Drawings in the In-between

April 24, 2024November 21, 2024 Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

I used to walk between the L and the 1 train via the F, M platform in the 6th Ave/14th street subway transfer passage every weekday morning on my way to work from Williamsburg to the West Side. It was routine – automatic and got me from 6th Ave to 7th Ave to catch my connection. Most of the time, I was too lost in the realm of daydreams or looking forward to getting back to reading my novel to pay much attention to my fellow sardines on the conveyor belt of dress shoes plodding along grimy concrete tiles. One day, however, I found myself paying attention by accident, while looking at the ankles of the person walking in front of me, noticing I was seeing those ankles not as skin-covered tendons, muscles, and bones, but as black and white sketched pencil lines on drawing paper. Strange. Cool.

Fascinated, I tried to pencil sketch the rest of my view of the person attached to those ankles in my head on my three minute walk through the in-between, but it was hard to get beyond the ankles with them walking so quickly. On my way home, I did it again, walking the pass-through from the 1 to the F, M platform to the L. I continued to notice peoples’ ankles on my commute on multiple random occasions, each time, not even noticing I was doing it at first, like automatic flip books of pencil sketched ankles and heels walking along the in-between pavers in real ballet flats, loafers, heels, oxfords, and flip flops.

This subconscious turned conscious phenomenon started happening after I attended a few life drawing workshops in the city through the Drawing America program. I had been missing the mindless exercise of timed drawing, the translation of reality to art, the feel of good posture and soft 2B pencil on drawing paper. Looking at the model as lines and shading is a learned, turned automatic skill from my art training in college. I miss the feel of making art in a studio a lot lately. Creative spaces really do fuel creativity.

Lately, I feel like I could cover the walls in tubes and tubes of paint with no rhyme or reason other than because it would be pure fun.

I guess I’d prefer the world to be art sometimes. I certainly seemed to on my city commute all those times through the in-between. It made the gray world more beautiful and animated, more strange and interesting. A brain that thinks in art can catch you off guard in the best way and I entertain it every time I notice it happening and let my imagination run wild like a Mummer through a convent.

I haven’t drawn pencil ankles in the real world in a long time, but I have translated memories into words and to me, that’s sort of the same feeling, if that makes any sort of sense. Even if it doesn’t, don’t worry. Sometimes things you can’t explain or understand can be the most beautiful. Documented murals of letters, words, punctuation, mixed in with me like paint with plaster, presented in a forum for the open minded. Am I art? Perhaps. The reviews are mixed, but I’ll always have the pencil ankles in the in-between, propelling me toward creative pursuit.

Home of the Great

April 23, 2024November 21, 2024 Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

I remember being small at the house on Neptune Avenue,

The kitchen’s brown and white floor tiles – cold on bare, little, pink toes in the early morning,

Gray light filtering through embroidered curtains,

Casting an emerald jewel over the sink where the shamrock stained glass hung.

I remember the table under the windows topped with a lamp, pristine cloth, and occupied, melamine ashtray

And fearing the swipe of Inkspot’s front claws as he perched on the table with prideful defiance,

A gleaming panther in the cold sun, daring enough to live a little in spite of the photos displayed on the wall beside him-

An homage to pets long gone.

Shannon the Great Pyrenees liked to sleep in the walkway between the kitchen and dining room,

Our languid polar bear babysitter.

We’d climb over her, she- a mountain of white fur and a waggling pink tongue,

But she never seemed to mind us when we buried our little hands in her fluff,

Or scaled over her one chubby leg at a time, running in circles around the first floor.

We’d sneak slices of yellow American cheese from the refrigerator in the laundry room

And watch cartoons in Brepa’s old chair,

Presided over by the oil painting of the Madonna and child,

But we never let them choose the show,

Their gazes clouded with many decades worth of nicotine stains.

I wonder what they liked best on Nickelodeon.

We knew how to turn the silver dials on the brown TV set

Because there were limited options that we could wrap our molding brains around.

We bounced on the squashy, springy seat cushion of the arm chair,

A pile of giggles and twirled pigtails,

If we were lucky enough for Aunt Arlene to curl our hair the night before.

I remember the hi-fi along the back wall of the dining room,

The one with my mom’s baby teeth marks in it

And the concealed Ouija board beneath.

I remember studying the countless framed photographs up the wall along the staircase

And Aunt Arlene telling me not to complain about getting my tangled hair brushed

Because Natalie didn’t complain about getting her hair brushed.

There was a mirror by the front door,

But I’d have to jump to see anything other than the reflection of the ceiling in it.

Shadow was a stray tabby who’d visit from time to time for a snack.

“She made her way around the block”, the parents would say,

Whatever that meant, I’d think, trying to decipher the mysteries of adult conversation.

Shadow had kittens in a box on the porch one time.

“Mine” was gray and had six toes on his paws, but he died quick,

I forget his name.

I never thought about death before that,

But I guess Jersey City’s a tough enough place,

Let alone for a fresh feline.

At the time, I thought it had something to do with his extra toes and was relieved to have the normal amount.

The living room had the quilted, Irish hanging tapestry, embroidered with names of family and friends.

It was also where we named Sunshine,

The orange tabby who replaced Inkspot once his photo was added to the display in the kitchen.

We were four little girls laying on the floor, swinging our feet back and forth in the air,

Deep in thought in a matter of such importance,

Round cheeks propped up on plump palms.

I remember watching Sister Act and My Fair Lady a lot

Because those were the only VHS tapes available in the house.

I remember Katherine, Janice, Carol, and the McGinns.

I remember holding my breath when the Marlboros announced their presence on the porch,

Tom’s banana toothpaste in the morning and at night,

And squeaky clean hair.

There were St. Patrick’s Day Birthday parties

And the train set beneath the Christmas tree –

The shelf in the second floor bathroom- overflowing with haircare products,

Car rides with no seatbelt in the middle,

The tiny American Flag on the antenna, flapping in the wind,

The Garden Song on a loop-

We are made of dreams and bones.

The greatest of the Greats

Had patience for us beyond what she had for our parents.

She curled our hair

And loved us to pieces finer than the scrambledest eggs you’ve ever eaten.

I remember being small at the house on Neptune Avenue

With a life so much bigger than I could see.

The view was higher than I could jump.

I’d have to grow to appreciate it.

I’m tall enough now to look in the mirror and look the past straight on in the present,

Able to recognize the magic of a moment,

The lasting quality of the fleeting,

The memory of the lost.

The feel of cold tiles,

The scent of cigarette smoke and hairspray,

And ringlet curls-

Links to a past, present life that seems so far away now.

Health & Lifestyle · Music · Reviews & Reflections

Standing on [the] Bleachers

April 19, 2024November 21, 2024 Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Good Morning. I’ve been hooked on an album for the past few days, filling the quiet with constant sound because it makes my brain feel good. It’s distracting in the best way and has had me dance writing in giant headphones for a few days now. If you’re feeling like you could use a little more head bobbing, leg bouncing, and shoulder dancing or just a healthy distraction in your week, join me in a listen.

I know it’s been a lot of posts lately. The reason for this is procrastination and overwhelm on my longer writing project. It’s getting there, but it can get there later for right now. I write here because if I don’t, I won’t write there. My type-A personality would have me organize my creative distractions in a spreadsheet and address them in a reasonable order, but that’s not how reality works and recently, I feel a little like a lamb searching for grass on a construction site. Huh– where did I get turned around? How long have I been gone from the pasture? This music is leading me back though. Isn’t “Dream of Mickey Mantle” great?

I went for a run along the beach trail the other day, going a little too fast because adrenaline allowed and it felt good to focus on the pleasant pain of blood pumping in my legs and behind my ears instead of other things. The wind was loud and sharp and the air was salty and fresh. I was exhausted after two miles, but the stretch after was soothing and necessary. Stairs will be tough for a day or so, but that’s part of the fun, no?

I watched Mike run his first half marathon in October my senior year of college. I was amazed that people run that much for fun and actually look happy doing it. After the race, he jokingly asked me if I wanted to do one sometime. I was like, “You’re joking, right?”

He was joking, and yet, the itch to do something BIG crawled onto my skin, seeped into my pores, and sank into my veins. Could I run 13.1 miles? Yeah; I could.

My times weren’t amazing, but I ran the North Jersey Half Marathon twice and felt good for ten miles both times and then felt like my legs would fall off for the last three, which is weird because you need legs to finish the race, and I was determined to finish. I remember a sign that one of the spectators held. She sat in a wheelchair and held up a poster board that said, “Pain is temporary. Pride is forever.” It is what got me through my first race. It is the mantra I used for my second. I think about that sign all of the time because to this day, it urges me to accomplish things that are tough.

A friend of mine recommended an incredible book by Glennon Doyle called Untamed. It is a memoir by a woman who did hard things because she realized she could do hard things and that she needed to. I know I can do hard things too. I need to do them. I know because I’ve done them before. No obstacle is too big, no distraction too consuming. If life were easy all the time, the good parts wouldn’t be so good.

What song are you on now?

To reduce less healthy distractions this week, I started listening to music while I write. Normally, I’m horrible at this type of multitasking, but for some reason, this album is fueling me and my fingers are flying. I did make the mistake of watching the music video for one of Bleachers’ newer songs, Tiny Moves, and it is incredible. Don’t watch it unless you have a nice chunk of time, because it is beautiful and you will want to watch it more than once. The video features Margaret Qualley who choreographed, starred, and co-directed the video and Bleachers front man, Jack Antonoff, her husband. I feel a weird connection to Qualley since usually, when people ask me, “You know who you remind me of?”, I could now just answer yes, since the answer is more often than not Andie MacDowell, Qualley’s mother. I shared the link for the video with my friends to whom dance was a huge part of life at some point – it never was for me; I haven’t the talent, but I always wished I could. I’ll happily settle for the talents that I can call mine though.

I got my first “real” haircut since December 2018 yesterday and honestly, it’s just fine. I never was one for salon small talk, so when the pandemic was like, try cutting your own hair, I was all for it. My self-hair cuts were fine too, not to mention free, so maybe the salon and I will do battle in another six months to see who gets to hold the scissors.

The independence of certain skills can be very freeing. Cutting my own hair and doing my own sewing alterations were difficult skills to learn, but they allow me to minimize interactions that I find tedious and that makes the pin pricks and temporarily looking like Samara from The Ring a little more worth it. Making a story outline was similarly difficult to figure out, but I know I picked up the other skills well enough so I have high hopes for what I’ve put together.

I just realized that my head has been bopping the entire time writing this. The music’s getting in my blood, the words are singing in my head. I’ll go for a run in a little bit and the wind in my ears will join the symphony and it will be a brain pounding and body pumping with healthy distraction. I will write words. I will read words. I will stretch mentally and physically, escaping into Gone Now, because it just feels good.

Have a weird day; have a fun day; have the best day you can. Get up, get dressed, brush your teeth. Do something little, because lots of little somethings lead to something big.

Love,

Beth

Poetry

Compilation 64

April 17, 2024November 21, 2024 Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Sometimes a title comes first – sometimes a particular line in a poem

There are too many ideas to write down

Representations of beauty

A mixture of grace and insanity come to life

Difficult to focus on too many things at once

Feeling lost on the snowy expanse of a blank word document

Petrified of turning eleven

Despite occasional stress fractures it’s possible to heal

Lucky house guest of the Honourable Phryne Fisher

The light glowed warm from the burgundy beam-framed windows

Freshly baked croissants

I sleep better when there is a dish towel on my pillow

My imagination plays tricks on me with evils that aren’t there

A tall, black, iron gate

A monster was never the muse

I want to know you

I started with The Hobbit

I change

And it just doesn’t look right somehow

Petals float from branch to grass

Collect the fallen

I tend to follow my gut

Like a baby by the ocean

Fade from view into one deep blue

A cocktail of salty humidity clings to the furniture

The selkies wander freely here

We sat in a dive bar in Venice

We toasted with Chivas and an Irish blessing

Watch out for other spirits lifting

I want to see the ghosts

Wisps of clouds on the distant horizon

Apparition haunting the library in my head

Enjoying my escape into Miss Eyre and Mr. Rochester’s story

My mind is a curious, cluttered place

Polygamist set of champagne flutes

I began to appreciate my reality more

I wore a blue dress to the movies

Some freeze time and some impress

A fluid turned dissonant composition

How do you “not hear” music?

I have to remind myself to slow down

I gathered my debris

Memory marathon training

Poetry in the maroon composition notebook

Dragging along the stress of extra baggage

My decision to detach

I’d have gone sooner

Put the worries away for a moment to make room for clarity and creativity

Put your brave face on

Reduced stress, more clarity, and more space

I reserved my battle cry

Ease up on the clutch; you’ll feel it

Incapable of keeping plants alive

A grueling operation to amputate the legs of our couch

We collected our bags

We were usually just a stopover

Switched out our red brick wall

Our power has been out

Why fret about it now?

We sipped warm, red wine

White twinkle lights in the kitchen

An army of albatrosses in the Falkland Islands

Already standing on the summit

Many moments in empty venues

Nostalgic Posts · Poetry

Seventeen, Twenty-Six, and Thirty-Two

April 16, 2024November 21, 2024 Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

I came to life at seventeen

With my suntan and purple shorts.

You were too cool, too witty for me,

But somehow you wanted me too-

A big smile and brown curls who woke up for you.

I wore a blue dress to the movies

And stole my sister’s shoes that she never let me borrow –

Head on your shoulder –

Arm in arm out the door to the car.

Ice cream kiss

Like kerosene poured on a slow burn.

I loved you before I even knew it

And realized it sometime walking in the rain,

Then woke up thinking it was all a dream.

A bus ride apart, an ocean apart.

No one understood us but us.

Love letters to Spain,

Love letters to Baltimore.

I keep them in a box to remember that you.

At twenty-six I wore a white dress –

The prettiest I’ll ever wear,

A veil, pearls, and pink shoes.

I walked a long way down to you,

Daisies, tears, and a smile on my dad’s arm.

We danced to our song

And the band erred on the words,

But the bar was open

And the room was full of love.

You twirled me when I asked you to

And I realized what it is to feel

You are exactly what you’re meant to be at a moment in time.

And I realized I was meant to be that white dress and those pearls,

That veil and those pink shoes

Being twirled around by you.

At thirty-two, I am yours still

And feel lucky you choose me too

Even though your brain can walk in a straight line

While mine thinks in roller coaster loops,

But I’m brave enough to ride them with you.

You suffer coffee kisses and New Jersey

And come home to me each night,

To water views and too many cozy lamps,

To sitting on the blue couch

Beside seventeen, twenty-six, and thirty-two.

Poetry

At War with the Machine

April 15, 2024November 21, 2024 Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Pins file in line- swords piercing cloth, perilous and shining.

The iron’s sear flattens the landscape, exposing the flaws in strategy.

Swords realign till the boiling heat of near mistake cools.

Scissors attack and obliterate the fold, anticipating the outcome with finality.

Survey the field in the calm before the hammering drums begin to sound.

Put the pedal in its place and turn on the switch.

Light shines bright and warm on gleaming metal.

Bring forth the colors.

Pull out the balance wheel and uniform the bobbin.

Wind up the artillery.

Restore the balance.

Tension and stitch click into formation.

Set the spool and wind the fuse through guides, uptake, and needle.

Join that of the bobbin and pull back to a safe distance to avoid disaster in the trench.

Fit the machine about the landscape and drop the foot.

Activate the pedal to sound the drums.

Battle commences.

Forward.

Backward.

Forward again.

Establish an anchor point

Then soldier on.

Remove any sword in your way, brave enough to face your determined hands.

File the fallen away in the tin box off the field.

Stop.

Lower the needle.

Rotate the plan of attack then charge ahead.

Drums hammer on.

The field is pierced until the last seam is sealed.

Forward.

Backward.

Forward again.

Strengthen your anchor point.

Pull back.

Sever the machine.

Survey the outcome of the battle.

Collect the fallen.

Look for the stitches that won’t heal right;

Rip out and resew the wounds.

Cautery awaits them on the ironing board.

With the badge of victory to follow.

Poetry

The Harbor Seals

April 9, 2024November 21, 2024 Beth DeFries2 Comments

Have you read the myths of selkies come ashore?

Of seals that molt their skin and emerge in human form

To walk among men, in likeness?

Such creatures born of Celtic lore

And Norse oral tradition, bred through stories told and retold

Of their wanderings from the sea.

Their magic raiment, disguised as oiled, dark hair

Is their return fare to sparkling waters and though may be shed long

May not be lost, or ever shall they live on land, parted from the sea.

At winter’s end, the harbor seals return to the bay

And rest their bellies upon the timber pilings when the tide’s rise allows.

Crowds flock to the rocks along the bayfront to catch a glimpse,

Not bothering to look for pools of oiled, dark coats hidden in the crevices,

Their gazes fixed only upon the ripples in the water’s surface.

And so, the selkies wander freely here and walk about the land in day

And slip into their skin each night, returning home to the cool waters

When they’ve grown weary of the shore.

Health & Lifestyle · Music · Nostalgic Posts · Reviews & Reflections

Vampire Word Salad

April 4, 2024November 21, 2024 Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

I’m a nervous highway driver, on occasion. Weirdly, singing seems to help with that. So, sometimes, I sing when I drive. I sing when I drive when I’m nervous, that is.

When I was new to driving as a teenager, my dad would passenger seat “drive”. He had an imaginary brake pedal on the ceiling of the car and when he’d hold his breath in silence and reach for it with his hand, my confidence would waver. I remember thinking that a very real passenger-side clutch pedal would have been much more practical because no matter how many times my dad told me at first, “G’head; ease up on the clutch. You’ll feel it,” he seemed only to be all sorts of crazy at the time and me – all sorts of confused. Of course, he was right, and if you know how to drive a manual transmission, you know what I’m talking about. For the rest of you, there is no other way I have found to explain it; so you’ll just have to trust me on this one, okay?

Before moving back to New Jersey, I was out of practice with driving, having lived in New York City for seven years where cars are things that you sometimes forget exist as modes of transportation rather than simply as perpetual enemies to face at crosswalks and invisible crosswalks, alike. I decided to ease my way back into highway driving with a nice little “test drive” by following behind the U-Haul that Mike drove during our move. White knuckled and singing, with a nice big U-Haul to tail (and the U-Haul’s being restricted from going on the Parkway), we made it, somehow. Mike was proud of me, I was proud of me, and I think it’s accurate to say we were both sort of in disbelief. Turns out I could do it all along, like the whole time probably, you guys. Who’d have even thought?

Driving and music just sort of go together for me. My sister did most of the driving when we were in high school. She knew the radio stations to preset and had taste in music that I’d not yet honed for myself. I trusted her musical prowess and learned to like the emo pop and rock bands that were so popular in my school days. In middle school or high school (I can’t remember – help me out if you know, dad!), my dad showed me how to use his and my mom’s record player and my musical knowledge expanded to include Van Morrison, the Beatles, The Who, Cream, and Emmitt Rhodes, among others, heard as originally intended. The soft thud and crackle of a needle dropped in a vinyl groove has been a very comforting sound ever since. I’ve not touched a record or a record player for years now, but I can recall that sound as easily as I can hear my neighbor’s music playing next door right now. Unexplainable, yet simultaneously explainable – you know, magic.

Nowadays, I have an included music subscription through Amazon Prime, built on a Prime Music Unlimited subscription that I paid for (and got very limited use out of if I’m being honest), for over a year. It’s basically the same as the paid version, except that I can no longer pick the exact song I want to listen to at the exact moment I think to listen to it. The song’ll come on eventually, I have learned, and I’ll hear new stuff that I’d otherwise not have known about while waiting for it to do so. I use this music subscription, almost solely for car-based purposes and it has been my co-pilot (cough – karaoke machine) for many a long drive.

My taste has since evolved into something with an identity of its own that I’m proud of and that I don’t care whether or not other people share in. My go to for driving is almost always something by Vampire Weekend (or something similar now, by the unpredictable nature of the Amazon Music roulette wheel). Before I got rid of my paid music subscription, I mourned the final days of still having the ability to play the entire Father of the Bride album in its intended order, getting lost in songs like Bambina, Sunflower, and Flower Moon. I’d like to say I sing along to Vampire Weekend, but what I actually do is try to sing along to Vampire Weekend, as, at least for me, many of the songs would take a gazillion driving listens to get the words right (as you must remember; I cannot look at the lyrics because – driving). No, I sing whatever words fit the pleasant Koenigean warbles and “my audience” is not displeased.

I think of the Beatles writing Yesterday and Paul McCartney using the original placeholder lyrics of, “Scrambled Eggs. Oh my baby how I love your legs,” and I think it’s totally reasonable to change the words to something like Diane Young, Don’t Lie, or Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa for my own listening (and driving) pleasure. Someday I’ll look up the words, though I’m happy enough with my own versions for the time being.

Perhaps my nervous reaction to driving was born from that invisible ceiling brake. Maybe it was the watching for the opposing traffic’s yellow lights while I was stopped at a red at intersections (you know – to leave sufficient time to feel the clutch). Maybe it was how fifth gear liked to keep me on my toes by sticking every once in a while when downshifting to fourth. At some point in time, specific origin unknown, it came to be, and here I live to tell the tale, much improved thanks to uninhibited car singing and an affinity for Vampire Word Salad.

I’ll end it here before this last track skips, but feel free to set the needle down at the beginning again if you so choose.

Poetry

Two-Way Mirror

April 2, 2024November 21, 2024 Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

I want to know you.

I want you to know me too.

But on my side, I’ve a mirror,

You – a window to see through.

Do you enjoy what you see?

This self portrait of me?

Is your nose pressed to the glass?

Am I who you thought I would be?

Sometimes lengthy, sometimes brief,

Sometimes lost in the grief,

Tongue tangled with words

Typed with ease for relief.

But I ache for your stories,

Your low points, your glories.

It makes me so curious,

Diamonds – hidden in quarries.

And where do you read

All the words that I’ve keyed,

All the soul that’s been spilled

For your pleasure, your need?

And how long will you stay

To read what I’ve to say

To eyes voiceless and faceless,

Some – so far away?

Perhaps I’ll never know

How your stories all go.

I’ll continue to wonder.

I’ll continue to show.

Diamonds, so mined –

Some lustrous and shined,

Some clouded and rough,

Some polished – refined.

I’ll churn out more prose,

Hope the poetry flows,

Envelop your interest,

Press mirror to nose.

I’ll squint through the glass,

Hoping your stories pass,

But it’s tough to see through

In this mirror so vast.

Poetry

April Fools

April 1, 2024November 21, 2024 Beth DeFriesLeave a comment

Magnolias itch to bloom –

A day or two they’ll stay

Till petals float from branch to grass

To shrivel and decay.

Pink and white – presented,

Ornamented on gnarled twigs,

Till mischief breathes on fragile stems

And loosens all the rigs.

The flowers do not comprehend;

The love for them’s not fleeting

And April fools, impatient, long

For next spring’s short, sweet meeting.