jocelyn’s stories

Photo by Billy

Billy has a new blog. It’s nice. Check it out here

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summertime fun is over but not forgotten; William acts the fool in the ‘middle’ pool

video by Billy

My first week back at school and the kids are are all like, “Hey, Ms. J, do I have art today?” They sit criss-crossed applesauce in a circle and I say, Boys and girls, as your art teacher, I have a vision for you.

Act like Artists, I tell a group of kinders, Be More Creative!!!

What’s important, I say, is what the process of making the art does inside of you, to you. (I figure even six year olds need a reason, beyond SOLs, to push forward a bit.) Picasso’s Blue period, I say. Make a small collage showing me what blue means to you?” In response, Joey F. cuts furiously with dull gray scissor, Alex S. puts a fleck of pencil shaving in Alex M.’s hair…

William started school too this week, the Montessori after all.
They have a tight focus, a small, tight room with ten parents squeezed in for the first week’s transition. We watch obediently from our chairs, wincing as William pinches a small knock-kneed girl with first day ribbons in her hair.

We leave wondering what his Montessori classroom, the experience of being there, will do in him.

Are you going back to school? Where? For what? How is it for you?

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Photos by Andrew

If you ask what matters most to me, my answer would be quick:
Billy and William and myself.
Our small fragile family.

I wonder why actions don’t always follow.
My cryptic, chaotic lists of things to do boast other things:
-Plan for kindergartners!
-Send out two new stories
-Clean the bathroom shelf immediately!
(I cringe at our once sorted toiletries, now buried beneath an avalanche of cotton balls, shaving cream. How can anyone find anything?)

I do try to keep William’s face wiped cleaned. I do try to make room for all of Billy’s beautiful projects…to ask him about them. What are you doing, love?

Still when I think of what matter most? What matters at all.
Billy. William. myself.

How do those three things stay the stuff of my everyday life?

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Apparently Mickey Mouse Pancakes are delicious even if you don’t know who Mickey Mouse is

Photos by Papa Johnson

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Here I can see my own face in his.

Photos by Billy

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My son, William, in the light
Photo by Billy

I just reread the S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders, and dear lord that story is compelling. Never mind that the first time I read it, I was twelve, and fell instantly in love with the protagonist, Ponyboy, and all of his greaser friends. Or that, when I was thirteen, my then best friend, Danielle and I watched the Francis Ford Coppola version over and over, until we could recite nearly every line.

Twenty plus years later, I am still so impressed by this story, how it’s archetypal and specific all at once. It’s amazing that Hinton—a teenager herself when she wrote it—was so crafty and compelling. Twenty plus years later, I found myself up late again, turning pages, wishing I could save them all.

What are your very favorite stories?

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Photo by Billy

Billy’s brother Steve visited this month. Him and William had a good ole time. Ever since he left we’ve been enjoying this video, promoting Steve’s team racing video.

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“Billy, how did you know I was going to make a peace sign? You knew exactly what I was thinking!”

fisheye holga photos by Billy

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Photo by Billy

In between loving on me fiercely—burrowing under the bottom edge of my shirt toward the bare skin beneath—William has been pinching up a storm, taking fat chunks of our flesh in his fingers. It hurts, actually.

I hover over him at the playground, positioning myself between him and some tender-fleshed girl wearing pink bloomers. His attacks are often unannounced, sometimes unprovoked. Afterward, if prompted, he’ll apologize, diplomatic as a politician. Even so, he might go back for seconds.

Remember, I tell him, No pinching! Pinching hurts people. If you pinch anyone, we not going to stay and play. If someone is irritating you, here’s what you can do instead…”

A few minutes later, I read his mind and catch his hand mid air before it reaches some unsuspecting tot.

Today I was too far away when I saw that look cross his face; he reached out his hand, fingers poised by the naked arm of some boy playing with an ochre colored digger-truck in the sandbox. William was ready. William was going to pinch that boy hard. But he didn’t. He just stood there a second, his fingers suspended oddly in the air.

William felt me looking; looked back at me coyly. Mama, he said. He shrugged and went back to digging in the dirt.

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Billy and I set out for New York City last weekend, on our own

Photo by Billy

Check out Litscribbler, started by a writer-friend, a nice resource for short story writers

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