If you want to record your memoir on video, check this out.
You Are The Story You Tell About Yourself
Friday, February 8, 2013
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Monday, December 3, 2012
The Invitation
This is kind of a year-end assesment I give myself; a poem by the Canadian poet Oriah Mountain Dreamer. I hope you love it as much as I do. Enjoy the holidays and the wonderful spirit of winter.
The Invitation
By Oriah Mountain Dreamer
It doesn’t matter to me what you
do for a living-
I want to know
What you ache for, and if you
dare to dream
Of meeting your heart’s longing
It doesn’t matter to me how old
you are-
I want to know if you risk looking
like a fool
For love
For your dreams
For the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what
planets are squaring your moon-
I want to know if you have
touched the center
Of your sorrow
If you have been opened by life’s
betrayals,
Or have become shriveled or
closed
From fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit
with your own pain
Without moving to hide it or fade
it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with
your own joy
If you can dance with wildness,
And let the ecstasy fill you
To the tips of your fingers and
toes,
Without cautioning yourself
To be careful
To be realistic
Or to remember the limitations of
being human.
If doesn’t interest me if the
story you are telling me is true-
I want to know if you can
‘disappoint’ another
To be true to yourself
If you can bear the accusation of
‘betrayal’
And not betray your own soul
If you can be ‘faithful’
And therefore trustworthy
I want to know if you can see
beauty, even when it’s not pretty
Every day and if you source from
your own life
Beauty’s presence.
I want to know if you can live
with your failure
And still stand on the edge of
the lake
And shout to the silver of the
full moon
“Yes!”
It doesn’t interest me to know
where you live
Or how much money you have-
I want to know if you can get up
After a night of grief and
despair
Weary and bruised to the bone
And do what needs to be done for
your family.
It doesn’t interest me who you
know or how you came to
Be here-
I want to know if you will stand
in the center of the fire with
Me and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where, or
what, or with you have
Studied-
I want to know what sustains you
from inside
When all else falls away.
If you can be alone with
yourself, and
If you truly like the company you
keep
In the empty moments.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Chapter One of Fanny's Memoir of love in Tulum
Chapter 1
I woke with the kind of snort that happens when you have your head resting back in the car or, more embarrassingly, at a meeting when you fall asleep at the conference table. I looked around, having forgotten where I was, then inhaled deeply as we passed a break in the seaside jungle and I saw the cobalt blue of the Caribbean Sea. “Incredible”, I said sleepily and then to my friend who was driving, “Ned. Look.”
“Beautiful” she replied.
“Magnificent”, I answered and then, pulling myself up in the seat, “Are we here?”
“I am pretty sure Vita e Bella is just around the corner”, Ned answered.
We were driving a white VW beetle with a bimini roof that we rented when we got off the plane from Boston in Cancun. We had been horribly lost in a maze of Cancun hotels and tourist bars, but now, after nearly 3 hours of clumsily driving this roller skate of a car, we saw the waves breaking over the reef as the jungle opened to expose Tulum beach once again.
“You made it”, I whispered to myself, as we pulled into the sand parking lot of “La Vita e Bella”, a group of brightly colored thatched roof cabanas called palapas that were tucked into the dune on the Mexican Caribbean.
We checked in, peeled winter clothes from our sweaty bodies, pulled on bikinis and walked down the stone steps that led to the beach and the beach bar. The sand was soft and white and the waves called to us to enter. “Let’s have a margarita”. It was always a drink with Ned. I never objected. I loved the fact that I never felt I drank much around my Irish buddy. Like Ned, I loved a cocktail. Unlike Ned, tall, blond and very able to drink, I was a petite, mousey haired athlete who could barely drink more than two glasses of wine without suffering for at least one day. Now I was leaner, not so resilient and much less able to tolerate alcohol. We sat on the patio in the sand and looked over the undulating cobalt blue that gently caressed the shore in front of us. I wiggled my feet into the sand as we sipped our cocktails.
Before we could order guacamole, two dark Mexican men in surfer shorts sat down with us. They didn’t ask, they just occupied the empty chairs at the table. they were slightly drunk, and seemed harmless and amusing. Neither was particularly handsome. The one who sat next to me was charming and the yellow tipped dreadlocks that framed his face made him somehow exotic. It was after 3 pm and he still had sleep in his eyes. His smile was contagious. As he spoke, I couldn’t help but stare at that speck of sleep still in his brown eyes. He spoke good English, certainly better than my nonexistent Spanish. But I found myself not listening, staring at that speck and wondering if he ever looked in a mirror. Then I realized he probably did not and that made him irresistible. Without warning, he lifted the sunglasses off the bridge of my nose to see my eyes.
“They are beautiful.” he said.
“I know.” I replied, putting my glasses on the table. My eyes were green, sometimes a little yellow and my favorite thing about myself.
“Want to swim?” I asked, dieing to get into the water.
“Of course”, he purred.
Not hesitating, he took my chair from behind me and helped me to my feet, taking my hand. Ned raised an eyebrow and I said, “I need to swim”, as I left her with her ‘friend’ and walked down the few stairs to the beach with a confidence and a flair I had only recently acquired. I was not sure if it was from surviving cancer, my surrender to taking a vacation and leaving it all behind, from the tequila after the long journey or from this indigenous man who was walking behind me. But I felt like someone everyone wanted to know. I turned back to look at him as I walked into the warm water and smiled.
“What is your name?” he called to me.
“Joanne. And yours?” I asked.
“Amador.” he said with the accent on the third syllable and a roll on the r.
“Hi Amador.” I said back, successfully rolling my r as well.
I dove into the soft waves, and let the water embrace me. I immediately felt new, not necessarily happy, but clean. I started to cry, forgetting anyone was there I was so moved by the sea, the alcohol and the warm breeze that touched my face when I surfaced. When Amador touched me, I was startled.
“I want to marry with you”, he told me as I turned to face him and let the sun dry my tears. I laughed, loudly, deeply, happily. Somehow, I was flattered, even if his remark was only amusing.
“You don’t even know me.” I replied looking into his eyes.
“I know you”, he said with certainty and continued, “and I want to marry with you.”
I smiled and swam away from him to put some distance between us. I was unsure how to respond and I wanted to just enjoy the sea. I wanted a love affair with the Caribbean, not another man. My experience with men hurt and I did not want any more hurt in my life. But what he said made me feel good and I wasn’t sure why. “Are you that damaged?” I asked myself.
He followed and I relished the attention. With the warmth of the air, the coolness of the sea, the beauty of the sun on the water and an interesting dark man with blond tipped dreads following me, I was in heaven. Amador swam up behind me and put his hand on my lower back. I turned quickly as electricity ran up my spine. I stopped and treaded water.
“Listen, we can be friends”, I said, “That is all. I am not sleeping with you, if that is what you are looking for.” I blurted and smiled at my frankness.
“Too bad,” he said, as if we were both missing something and then followed with, “But, o.k.”, and smiled an incredibly infectious smile. I marveled at his self-confidence.
Un-phased, he pointed to his side and asked me “See this scar?” I looked over, both of us treading water now.
He put my hand just above his waist and took my fingers to gently trace the outline of a 4-inch scar down his side.
“Ouch. That must have hurt.” I told him.
“Si. Baracuda,” he replied.
I laughed and said, “Oh, really?”
“And this one?” he asked as he took my hand and brought it down to his thigh where I felt the scar from a 2 inch gash. I started sinking since he had both my hands but I did not pull it back because, even though I feared it, I was enjoying the feel of a man.
I smiled and replied, “shark?” as my head went under the water and I took back my hand to swim back.
“How did you know?” he said as I surfaced and he followed me toward the shore.
I walked out of the sea and onto the beach that stretched for miles. In my red bikini with orange accents, pale and marvelously thin with baby hair on my head barley half an inch long, I looked different, perhaps alien to some. But I felt exceptional. No one here but Ned and I knew it was from cancer.
As he walked me back to the table, he asked, “May I kiss you?” I hesitated, looked into his brown eyes and noticed the sleep was no longer there. I made him wait a moment and then replied, “Just a little one”, and kissed him on the lips with my eyes open. Ned looked the other way. Her ‘friend’ had already started up the beach.
“Adios.” he said with a little melody to his voice.
“Adios.” I replied and sat down. Then he strolled down the stairs and along the beach. He did not look back as I watched him.
I looked at Ned and we laughed. She shook her head.
“You should have seen how everyone looked at you. They didn’t like that you swam with him”, she reported.
“Really? Why is that?” I asked.
“You know.” she said.
“No. Really. I don’t. What do you mean?” I honestly wanted to know.
“Well, he is black you know.”
I looked at her incredulously, not believing she said it. Then I smiled.
“No, he is not black. I know black and he is not.” I said with innuendo since the last man I let butcher my heart had been African American, Southern to boot. We both laughed. I let her racism slide but it bothered me. And, I could still feel the touch of his scars on my hand. I am not sure which bothered me more, her reaction to his color or how good it felt to be close to him. Before I became confused, I finished the rest of my margarita and put my head on the back of the chair to feel the sun and just be in that moment. I did not want to think about anything, so I forced myself to just feel and not think at all.
“Beautiful” she replied.
“Magnificent”, I answered and then, pulling myself up in the seat, “Are we here?”
“I am pretty sure Vita e Bella is just around the corner”, Ned answered.
We were driving a white VW beetle with a bimini roof that we rented when we got off the plane from Boston in Cancun. We had been horribly lost in a maze of Cancun hotels and tourist bars, but now, after nearly 3 hours of clumsily driving this roller skate of a car, we saw the waves breaking over the reef as the jungle opened to expose Tulum beach once again.
“You made it”, I whispered to myself, as we pulled into the sand parking lot of “La Vita e Bella”, a group of brightly colored thatched roof cabanas called palapas that were tucked into the dune on the Mexican Caribbean.
We checked in, peeled winter clothes from our sweaty bodies, pulled on bikinis and walked down the stone steps that led to the beach and the beach bar. The sand was soft and white and the waves called to us to enter. “Let’s have a margarita”. It was always a drink with Ned. I never objected. I loved the fact that I never felt I drank much around my Irish buddy. Like Ned, I loved a cocktail. Unlike Ned, tall, blond and very able to drink, I was a petite, mousey haired athlete who could barely drink more than two glasses of wine without suffering for at least one day. Now I was leaner, not so resilient and much less able to tolerate alcohol. We sat on the patio in the sand and looked over the undulating cobalt blue that gently caressed the shore in front of us. I wiggled my feet into the sand as we sipped our cocktails.
Before we could order guacamole, two dark Mexican men in surfer shorts sat down with us. They didn’t ask, they just occupied the empty chairs at the table. they were slightly drunk, and seemed harmless and amusing. Neither was particularly handsome. The one who sat next to me was charming and the yellow tipped dreadlocks that framed his face made him somehow exotic. It was after 3 pm and he still had sleep in his eyes. His smile was contagious. As he spoke, I couldn’t help but stare at that speck of sleep still in his brown eyes. He spoke good English, certainly better than my nonexistent Spanish. But I found myself not listening, staring at that speck and wondering if he ever looked in a mirror. Then I realized he probably did not and that made him irresistible. Without warning, he lifted the sunglasses off the bridge of my nose to see my eyes.
“They are beautiful.” he said.
“I know.” I replied, putting my glasses on the table. My eyes were green, sometimes a little yellow and my favorite thing about myself.
“Want to swim?” I asked, dieing to get into the water.
“Of course”, he purred.
Not hesitating, he took my chair from behind me and helped me to my feet, taking my hand. Ned raised an eyebrow and I said, “I need to swim”, as I left her with her ‘friend’ and walked down the few stairs to the beach with a confidence and a flair I had only recently acquired. I was not sure if it was from surviving cancer, my surrender to taking a vacation and leaving it all behind, from the tequila after the long journey or from this indigenous man who was walking behind me. But I felt like someone everyone wanted to know. I turned back to look at him as I walked into the warm water and smiled.
“What is your name?” he called to me.
“Joanne. And yours?” I asked.
“Amador.” he said with the accent on the third syllable and a roll on the r.
“Hi Amador.” I said back, successfully rolling my r as well.
I dove into the soft waves, and let the water embrace me. I immediately felt new, not necessarily happy, but clean. I started to cry, forgetting anyone was there I was so moved by the sea, the alcohol and the warm breeze that touched my face when I surfaced. When Amador touched me, I was startled.
“I want to marry with you”, he told me as I turned to face him and let the sun dry my tears. I laughed, loudly, deeply, happily. Somehow, I was flattered, even if his remark was only amusing.
“You don’t even know me.” I replied looking into his eyes.
“I know you”, he said with certainty and continued, “and I want to marry with you.”
I smiled and swam away from him to put some distance between us. I was unsure how to respond and I wanted to just enjoy the sea. I wanted a love affair with the Caribbean, not another man. My experience with men hurt and I did not want any more hurt in my life. But what he said made me feel good and I wasn’t sure why. “Are you that damaged?” I asked myself.
He followed and I relished the attention. With the warmth of the air, the coolness of the sea, the beauty of the sun on the water and an interesting dark man with blond tipped dreads following me, I was in heaven. Amador swam up behind me and put his hand on my lower back. I turned quickly as electricity ran up my spine. I stopped and treaded water.
“Listen, we can be friends”, I said, “That is all. I am not sleeping with you, if that is what you are looking for.” I blurted and smiled at my frankness.
“Too bad,” he said, as if we were both missing something and then followed with, “But, o.k.”, and smiled an incredibly infectious smile. I marveled at his self-confidence.
Un-phased, he pointed to his side and asked me “See this scar?” I looked over, both of us treading water now.
He put my hand just above his waist and took my fingers to gently trace the outline of a 4-inch scar down his side.
“Ouch. That must have hurt.” I told him.
“Si. Baracuda,” he replied.
I laughed and said, “Oh, really?”
“And this one?” he asked as he took my hand and brought it down to his thigh where I felt the scar from a 2 inch gash. I started sinking since he had both my hands but I did not pull it back because, even though I feared it, I was enjoying the feel of a man.
I smiled and replied, “shark?” as my head went under the water and I took back my hand to swim back.
“How did you know?” he said as I surfaced and he followed me toward the shore.
I walked out of the sea and onto the beach that stretched for miles. In my red bikini with orange accents, pale and marvelously thin with baby hair on my head barley half an inch long, I looked different, perhaps alien to some. But I felt exceptional. No one here but Ned and I knew it was from cancer.
As he walked me back to the table, he asked, “May I kiss you?” I hesitated, looked into his brown eyes and noticed the sleep was no longer there. I made him wait a moment and then replied, “Just a little one”, and kissed him on the lips with my eyes open. Ned looked the other way. Her ‘friend’ had already started up the beach.
“Adios.” he said with a little melody to his voice.
“Adios.” I replied and sat down. Then he strolled down the stairs and along the beach. He did not look back as I watched him.
I looked at Ned and we laughed. She shook her head.
“You should have seen how everyone looked at you. They didn’t like that you swam with him”, she reported.
“Really? Why is that?” I asked.
“You know.” she said.
“No. Really. I don’t. What do you mean?” I honestly wanted to know.
“Well, he is black you know.”
I looked at her incredulously, not believing she said it. Then I smiled.
“No, he is not black. I know black and he is not.” I said with innuendo since the last man I let butcher my heart had been African American, Southern to boot. We both laughed. I let her racism slide but it bothered me. And, I could still feel the touch of his scars on my hand. I am not sure which bothered me more, her reaction to his color or how good it felt to be close to him. Before I became confused, I finished the rest of my margarita and put my head on the back of the chair to feel the sun and just be in that moment. I did not want to think about anything, so I forced myself to just feel and not think at all.
copyright 2012Fanny Barry
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Fanny Barry bares all in her memoir. Here's the Prologue.
Prologue
I was reading under
the soft white mosqutio netting that covers my bed when I heard footsteps. I
looked up, inhaled and strained to listen. I hoped it was only the ugly possum
that sometimes cut across my property. But the steps continued toward me, a two
legged animal. Barely breathing, I quietly came out from the netting to stand
in the candlelit window of my Mexican casita.
In the moonlight, I
saw the moving shadow of a man. I felt a sudden chill despite the hot jungle
night air. The dogs joined me in the window, slightly agitated. Ama, my yellow
lab mix let out a nervous bark as I lit the shadow with the flash light I kept
by the bed. He continued moving toward us. It was my ex, Amador. I froze. The
dogs did not move. It seemed that even the geckos stopped chirping as he moved
closer.
“Amador, go away”, I
finally rasped through what felt like a desert in my mouth.
I prayed he would
leave. Yet there was a part of me that liked that he would not stay away. It
was a sickness born of some sort of insecurity and low self-esteem, I knew. I
had read the books, been to therapy, talked to myself in the mirror. I knew I
was better than this. I was successful. I was together. I had hired and fired
men with real credentials, real values. Amador didn’t even wear shoes. God knew
the last time he had brushed his teeth. Yet, still, I had loved him. Truly.
Passionately. Desperately. Some, including Amador, argued I still did.
“No. I no go. I want
to talk to you.” he finally responded, continuing to progress toward me.
The throaty, sweet,
heavily accented English frightened me where before it had seduced me into
thinking he was the man I wanted. I admit, it was my fantasy. But it became
real enough on occasion: that first night he reached for my hand and led me
onto the dance floor barefoot, the nights we slept on the beach under the
stars, the days he led me into the jungle to find birds by the clear fresh
water cenotes, the nights he softly snored by my side with his leg over my body
as if to hold me down. Too, I enjoyed breaking the social status quo by being a
white woman with an ethnic man, and more, with a beach bum. I never dreamt that
my socialist attitude was giving a junkie access and money to feed his
addiction. I was his ‘vieja”, happy and proud to be with him,
anti–establishment, breaking contrived barriers to ethnic people’s success. I
was the gringa—smart, beautiful, capable of taking care of herself, a
writer and an artist, an engineer who was an expert in her field and I gave
this man value. But once I realized with whom I was and how deeply I was in, I
was terrified. Once I saw clearly, it was too late and things started to fall
apart.
“I don’t want to talk
to you, Amador. Go away”, I said firmly, as I watched him advance onto the
porch and held my dog Ama’s mouth to keep her quiet.
I strained to listen
as he came up the outside stairway and I jumped at the sound of breaking glass
as he kicked a votive candle on the way. Then he was on the balcony outside the
upstairs bedroom. I silently cursed myself. Again, I was dealing with the drama
of a drug addict who had taken all of my money and most of my love. We had
crossed the line from love to hate. I was no longer rich and he was no longer
loveable. I had vowed never again to live in these repeated dramatic episodes,
the victim of his tirades, yet here I was.
I went to the double
door that opened onto the balcony. I could see the outline of his body through
the cracks in the oversized planks of dark tropical wood. I could hear his
breathing as I tried to control my own. I put my back against the door, exhaled
heavily and closed my eyes, as I tried to gain the strength to refuse to engage
him.
Then his voice
snapped. “Open the door”.
I stood motionless not
knowing what to do.
“Oye, puta, abrir
la puerta”, “Listen, cunt, open the door.” he commanded.
I put my back closer
to it and closed my ears to his insults. I almost smiled as I remembered
telling my friend over a bottle of wine that with Amador my nickname was
“Pinche puta perra”, “Fucking whore and dog”. I lost the smile as I remembered
it was after an episode that involved a police restraining order.
I answered, “No, I
don’t want to talk to you.” and then, praying, “Please, just go away.”
“I not going anywhere puta.
Open the door”, he said forcefully.
Then, he added in a
voice filled with fatigue, “I just want my dry clothes.”
His voice was filled
with pleading and reason as if I were over reacting. I hesitated, stayed silent
and unglued my body from the door. I went to the bed, reached under the
mosquito netting, and lifted my cell phone from the under the covers where I
always kept it for emergency.
“The police?” I
thought.
He would hear me dial
and it would infuriate him. “30 to 45 minutes away at best”, I told myself. And
I knew the police concept of emergency did not include domestic disputes. I
kept the phone in my hand and walked to the open closet and pulled Amador’s
clean, dry clothes from the shelf where I had put them that morning with love
and the illusion that we could start again, maybe even have a life together.
“What were you
thinking”, I asked myself critically.
I carried the clothes
toward the bolted double door. Afraid to open it, I looked to the big screen
window, opened that instead and handed the orange shorts and white shirt to him
around the wooden support column. My hands were shaking as he took his things
from me gently, touching my hands as if to hold them. I felt an electric
attraction. He didn’t grab me. He just touched me, in a loving way. I was
confused. He was quiet for a moment and I relaxed a little, thinking perhaps
that was really all he wanted and he would quietly leave the way he had come:
over the fence.
But suddenly, he
pounded his fist on the door. I screamed, a high-pitched, girlish sound and
then inhaled and chastised myself for the cry’s weakness. But no one was
listening. I pressed my body back into the door.
“Don’t scream puta”,
he commanded into the crack between the double doors.
I could hear the
spittle on the sides of his mouth, like a rabid animal. I screamed again, fear
overtaking my reflexes, and prayed for help. I knew my cries fell only on the
jungle. My neighbors were close on either side but one set would ignore me,
believing I deserved what I got from my ex-boyfriend. After all, I repeatedly
let him back into my life. But what was I to do? Let him die on the street in
front of my house? So many times he came to the door bloody and broken, or sad
and with flowers, begging forgiveness and some food. It was hard to escape him
and even more difficult to be hard.
On the other side of
my house were Amador’s buddies and they generally returned well after 3 am.
Regardless, abuse was another part of their routine.
“Don’t scream or I
gonna knock the door and kill you,” he yelled.
Instinctively,
I screamed again, loudly and forcefully, and searched for the correct buttons
on the phone to dial the police. Even in Mexico, they don’t condone
killing their women. As I hit the send key the door slammed against my
back from outside. I fell to the floor on the other side of the room and saw
the splintered deadbolt hit the floor next to me. Amador followed, an
animal looking for its prey. When he saw me in the corner, he slowed and
smiled cruelly as I pressed the phone to my ear. He reached me in the
exact moment that the call was connecting and, with the same twisted smile,
ripped the phone from my hand and threw it against the far wall. I
screamed loudly in a rage of frustration. He grabbed my throat, forcing me to
stop. I started to choke under his tight grip. Then, his face
turned to an old photo negative and then disappeared as I lost consciousness.
copyright 2012 @Fanny Barry
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