Deanna Repose Oaks

Poetically Captured Moments From the Heart

Deanna Repose Oaks

Parked Car Retrospective

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Photo Retrospective Gallery

I would say it is ironic for the brick wall to be the heavy in the auto-generated gallery, but it is so fitting irony doesn’t work. That day I was sitting in my parked car, thinking too much, observing the world around me, well, it really made me realize how much I was just banging my head against a wall and not really, truly doing anything to get anywhere with anything. I even took photos to prove it:

I was the person trying to gain status enough to walk through the Elysian fields. I was the old, decrepit, antiquated pole – useful, but just barely. I was the lamppost sitting there reflecting light, but not lit myself. I was the person sitting pretty in front of the rock wall instead of climbing it. I was the person who needs to hire someone else to figure out what happened in my own car. I was the person who can’t take a clear photo. I was the person hitting her head against a brick wall.

Notice I used the word “was” throughout the above paragraph. It isn’t lost on me that I just might have started changing my views about myself and the world around me since I was sitting in my parked car. All I needed to do to keep from hitting my head against a brick wall is change direction – any direction – to face AWAY from the brick wall. I realized that either 90 degree turn or a 180 degree turn or a 270 degree turn all will work.

I dug deep inside myself to find that the reason I felt these things while sitting in my parked car was because I thought those things. If I were to change perspective, just a little and focus on something else…

The lamppost may reflect light during the day, but when the night arrives, it lights the way. The pole may be old and decrepit, but it has weathered many storms and is still standing. The flowers may be sitting pretty, but their stems are growing and soon will overcome. The stain may be on the roof of my car, but it is over the seat only one person sits in – who needs a detective to figure that out? The window, the reflections, and the pollens may block the view of the flowers, but just knowing the flowers are there can bring a wonderous dream to life, with the right imagination. As for the Elysian fields, well, let’s just focus on the reflection caught in the trees, shall we?

Now, the brick wall is my proponent of change, not the obstacle I am hitting my head against any longer. All it took for this change, is the change of perspective, just the tiniest of things. Of course, I say that like it is the easiest thing in the world to do, even though I know it isn’t.

History Book Blues

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Lately, I’ve felt more disconnected from history than ever before. Researching historical facts keeps pushing me further and further into a rabbit hole of “what else don’t I know” … I started to think history books were rewritten somehow. Turns out, it might just be the Mandela Effect.


My example: “The Declaration of Independence was signed on July 4, 1776.” I picked this “fact” because I felt it cannot be refuted – right? The document is dated. In INK. For the past 247 years, Americans have celebrated Independence Day on July 4th, acknowledging our Declaration of Independence as the bearer of freedom from tyranny.

But was the Declaration of Independence SIGNED on that day? Nope! The actual copy with signatures wasn’t even approved to be “fairly engrossed on parchment” (https://www.archives.gov/founding-docs/declaration-history) until July 19, 1776! Then, the handwritten Declaration wasn’t signed until August 2, 1776, and by that time The American Revolutionary War had already been raging for a year and a half – a year and a half!! The Revolutionary War started via the “shot heard around the world” on April 19, 1775, not after the Declaration was completed in 1776. (https://www.battlefields.org/learn/articles/lexington-and-concord-shot-heard-round-world)

So, what exactly happened on July 4, 1776? The wording and text of the Declaration of Independence was RATIFIED by 12 of the 13 states attending the Continental Congress. Immediately following (the same day), copies were printed with the date of July 4, 1776, and distributed for a vote.

So, every year on Independence Day, we celebrate the RATIFICATION and first PRINTING of the Declaration of Independence, NOT the signing of the handwritten document or the sending off the Declaration to England.

I’m Trying…

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There is a bit of pressure I put upon myself to make this blog entertaining, enlightening, and readable. This pressure has been boiling under my skin for the past two weeks, because my bandwidth for engagement has been eaten up by editing and social media posts to the point that according to my writing buddy demanded a “factory reset”.

Now, here I sit with a bit less pressure trying to find something that will entertain the people who read my blog, but I don’t know what would entertain, as I don’t know who reads my blog. I only have these vague stats that thiry users viewed my home page. Who are you? What stories interest you? Can you throw me a bone so I can write something that will entertain you?

And yes, I’m still working on that story that I found in the bottom of my purse…

Pollen Is Upon Us

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Allergy season is killing me. As I am writing this my eyes are blurring from tears so much so I can’t see the screen. I have a raging headache. These are not things you, dear reader, will want me to expound on, but they are the only things on my mind right now. Well, that and the round of editing I’m currently torturing myself with. Who knew going over things again, and again, and again would find errors again, and again, and again?


But I’m blathering on about the side of writing that readers don’t really care about. Readers want stories… And today the well is dry. Well, not exactly. The well is full of pollen. SO MUCH POLLEN soon the bees won’t need flowers, they can just borrow my car.


I’m going to lie down now.

Coffee

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While spring cleaning my house, I came across an old short-story of mine entitled “Coffee”. As I read the atrocious writing, I remembered how long ago I wrote it. Then I remembered what happened as a result of that story: my boyfriend broke up with me after reading it, leaving me for a fictional character based on an office mate. Writers always walk the fine line between truths and fiction because they expose truths with fiction.


His loss… your gain.

COFFEE

One thought crossed my cluttered mine as I closed the door, Get yourself some coffee. That one clear thought drove me to the coffeehouse, because when I got there, I couldn’t remember getting in the car. What I did remember, with crystal clarity, were the events that pushed me through the door.
My mind again recycled the recalled events, but I reigned them in before I broke down. I needed to get coffee and couldn’t do that if I was bawling. Instead, I focused on getting out of the car and ordering a cup of coffee. Concentration on this task became the drill sergeant that kept my emotions in check. The coffee became my sole focus.
“Large coffee, for here, please,” I ordered from the young server behind the counter.
He kept staring at me funny, giving me the creeps, so I started looking around for a table. He said something I didn’t hear, and then handed me a to-go cup. He was really starting to creep me out, so instead of asking him to repeat himself or demanding a regular cup, I scurried to the creamer station to doctor it the way I wanted it.
My thoughts started running wild like children let out to the playground for recess as I stirred my coffee. Events streamed through my mind, causing me to relive that terrible hour I want so desperately to forget.
Tears started streaming down my cheeks. I just didn’t care anymore. The incident I left at home just kept replaying on a loop. The server walked up to me and handed me a napkin.
When I looked up at him quizzically, he said, “We are closing now. I’m sorry to have to tell you this while you are crying, but you need to leave.” As he said that last word, he lifted the napkin towards me.
I took the napkin and wiped my face, realizing now why I received the to go cup. I got back in the car without even thinking about where I was going. I ended up back at home.
Standing in front of my door, fear kept me from opening the door. Every emotion was still bubbling through my veins. I sat down on the porch instead and drank my coffee. I would have stayed there, out on the porch all night, but the urge to relieve myself drove me through the door.
The apartment was empty. There was no note. Not that I expected anything else, but the emotions I felt from the lack of his presence surprised me. I wanted to fight, I wanted to prove my anger was worthy of his understanding. With him gone, my wants became as fruitless as a dead tree.
His toothbrush was gone, as were his clothes. I had to face the facts now. He wasn’t coming back. Now, the hard part: surviving the silence of the empty apartment with my thoughts still running through my head as stallions across the plains.
What got me so mad? I don’t even remember now. All I remember was that I was mad the moment he walked through the door. No, wait, I was mad before that. I was mad at work. What made me mad at work? Right, Maria asked me if I wanted to date the guy across the hall because he asked her if it was considered fraternizing. She asked me before she gave him an answer, to keep him from asking should I want it to keep him at bay. But I wanted him to ask, but I couldn’t let him ask because of my boyfriend. I didn’t want my boyfriend anymore, so I got mad enough to make him leave. Now I wish I could get him back.

Ides of March

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I was once given the ominous advice of “Beware the Ides of March” … ever since that warning, I reflect on Julius Caesar, the play by William Shakespeare, during the middle of March. You see, a friend of mine picked up the line from William Shakespeare’s play. Julius Caesar is warned about the “Ides of March” by a soothsayer in the beginning of the play.

My friend was not shy about over-explaining the line at all, even if she never told me WHY she said it to me until after the event she warned me about came to pass. As it turned out, I went through a breakup that she knew was impending around the middle of March. What is funny is that I always think about the day she said “Beware the Ides of March” rather than the day my then boyfriend said he can’t do it anymore.

This is a wonderful example about how words can change a life and allow a person to heal. I’m glad that every March I focus my energy on a weird line from a play rather than the loss of my home and my boyfriend. March is much better than it could be.