Julie Pippert: Using My Words

I am reading, no, savoring, Isabel Allende's memoir, My Invented Country . I am taking my time with this book, picking up small portions delicately, raising them to my eyes and mind with slow anticipation, chewing and digesting them lingeringly. Once, I considered myself an avid scholar of the magical realism genre. That was back in my scholar days---the late 80s and early 90s. Gabriel Garcia Marquez was king. I found Allende's House of the Spirits a pale imitation of his work. Why was magical realism so appealing to me? Nobody ever asked. However, Allende, in her memoir, has finally answered the question for me: I am a ghost of Chile, wandering the practical world with an imaginative mind fixated in superstition and surprise divined from stockpiles of observation. Chileans, Allende asserts, offset their superstition, sobriety and natural intolerance with a love of regulation, "I believe this obsession of ours with legality is a kind of safeguard against the aggression we...

I remember my Valentine's Day childhood parties well, even though these days it seems like a hundred years ago. I went to a lot of different elementary schools so the parties are distinct, rather than a blur of similarity of places and people. There were a lot of common points, though, regardless of place. We'd sit at our desks---the old-fashioned kind (now) with the wood top, attached by a metal bar to the hard, slick wood seat (one size fits all, hard for smaller bottoms). The cubby was underneath the seat, so children's heads tended to bob down as if going under water to get a fresh pencil. We'd have ants in our pants, the teacher would say, because not one of us could sit still. Every now and again a child, usually a boy, would explode up from his desk, no longer able to sit at all, and the teacher, resigned to this sort of thing, would say something like, "Mark...Mark, what are you doing up?" And poor Mark, a victim of a heady case of excitement beyond hi...

Last week, I wrote about 1984 meeting up with 2008 and noticing it simply looked like a slightly more weatherworn version of itself. I'm put in mind of what my teen self might think of my nearly middle-aged self. Shudder. Then some people said they hoped that 1984 (or whatever year) could be a topic for writing because what they had to say exceeded a comment. (So I am looking forward to some posts here!) So here we are, the topic is: . . . several people asked that the topic be related to my last post , about 1984. It doesn't have to be political, it doesn't have to be 1984 (keeping in mind that not everyone was born or much aware at that point). But choose a time that was an awakening for you, select a year or an event that year, that you invested in, although you might now have been quite old enough to understand it fully, and that affected you down the line. Or write about 1984, the election or your life then. Obviously I've already written about 1984. So let me hit...

That year we went to Paris, and I fell in love with Renoir at the Louvre. I especially adored his series of the two girls, which reminded me so much of me and my best friend. I purchased two prints of this one , Reading in the Garden, because it was us. One for me and for her. As modern as the world got, some things never changed, and I think that's why Renoir is forever famous: his work is classic. There will always be dreamy girls reading together in a garden somewhere. And for those of us who once were those girls? Inside us remains, always, a dreamy young girl reading in a garden. When I was thirteen, I thought it was just me. Isn't that how all teens think? It's just me, I'm the only one going through this, feeling this way, having this happen. It's a bold and unusual person who will share meexperiences and normalize, but in my case, I truly didn't think anyone could relate, and I might have been right about that, but I was wrong that it was just me changi...

I will share a little family history today. I am usually more circumspect. However, for a tiny glimpse into a bit of a why about me and this month, I will share this story. It's never the whole story or the only story, and it's never only about me, the writer. However, I've written it as completely and honestly as possible, although I'll admit to editing a bit out of respect of privacy. That Christmas I felt ebullient. If emotions could make you glow, I shined brighter than the lights on the tree. I was in love. Big time love, grown-up love. Going to the chapel and gonna get married love. And he had agreed to spend Christmas with me. I set aside the fears and worries about bringing him home to my extended family. He was so wonderful I knew they'd suddenly morph into the amazing, loving, close-knit and welcoming family I always wished I had. How could they not glow in his presence, too? This was only the second time I'd brought a man to meet my extended family. T...

My blood runs cold...My memory has just been sold... As the paparazzi (aka parents and grandparents) attacked the children yesterday---forcing them to freeze mid-bite, smile and pose, interrupting play to reposition the actors for the better video camera angle or asking them to do a scene over again for the camera , demanding cuteness on cue, and clamoring for poses of momentarily false affection---it occurred to me how much of my life is not documented on any sort of media. And I added a new number one "I'm thankful for..." thing. I'm thankful that very little of my youth is captured on film. I'm thankful there is only one photo of me in a lime green polyester "Sunday go to meetin'" two piece suit. I'm thankful there is no film footage of the great Bicentennial Fourth of July show that I wrote, produced and directed for the parents, using all of the neighborhood kids. I'm especially thankful there are no photos of my outfit from that day: cu...

This week Emily requested we write about the soundtrack of our lives. Little did she know I had a post already written, in drafts, that was a soundtrack moment. She may have been startled by my quick agreement---or not. The fact that I already had something written wasn't the real cause of my complicity. It's because I love music and I constantly have a life soundtrack queued up. I even used to---jokingly, mostly---have a personal "theme" song. It was The Honeymoon from Prelude to a Kiss . Anyone who knows me well and who knows that song has always agreed it was a great pick. It's not so much because of a "theme" as it is a sound...it sounds like I'd sound if I were music. But I'm not music so I have loads of it, on, always. I like the radio because I like to be surprised, but often I'm in a particular mood or engaged in a certain activity and I like to pick. For example, cleaning often begs for the electric blues so I frequently clean to t...

Her: I think I'm losing my mind. It's on the symptom list: loses one's mind. It's happening. Him: How do you mean? Her: Have you noticed me forgetting a lot of things lately? And losing words? Losing people? Him: What's the symptom, the real symptom? Her: ( as if quoting medical text ) Loss of memory, inability to concentrate or focus... Him: You seem a little scattered but it's been busy. Her: No, okay on Friday, let me tell you, on Friday? My friend came up to me and thanked me for the note I sent her, told me it meant a lot to her. Him: Okay... Her: I did not remember writing a note! What note? Why did I write it? What did it say? Him: Was it just... Her: It was just a note that was clearly important to her! And I had no clue! I watched as all the meaning just leached out of that note. Because I could not remember ! Him: Did you ever get it? Her: Yes. It was so humiliating. She had to explain it to me. She had to tell me about the note I wrote t...

When I turned fifteen, I experienced a sort of blossoming year for boyfriends. One boy I dated was a musician. He was two years older, a senior, and already accepted into a prestigious music program at an arts college. He lived in another town, went to a different high school, and our paths crossed by coincidence. He didn't normally hang out with our crowd, but for some reason, that night he decided to come to a party my friend hosted at her house. I was a little annoyed that night because a boy I didn't like was paying too much attention to me and the boy I did like wasn't paying any at all. I blamed the first boy for co-opting all the space around me. I escaped outside to get some breathing room. The weather was in that mellow, between seasons stage: a little cool, a little crisp, but not so much that you wanted a jacket. I find this sort of time invigorating, stimulating, a time when something is around the corner, and like a child at Christmas, I eagerly awaited the sur...

A blogger I really like recently wrote a really fantastic post about mindful, organic and green living. Her journey began with cleaning out her closet, paring down to only what she needs. This is a goal I've had for a long time, but can't seem to accomplish. It's an emotional hurdle I need to overcome. If Helen Buttigieg (my idol) were here, she'd have some wise words on the matter of why I retain clothing I no longer need (most of which doesn't fit my body or my current lifestyle). After puzzling out that my clothes are the only area of material possessions in my life that are ridiculously cluttered and to which I illogically cling, she'd figure out why. She'd figure out that I cling to my old clothes because I cling to the past, and am not easily able to let go or transition. Although generally I deposit my memories into stories carefully stowed in my own mind---which is, of course, cluttered---to be pulled out in fanciful moments or as fodder for social...