhhhhhhhh.

I love mud.