Life Lines

So. I promised complete honesty a couple weeks ago. I told myself I would put myself on front street, tell it like it is. But I got scared. Because I want you to like me. I want you to understand where I'm coming from and not walk away shaking your head and thinking "Dang, Lex is really nuts." But I can't have it both ways. So after taking requests for topics, I'm finally going to answer the call. Boonie, you asked me to talk about adversity. Wanna hear it? Here it go:

I can't swim. Not for anything, despite my father's many attempts to enrich our lives through summer swimming lessons. I used to use my temperamental hair as an excuse for not getting wet above the neck, but since I'm natural I guess I have to be honest: when faced with the option to sink or swim, I have a fear of falling to the bottom. Remember that video of Aaliyah, making like a mermaid in the Bahamas? Yeah, well, that will never be me. Underwater, in life or at sea, I panic. Choke. Swallow water and then flail around like a beached whale when I hit the shore.

In short, not a good look.

Fortunately, in life, when I've needed it most, the people who love me have tossed me a lifeline so I could tread water or float to safety.

I have a point. Let me go about making it.

There was a precipitous dip in the hustle and flow of my life when I was drowning. For days on end, I did not want to get out of bed, comb my hair, or change out of my pajamas into decent clothes. I just totally checked out. All I had the energy to do was eat buttered saltine crackers and play Snood on the computer. Not a pretty sight. Point blank: I was depressed. In a short span of time, I experienced a tremendous amount of trauma. But I didn't know how to come out of it, or how to help myself. I didn't even want to.

By the time I dyed my hair brassy gold and weighed fifty pounds heavier than my frame could safely carry, my parents swooped in.

"You're coming home," my father said. His voice had the decisive thud of a coffin lid closing shut.

And just like that, something in my gut stirred. His words jarred the fractured part of me
that had been lying wounded and dormant. It fluttered at his threat and said

"Enough."

Now, I love my parents. I love our house, and my old room. But for me, on some level, going home has represented both a golden parachute and rock bottom. I could only go home if I couldn't hack it on my own, I told myself.

And even though I was tapdancing on the edge of sanity, I knew I had to rouse myself, pull myself together. The knowledge that my parents were within three hours of coming to pack me up and take me home, to remove every trace of the life I had started building for myself (albeit a crappy one) brought me back to life.

"No," I said. "I'm staying."

Those of you who know my dad know telling him no is like brandishing your pistol for a gunfight at the OK Corral. It just ain't gonna end well.

But he let me stay, and I collected myself.

Thinking back on it now, I really believe Daddy was bluffing. Using reverse psychology. But it worked; at the time, I took him at his word. As many times as I have let him save the day, this time was different. If I didn't take initial, decisive steps on my own, I would never get better.
Slowly, painstakingly, with the help of loved ones and a lot of prayers, I was able to right the ship. I took all the hurt I was feeling and let faith, hope, and love cover it, the way an oyster coats an irritant into a lustrous pearl. Eventually, I reached a place where I felt pain no longer had any power over the things that made me ME; I certainly wasn't going to let external problems rob me of my ability to laugh, or love, or enjoy living. Not without a fight.

So. You asked me about adversity. I wish I could tell you it will pass you by. But the truth is, it comes and goes. Everyone gets a turn. What I do know is you have to believe that things will get better. Even if you do nothing in the meantime, things will eventually get better. But also know you have the resources necessary to survive. Storms may wash away your home, friends may betray you, loss may devastate you, but the sun will continue to rise. And eventually, it will shine in your direction.

© 2009 Alexis E. Barton
Image courtesy of google.com

Sweet Home Alabama!

ALABAMA 32 - FLORIDA 13

Congratulations to the University of Alabama

2009 SEC CHAMPIONS

ROLL TIDE ROLL!!!!!!!!!!

© 2009 Alexis E. Barton

Image courtesy of SI.com

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Posting....

Those Snuggie folk have gone too far this time!

No Ma'am, Aretha. That is all.

© 2009 Alexis E. Barton

Nightmare on My Street

Several nights ago I dreamed I was lazing on a cushy chaise lounge on my parents' red brick patio, kicked back with a magazine and a cold drink. I felt the familiar azalea-scented breeze and warm, South Alabama sunshine on my bare feet when whoosh! My teeth fell out. One big splash into my glass of Co-Cola. I fished them out, looked at them, then screamed one of those "You're in space and no one can hear you" screams. I ran around the back yard and through our house, yelling and clutching my bicuspids, but no one could help me because I couldn't speak. Then (I guess because I was so freaked out) I promptly woke up.

"Now what does that mean?" I wondered, as I lay twisted in my comforter and sheets, running my tongue over my still-in-place teeth.

The next night or so, I dreamed that I climbed out of bed to get drink of Coke. I stumbled into my darkened kitchen (as I have so many nights when I wake up hot and thirsty) and switched on the light above the stove. I removed a glass from the cabinet, poured the soda, and gulped it down standing over the sink. My eyes move across the faintly-lit room to the balcony door…

There, wrapped in a shroud, is a body propped up against the door.

This time - before I can begin to shriek - I wake up, arm myself (don't ask), flip on the lights, and check every corner of my home. Of course there's no one here but me.

I don't interpret dreams. I believe they are a conglomeration of subconscious thoughts, memories, and other unresolved images. And part of me would like to believe that these two nightmares just mean either: 1. I need to drink less Coca-Cola; 2. I need to see my dentist, Dr. Beckham (already made an appointment!) or; 3. Something else is weighing heavy on my heart.

I'm going to go with Number 3. Particularly because I know Alexis, and I know when I can't write, can't sleep, can't think clearly, that I'm really avoiding the thing I need to just face. In my writing - in my way of life - I have developed a tendency to edit myself. And sometimes, for grammatical or stylistic purposes, that's all well and good. But at other times, when I'm grasping for the right words, I stop myself. I put some sugar and honey in my bitter iced tea before I serve it to y'all. And I need to stop doing that, now. Those images stalking my dreams say to me that I'm afraid of losing my voice, my ability to speak. Without my voice, my pen, and my keyboard, I'm a dead woman walking. But what good are any of those things if I stop short of using those tools to help those who need it most, or to help myself, to say the things that must be said? I'm not doing myself any favors as a writer or a woman by sugarcoating or sidestepping certain topics.

So beginning next week, I'm going to tackle an issue that lives with me everyday and that I've held my tongue about here. A writer I admire - Malcolm Gladwell - says "Good writing does not succeed or fail on the strength of its ability to persuade. It succeeds or fails on the strength of its ability to engage you, to make you think, to give you a glimpse into someone else's head."

That's been my goal thus far, and remains my goal going forward. I hope you'll keep reading.



© 2009 Alexis E. Barton

Image courtesy of Scott Mutter/www.photographymuseum.com

Who are You Suppposed to Be?

Last night on Mad Men, dapper Don Draper's secret past finally caught up to him. An ad man in 1960s New York, he spins fantasy for a living. After assuming a dead man's identity and creating a shiny new dream life for himself with all the trappings of success and wealth, Don makes a fatal error: leaving the key to his locked desk drawer in his bathrobe. While doing the laundry, his wife Betty discovers the keys and - overcome by her suspicion that her husband is hiding something - she unlocks the drawer and finds a serious stash of money and a cache of mysterious photographs inside. After brooding over the items for several days, Betty finally corners Don and he confesses, his voice barely rising above a strained whisper.

And the world doesn't end.

I'm obsessed with this drama because the characters would have been my grandparents' peers, age-wise. Brewton and Mobile, Alabama are worlds away from New York, and I've always wondered what life was like in the late 1960s, particularly for my grandmothers. I have one photo of my father's parents at a ball during this time: my grandmother has a bouffant and one glittering, be-gloved arm slung around my grandfather's neck, bottles of Coca-Cola and party favors are strewn on the banquette before them. They dazzle the camera with their youth and happy smiles. But I know life wasn't always glamorous for them. Did they get to be who they wanted to be? I don't know if I'll ever find out.

Behind our masks, maquillage and mendacity, who are any of us? What are we projecting, and does that image jibe with who are we inside, where no one can see? What are we hiding? And who are we hiding from?

Putting on a face to meet the faces that you meet gets old. It wears you out. Sooner or later you realize that you can run from everyone and everything but yourself. I wish I could be the shiny, smooth haired, perfectly manicured version of myself that I see in my mind's eye. But a girl with wild hair, dry cuticles and a big mouth keeps showing up instead. I guess you're stuck with her.

That is all.

© 2009 Alexis E. Barton
Image courtesy of AMC TV

Deep Thoughts

Not only have I been suffering writer's block, I have a nasty case of insomnia. This morning I sat bolt upright in bed to see my alarm clock mocking me in glowing red digits: 3:37 AM.

"What to do?" I thought.

After running some laundry through the washer (I'm sure my neighbors were pleased) and starting dinner for tonight (see Mama, I can be taught) I settled back under the covers and cool darkness, and tuned my television to PBS' Antiques Roadshow.

What I love about this show is the sweet little old white-haired ladies, paunchy middle-aged men and self-conscious, blushing children. They come from far-flung corners of the United States to haul out their Civil War scabbards, chipped crockery, battered baseball cards and other assorted dusty heirlooms, family lore and yard sale trash (or treasure) and hold them up to be appraised. The antiques dealers - with vague or pronounced accents, sartorial flair and florid gestures - cast cool eyes over the items and offer a price.

Sometimes Aunt Florance's antique Navajo Chieftain's robe is really a twenty year old reproduction blanket, worth no more than your average Snuggie. And other times, that yellowing set of maps someone's father insisted on keeping is really a handmade, priceless antiquity.

Watching the show this morning got me to thinking. Those people are so earnest, offering up their cherished mementoes with their hearts thumping, hoping they are worth something.

Do we do that in our every day lives? Offer up our love, our time, our talents and then wait for someone else to tell us their value? How many of us have lost ourselves that way?

Birmingham's mayor, Larry Langford, allegedly offered up contracts for questionable million dollar bond deals in exchange for $236,000 worth of fine clothes and dental work. He's on trial as I type and Jefferson County is teetering on bankruptcy. Was it worth it?

The Heenes sent their son to the attic, a balloon to the heavens and a nation on a wild goose chase in hopes of reality fame. Have any of us enjoyed the ride? Or are we, like little Falcon, a little sick to our stomachs?

Current events and personal dramedy have led me to contemplate when, where and how I've willingly sold myself cheap, short (or completely out). I'd like to say I never have but that would be a lie. And the older I get, the easier it is for me to catch myself. Frankly, the thought that I'm literally giving away my words here is troubling me because I know they're worth a paycheck. But the return on my investment: creative satisfaction, a sense that I'm not in this life alone, and that I'm touching someone somewhere…those are intangible bonuses.

© 2009 Alexis E. Barton
Images courtesy of Google Images and NY Daily News

Love at First Sight

See? I do believe in it after all.

© 2009 Alexis E. Barton