Christine Robinson Voices

Fatherly recollections and misplaced remembrance cues « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-08-10T06:57:00.000-07:00

Fatherly recollections and misplaced remembrance cues « Beside The Quiet Voices

Sanitized for Your Protection « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-08-10T06:56:00.001-07:00

Sanitized for Your Protection « Beside The Quiet Voices

2200 East Henrietta Road, Rochester « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-08-10T06:56:00.000-07:00

2200 East Henrietta Road, Rochester « Beside The Quiet Voices

Hair Follicles and Foibles « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-08-10T06:55:00.001-07:00

Hair Follicles and Foibles « Beside The Quiet Voices

Cory Graduation « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-08-10T06:55:00.000-07:00

Cory Graduation « Beside The Quiet Voices

My Theory on Why Artists are Self-Centered

2011-06-09T16:50:00.000-07:00

I have a theory on why artists are considered “self-centered.” It’s because we’re self-employed (some of us only part-time) and always trying to think of ways to market ourselves to a narrow, fickle audience. At any given time, only about .4% of the population is interested in reading what we have to say (or express, depending on your medium). That’s a pretty tough crowd, and it makes for constant self-examination, ongoing self-awareness, and the ability to change, update, and remain flexible in every way. Artists aren’t “self-centered” because we want to be; we’re self-centered because we have to be.

It’s a tiresome process at times and I resent the obligation. What’s more, when we’re not on top of our games, our audience promptly diminishes. (Even our own families and friends lose interest. There is no loyalty in the arts.)

Throughout my life I have heard various family members and friends tell me that I should be writing books or composing columns for a newspaper or some other vaguely rewarding “occupational writer” thing, as if such an appointment is the do-all, end-all. The fact of the matter is, I HAVE been writing professionally for almost two decades. I HAVE been discovered (by peers and fans)… and forgotten… and rediscovered… and reforgotten.

I’m glad that I AM a So-called Writer, that I identify myself as one who makes a living being professionally creative. I’m proud of the work I do for my paid clients, love my own works of honest creativity, and enjoy the voice I have in blogging. I’ve written truthfully, unabashedly and always (or at least mostly) with quality as my ultimate intention.

And I’ve learned that there are few tangible rewards. Gratifying, yes… rewarding (financially speaking), well, not so much.

So next time you, dear reader, feel inclined to urge some young, naive creative to pursue that pie-in-the-sky dream, do so. Do so. It’s great for boosting confidence. Without those pieces of encouragement, I never would have pursued my passion as a full time career. Just keep your expectations in line with reality, and try to impart said reality on to those you encourage. And keep encouraging. And keep encouraging. And keep encouraging.

Remember, please, that we are not really self-centered. We are simply self-employed.

Bovine Lingua

2011-06-09T16:30:00.000-07:00

Dear Hair Expert,

I have so-called naturally curly red hair, but all my life I’ve also had a problem with something I refer to as “the badass curl.” Truthfully, it is a cowlick. (I do not know the scientific name for cowlick. Bovine Lingua?) Anyway, my moo-inducing tendencies are truly problematic while my hair is short. I get up in the morning, saturate the unruly thing, paste it down with mousse, gel, what have you… but hours later (always after a client has come and gone) I discover the thing standing upright like a teenage privacy issue on a first date. What gives? Furthermore, why does my hair always look like a bad dye job? Dark at the roots and red at the tips. I’m sick of that. People must think I’m a lax colorer. The truth is, I take pride in the fact that I DO NOT COLOR! I like the grey! WTF?

Hair Expert, please review the attached photos and feel free to publish your honest opinion. And note that the Bovine Lingua is so pronounced that it casts a shadow on the wall behind me. Wowie!

Yours truly,

Cinnamon Swirl

Magenta

2011-06-02T11:28:00.000-07:00

It's a two-edged sword:

Sultry and merciful,

a spirit breaker and saving grace,

shattered and redeemed.

The gray vacancy occupied,

then...

planted over with ivy and iris

and fresh new seedling.

Intoxicating, suffocating, captive, fleeting.

Averse to mourning the loss of it,

reluctant dedication of poem, hymn singing

its virtuous, inevitable retreating.

Based on a True-ish Horror Story

2011-06-01T05:00:00.000-07:00

by Christine Robinson

It was a dark and stormy night. The two boys were home alone. Mother was away… off in exotic lands with her foreign lover, leaving the young men behind to tend the livestock. The rain pelted eaves and windows, and violent winds blew over fencing, tore the roof off the pen protecting one diminutive auburn piglet. Seeing through the window the devastating destruction outside, the boys hatched a rescue plan. Then, donning a small battery-powered torch to light the way, the brave lads journeyed from the comfortable safety of their warm abode into the unforgiving elements, out to the “back forty” to ensure the little pig’s security. They carried with them a soft dry towel with which to swaddle little “Skippy,” as they called him. They’d intended to scoop her up and bring her indoors.

Making their way through a dark that refused to be penetrated by lamp or blazing match, the two scrambled wild-eyed and nervous. The wind howled. The rain beat upon their tender young heads, their curls now matted fastly to their scalps. The younger of the two, thoroughly spooked, waved the light here and there, but saw only ghostly white raindrops the size of monster claws. The older led the way, harshly reminding the frightened one, “Shine it this way! I can’t see a damned thing!”

They arrived at the pen and abruptly tore away what was left of the roof, but found nothing. No sign of poor Skippy. The youngest hurriedly urged his sibling to “Look under the plastic covering! She must be hiding!” He resumed the wild flailing of the torch, looking for predators that might enjoy feasting on boys. What a fraidy cat, his older brother thought ungenerously.

“Shine it over here!” shouted big brother. “What’s this? Wha-… gross, I think she’s dead!”

“What? No, she’s hiding,” said Fraidy Cat, aiming the light where the older had been pointing.

“Uh… nope, she’s dead, all right,” Big Brother said with a hint of sarcasm.

For the younger, more innocent of the two, unfortunate reality is either too readily accepted, or too slow to set in. He’s yet to find balance in that way.

Nonetheless, he crouched to shine a closer light at the spot and study the odd patch of mud on the grass, wondering to himself Is that hay? It made sense; Skippy often received Timothy Grass and golden hays as treats. She had, in fact, been relocated to the farthest boundaries of the property so she could feast on the overgrown grasses and dandelions so rich near the compost bin.

But eventually, the horrible reality dawned on him, which caused him to stand up, take a few steps back as he realized he was looking at the remains of a guinea pig massacre. Skippy had been someone’s dinner. And all young Fraidy could imagine next was, “I don’t want to be dessert.”

The two boys hauled ass back to the house, shut the windows and locked all the doors.

——-~~~——-

When I arrived home today from visiting Channy in Canada, the above story was, more or less, the explanation I got to justify the 11:15pm phone call I’d gotten the night before. When Jake called me on my cell, he’d woken me from a sound sleep. A dead sleep, so to speak. ”Uh, Mom… I’ve got some pretty bad news that’ll upset you.”

“What’s wrong? What’s happened? Where’s Cory?” I said, instantly panicked.

“Cory’s fine. He’s a little freaked out, but he’s right here. We’re both okay.”

“What happened?!” I said, needing an explanation sooner than he could get the words out.

“Well, I just thought I should probably let you know that the guinea pig is… um, dead.”

“Dead? The guinea pig? You… you called me in the middle of the night to tell me that?”

“Yeah, I think a raccoon got him.”

“Skippy is a female.”

“Yeah, well, her. She’s dead, anyway. It was a real mess. Bones and blood everywhere. We went out there in the rain to rescue her, but it was too late.”

“But you’re okay?”

“Well, it’s raining pretty hard.”

I was too tired to laugh at the poorly time and too pragmatic way in which Jake delivered this information.

On the other hand, I know that he gets this unflattering characteristic from his mother. When a crisis of any kind is on, we move into “reporter mode” and thus, cease to be emotional people. My sister can attest to this as she was on the other end of the line when I received news about my brother’s death. My reaction was… I can’t remember her exact words, but “chilling and unfeeling” would probably describe it. Just gimme the facts for now. Maybe Jake was as dismayed by my reaction was I was to the way in which he reported the news. Emotional pause: it’s a gift we have.

We’re not as cold as we sound. And anyway, it was just a guinea pig. Not the least bit friendly, either. Cute as hell, though. Cute as hell. She did like to be stroked on the head when you could corner her. A redhead and full of cow licks. Used to whistle and call when she’d hear me cutting up vegetables.

There… now Skippy has been memorialized in a story. Skippy-the-literary-martyr.

“Spring forward”… fall back « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-24T16:30:00.000-07:00

Spring forward, fall back. It’s not supposed to be taken literally, Chris. But there I am. And I’ve noticed when I don’t have the emotional clarity to write honestly, I turn into The Reporter. So here is my Spring Update and slideshow...

“Spring forward”… fall back « Beside The Quiet Voices

Reverse Sexual Discrimination (featuring Al, Bob & Jim)

2011-05-22T12:25:00.001-07:00

I have decided to make it my personal mission to stop the seemingly unnoticed sexual inequality that happens in everyday language. It’s time men start referring to their “guy friends” as boyfriends. It makes perfect evolutionary sense. After all, men have progressed to the point of, if not embracing male sensitivity, at least acknowledging it. The bromance. The man-crush. I think they’re ready to go all the way with boyfriends.

Last night was the senior ball and, as such, it was a late night out for Cory. Instead of coming home, he spent the night with several of his boyfriends. See? That’s a clear enough statement, right? It takes too many words to say, “Cory spent the night with several of his friends, all of whom are male.”

We live in a society that thrives on efficiency. Why shouldn’t language be just as streamlined? If I can get away with calling my friends who are female “girlfriends,” shouldn’t the same leniency be applied to the masculine? Reverse discrimination will never come to an end if we don’t challenge comfort zones in language.

Jim, Bob and Al are three close buddies. Al, ever the non-conformist, is on board with my idea. Let’s listen in as Al incorporates this new approach to communications with Bob and Jim:

~ Hey Bob! Al here. Listen, Friday is Boyfriend Night, okay? Me and Jim and a few other guys have plans for some poker, beer, maybe watch a little girl-on-girl porn. Come on out.

~ Yo, Bob… Al calling. Want to drive down to Dansville with me to watch some motocross? Planning on meeting a few boyfriends after for burgers. Maybe some cards and beer, too. Jim will be there.

~ Bob-bo! How you doing, buddy?! Damn, it’s been ages! Where the hell have you been, bro? Since you met Babette, it’s like you don’t even care about your old boyfriends anymore! Let’s hang out sometime, dude! I bet Babette doesn’t even let you drink like you used to, eh? Let’s head over to the Porn Festival and have a few beers. That’s where you met Babette, right? I think Jim and Jane will be there.

~ Hey there, Bob. It’s Al. I’m trying to get some boyfriends together on Sunday for a tailgate party before the game. You in? Me, you, boyfriends, weiners-n-buns. We’re talkin’ party, dude. Par-tay! It’s gonna be HUGE!

~ What up, Bob? Just calling to see if you heard the news about Jim’s dog, Buster. One of Jim’s boyfriends hit poor old Buster with his ATV. Poor dog… we’ll never see the old lipstick again, and good riddance to that. But he was a loyal and capable huntin’ dog.

~ Oh, hello there, Robert! I’m surprised to see you here. Uh, would you like to join us? I’m just over there in that corner booth having a glass of wine with my boyfriend, John. He’s Jim’s brother, remember? And he teaches that obedience class I’m taking Jim’s new dog to…. Yeah, wine. I stopped drinking beer a few weeks ago when I noticed I’m getting muffin-top. Really distressing. It was impossible to ignore when Jim and I were out shopping for tank tops… Yeah, tank tops, Bob. We wear ‘em to that Shake Weight class we’re teaching.

~ Bob, Bobby, pick up the phone…! Hi, wow, glad you’re home. Listen, Bob, I have bad news. Jane left Jim for another man. Can you believe it?!! Poor old Jim. First the dog, now this! We need to get him out of the house, have a pow-wow, see if we can cheer him up. I think he just needs some TLC, know what I mean? A little Jim-time with the boyfriends. Can you help?……Bob? Bob? Bob, are you there? Bob…?

More Al, Bob and Jim here.

Words « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:59:00.000-07:00

Words « Beside The Quiet Voices

The World I’m In « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:58:00.002-07:00

The World I’m In « Beside The Quiet Voices

About Last Night’s Party « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:58:00.001-07:00

About Last Night’s Party « Beside The Quiet Voices

Crossroads and Seasons « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:58:00.000-07:00

Crossroads and Seasons « Beside The Quiet Voices

The New Love of My Life « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:57:00.000-07:00

The New Love of My Life « Beside The Quiet Voices

Dream Moments – "Is there a Christine Robinson here?" « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:55:00.001-07:00

Dream Moments – "Is there a Christine Robinson here?" « Beside The Quiet Voices

Sleep « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:55:00.000-07:00

Sleep « Beside The Quiet Voices

“A Womanly Discussion on Gender-specific Calamities” « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:50:00.002-07:00

“A Womanly Discussion on Gender-specific Calamities” « Beside The Quiet Voices

The Liberation of Autumn « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:50:00.001-07:00

The Liberation of Autumn « Beside The Quiet Voices

On Again, Off Again: Prozac « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:50:00.000-07:00

On Again, Off Again: Prozac « Beside The Quiet Voices

Thinking About Your Christmas Shopping Already? « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:49:00.001-07:00

Thinking About Your Christmas Shopping Already? « Beside The Quiet Voices

My long-suffering son, Jake « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:49:00.000-07:00

My long-suffering son, Jake « Beside The Quiet Voices

Beyond the Tent (Photos) « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:47:00.001-07:00

Beyond the Tent (Photos) « Beside The Quiet Voices

For Heidi « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:47:00.000-07:00

For Heidi « Beside The Quiet Voices

An Ethical Debate on Repeat Living Organ Donation « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:46:00.002-07:00

An Ethical Debate on Repeat Living Organ Donation « Beside The Quiet Voices

Re-Lapsed « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:46:00.001-07:00

Re-Lapsed « Beside The Quiet Voices

The Wisdom of Youth « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:45:00.001-07:00

The Wisdom of Youth « Beside The Quiet Voices

The Need to be Known « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:45:00.000-07:00

The Need to be Known « Beside The Quiet Voices

A Question of Value « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:44:00.003-07:00

A Question of Value « Beside The Quiet Voices

How History Repeats Itself « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:44:00.002-07:00

How History Repeats Itself « Beside The Quiet Voices

At Our Worst « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:44:00.001-07:00

At Our Worst « Beside The Quiet Voices

Remembering Rob « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:44:00.000-07:00

Remembering Rob « Beside The Quiet Voices

AIDS Memorial « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:43:00.002-07:00

AIDS Memorial « Beside The Quiet Voices

Evening Prayer « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:43:00.001-07:00

Evening Prayer « Beside The Quiet Voices

Adieu to Poo: The Septic Tank Event « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:43:00.000-07:00

Adieu to Poo: The Septic Tank Event « Beside The Quiet Voices

"hereafter" — book excerpt « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:42:00.002-07:00

"hereafter" — book excerpt « Beside The Quiet Voices

Requested Encore of "Three Seemingly Unrelated Stories" « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:42:00.001-07:00

Requested Encore of "Three Seemingly Unrelated Stories" « Beside The Quiet Voices

Crayola Conglomerates « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:42:00.000-07:00

Crayola Conglomerates « Beside The Quiet Voices

Musical Transitions « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:41:00.002-07:00

Musical Transitions « Beside The Quiet Voices

Left Behind, Put Aside, Closed and Sealed… « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:41:00.001-07:00

Left Behind, Put Aside, Closed and Sealed… « Beside The Quiet Voices

Descartes on June & Summer « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:41:00.000-07:00

Descartes on June & Summer « Beside The Quiet Voices

Inevitable « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:40:00.001-07:00

Inevitable « Beside The Quiet Voices

Besting the Beast « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:40:00.000-07:00

Besting the Beast « Beside The Quiet Voices

Dead Poets and Gutless Writers « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:39:00.001-07:00

Dead Poets and Gutless Writers « Beside The Quiet Voices

Happy and Sad « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:39:00.000-07:00

Happy and Sad « Beside The Quiet Voices

Clay Pigeon « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:38:00.002-07:00

Clay Pigeon « Beside The Quiet Voices

I See You « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:38:00.001-07:00

I See You « Beside The Quiet Voices

Murder in the Basement « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:38:00.000-07:00

Murder in the Basement « Beside The Quiet Voices

More Vacation Pics « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:37:00.002-07:00

More Vacation Pics « Beside The Quiet Voices

Impressive Cleavage (There’s a first time for everything) « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:37:00.001-07:00

Impressive Cleavage (There’s a first time for everything) « Beside The Quiet Voices

Girl Soldiers « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:37:00.000-07:00

Girl Soldiers « Beside The Quiet Voices

Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:36:00.001-07:00

Beside The Quiet Voices

And the Walls « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:36:00.000-07:00

And the Walls « Beside The Quiet Voices

Calendar « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:35:00.001-07:00

Calendar « Beside The Quiet Voices

On Growing Up With Our Children « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:35:00.000-07:00

On Growing Up With Our Children « Beside The Quiet Voices

stupid dreams & client meeting mishaps « Beside The Quiet Voices

2011-05-22T11:34:00.000-07:00

stupid dreams & client meeting mishaps « Beside The Quiet Voices

Reflections on an Encounter. Perfect. Stranger.

2011-05-22T11:28:00.001-07:00

On my way into Wegmans yesterday evening, my path to nourishment (and beer) intersected with someone I’d never met before. She approached the double doors from the side; I was coming from the front. When we reached a point where one of us would have to yield, we both stopped and gestured with the “you go ahead” sign. Making eye contact for the first time, we smiled at each other, then she said, “I’m slow. You go first.”

I told her that I’d paused because I wanted to admire her walking stick. It was obviously homemade and it made the best clunking noise when she tapped it with every step.

And for the next 15 minutes, we stood in the vestibule exchanging information about ourselves as if we were old friends having a reunion. I don’t know who Wendy used to be or much about how she came to be who she is now, but the conversation made me feel happy, inspired…connected to humanity. Energized because here was this perfect stranger with whom I had so much in common, but yet would never have met if not for her walking stick. Perfect. Stranger.

Wendy is an MBA in English and teaches writing down the street at the community college. I have always wanted to do that: teach writing. She has always wanted to do what I do: be a writer. Funny, huh? We both love words.

Her walking stick reminded me of my family. In my home are many examples of the creativity that abounds from generations past and present. Uncle Jack’s pencil drawings. Chuck’s woodwork. Clyde’s art. Pop’s desk. Works of literature and craft by my sons. My book and home decor.

How unfathomably lucky I feel to have inherited that sense! And how wonderful it is to randomly encounter others who appreciate the feel of tools for creativity. Wendy’s walking stick: It needed a rubber tip, but the price of safety would be the absence of that woody sound.

Wendy called herself a “single parent, in a sense” because she keeps a house with paddock an hour outside the city for the sake of her equine friend, a horse whose name I forgot to ask. She spoke lovingly of the smells and the tactile pleasures of being a horse companion. We compared the attitudes of horses and cats. I revealed to her that I have never once been on a horse without experiencing some sort of disaster (which is not a literary exaggeration, I swear). We laughed about trying to put a saddle and bridle on a cat. I didn’t mention what happened when I tried to teach Ollie to yodel. (See Channy’s blog.)

Wendy and I talked about midlife transitions and her desire to put her MBA to different use. I offered her my services “for a neighborly price or barter”… gave her my card, hope that she’ll call me.

Hope that she’ll call me… sort of. I don’t kid myself that I’ve found my new best friend. I’m not that good at committed relationships. I think I disappoint everyone who’s ever tried to be my friend: I’m unreliable.

I’m pretty good, though, at the “meaningful, but brief encounter.” My resume writing service is a constant source of inspiration because my clients are often so openly vulnerable, and thus, raw and honest. I make a difference in their lives, and they in mine (although they never really see that). It frequently happens that when a client leaves my place, they hug me and proclaim that “we will be friends.” But that doesn’t happen; I’m aloof and unavailable.

I love to be that Perfect. Stranger.

———–~~~~~———–

Addendum / Afterthought: I need to add something to this post for the sake of those close friends I DO have, DO keep. While it’s true that I’m an unreliable casual companion, my close friends know me very intimately: have seen me shed unabashed tears complete with snotty projections, know my most shameful secrets and love me anyway, reveal their hurts and hopes with complete trust that we’re all about reciprocity. In that, I know that they forgive my imperfections, and I theirs. Because of them… and because of the security I feel as the mother of two young men, I am never lonely. I am never empty and my spirit is not wanting because of the love I feel from them, and the strengthening faith I keep in my heart.