Women have a tendancy to reply to a compliment in one of two ways; 1: the deflection, "Oh, no, not me really, but YOU, You are..." and 2. The Secret, "This? Really? I got it at Walmart if you can believe that and for only $2.00"
I have tred to teach my children and myself that when given a compliment simply reply with, "Thank you." Try it. it is not as easy as you may think.
I was humbled into silence by your review and observations of my little nest. I immediately wanted to negate everything you said, and probably could with ease. Things like, :Everything looks good in candlelight...if you only knew what it took to pull that off...did you not hear my daughter demand I go out and buy ink for the printer in the middle of the party???
But all that mess is part of my nest. Being the accute observer that you are, I do believe you were complimenting me on what was not seen that night, you know me well enough to know what it takes to put on a show, you see through the candle light into the harsh daylight.
So with grace and humility, to you I say, thank you.
G.
PS I have been hearing God louder in recent days. But like an annoying call I hit the ignore button.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Saturday, December 1, 2007
"everyone in me is a bird..."
maybe there will always be a voyeuristic element to my personality--that element that makes me claim over and over again that I have often felt like a ghost haunting even my own skin--displaced, oddly unhinged and out of time, looking at photographs (szarkowski has nothing on me), wandering through time.
But what I am trying to say on this, your birth day, is that I meant it, sincerely. You have a beautiful family--this coming from the ghost who has haunted all the pretty families. What you have created is a masterpiece from unlikelihoods, and just like the great impressionist paintings, perhaps from so close a vantage point you cannot see the cathedral, but I see it.
And the love you have sown along the way, ("Everyone in me is a bird.
I am beating all my wings" --anne sexton
They are, they are there, beating their wings, bearing up the beauty of it all.
But what I am trying to say on this, your birth day, is that I meant it, sincerely. You have a beautiful family--this coming from the ghost who has haunted all the pretty families. What you have created is a masterpiece from unlikelihoods, and just like the great impressionist paintings, perhaps from so close a vantage point you cannot see the cathedral, but I see it.
And the love you have sown along the way, ("Everyone in me is a bird.
I am beating all my wings" --anne sexton
They are, they are there, beating their wings, bearing up the beauty of it all.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Purple Crayons
So good to hear your voice again! I want more of it. Going to a bibe class is great, if nothing else I would love to hear the opinions of others. Many times in my life I have reached for a bible to read, to look up quotes, to refresh my memory of the commandments. I am Catholic and we are notoriously not known for knowing the Bible. Maybe you can impart some of your new found wisdom on me?
Kindergarden. I have two memories. One, I shoved a purple crayon up my nose. Not the small sleek kind of crayon, but the large fat ones intrusted to small chubby hands. I had to go to the nurse, and then the doctor to retrieve the purple crayon. I have no idea why I did it. I just did.
And the other memory: One of my classmates had died (lukemia) his name was Jason. We were all making cards to give to the family and I did not know how to spell Jason. I asked my teacher and she responded with " L-O-V-E" I thought she did not hear me so I asked again, "How do you spell JASON?" Again she said, "L-O-V-E." She was crying and I came away frustated and for the first time in my life thinking that grownups were nuts.
I hid my card so it would not be included in with the others. Sorry Jason.
Before checking this blog I recieved an email from my sister in law. It seems my niece is being confirmed in November. I am her GodMother. I should be there. But I can't. So my sister in law wants me to send her a letter that she can read on the retreat she is going to.
What on earth could I tell her?
Dear Ali,
Well, I guess now you can get married in the church if you want to. Do you really buy all this stuff? I know I didn't. After my confirmation my family had a party for me and I lost my virginity to my boyfriend...who by the way I met in CCD.
So, I guess that's all.
Maybe you should pray for me!
Love,
your GodMother.
PS Read the Song of Solomon, it's the best thing in the Bible.
Maybe something religious is in the air of late, just today Annie asked me what the ten commandments are, and to my surprise I was able to tell her. But then she wanted to know if "across the street" counts as "your neighbor". So many grey areas with that book written in black and white.
It remains a good read, but until they make the value of a woman more than that of an ox, I have a hard time swallowing it.
Maybe you can change my mind.
Welcome back friend.
Kindergarden. I have two memories. One, I shoved a purple crayon up my nose. Not the small sleek kind of crayon, but the large fat ones intrusted to small chubby hands. I had to go to the nurse, and then the doctor to retrieve the purple crayon. I have no idea why I did it. I just did.
And the other memory: One of my classmates had died (lukemia) his name was Jason. We were all making cards to give to the family and I did not know how to spell Jason. I asked my teacher and she responded with " L-O-V-E" I thought she did not hear me so I asked again, "How do you spell JASON?" Again she said, "L-O-V-E." She was crying and I came away frustated and for the first time in my life thinking that grownups were nuts.
I hid my card so it would not be included in with the others. Sorry Jason.
Before checking this blog I recieved an email from my sister in law. It seems my niece is being confirmed in November. I am her GodMother. I should be there. But I can't. So my sister in law wants me to send her a letter that she can read on the retreat she is going to.
What on earth could I tell her?
Dear Ali,
Well, I guess now you can get married in the church if you want to. Do you really buy all this stuff? I know I didn't. After my confirmation my family had a party for me and I lost my virginity to my boyfriend...who by the way I met in CCD.
So, I guess that's all.
Maybe you should pray for me!
Love,
your GodMother.
PS Read the Song of Solomon, it's the best thing in the Bible.
Maybe something religious is in the air of late, just today Annie asked me what the ten commandments are, and to my surprise I was able to tell her. But then she wanted to know if "across the street" counts as "your neighbor". So many grey areas with that book written in black and white.
It remains a good read, but until they make the value of a woman more than that of an ox, I have a hard time swallowing it.
Maybe you can change my mind.
Welcome back friend.
a funny thing happened on the way to the confessional...
funny. you should mention sin. Maybe just funny to reign this back around to a religious theme, since, I confess, on Friday I went to a Bible study group. Yep, I did. I think I was the only one who was confined to the assigned chapter, because I knew no other verses or scriptures. sure, I went to sunday school, but what I most recall were the arts and craft and how my projects never quite obtained that "reality" that I had envisioned for them. They ALWAYS looked like crafts, not like life. I wanted Hopper, I got Barney.
This exact problem plagues me today--yes, everything that would plague me for the rest of my life plagued me in kindergarten--there's my best seller. I was a neurotic mess at 6, I just did not know how to capitalize on said neurosis (a la Sedaris)
What did I learn in this Bible class you ask? I learned a lot. I learned that a) I don't know the Bible, and b) said Tome is full of interesting and contradictory information, and c) that if I only had the faith of a mustard seed I could move mountains, or tell a tree to live in the ocean, depending on which apostle you're reading.
I understand that right now. I understand that all the knowledge I think I may have obtained to date has done SQUAT for moi. That the faith of a mustard seed is sort of like a nuclear fission type thing, only much bigger and less explicable, although if Einstein were here I am sure he would still be trying to mathematically quantify it.
Am I going back? Probably. If I can just get past that Hopper/Barney dichotomy, I am sure I will be a much happier person.
PS: Sorry that dude stole your life. But face it, it probably takes a lot less chutzpah to live HIS, and he just wasn't up to the task of what you have to deal with. Would you have trusted him to have taken care of the things you have taken care of? I don't think so my friend...You have been a surgeon in the brain surgery of life. Not everyone has the steady hands for that.
N.
This exact problem plagues me today--yes, everything that would plague me for the rest of my life plagued me in kindergarten--there's my best seller. I was a neurotic mess at 6, I just did not know how to capitalize on said neurosis (a la Sedaris)
What did I learn in this Bible class you ask? I learned a lot. I learned that a) I don't know the Bible, and b) said Tome is full of interesting and contradictory information, and c) that if I only had the faith of a mustard seed I could move mountains, or tell a tree to live in the ocean, depending on which apostle you're reading.
I understand that right now. I understand that all the knowledge I think I may have obtained to date has done SQUAT for moi. That the faith of a mustard seed is sort of like a nuclear fission type thing, only much bigger and less explicable, although if Einstein were here I am sure he would still be trying to mathematically quantify it.
Am I going back? Probably. If I can just get past that Hopper/Barney dichotomy, I am sure I will be a much happier person.
PS: Sorry that dude stole your life. But face it, it probably takes a lot less chutzpah to live HIS, and he just wasn't up to the task of what you have to deal with. Would you have trusted him to have taken care of the things you have taken care of? I don't think so my friend...You have been a surgeon in the brain surgery of life. Not everyone has the steady hands for that.
N.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Deadly Sins
Dear Friend,
Forgive me for I have sinned. Not just any sin, but one of the Seven Deadly Sins. It is the time of year where my heart aches for crisp breezes, my eyes search for colors in the trees, and my nose sniffs for that certain smell that only fall can bring. But, we are in Texas my senses are deprived. My thoughts drift toward the ongoing fantasy of moving far far away.
Today my first client came in and brought sin in with him in the shape of New York Magazine. I knew he was from the northeast before he ever got to my chair. He had that look about him, I can't really describe it but I know it when I see it. Kind of like Gay radar (gadar) only for New Yorkers.
As I ran my hands through his hair (no the sin is not Lust), I pulled out the details of his life. Yes he has a "place" in The City, but he mainly lives in Maine. He decided this year he did not want to "winter" in Maine so he bought a place here. He is semi-retired and travels to DC twice a month. I did not want to know what he did for a living because I was afrtaid he would say that he is a wtirer. This man already seemed to be living the life I wanted if he had the career I have imagined myself to have I could not have been trusted with the sharp tool in my hand.
I have been feeling Envy. If you feel a certain thing and realize it I am not so sure it counts as a sin. But I did more than feel envy. I indulged it. When my male counterpart who stole my life left my chair, he left behind his New York magazine. I did manage to feel slightly superior though, no self respecting North Eastener actually subscribes to that weekly, and I took pleasure in knowing that in my own mailbox waiting for me was The New Yorker. A far more worthy publication. None the less I picked up the rag and started reading it.
I saw my clent's name and address on the front, his local address where the subscription now comes and his New York address. Both impressive in their own rights.
This part of the confession is hardest to admit. On my break I drove by his new local residence. It was only a few blocks out of the way and I told myself it was not that big of a deal really. i was just curious. I found the house easily since it is one of the brand new ones in the neighborhood. Modern, stark, not all reflecting the original feel of the area. It had a high price tag I am sure, and I am also sure that my client found it to be a "steal". I sat there parked in my car with his magazine, and his life sitting beside me like a passenger that refuses to leave. When I felt a pang of fear at being caught sitting there I knew I was in the depths of Envy. What would I say if he walked out? "Um I just wanted to see if you really liked your haircut?" Or maybe,"You left your magazine and oh by the way you stole the life I was supposed to have and I would really appreciate it if you gave it back now, thanks. Don't forget to pick up Annie at 3:00". Then I could walk blindly into his perfect life and take over. I would have no problem getting something to drink out of his/my stainless steel fridge of cooking on his/my granit countertops. Before turning completely mad I started the car.
I told my passengers, New York magazine and Envy, that if they refused to leave at least buckle up so I don't get a ticket. They told me they already had buckled up and not to worry they would be riding with me for a while.
Forgive me for I have sinned. Not just any sin, but one of the Seven Deadly Sins. It is the time of year where my heart aches for crisp breezes, my eyes search for colors in the trees, and my nose sniffs for that certain smell that only fall can bring. But, we are in Texas my senses are deprived. My thoughts drift toward the ongoing fantasy of moving far far away.
Today my first client came in and brought sin in with him in the shape of New York Magazine. I knew he was from the northeast before he ever got to my chair. He had that look about him, I can't really describe it but I know it when I see it. Kind of like Gay radar (gadar) only for New Yorkers.
As I ran my hands through his hair (no the sin is not Lust), I pulled out the details of his life. Yes he has a "place" in The City, but he mainly lives in Maine. He decided this year he did not want to "winter" in Maine so he bought a place here. He is semi-retired and travels to DC twice a month. I did not want to know what he did for a living because I was afrtaid he would say that he is a wtirer. This man already seemed to be living the life I wanted if he had the career I have imagined myself to have I could not have been trusted with the sharp tool in my hand.
I have been feeling Envy. If you feel a certain thing and realize it I am not so sure it counts as a sin. But I did more than feel envy. I indulged it. When my male counterpart who stole my life left my chair, he left behind his New York magazine. I did manage to feel slightly superior though, no self respecting North Eastener actually subscribes to that weekly, and I took pleasure in knowing that in my own mailbox waiting for me was The New Yorker. A far more worthy publication. None the less I picked up the rag and started reading it.
I saw my clent's name and address on the front, his local address where the subscription now comes and his New York address. Both impressive in their own rights.
This part of the confession is hardest to admit. On my break I drove by his new local residence. It was only a few blocks out of the way and I told myself it was not that big of a deal really. i was just curious. I found the house easily since it is one of the brand new ones in the neighborhood. Modern, stark, not all reflecting the original feel of the area. It had a high price tag I am sure, and I am also sure that my client found it to be a "steal". I sat there parked in my car with his magazine, and his life sitting beside me like a passenger that refuses to leave. When I felt a pang of fear at being caught sitting there I knew I was in the depths of Envy. What would I say if he walked out? "Um I just wanted to see if you really liked your haircut?" Or maybe,"You left your magazine and oh by the way you stole the life I was supposed to have and I would really appreciate it if you gave it back now, thanks. Don't forget to pick up Annie at 3:00". Then I could walk blindly into his perfect life and take over. I would have no problem getting something to drink out of his/my stainless steel fridge of cooking on his/my granit countertops. Before turning completely mad I started the car.
I told my passengers, New York magazine and Envy, that if they refused to leave at least buckle up so I don't get a ticket. They told me they already had buckled up and not to worry they would be riding with me for a while.
Friday, September 14, 2007
A Book Review
I just finished reading the Way of the Peaceful Warrior. I am going
to give you my unedited review. About ten pages in I wanted to smack
the gymnast and tell him to get over himself and grow up. At the end
of the book I wanted to smack him harder and tell him he has learned
nothing. And oh yeah, grow up.
To me it was just another book about a selfish man who can walk away
from family and children and any real responsibilities to go off and
"find himself". Maybe this angers me because I have one of those
living in my basement.
Women don't have the luxuries (still) that many men have. We
(typically) don't walk away to climb a mountain and sit under a tree
and contemplate sap. We must find our Nirvana in the repition of our
daily lives. An epiphany that comes while folding the towells that
were just washed and folded only two days ago. Women contemplate
their childrens smiles and dirty diapers and find Nirvana in a stolen
nap. When we shrug off our responsibilities it means Take Out for
dinner, not hopping a plane to India. A peaceful warrior to me is not
a man who decides to paint houses after obtaining a degree from
Berkley. It is the man who paints houses because that is all that is
offered to him and he goes home to his family everyday covered in
paint and lovingly takes the baby and tells his wife, "I've got it,
why don't you go for a walk" That is the man who has it figured out.
Sure there were a few interesting tidbits in the book, but nothing I
have not heard before, tho nice to hear again.
I just wish there was a book about a soul searching, life altering,
gate opening, woman who achieves all that and still manages to get her
kids to school on time without screaming and yelling at them. Now
that is a peaceful warrior.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
fear
My thoughts on fear. I do believe it is born within us. Fight or flight. Very Darwin of me. Fear is a mixed bag to be sure. Will the world ever come to know peace? Most likely not. Not without some catastrophic occurence worldwide. One that would have to wipe out much of the world's population. But even then I think after time there would once again be wars and atrocities. Very biblical of me.
Through fear there is a clearness. The characters floating around in your life are not the focus of your life. The Sophie fear you experienced must have made your universe shrink down to all that means the most to you, blurring the rest. The key is holding on to that without holding on to the fear that brought it to you.
On my station at work I have a magnet that says, "Do one thing each day that scares you." A client asked me if I follow that. I thought for a moment and said , "Yes, I do." Sometimes it is just getting up in the morning that scares me the most. Often it is simply going somewhere outside my comfort zone.How brave of me.
I am so sorry Miss Sophie was sick and it caused you fear. There must be a way to never take anything for granted without having to feel the blade Damocles sword piercing us.
How philosophical of me.
I am sure we could dance with the topic of fear for years and never really come close to touching it. I can only tell you that I really do not fear the big things, I have already faced that. It is the mundane that gets under my skin and scares me the most.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
labyrinth 2
I have walked that labyrinth as well, many times. What did I ask for? so many things, now they hardly seem to matter or mattered mightily and passed from awareness with the blase acceptance that we humans reserve for answered prayers. Sophie was very ill the past week with a fever peaking at 105.5 at times, and trips back and forth the various emergency medical clinics and the ER, and something infected my soul with a sickness from which I have not recovered, although she is well now. I wrote a friend tonight that the consumption of our society was sickening me. Is it that? Is it only that? People loom in and out of my vision like Fellini characters, distorted and macabre.
Will people stop blowing one another up and ruining the world for a few extra pennies? Doubtful. Are things as bad as they seem, or is my lens clouded with fear?
Sophie said the other day: Fear is a part of life.
I said: Who told you that?
She said: I just figured it out.
Maybe fear is not a part of life--maybe I have infected her with that.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Labryrinth
My Friend,
Having just returned from New York where walking is the main form of transportation I felt the need to continue walking here. There is a church near where I work that has a labyrinth behind it. I walked it a few times years ago, but always with kids in tow and more for their entertainment than anything else.
I paused before entering, read the pamphlet on the history and "rules" of walking a labyrinth. There are no rules. It did however suggest that you may want to enter with a question to bring to God. Being obsessive compulsive I chose a phrase I could just repeat over and over. "Help me with my emotional and physical journey".
My intentions may have been pure at the start, they did not stay thay way for very long. My walk went a little something like this:
"Help me with my emotional and physical journey, help me with my emotional...if I walk a little faster I will burn more calories..and physical journey. Help me with my emotional and physical journey help....this place really needs to be weeded I can barely see the rocks..journey..help me...that guy over there at the apartment probably thinks there is a crazy woman walkling in circles over here..where was I? oh right, help me with my emotional and physical journey, I am actually sweating this is great. I could do this every morning before work. It would be a nice way to start the day. Oops, forgot again. help me with my emotional and spiritual journey, help me with my emotional and spiritual journey. Wait. Am I saying spiritual? I was not thinking that. I was thinking physical. Hello, wanting to lose weight here. Ohhhh, maybe I am supposed to be thinking spiritual. Hmmm. maybe next time. Help me with my emotional and PHYSICAL did you hear that? I said physical journey. help me with my...am I almost done? This is sort of boring. help me decide what to have for dinner. Ahha! I made it to the middle at last!
Thank you Universe. Okay I promise to be better on the way out and stay focused but I am going to go at a quicker pace.
"The trip out was a little bit more focused. It was a work out. More of a battle really. Physically and spiritually.
Having just returned from New York where walking is the main form of transportation I felt the need to continue walking here. There is a church near where I work that has a labyrinth behind it. I walked it a few times years ago, but always with kids in tow and more for their entertainment than anything else.
I paused before entering, read the pamphlet on the history and "rules" of walking a labyrinth. There are no rules. It did however suggest that you may want to enter with a question to bring to God. Being obsessive compulsive I chose a phrase I could just repeat over and over. "Help me with my emotional and physical journey".
My intentions may have been pure at the start, they did not stay thay way for very long. My walk went a little something like this:
"Help me with my emotional and physical journey, help me with my emotional...if I walk a little faster I will burn more calories..and physical journey. Help me with my emotional and physical journey help....this place really needs to be weeded I can barely see the rocks..journey..help me...that guy over there at the apartment probably thinks there is a crazy woman walkling in circles over here..where was I? oh right, help me with my emotional and physical journey, I am actually sweating this is great. I could do this every morning before work. It would be a nice way to start the day. Oops, forgot again. help me with my emotional and spiritual journey, help me with my emotional and spiritual journey. Wait. Am I saying spiritual? I was not thinking that. I was thinking physical. Hello, wanting to lose weight here. Ohhhh, maybe I am supposed to be thinking spiritual. Hmmm. maybe next time. Help me with my emotional and PHYSICAL did you hear that? I said physical journey. help me with my...am I almost done? This is sort of boring. help me decide what to have for dinner. Ahha! I made it to the middle at last!
Thank you Universe. Okay I promise to be better on the way out and stay focused but I am going to go at a quicker pace.
"The trip out was a little bit more focused. It was a work out. More of a battle really. Physically and spiritually.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Here are my dead. My trip. It was much that I thought it would be and nothing that I had anticipated. Being with my family the laughter far outweighed the tears, even for the somber occassion. As for my "dead tour", there was no way to listen to my Ipod in the rental car. Half way to my Dad's grave I realized that it did not even occur to me to turn on the radio, I drove alone with my thoughts to sing in my head.
My father is burried in a Very Catholic cemetery. The family of St. Seton is burried there and it is a bit of a tourist spot, complete with ringing bells. I have been there a few times and the thing that always strikes me the most is seeing MY last name on a tombstone. I forgot flowers and did not want to drive back into the small town to try and find some. I did feel the need to leave something to say I was there. So, I borrowed a little bit from the Jewish side of my family and I left stones. I left one for me and one for the other relatives that came to visit him during the week. (My brother his wife and their kids). It felt rebellious to apply a Jewish tradition in a catholic cemetery. But I loved it. I did not stay long with dad because I was anxious to get to Eric.
Arlington National Cemetery is an amazing place. And being the widow of someone interred there you are ushered past the tourists, soluted at and permitted to drive to the gravesite. It made me feel like I belonged. And indeed I do. Not only was I visiting Eric but I was also visiting my own final resting place.
I found the site easily and sat and looked at his stone. Seeing it for the first time. I looked at his neighbors and told them all hello as well.
There is no place at Arlington to leave flowers, or any momentos. But I wanted to do something. So I kissed it, with lipstick on. I called the kids at home and they told me to kiss it for them. So I did. Again I felt rebellious, and it felt good. His stone looked silly with all the kisses on it. Will someone seeing that think of his sad widow or will they think he had many mistresses? Who will have the job of cleaning it off? Will my phone ring in the next few days with an admonishment?
Sitting there I mostly thought about how strange it was to see my own grave. Much like Ebinezer Scrooge begging the faceless ghost to give him another chance.
After I left I did not call down to the young boy to fetch the prize turkey in the window. But I did drive into Alexandria, found an Italian resaurant and proudly declared, "Table for one." It was there I felt Eric with me. Not at his grave. But at the restaurant. And he said, "you go girl."
PS. It is not death I am afraid of it is dying.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
sic transit
This is my attempt at hope--not one of the thousands of women and children lost during the General Slocum disaster in New York, but one who survived. Lately I have had an ear for the morbid, I am afraid, having recenlty toured the Wisconsin death trip of 1898 (on paper), complete with eerie images of the deceased. I have always heard that meditating on death is life-transforming, and I do hope that it is. I hope your time brings a breath of air into your life, and life and lives.
I hope to one day be an old person who is ready for death. Right now I fear it mightily and were it to come I would hold on to the doorframe on the way out. I held a baby today, a beautiful, tiny baby, and watched as the new parents packed up their home for a new life. I thought of all the wonders that await them, and the moments of intense suffering. What is important, I think, is that we are not alone.
I envy the space and time you will find, my friend, and the adventure. Give my best regards(and I mean that sincerely) to your dead.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Greatful Dead
Where are you Dear Friend? I see you from time to time, but you go by so fast I have no time to shout. Are you weighed down in the mundane dealings of life? Have you reinvented yourself and found a new identity?
In my last writings I lamented about the travels of others while I was stuck here. Be careful what you wish for. I will be travelling this coming week. Not to an exotic island of far off land, but back in time. I will be going back to my birthplace. Baltimore. And I will be having a family reunion of sorts. My cousin/God Mother died last week from a car crash and we are all going for her "Celebration of Life". Tears will be shed but I also know there will be laughter.
When I found out she died I cried, but it was a selfish cry. An angry cry. And at one point I cried out, "I am so fucking sick of all the cool people in my life dying!" And I am. I sank into a fatalist depression realizing that the longer I live the more death I will witness.
I have known people in their eighties talk about death blythely.
"You hear Joe passed?"
"Hmm."
"Pass that orange juice over here."
Will death occupy those same feelings for us one day? Will it get to the point where we feel we are just in line waiting for the inevitable? Depressing thought really.
I decided to turn my trip into somewhat of a tour. My mother has called it the Greatful Dead Tour (spelled that way on purpose). I am going to stay an extra day and drive out first to my father's grave and then to Eric's.
I will be alone in a car with music, coffee, cigarettes and my thoughts, as I drive through the Maryland countryside. I will pay homage to those that I love that have died, but here is my little secret. I am loking forward to the time alone to pay homage to my own life.
Come back to me Friend and tell me where you are.
In my last writings I lamented about the travels of others while I was stuck here. Be careful what you wish for. I will be travelling this coming week. Not to an exotic island of far off land, but back in time. I will be going back to my birthplace. Baltimore. And I will be having a family reunion of sorts. My cousin/God Mother died last week from a car crash and we are all going for her "Celebration of Life". Tears will be shed but I also know there will be laughter.
When I found out she died I cried, but it was a selfish cry. An angry cry. And at one point I cried out, "I am so fucking sick of all the cool people in my life dying!" And I am. I sank into a fatalist depression realizing that the longer I live the more death I will witness.
I have known people in their eighties talk about death blythely.
"You hear Joe passed?"
"Hmm."
"Pass that orange juice over here."
Will death occupy those same feelings for us one day? Will it get to the point where we feel we are just in line waiting for the inevitable? Depressing thought really.
I decided to turn my trip into somewhat of a tour. My mother has called it the Greatful Dead Tour (spelled that way on purpose). I am going to stay an extra day and drive out first to my father's grave and then to Eric's.
I will be alone in a car with music, coffee, cigarettes and my thoughts, as I drive through the Maryland countryside. I will pay homage to those that I love that have died, but here is my little secret. I am loking forward to the time alone to pay homage to my own life.
Come back to me Friend and tell me where you are.
Friday, June 15, 2007
My Friend,
I fear the summer duldrums have already set in. I know, it is way too early for that. But each day I am confronted by clients who tell me of their summer trips they have planned. Greece, Italy, Aruba. I have the escape bug under my skin. I told the children we would go to South Padre Island this summer, but I can't seem to get myself excited about going to a beach in Texas. I am a travel snob with no money to back it up.
So I have been quiet. I have quieted my urges and ponderings by numbing myself with mindless TV. Carefully skipping over the Travel Channel.
This leads into something you and I have touched on before. At what point do we just accept the lives we have and embrace them for what they are? I will never be a Shirley Valentine sitting with a glass of wine on the beach in Greece. Hell I don't even like wine, why would I like it any more there? And replacing a glass of wine for a Diet Coke just does not ellicit the same emotion.
So I will never be part of an Olympic team. I can deal with this. Knowing you will never have the things you never really cared about in the first place is easy to let go of.
Will I really live in Texas for the rest of my life? I have spent much of my eighteen years here denying that. But now there is a career, a clentelle, children, mortgage.
This is not my beautiful house...this is not my beautiful wife...
I can escape in books, and writing, and romantic comedies. But my body feels the difference. The urge to flee. If even only for a little while.
I have been cursing the lack of money in my life when I am sure there is much more to curse. From where I am sitting the thought, "If I only had the money..." plays more times in my head than Paris Hilton footage on TV.
This urge will pass, it always does, but maybe you should pack a suitcase in case I come by your house one night and honk the horn to take you along with me.
Write soon of what adventures have been keeping you away.
With Love
G.
I fear the summer duldrums have already set in. I know, it is way too early for that. But each day I am confronted by clients who tell me of their summer trips they have planned. Greece, Italy, Aruba. I have the escape bug under my skin. I told the children we would go to South Padre Island this summer, but I can't seem to get myself excited about going to a beach in Texas. I am a travel snob with no money to back it up.
So I have been quiet. I have quieted my urges and ponderings by numbing myself with mindless TV. Carefully skipping over the Travel Channel.
This leads into something you and I have touched on before. At what point do we just accept the lives we have and embrace them for what they are? I will never be a Shirley Valentine sitting with a glass of wine on the beach in Greece. Hell I don't even like wine, why would I like it any more there? And replacing a glass of wine for a Diet Coke just does not ellicit the same emotion.
So I will never be part of an Olympic team. I can deal with this. Knowing you will never have the things you never really cared about in the first place is easy to let go of.
Will I really live in Texas for the rest of my life? I have spent much of my eighteen years here denying that. But now there is a career, a clentelle, children, mortgage.
This is not my beautiful house...this is not my beautiful wife...
I can escape in books, and writing, and romantic comedies. But my body feels the difference. The urge to flee. If even only for a little while.
I have been cursing the lack of money in my life when I am sure there is much more to curse. From where I am sitting the thought, "If I only had the money..." plays more times in my head than Paris Hilton footage on TV.
This urge will pass, it always does, but maybe you should pack a suitcase in case I come by your house one night and honk the horn to take you along with me.
Write soon of what adventures have been keeping you away.
With Love
G.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Guy
Bless the Rat Guy, and all the other "Guys" that have come into my life. Being single as you know we tend to need these "guys". I have guys to fix the plumbing, guys to do the yard, a guy who comes and checks the pool (commonly known as "Pool Guy") There is the A/C guy, the car guy, the mover guy. I also have a mail guy and a fed ex guy that visits often. My neighbor Guy sometimes brings my trash cans back to the house when I have left them out for too long.
Don't ask me if I have a special guy in my life, I have many and they are all special and neccesary.
Don't ask me if I have a special guy in my life, I have many and they are all special and neccesary.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
bless the rat guys
Well, I think your uterus is probably in better shape than the crib. Do both your gates open? Just say the word, but consider also that I have no storage and it is likely that time and weather will determine if this crib is useful every again, your uterus or no.
Meanwhile, the rat guys have just left. They're not really The Ray Guys, but the guys in charge of sealing off every possible entrance and exit that a rat might use to inhabit new chez moi. The Rat Guy himself is fascinating-- a young Indiana Jones type, who travels from house to house trapping unwanted pe(s)ts (ever noticed there is only one letter difference there? me neither) SO now they are gone after a whole day of hammering and nail gunning and pouring concrete and yanking up planks, and telling me about their kids and their respective (sometime single) parenthoods. They all play in bands, and the had to leave promptly at 5:30 to make it to thier gig, which is in some Harley bar in Phlugerville. I was like a welfare rat job,you know, because the landlady wouldn't pay, so I scraped up what I could and said 'Do what you can with this' and bless their hearts, they went all out for the kids sake. Really swell blokes, all the rat guys, and the main rat guy even panicked once when he wasn't sure where Sophie was.
God bless the rat guys.
Meanwhile, the rat guys have just left. They're not really The Ray Guys, but the guys in charge of sealing off every possible entrance and exit that a rat might use to inhabit new chez moi. The Rat Guy himself is fascinating-- a young Indiana Jones type, who travels from house to house trapping unwanted pe(s)ts (ever noticed there is only one letter difference there? me neither) SO now they are gone after a whole day of hammering and nail gunning and pouring concrete and yanking up planks, and telling me about their kids and their respective (sometime single) parenthoods. They all play in bands, and the had to leave promptly at 5:30 to make it to thier gig, which is in some Harley bar in Phlugerville. I was like a welfare rat job,you know, because the landlady wouldn't pay, so I scraped up what I could and said 'Do what you can with this' and bless their hearts, they went all out for the kids sake. Really swell blokes, all the rat guys, and the main rat guy even panicked once when he wasn't sure where Sophie was.
God bless the rat guys.
Monday, May 28, 2007
stunned
You called the other day with a simple question and it has thrown me into a certain angst. The question, "Would you like your crib back?" Crib. My crib. The crib that three of my children slept in, a crib that held laundry when not in use. A crib I recall picking out being full and round with baby Oona. A crib that held so many hopes and dreams.
Do I want it back? What would I do with it? But more importantly why would I hold on to it? Keeping it would mean there was still some remote possibility that it would be used. That my uterus would be used, filled once again with life. I thought I had come to terms with the idea that babies are a thing of the past for me. I have moved on to a new place in my life. But there it is, "Do you want your crib back?" It was like you asked, "DO you think you may have another baby?" I still can't answer the question. I picked up the phone several times to call you and say, no, I don't want the crib back. But I always hung up. I am in a nowhere place. Not ready to give up babies and not ready for grandchildren.
This still does not answer your question, but I have to answer it first and this I seem unable to do at the moment.
G.
Do I want it back? What would I do with it? But more importantly why would I hold on to it? Keeping it would mean there was still some remote possibility that it would be used. That my uterus would be used, filled once again with life. I thought I had come to terms with the idea that babies are a thing of the past for me. I have moved on to a new place in my life. But there it is, "Do you want your crib back?" It was like you asked, "DO you think you may have another baby?" I still can't answer the question. I picked up the phone several times to call you and say, no, I don't want the crib back. But I always hung up. I am in a nowhere place. Not ready to give up babies and not ready for grandchildren.
This still does not answer your question, but I have to answer it first and this I seem unable to do at the moment.
G.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
manos
It seems like "madre" should be a masculine word, like "mano" is feminine, for they are interchangeable, hand and mother, the mothers are the hands, the spine, the structure, after all, the caress, the slap, the hand over the mouth, the hand to mouth.
I drift in and out of mothering, the way my mother perhaps did, although I think she was mostly out. Lately, as you say, I have been deep into other things, although I know the lesson there--it has been hammered into me by innumerable novels and films: The Piano, The Good Mother, Erin Brockovitch, The Hours--if you want something for your self, some identity or uniqueness of being, some singularity of purpose or intent that diverges from the motherly path, the wifely path, the subservient path, someone always gets sick or dies, or hit by a car, or at least scarred for life, so that you will never forget your brief and deadly foray into selfhood without a shocking and visceral reminder.
So I tread on this very thin ice on mother's day, half of me wanting to hold them close forever, to deflect every harm, some secret part of me wanting towards that day of freedom when they have been delivered safely into the hands of adulthood. But that's a myth also, isn't it? They will always be children, heavy, beautiful, weighty, delicious burdens, the way all exquisite burdens should be, after all, requiring something us that seems at times more than we have to give.
Happy Mother's Day to you, my friend. You have earned your place among the saints.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
alone but never alone
I wont even try to take on two personalities myself. Dear friend you are deep into finals, children, work, etc. I am still here when you are ready to return. In the meantime here are some ponderings.
I reluctantly gave up my Sunday. Sunday is the only day of the week I
have to sleep in, and I am very possessive of my Sunday morning sleep.
I told Annie that we would "do something fun". I kept it vague as to
not over commit myself. An eight year old can be convinced that half
an hour on a McDonald's playscape with an .89 cent ice cream cone is
fun.
We talked about riding her bike, which would involve me running along
side of her holding the seat until I felt she had her balance. I was
not particularly in a running mood. Then her friend wanted to come
"do something fun" with us. For this I was grateful, it meant she had
someone else to talk to and I could be quiet.
We piled into the car not sure where we were going and an odd twist
brought us to a part of town I don't often go. I suggested we go out
to the lake. They protested that they did not have bathing suits,
towels, sunscreen, floaties, etc. I responded with, "So what." They
were skeptical to say the least.
Before we reach the lake there is a hiking trail that follows a
stream, so I pulled over and announced we were going hiking. The
trail is shaded and not only does it follow the stream but you have to
cross it several times. They worried about their shoes getting wet,
and I responded, "who cares." And then tromped in the water to show
them the world would not end with wet shoes. They laughed and giggled
and splashed.
Hot and happy from the hike we headed to the lake. More protests from
my worried little companions, "we only have clothes, we can't get them
wet." Continuing on in my monosyllabic wisdom I said, "why not?" and
I plunged myself into the water. They needed no more reassurance from
me and jumped in.
After I thoroughly felt baptized in lake water I sat on the dock to
dry off. I felt tired and happy, the kids created a complicated game
that involved jumping off the dock and climbing back up again. My
toes dipped in the water and I was mesmerized by the light reflecting
off the water. Blue light coming off the water, tipped with the white
small waves. The feeling of the sun on my skin, the water on my feet
and evaporating from my body was bliss. Then the smells floated over
to me. A family having a barbecue and filling the air with sensuous
smells. As if my senses were not filled enough the children started
laughing as they jumped in the water, then silence followed by squeals
of delight as they emerged. I focused my eyes on the blue light
reflecting from the water and every part of me experienced a quiet
joy. This must be what my heaven will be like. I felt closer to God
sitting on the dock taking in all the feelings around me than I ever
have sitting in a pew in stiff clothing. Then I laughed to myself and
thought, "Nature is my true church."
Happy Mothers Day.
I reluctantly gave up my Sunday. Sunday is the only day of the week I
have to sleep in, and I am very possessive of my Sunday morning sleep.
I told Annie that we would "do something fun". I kept it vague as to
not over commit myself. An eight year old can be convinced that half
an hour on a McDonald's playscape with an .89 cent ice cream cone is
fun.
We talked about riding her bike, which would involve me running along
side of her holding the seat until I felt she had her balance. I was
not particularly in a running mood. Then her friend wanted to come
"do something fun" with us. For this I was grateful, it meant she had
someone else to talk to and I could be quiet.
We piled into the car not sure where we were going and an odd twist
brought us to a part of town I don't often go. I suggested we go out
to the lake. They protested that they did not have bathing suits,
towels, sunscreen, floaties, etc. I responded with, "So what." They
were skeptical to say the least.
Before we reach the lake there is a hiking trail that follows a
stream, so I pulled over and announced we were going hiking. The
trail is shaded and not only does it follow the stream but you have to
cross it several times. They worried about their shoes getting wet,
and I responded, "who cares." And then tromped in the water to show
them the world would not end with wet shoes. They laughed and giggled
and splashed.
Hot and happy from the hike we headed to the lake. More protests from
my worried little companions, "we only have clothes, we can't get them
wet." Continuing on in my monosyllabic wisdom I said, "why not?" and
I plunged myself into the water. They needed no more reassurance from
me and jumped in.
After I thoroughly felt baptized in lake water I sat on the dock to
dry off. I felt tired and happy, the kids created a complicated game
that involved jumping off the dock and climbing back up again. My
toes dipped in the water and I was mesmerized by the light reflecting
off the water. Blue light coming off the water, tipped with the white
small waves. The feeling of the sun on my skin, the water on my feet
and evaporating from my body was bliss. Then the smells floated over
to me. A family having a barbecue and filling the air with sensuous
smells. As if my senses were not filled enough the children started
laughing as they jumped in the water, then silence followed by squeals
of delight as they emerged. I focused my eyes on the blue light
reflecting from the water and every part of me experienced a quiet
joy. This must be what my heaven will be like. I felt closer to God
sitting on the dock taking in all the feelings around me than I ever
have sitting in a pew in stiff clothing. Then I laughed to myself and
thought, "Nature is my true church."
Happy Mothers Day.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
el nino
I am writing in the fog and haze of having just survived a sleepover birthday party. Ten little girls...ten tiaras....ten sashes....ten egos....ten cans of soda....three arguments.....one birthday girl. Oh, and one rat that broke free from his cage, I watched him scurry out into the dark and all I could think is, "TAKE ME WITH YOU!!!!" I felt bad for wanting to escape the party that I planned and executed. Bad Mommy.
I wonder what makes a "good mom". I hear this every so often, "You are a good mom." Am I? Whenever I do get this odd compliment I always respond with, "Tell that to my kids." Mostly I feel like I get blamed for everything, from their failing grades to their bad moods. I think they would tell you that I am single handedly responsible for more damage than global warming.
Then the moment comes where we are all together and someone says or does something and we all burst out laughing. In those moments I can breathe, we are all happy together. For a moment. And I think, maybe I am a good mom.
I wonder what makes a "good mom". I hear this every so often, "You are a good mom." Am I? Whenever I do get this odd compliment I always respond with, "Tell that to my kids." Mostly I feel like I get blamed for everything, from their failing grades to their bad moods. I think they would tell you that I am single handedly responsible for more damage than global warming.
Then the moment comes where we are all together and someone says or does something and we all burst out laughing. In those moments I can breathe, we are all happy together. For a moment. And I think, maybe I am a good mom.
ça a été
I removed said post. But had you noticed the label? It was "Vacuum techniques for the amateur investigator" and to this I will return, ere nigh. Be well friend, n.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
case of the missing blog
My friend,
Where did the last blog go? I wanted to read it again. It has crept into my mind so often in the last week. I love the imagery. I have even faced my days in a different light because of it. Raging wars against my self. My body, trying to make the battlefield even. Thin out the troops!
After reading that I have decided to change my armor. See myself as the warrior and not the martyr.
Remember Fried Green Tomatos? TAWANDA!
Surely we can turn the troops around and aim them elsewhere?
Please re post the blog.
Where did the last blog go? I wanted to read it again. It has crept into my mind so often in the last week. I love the imagery. I have even faced my days in a different light because of it. Raging wars against my self. My body, trying to make the battlefield even. Thin out the troops!
After reading that I have decided to change my armor. See myself as the warrior and not the martyr.
Remember Fried Green Tomatos? TAWANDA!
Surely we can turn the troops around and aim them elsewhere?
Please re post the blog.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
wysteria lane
Your walk sounds delicious. This is the one time of year here where I don't feel like leaving. I have been spending much time out on my deck just looking at the treetops. I love the shocking new green against the steel blue overcast sky.
I too have tried to find a little tranquility of late. As you know water has always played a part of my dream life. Recently I thought maybe I am lacking water in my awake life and that is why I am flooded with it nocturnally.
I was wandering thru a store a few days ago and came across a small water feature. A table top fountain with cascading fake bamboo leaves, complete with a small bag of river rocks. Add water, plug in and voila! Instant relaxation. My blood pressure was lowering even as I shelled out the $24.99 for it.
When I got home I cleared off the pile of books and bills from my end table and made space for my new fountain of youth. I read the directions carefully, after years of fear drilled into me about water and electricity. It worked! The water came out the top and proceeded to trickle down from one leaf to another landing in a pile of rocks placed intentionally to look unintentional.
Ahhhh. The sound of water.
I will spare you all the details but let's just say that after having to re-set it up several times ( the cat that drank from it and knocked it over, the rocks that jammed the pump from little playing hands, and finally candle wax that mysteriously made its way into it) I packed it up and set it aside to return.
At least I have a clean end table. Well, except for the water stains and candle wax.
I should probably just take a bath.
I too have tried to find a little tranquility of late. As you know water has always played a part of my dream life. Recently I thought maybe I am lacking water in my awake life and that is why I am flooded with it nocturnally.
I was wandering thru a store a few days ago and came across a small water feature. A table top fountain with cascading fake bamboo leaves, complete with a small bag of river rocks. Add water, plug in and voila! Instant relaxation. My blood pressure was lowering even as I shelled out the $24.99 for it.
When I got home I cleared off the pile of books and bills from my end table and made space for my new fountain of youth. I read the directions carefully, after years of fear drilled into me about water and electricity. It worked! The water came out the top and proceeded to trickle down from one leaf to another landing in a pile of rocks placed intentionally to look unintentional.
Ahhhh. The sound of water.
I will spare you all the details but let's just say that after having to re-set it up several times ( the cat that drank from it and knocked it over, the rocks that jammed the pump from little playing hands, and finally candle wax that mysteriously made its way into it) I packed it up and set it aside to return.
At least I have a clean end table. Well, except for the water stains and candle wax.
I should probably just take a bath.
Monday, April 9, 2007
night walks
Just this evening I set out with the dog, down toward the creek in the dark. It was almost nine, but already quiet, like midnight, not a sound, but the air was sultry the way it is all summer, filled with the dense smells of wisteria and jasmine, the canopies of the giant oaks leaning over the street in a touchingly protective way.
Earlier in the evening I could hardly imagine getting myself out the door.
Remember years ago when I worked the overnight shift at Kerbey Lane? I'd get the kids to bed and the babysitter would come, then I would be flying down the deserted boulevard on my bike with the crickets chirping and the wind howling. I never wanted to arrive, but just to keep riding all night. What a thought: hiring a babysitter so I could ride my bicycle all night.
Some day, I assure you, we will do that.
Earlier in the evening I could hardly imagine getting myself out the door.
Remember years ago when I worked the overnight shift at Kerbey Lane? I'd get the kids to bed and the babysitter would come, then I would be flying down the deserted boulevard on my bike with the crickets chirping and the wind howling. I never wanted to arrive, but just to keep riding all night. What a thought: hiring a babysitter so I could ride my bicycle all night.
Some day, I assure you, we will do that.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
No Hoes At The Bar
The Curtain has been pulled back and The Great Oz has been revealed. He is just a man. Some may think it a travesty that he hid behind a curtain while trying to be Great and Powerful. Some were relieved to see that minor miracles were created by "just a man". In the end all needed to look inside their heads for the answers they were seeking. Could they have avoided the perils of flying monkeys, falling houses, and synchronized dancing if they simply looked inward from the start? Yup. So which is the right thing to do? Live the life without thought, or try to find meaning in the things you do? If I only had a brain...
There have been times that I have felt jealousy for the people who live without thought. How nice it would be to not always strive for better, to be perfectly content with the lot I have. I might even sleep better at night. But then I think about all that I would lose if I approached life in such a meaningless way. The joys I gain from pondering the reasons behind human action. The questions that turn into stories. The poetry I read. The people I love.
I dread a life where I am without introspection.
What if Sir Isaac Newton simply ate the apple instead of thinking about it? Not by any means do I compare myself to such great masters. But if contemplating a connection between thinner thighs and enlightenment brings me joy, then am I not enjoying life itself?
When I laugh with my children over having to take cold showers because I could not pay the gas bill this month, are we enjoying life less because we found humor in strife?
The curtain has been pulled back and I am just a woman. But like the Great And Powerful Oz, I see myself as oh so much more.
There have been times that I have felt jealousy for the people who live without thought. How nice it would be to not always strive for better, to be perfectly content with the lot I have. I might even sleep better at night. But then I think about all that I would lose if I approached life in such a meaningless way. The joys I gain from pondering the reasons behind human action. The questions that turn into stories. The poetry I read. The people I love.
I dread a life where I am without introspection.
What if Sir Isaac Newton simply ate the apple instead of thinking about it? Not by any means do I compare myself to such great masters. But if contemplating a connection between thinner thighs and enlightenment brings me joy, then am I not enjoying life itself?
When I laugh with my children over having to take cold showers because I could not pay the gas bill this month, are we enjoying life less because we found humor in strife?
The curtain has been pulled back and I am just a woman. But like the Great And Powerful Oz, I see myself as oh so much more.
Monday, April 2, 2007
problematics of self
Dear G.,
You, perhaps more than anyone, know that nothing is ever what it seems on the surface. To the extent that we can ever know or be known by others, most of our deep inner self still remains in half-shadow, like the dark side of the moon. Last week I was sitting in the break room at work waiting for the teapot, when someone came in and commented that I looked so peaceful sitting there. I was actually wrestling vigorously with some anxiety or other, of little consequence probably (a paper, money, work), but the thought that my own lack of centeredness could appear as peace to the observer amused me.
I see myself in my minds eye riding my bike (down Duval, right?) sans helmet, like something of a banshee hurtling furiously toward the unknown, peddling not in joy, but absolute terror half the time. Of what? That something might catch up with me? And believe me, I never read in coffee shops, and rarely eat salad (I go for the "power" bar)--salad takes far to much preparation! The little free time I have I am madly catching up with schoolwork or trying to get above the ensuing environmental disaster that is my home.
I have never been good at being the calm in the storm (my interpretation of you), but more often am the storm in the middle of the calm. You grasp joy where you find it, all around you, in even the most unlikely places and situations, and I always see you as a woman swimming, perpetually, with those Florida dolphins. And you are right, I really should wear a helmet.
You, perhaps more than anyone, know that nothing is ever what it seems on the surface. To the extent that we can ever know or be known by others, most of our deep inner self still remains in half-shadow, like the dark side of the moon. Last week I was sitting in the break room at work waiting for the teapot, when someone came in and commented that I looked so peaceful sitting there. I was actually wrestling vigorously with some anxiety or other, of little consequence probably (a paper, money, work), but the thought that my own lack of centeredness could appear as peace to the observer amused me.
I see myself in my minds eye riding my bike (down Duval, right?) sans helmet, like something of a banshee hurtling furiously toward the unknown, peddling not in joy, but absolute terror half the time. Of what? That something might catch up with me? And believe me, I never read in coffee shops, and rarely eat salad (I go for the "power" bar)--salad takes far to much preparation! The little free time I have I am madly catching up with schoolwork or trying to get above the ensuing environmental disaster that is my home.
I have never been good at being the calm in the storm (my interpretation of you), but more often am the storm in the middle of the calm. You grasp joy where you find it, all around you, in even the most unlikely places and situations, and I always see you as a woman swimming, perpetually, with those Florida dolphins. And you are right, I really should wear a helmet.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
but you really should wear a helmet
I have been neglectful, forgive me. I permitted myself to get weighed down in the details of eveyday living. The details then become life, and at some point I stop seeing or thinking and only respond to "what's for dinner?"
I saw you riding your bike a few days ago. I nearly honked my horn but you looked so peaceful with those curls flying in the air.
How jealous I am of you at times. I too own a bicycle. It sits gathering dust bunnies in my garage, taunting me and making me feel guilty. I see you riding and I wish I had it in me to ride. I wish was the kind of person to order a salad because I actually wanted one. You do that. I want to take a book to a coffee house and sit and just read. You do that. I want to go for walks just because. You do that.
I wish I wish I want.
To be more like you.
I saw you riding your bike a few days ago. I nearly honked my horn but you looked so peaceful with those curls flying in the air.
How jealous I am of you at times. I too own a bicycle. It sits gathering dust bunnies in my garage, taunting me and making me feel guilty. I see you riding and I wish I had it in me to ride. I wish was the kind of person to order a salad because I actually wanted one. You do that. I want to take a book to a coffee house and sit and just read. You do that. I want to go for walks just because. You do that.
I wish I wish I want.
To be more like you.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
forgive me
Neruda poem sent via email by G.
Forgive me
If you are not living
If you, beloved, my love,
If you have died
All the leaves will fall on my breast
It will rain on my soul all night, all day
My feet will want to march to where you are sleeping
But I shall go on living
(English translation by Donald D. Walsh )
No, perdóname.
Si tú no vives,
si tú, querida, amor mío, si tú
te has muerto,
todas las hojas caerán en mi pecho,
lloverá sobre mi alma noche y día,
la nieve quemará mi corazón,
andaré con frío y fuego
y muerte y nieve,
mis pies querrán marchar hacia donde tú duermes, pero seguiré vivo,
porque tú me quisiste sobre
todas las cosas indomable,
y, amor, porque tú sabes que soy no sólo un hombre
sino todos los hombres
Forgive me
If you are not living
If you, beloved, my love,
If you have died
All the leaves will fall on my breast
It will rain on my soul all night, all day
My feet will want to march to where you are sleeping
But I shall go on living
(English translation by Donald D. Walsh )
No, perdóname.
Si tú no vives,
si tú, querida, amor mío, si tú
te has muerto,
todas las hojas caerán en mi pecho,
lloverá sobre mi alma noche y día,
la nieve quemará mi corazón,
andaré con frío y fuego
y muerte y nieve,
mis pies querrán marchar hacia donde tú duermes, pero seguiré vivo,
porque tú me quisiste sobre
todas las cosas indomable,
y, amor, porque tú sabes que soy no sólo un hombre
sino todos los hombres
Sunday, March 18, 2007
I See Dead People
It appears that at least for the moment I can not escape ghosts. Do you see your own ghosts? I was at Jason's Deli the other night picking up dinner. I have been feeling guilty over not giving the kids homecooked meals, Jason's is close to homecooked I believe. I stood there by the cashier waiting and I looked over and there they were. My ghosts. I saw Eric sitting at the table eating gumbo, (this Eric ghost was well into illness and could barely eat). I saw two of the kids pushing another table to ours to accomidate all of us. I saw my little boy filling his drink cup with six different sodas. And I saw me. Happily fussing with the baby trying to get her chubby little legs to go through the insanely small holes of the highchair.
I saw.
My response to the apparition? I burst into tears. The man behind the counter looked at me oddly, but I knew no one would dare ask me if I was okay. A woman crying in public is a sure way to be left alone. I grabbed the food and took a quick glance at the ghosts, they were still there and paid no attention to me at all. I had a good carthatic cry the entire way home and then fed the children. We don't go to Jason's Deli anymore, we only get takeout. Now I know why. Too many ghosts. I try to avoid them when I can, and I am afraid of leaving them at the same time. My ghosts bind me emotionally and geographically.
You need to rethink that quote. Yes, I do believe it is better to have loved and lost...blah blah blah.
But loving is easy. The tricky part is finding someone to let you love them the way you want, and loving them all the more for it.
Ugh, all this talk of love and ghosts, I fear I am living in a Bronte sisters novel.
Maybe love IS a battlefield.
N, I really don't mean to make light of this, it is just at the moment I am sick of myself.
I saw.
My response to the apparition? I burst into tears. The man behind the counter looked at me oddly, but I knew no one would dare ask me if I was okay. A woman crying in public is a sure way to be left alone. I grabbed the food and took a quick glance at the ghosts, they were still there and paid no attention to me at all. I had a good carthatic cry the entire way home and then fed the children. We don't go to Jason's Deli anymore, we only get takeout. Now I know why. Too many ghosts. I try to avoid them when I can, and I am afraid of leaving them at the same time. My ghosts bind me emotionally and geographically.
You need to rethink that quote. Yes, I do believe it is better to have loved and lost...blah blah blah.
But loving is easy. The tricky part is finding someone to let you love them the way you want, and loving them all the more for it.
Ugh, all this talk of love and ghosts, I fear I am living in a Bronte sisters novel.
Maybe love IS a battlefield.
N, I really don't mean to make light of this, it is just at the moment I am sick of myself.
Friday, March 16, 2007
the dead and the living
I keep thinking about my grandmother’s house, snooping through my mother’s old notebooks and drawing books. For pages she had written over and over again, in variously stylized fonts, “It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” I am not throwing that back at you, G, I am just struck by the irony of it, that you would have, could have (in a box, with a fox) loved and been loved so profoundly, and had that ripped away from you. Whereas I, and people like my mother, stumble through life with those phrases tautly poised about us in scripted artifice, stylized posturing, yet never love, never really being loved. Is there a God after all? Sometimes I doubt it, sometimes I feel that absence like a deep cold ache in my bones.
I thought about you this morning--I went out on the deck for my second cup of coffee and smoked one of my coveted, emergency cigarettes. Yes, I have decided to take up smoking to quit drinking. Smokers seem like accomplishers, whereas drinkers just slowly melt into a pathetic puddle of inaction. Maybe we can have one together sometime, and poke at this soft-bodied creature called longing. I will say, emphatically, that I do not cringe from your Eric-ology. But then I spend most of my time contemplating the dead. I look forward to your exploring to whatever extent--photos, memories, fragments of any sort that you might need to sew this shroud, or this ball gown to dance in.
W.H. Sebald wrote, “And so they are always returning to us, the dead. At times they come back from the ice more than seven decades later and are found at the edge of the moraine, a few polished bones and a pair of hobnailed boots.”
I thought about you this morning--I went out on the deck for my second cup of coffee and smoked one of my coveted, emergency cigarettes. Yes, I have decided to take up smoking to quit drinking. Smokers seem like accomplishers, whereas drinkers just slowly melt into a pathetic puddle of inaction. Maybe we can have one together sometime, and poke at this soft-bodied creature called longing. I will say, emphatically, that I do not cringe from your Eric-ology. But then I spend most of my time contemplating the dead. I look forward to your exploring to whatever extent--photos, memories, fragments of any sort that you might need to sew this shroud, or this ball gown to dance in.
W.H. Sebald wrote, “And so they are always returning to us, the dead. At times they come back from the ice more than seven decades later and are found at the edge of the moraine, a few polished bones and a pair of hobnailed boots.”
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
The Other Side Of The Nostalgia Coin
Do you mean to tell me that in eight months I will not be enlightened, self assured, and able to take the world on with a smile?
I don't believe it!
But in the meantime:
We cross ideas again at the same time and I am ever amused how differently. This is something I have been mulling over as future fodder for the book I am currently pregnant with.
Certain nostalgia makes other people cringe. I want to talk about Eric, I have to keep him alive in some way, I have my pictures and letters, and videos. I need to talk about him. To share him with others brings him closer to me. But I have learned that it makes people uncomfortable, even if I am laughing about a memory often people do not know how to react. I put this down to their own fears of mortality. Can I be selective in my nostalgia? I think some of it should be outlawed. Some things just should stay in the past, which lead me to think that there should be a law against year books, old journals, and especially any memorabilia of any sort. Polititians know this but have yet to learn it. I am tempted even to add photos to the list. What good comes of the 39 year old me looking at the 28 year old me and thinking, "Damn, I looked so good and did not even know it! I was so happy and had no clue!" Does it make me appreciate the 39 year old me that I am now? Nope. Will I look back on me now and chastise myself for not laughing enough or loving enough? Probably, but will that even change my future self? Doubt it.
As for journals, do I really need to re-read my teen years to see what an egotistical, self-righteous obnoxious person I was? Hell, I live with four teenagers now, I don't need to revisit my own teen angst, my house is rife with it. And having teens who are curious about everything, they will surely find what you have hidden away and will ask you, "Mom, who was Bobby McDade and why did he tell you to meet him at the mall every Friday?"
The other day my daughter came across a small bag of pins I used to wear in highschool. Before I could snatch the evil memorabilia away she had already claimed them. I gave in figuring she would lose interest. My past was not so easily dismissed. The next morning she proudly bore upon her shirt a few of the pins. THE DOORS...LOVE IS A BATTLEFIELD...I HEART ED (not sure who Ed was but glad I hearted him at one time...of course I also hearted JOHN, TED, and naturally BOBBY).
These pins I can handle, it wasn't until I looked at her adorned purse that I thought of the Law To Rid The Past. There on the strap were two bright blue pins. the first "WANNA SUCK FACE?" The second and most humiliating "IF YOU GET ANY CLOSER,INTRODUCE YOURSELF".
Seeing those pins brought back many memories of hours spent being a mall rat in New Jersey, making mixed tapes, getting my hair as big as possible while simultaneously trying to create bangs that appeared to float on my forehead. And swimming in all that nostalgia my only reaction was to reach for a Xanax.
Can we create selective memory N.? Or will I be forever doomed to a lifetime of prescriptive drugs?
I don't believe it!
But in the meantime:
We cross ideas again at the same time and I am ever amused how differently. This is something I have been mulling over as future fodder for the book I am currently pregnant with.
Certain nostalgia makes other people cringe. I want to talk about Eric, I have to keep him alive in some way, I have my pictures and letters, and videos. I need to talk about him. To share him with others brings him closer to me. But I have learned that it makes people uncomfortable, even if I am laughing about a memory often people do not know how to react. I put this down to their own fears of mortality. Can I be selective in my nostalgia? I think some of it should be outlawed. Some things just should stay in the past, which lead me to think that there should be a law against year books, old journals, and especially any memorabilia of any sort. Polititians know this but have yet to learn it. I am tempted even to add photos to the list. What good comes of the 39 year old me looking at the 28 year old me and thinking, "Damn, I looked so good and did not even know it! I was so happy and had no clue!" Does it make me appreciate the 39 year old me that I am now? Nope. Will I look back on me now and chastise myself for not laughing enough or loving enough? Probably, but will that even change my future self? Doubt it.
As for journals, do I really need to re-read my teen years to see what an egotistical, self-righteous obnoxious person I was? Hell, I live with four teenagers now, I don't need to revisit my own teen angst, my house is rife with it. And having teens who are curious about everything, they will surely find what you have hidden away and will ask you, "Mom, who was Bobby McDade and why did he tell you to meet him at the mall every Friday?"
The other day my daughter came across a small bag of pins I used to wear in highschool. Before I could snatch the evil memorabilia away she had already claimed them. I gave in figuring she would lose interest. My past was not so easily dismissed. The next morning she proudly bore upon her shirt a few of the pins. THE DOORS...LOVE IS A BATTLEFIELD...I HEART ED (not sure who Ed was but glad I hearted him at one time...of course I also hearted JOHN, TED, and naturally BOBBY).
These pins I can handle, it wasn't until I looked at her adorned purse that I thought of the Law To Rid The Past. There on the strap were two bright blue pins. the first "WANNA SUCK FACE?" The second and most humiliating "IF YOU GET ANY CLOSER,INTRODUCE YOURSELF".
Seeing those pins brought back many memories of hours spent being a mall rat in New Jersey, making mixed tapes, getting my hair as big as possible while simultaneously trying to create bangs that appeared to float on my forehead. And swimming in all that nostalgia my only reaction was to reach for a Xanax.
Can we create selective memory N.? Or will I be forever doomed to a lifetime of prescriptive drugs?
Monday, March 12, 2007
a doctrine of nostalgia
this is interesting, because I have been so immersed lately in Husserl and Heidegger (which invariably leads to Nietsche and Foucault) and I have been deepy concerned about nostalgia. I am not sure how nostalgia fits into phenomenology, but for me, there is no drug more addictive than this--this sifting through photos and letters, travelling through the past on the timeless light beam of intention. That is after all what held the phenomenological reality together, the intention of our minds, which did not render the rest of the world non-existent, but subjugated to the ground, not the prominent figure.
Susan and I once identified a nostalgia for forty--we were, neither one of us then, yet forty, and we perceived that age to be the time when the world fell in alignment at your feet, when we answered to no man, when we obtained absolute, unviolable freedom.
I can hear you giggling, you of not yet forty years...
I am reminded of the beautiful British film, Truly Madly Deeply, where she would rather sacrifice every moment of her living existence for the fleeting, unsatisfying and incomplete experiences of her dead husband's ghost. We are always chasing after what is lost, like Ariadne's thread, trying to retrace our steps back to the place that is no longer; and I speak only for myself--not as one who has suffered the shattering loss of a loved one. I cannot imagine.
I love your nostalgia. And I love, that through these pouring outs of the love in us for what is gone, that we somehow redeem the world. Maybe I am mistaken, but I think that when I create my own philosophy, it will be the doctrine of nostalgia, and the active re-membering, through unceasing vigils, by the fearless at heart, for what is lost.
Susan and I once identified a nostalgia for forty--we were, neither one of us then, yet forty, and we perceived that age to be the time when the world fell in alignment at your feet, when we answered to no man, when we obtained absolute, unviolable freedom.
I can hear you giggling, you of not yet forty years...
I am reminded of the beautiful British film, Truly Madly Deeply, where she would rather sacrifice every moment of her living existence for the fleeting, unsatisfying and incomplete experiences of her dead husband's ghost. We are always chasing after what is lost, like Ariadne's thread, trying to retrace our steps back to the place that is no longer; and I speak only for myself--not as one who has suffered the shattering loss of a loved one. I cannot imagine.
I love your nostalgia. And I love, that through these pouring outs of the love in us for what is gone, that we somehow redeem the world. Maybe I am mistaken, but I think that when I create my own philosophy, it will be the doctrine of nostalgia, and the active re-membering, through unceasing vigils, by the fearless at heart, for what is lost.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
no title
Jeff Foxworthy Laughed.
I like that Sophie is looking for the right word. She is just learning the words for things whereas more often I am trying to remember the words for things.
Please watch Strangers In Good Company. Know that is in entirely unscripted and so beautiful. I think you will fall in love with the ex-nun. Escape into it.
My step son is here this week and as always it is bittersweet. He is so much like his father and neither of them ever saw a connection. How cruel that I am the one to see it. I wish they knew. It should not be me that gets to have him, it should be his father. I have inherited so much and I question daily if I am capable and worthy of it all. The Universe screwed up.
G.
I like that Sophie is looking for the right word. She is just learning the words for things whereas more often I am trying to remember the words for things.
Please watch Strangers In Good Company. Know that is in entirely unscripted and so beautiful. I think you will fall in love with the ex-nun. Escape into it.
My step son is here this week and as always it is bittersweet. He is so much like his father and neither of them ever saw a connection. How cruel that I am the one to see it. I wish they knew. It should not be me that gets to have him, it should be his father. I have inherited so much and I question daily if I am capable and worthy of it all. The Universe screwed up.
G.
secret codes
I have not seen that movie, but I am happy know of it because my life has been reduced to a series of hollow intellectual activities, and escapism is much closer to feeling real than I ever feel in my waking life. Why does any one of us do what we do? Dostoievski said that there is no meaning in anything--that searching for meaningfulness is an illness.
It is all the same anyway, just different codes for the nostalgia we feel for what remains unnamed. Your man dancing at the bus stop was a language for something you perceived about the world--even I could not really decode it, but I knew what it was pointing to was important and perhaps unnamable in any other tongue. You could be speaking sign language, and I could be watching, mystified, humbled by the beauty and poetry, though what you might be saying was something utterly simple, like, the water here tastes funny.
Sophie and I were walking behind Quacks the other day when she pointed to something on the ground and struggled to find the word for it--a box? I offered. No, she rejected emphatically. I thought harder. A crate, I said. She was visibly relieved--Yes, that’s it, a crate. Why is it that we feel such satisfaction with the precise word, the impossible exactitude of naming a thing?
Today I was walking and came across the syllables of another language--a litter of jasmine flowers strewn across the ground, with no jasmine bushes in sight. Then a walking cane, abandoned in the grass, then a few feet farther on a bicycle lock with no bicycle. I felt the nostalgia for what was named, I intuited somewhere inside me what these things codified, something like ineffable freedom, unlikely escape. Maybe the same phrase as a man dancing at a bus stop? No. There was no joy in these things, just randomness, release, for a while, from what had formerly held them meaningful.
Maybe I will try not thinking about meaning at all--but just being in this little skin of mine. Impossible. I am reading Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged right now, which seems to be a disturbing pro-capitalist treatise on exalting the human being above all else. I am confused, G, pretty damn confused. Who is Jeff Foxworthy?
It is all the same anyway, just different codes for the nostalgia we feel for what remains unnamed. Your man dancing at the bus stop was a language for something you perceived about the world--even I could not really decode it, but I knew what it was pointing to was important and perhaps unnamable in any other tongue. You could be speaking sign language, and I could be watching, mystified, humbled by the beauty and poetry, though what you might be saying was something utterly simple, like, the water here tastes funny.
Sophie and I were walking behind Quacks the other day when she pointed to something on the ground and struggled to find the word for it--a box? I offered. No, she rejected emphatically. I thought harder. A crate, I said. She was visibly relieved--Yes, that’s it, a crate. Why is it that we feel such satisfaction with the precise word, the impossible exactitude of naming a thing?
Today I was walking and came across the syllables of another language--a litter of jasmine flowers strewn across the ground, with no jasmine bushes in sight. Then a walking cane, abandoned in the grass, then a few feet farther on a bicycle lock with no bicycle. I felt the nostalgia for what was named, I intuited somewhere inside me what these things codified, something like ineffable freedom, unlikely escape. Maybe the same phrase as a man dancing at a bus stop? No. There was no joy in these things, just randomness, release, for a while, from what had formerly held them meaningful.
Maybe I will try not thinking about meaning at all--but just being in this little skin of mine. Impossible. I am reading Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged right now, which seems to be a disturbing pro-capitalist treatise on exalting the human being above all else. I am confused, G, pretty damn confused. Who is Jeff Foxworthy?
Saturday, March 10, 2007
you are write
In response to your last entry I have written and deleted at least three different versions of this blog. It does not help at all that I have a seven year old talking nonstop in my ear while I am trying to write. Kids fighting in the other room, at least 2 TV's on with contrasting shows, and a cat next to me that may or may not live through the night. I feel inept at times corresponding with you. What would letters between Jeff Foxworthy and William Blake look like?
So in response I am curious, have you seen a movie called "Strangers In Good Company" ?
G.
So in response I am curious, have you seen a movie called "Strangers In Good Company" ?
G.
Friday, March 9, 2007
toward a phenomenology of radical departure
You won't know where I am heading here. Something about the man dancing at the bus stop -- what does he signify, what does he leave out? If I mention that I wanted to refer to this post as "erasure"-- of the things I would leave out and thereby posit as the ground (not the figure--that which is erased)...
Unknown we blink* to a paper on Derrida and Heidegger:
"One of the most important concepts in Derrida's analysis is the idea of "sous rature," (under erasure.) Heidegger often crossed out the word Being (Being) and let both the word and its erasure stand. He felt the Being was prior to and beyond signification or meaning, and hence to signify it was inadequate, though there existed no alternative. Derrida extends this practice to all signs. Since any signifier has as its signified another signifier, it always defers meaning and it always carries traces of other meanings. It must therefore be studied as defective, incomplete, under erasure."
Under the same title (erasure) I find this:
"He started to weep. He had told the story before, and had wept before. Each time it was like never before, he relived the pain each time. And, as thought leads to thought, standing there looking at the river, I felt an unexpected pang of my own. There was a sudden urgency in my groin, but her image flitted past quickly. Time, reliably, had dulled even that wound. It was getting cold, but I stood a while longer. How easy it would be, I thought, to slip gently into the water here, and go down to the depths. I knelt down, and trailed my hand into the Hudson. It was frigid. Here we all were, ignoring that water, paying as little attention as possible to the pair of black eternities between which our little light intervened. Our debt, though, to that light: what of it? We owed ourselves our lives."
This is from the lyrical writings of Teju Cole, whom I did not even know about until yesterday. What I am asking is this: what does it mean to say what we are saying, and what are we saying in all that we do not say, and what does it mean if what we say is crossed out, not mentioned, but still there, a visible, ghostlike shadow of a suggestion?
It would be a radical departure to dance at a bus stop, or to talk (walk--another erasure) away from who you think you are (your self erased) all the while your erased self gathers the force of Being from the echoes of graphite left on the page.
*Added: This was supposed to say "unknown weblink," but I learned long ago from Walker Percy that metaphor as mistake is the root of poetic meaning, so
unknown
we blink
to a paper on Derrida and Heidegger...
(instant beginning of a poem)
Unknown we blink* to a paper on Derrida and Heidegger:
"One of the most important concepts in Derrida's analysis is the idea of "sous rature," (under erasure.) Heidegger often crossed out the word Being (Being) and let both the word and its erasure stand. He felt the Being was prior to and beyond signification or meaning, and hence to signify it was inadequate, though there existed no alternative. Derrida extends this practice to all signs. Since any signifier has as its signified another signifier, it always defers meaning and it always carries traces of other meanings. It must therefore be studied as defective, incomplete, under erasure."
Under the same title (erasure) I find this:
"He started to weep. He had told the story before, and had wept before. Each time it was like never before, he relived the pain each time. And, as thought leads to thought, standing there looking at the river, I felt an unexpected pang of my own. There was a sudden urgency in my groin, but her image flitted past quickly. Time, reliably, had dulled even that wound. It was getting cold, but I stood a while longer. How easy it would be, I thought, to slip gently into the water here, and go down to the depths. I knelt down, and trailed my hand into the Hudson. It was frigid. Here we all were, ignoring that water, paying as little attention as possible to the pair of black eternities between which our little light intervened. Our debt, though, to that light: what of it? We owed ourselves our lives."
This is from the lyrical writings of Teju Cole, whom I did not even know about until yesterday. What I am asking is this: what does it mean to say what we are saying, and what are we saying in all that we do not say, and what does it mean if what we say is crossed out, not mentioned, but still there, a visible, ghostlike shadow of a suggestion?
It would be a radical departure to dance at a bus stop, or to talk (walk--another erasure) away from who you think you are (your self erased) all the while your erased self gathers the force of Being from the echoes of graphite left on the page.
*Added: This was supposed to say "unknown weblink," but I learned long ago from Walker Percy that metaphor as mistake is the root of poetic meaning, so
unknown
we blink
to a paper on Derrida and Heidegger...
(instant beginning of a poem)
Thursday, March 8, 2007
dancing at the bus stop
It is interesting that you mentioned cloistered life since just last night I dreamt I moved to a house in the mountains that was in walking distance of an abandoned cloister.
But what I would rather address with you is your self impressions. To me you are the one who gets out "there" and does things. I have always marvelled at how many people you know and have chosen to meet over the years. I recall one time having coffee with you and at least six different people came up to say hello to you. You need to give yourself credit for all the things you do and accomplish, it is much more than you think.
I came across an event recently that has had my head spinning with questions. I was in my car at a red light and there was a man at the bus stop. He was probably late forties, and he was dancing. Dancing at the bus stop on a Friday afternoon. He did not have an ipod or audience. At first I thought he must be on drugs (me of little faith), then I tried to think of other reasons that would cause a middle aged slightly chubby man to dance with abandon at a bus stop. It was Friday...was it pay day? Could a paycheck cause such jubilee? Maybe he just felt the urge to dance. And when was the last time I danced? I used to dance in my kitchen with E. He would grab my hand and twirl me, eventually moving in close to a slow dance. it made the kids giggle and me blush. I can even tell you the last time we danced and the song that was playing and that it was just a slow shuffling of our feet while I rested my head on his shoulder due to the fact that E. could barely breathe much less dance.
You dance. Your constant questioning is a dance. You may think of yourself thriving in a cloister, but I know it would not last long. It would only be a matter of time before I would be sitting in my car watching you dance at a bus stop.
G.
But what I would rather address with you is your self impressions. To me you are the one who gets out "there" and does things. I have always marvelled at how many people you know and have chosen to meet over the years. I recall one time having coffee with you and at least six different people came up to say hello to you. You need to give yourself credit for all the things you do and accomplish, it is much more than you think.
I came across an event recently that has had my head spinning with questions. I was in my car at a red light and there was a man at the bus stop. He was probably late forties, and he was dancing. Dancing at the bus stop on a Friday afternoon. He did not have an ipod or audience. At first I thought he must be on drugs (me of little faith), then I tried to think of other reasons that would cause a middle aged slightly chubby man to dance with abandon at a bus stop. It was Friday...was it pay day? Could a paycheck cause such jubilee? Maybe he just felt the urge to dance. And when was the last time I danced? I used to dance in my kitchen with E. He would grab my hand and twirl me, eventually moving in close to a slow dance. it made the kids giggle and me blush. I can even tell you the last time we danced and the song that was playing and that it was just a slow shuffling of our feet while I rested my head on his shoulder due to the fact that E. could barely breathe much less dance.
You dance. Your constant questioning is a dance. You may think of yourself thriving in a cloister, but I know it would not last long. It would only be a matter of time before I would be sitting in my car watching you dance at a bus stop.
G.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
cloistered away
Dear G,
Your time in Florida sounds stimulating, and I am always humbled by your ability to glean from the most mundane events, some sublime jewels of humanity and humility. You leap into the fray of life, laundry, kids, and all, and dance with chaotic abandon amidst it all. I often feel like I would be happier in a cloister, writing and receiving letters from dear correspondents. I seem to have more difficulty with real life relationships than literary ones. This has always been one of my deep issues with Zen Buddhism--that it requires such restraint in the face of life's rich pageant, control of every aspect of experience, shutting the door on dirt, and tears, and bocce ball.
I would like to be more life-embracing and less at arms-length intellectualizing and philosophizing. It seems the same somehow, to control life through strict meditative practices and codes of conduct, and to control life through carefully crafted language and emissions of thought.
I would like some freedom, some running-wild-and-naked-through-wheat fields type of blessed madness, some un-reflective moments of arguing over the chick across the street who has horned in our bocce ball game.
N
Your time in Florida sounds stimulating, and I am always humbled by your ability to glean from the most mundane events, some sublime jewels of humanity and humility. You leap into the fray of life, laundry, kids, and all, and dance with chaotic abandon amidst it all. I often feel like I would be happier in a cloister, writing and receiving letters from dear correspondents. I seem to have more difficulty with real life relationships than literary ones. This has always been one of my deep issues with Zen Buddhism--that it requires such restraint in the face of life's rich pageant, control of every aspect of experience, shutting the door on dirt, and tears, and bocce ball.
I would like to be more life-embracing and less at arms-length intellectualizing and philosophizing. It seems the same somehow, to control life through strict meditative practices and codes of conduct, and to control life through carefully crafted language and emissions of thought.
I would like some freedom, some running-wild-and-naked-through-wheat fields type of blessed madness, some un-reflective moments of arguing over the chick across the street who has horned in our bocce ball game.
N
Sunday, March 4, 2007
Home Again Home Again
Friend,
I have reluctantly returned. My time away was what I had expected it to be. relaxing, funny, sometimes boring but mostly nice. Staying with my mother is always a pleasure. Seriously. One night after she had gone to bed I started going through her things in the room where I slept. Looking in boxes, closets etc. I amassed a small pile of items I would ask her if I could take. As my hand was digging into a drawer it occurred to me that I was doing the exact thing to my mother that is done to me at home. I dream of a house where items remain in the places I last left them, of opening my closet and finding what I am looking for hanging there and not on my daughter as she walks out the door. I felt immediate guilt and put the pile of stashed goodies away. Does my mom need a vacation after I leave?
I also witnessed a gaggle of elder women by the pool in a heated debate. I parked my towell by the woman sitting alone engrossed in a book. The debate of the other women was loud and I was without a book so I listened in. What could cause such a stir among these overly tan women? It seems that an outsider had infiltrated their bocce ball team! And by outsider I mean a woman who does not live in their development. But, the daring woman had already paid her dues for the year so an emergency meeting was to be called. The debate went on for about thirty minutes, tho not much of a debate really since they already seemed to have tried and convicted her. She is unaware of her fate. How was she found out to be an intruder? She invited one of the women to a Valentine party at her place which was not at all in the same development but rather "ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE STREET." Cries of shock and disbelief were declared. I damn near thought they would gather up torches and storm the lying bocce ball players condo!
I picked up my towell, smiled at the woman alone with her book and thought, "Please God, let me that one."
G.
I have reluctantly returned. My time away was what I had expected it to be. relaxing, funny, sometimes boring but mostly nice. Staying with my mother is always a pleasure. Seriously. One night after she had gone to bed I started going through her things in the room where I slept. Looking in boxes, closets etc. I amassed a small pile of items I would ask her if I could take. As my hand was digging into a drawer it occurred to me that I was doing the exact thing to my mother that is done to me at home. I dream of a house where items remain in the places I last left them, of opening my closet and finding what I am looking for hanging there and not on my daughter as she walks out the door. I felt immediate guilt and put the pile of stashed goodies away. Does my mom need a vacation after I leave?
I also witnessed a gaggle of elder women by the pool in a heated debate. I parked my towell by the woman sitting alone engrossed in a book. The debate of the other women was loud and I was without a book so I listened in. What could cause such a stir among these overly tan women? It seems that an outsider had infiltrated their bocce ball team! And by outsider I mean a woman who does not live in their development. But, the daring woman had already paid her dues for the year so an emergency meeting was to be called. The debate went on for about thirty minutes, tho not much of a debate really since they already seemed to have tried and convicted her. She is unaware of her fate. How was she found out to be an intruder? She invited one of the women to a Valentine party at her place which was not at all in the same development but rather "ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE STREET." Cries of shock and disbelief were declared. I damn near thought they would gather up torches and storm the lying bocce ball players condo!
I picked up my towell, smiled at the woman alone with her book and thought, "Please God, let me that one."
G.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
dropping out for a week
Friend,
I will have to keep you waiting a little while for my thoughts on Ash Wednesday and Lent. But I do have forty days right? I am off to the land of sunshine, old people and dial-up. Taking a break from my life here. I will return. That is of course unless I decide to give myself up for Lent and find me a fisherman with a boat. Preferably one that will not need me to gut anything!
Here is to hoping I return a little more rested, and maybe a little more sane.
I will have to keep you waiting a little while for my thoughts on Ash Wednesday and Lent. But I do have forty days right? I am off to the land of sunshine, old people and dial-up. Taking a break from my life here. I will return. That is of course unless I decide to give myself up for Lent and find me a fisherman with a boat. Preferably one that will not need me to gut anything!
Here is to hoping I return a little more rested, and maybe a little more sane.
Friday, February 23, 2007
ash wednesday
Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely fans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.
--t.s.eliot
Although it is now ash friday, I feel compelled to report on the recent passage of the Wednesday in question, that being "ash" Wednesday. My mother used to tell us when we were little and compelled to give up things we really didn't want anyway, like lima beans, or bathing, that one day we might be called to a higher form of Lenten activities, such as Taking Something On. First, I should admit that I have never made it through Lent without cheating. Ever. Also, I don't really think of myself as a Christian--more like a Buddhist, but sometimes Jewish, or even Muslim. The word "syncretism" was made just for me. A friend once told me,"You don't really KNOW Jesus do you?" It really hurt my feelings, but I admit, I do not, even though I once wrote a short story where He showed up as a really hip pizza delivery guy.
I took on a spiritual practice for Lent. Meditation. I also took on one carbon-offsetting activity per week--riding my bike to work--because I received an email that asked me to do it, so I did. I receive all sorts of emails asking me to do things. I don't. Not usually. But I liked the idea of mixing up religion with something as complex and imminent as the destruction of the planet via emissions. I think Jesus would approve, and would probably be biking to work right now if He were here. (Would we still HAVE Lent if Jesus were here?)
My grandmother still gives up chocolate for Lent. It's the Big One for Episcopalians, who I think of as an elite class of consumers who truly suffer through the giving up of chocolate. That's why God gave us Easter.
I don't think there's much difference at heart in the tradition of Lent, and other abstaining traditions such as 40-day Sadhanas, or Ramadan. It's a time of year intended to do far more for us than I think we can gain from just giving up chocolate, "Prayers, fasting, charity, and self-accountability" are a few (can you cite Wikipedia without a reference note?), and sometimes just holding still, just for a moment.
But merely fans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.
--t.s.eliot
Although it is now ash friday, I feel compelled to report on the recent passage of the Wednesday in question, that being "ash" Wednesday. My mother used to tell us when we were little and compelled to give up things we really didn't want anyway, like lima beans, or bathing, that one day we might be called to a higher form of Lenten activities, such as Taking Something On. First, I should admit that I have never made it through Lent without cheating. Ever. Also, I don't really think of myself as a Christian--more like a Buddhist, but sometimes Jewish, or even Muslim. The word "syncretism" was made just for me. A friend once told me,"You don't really KNOW Jesus do you?" It really hurt my feelings, but I admit, I do not, even though I once wrote a short story where He showed up as a really hip pizza delivery guy.
I took on a spiritual practice for Lent. Meditation. I also took on one carbon-offsetting activity per week--riding my bike to work--because I received an email that asked me to do it, so I did. I receive all sorts of emails asking me to do things. I don't. Not usually. But I liked the idea of mixing up religion with something as complex and imminent as the destruction of the planet via emissions. I think Jesus would approve, and would probably be biking to work right now if He were here. (Would we still HAVE Lent if Jesus were here?)
My grandmother still gives up chocolate for Lent. It's the Big One for Episcopalians, who I think of as an elite class of consumers who truly suffer through the giving up of chocolate. That's why God gave us Easter.
I don't think there's much difference at heart in the tradition of Lent, and other abstaining traditions such as 40-day Sadhanas, or Ramadan. It's a time of year intended to do far more for us than I think we can gain from just giving up chocolate, "Prayers, fasting, charity, and self-accountability" are a few (can you cite Wikipedia without a reference note?), and sometimes just holding still, just for a moment.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
little towns she might have stopped in
I can’t NOT take the bait on that one. I have my philosophical front to uphold, and such a large investment in identity dilemmas that I will, of course, circle back to it, but imagine, if you will, just for a moment, a whole city of Johnsons. Would we dare go there alone, or would we walk down the sidewalk clutching one another’s elbows and giggling? (Now I do venture off into the Vagina Mono-blogs…)
A verse from one of my favorite poems:
You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile of
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in, lonely
I have that fantasy, too. I think this is partially a true story I have crafted into my own fantasy: a woman lives in a trailer on the edge of an abandoned landing strip in the middle of the Texas Panhandle. Her passion is photographing lightning. She has no friends, occasionally sleeps with cute cowboys she meets in bars, but never takes them home for fear that she might become attached to something other than the intense smell of ozone after a thunderstorm.
“If I'm lonely
it's with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
in the last red light of the year
that knows what it is, that knows it's neither
ice nor mud nor winter light
but wood, with a gift for burning “
-Adrienne Rich
A verse from one of my favorite poems:
You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile of
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in, lonely
I have that fantasy, too. I think this is partially a true story I have crafted into my own fantasy: a woman lives in a trailer on the edge of an abandoned landing strip in the middle of the Texas Panhandle. Her passion is photographing lightning. She has no friends, occasionally sleeps with cute cowboys she meets in bars, but never takes them home for fear that she might become attached to something other than the intense smell of ozone after a thunderstorm.
“If I'm lonely
it's with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
in the last red light of the year
that knows what it is, that knows it's neither
ice nor mud nor winter light
but wood, with a gift for burning “
-Adrienne Rich
Johnson City
As I was falling asleep last night I was contemplating your idea of shedding ourselves completely and starting anew. A number of years ago I drove to Johnson City. It has since become a thing, an idea, a verb. In my photography days I came across a pickup truck from the 30's. I took an entire roll with that subject. One shot in particular earned a printing, the title of the photograph was "johnson city". Small towns make me think about shucking myself and picking out a new identity. Maybe even give myself a new accent to create some mystery about me. "Have you met the new tennant over off of MainSt? I hear she just moved here from _______". Getting lost in a big city is more obvious, I like the challenge of a small town. I do think however my true self would eventually emerge, as would yours. Johnson City is out there and not going anhywhere, as are my deep seated views of how I should look.
I am in a reading lull at the moment but this came across my lap last night and made me think of you:
"Out there things can happen
and frequently do
to people as brainy
and footsy as you.
And when things start to happen,
don't worry. Don't stew.
Just go right along,
You'll start happening too."
Dr. Seuss
I am in a reading lull at the moment but this came across my lap last night and made me think of you:
"Out there things can happen
and frequently do
to people as brainy
and footsy as you.
And when things start to happen,
don't worry. Don't stew.
Just go right along,
You'll start happening too."
Dr. Seuss
blind horses and snow
Joko Beck says that sometimes we can try to push so hard through something that we just push whatever it is we are trying to break through underground. I see myself mustering as much intensity as possible to blindly get through what I cannot see, but only feel, like a great barrier. Blind horses being led to safety, or wild horses straining against their own release. Which is it, G., or is it both? I like that thought the best, blind wild horses in falling snow. You get the gently falling, healing snow, the ability to see Grace amidst the tanning salon clientele--I get constraint and escape, dialectical opposites and hard choices, and meanwhile miss the silence of the snowflakes.
I thought about you this morning in terms of your designation as G. Prayerful yet filled with life, following and breaking all the rules in turn, finding peace amidst the chaos. You abide, like no other. And you are funny. I have always loved that about you.
N.
I thought about you this morning in terms of your designation as G. Prayerful yet filled with life, following and breaking all the rules in turn, finding peace amidst the chaos. You abide, like no other. And you are funny. I have always loved that about you.
N.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Chasing wild horses huh? Funny because over the years I have seen you as a kind of wild horse looking to escape. I have watched you bang your head against the conventional fences that keep you. The house is nothing but a motivation to escape. The thing you need to remember is that for a horse to escape fire it has to be blindfolded and lead out.
As for new identities some believe N and G are not two separate individuals but one split. Which one stayed behind as the teacher? Which one left? They both did.
I dreamt of snow. Do you remember the kind of snow that comes down in large flakes? The silent snow that warms the ground? That was the snow of my dream. In the dream I was irritated with my job. I was working in a tanning salon and was very annoyed that my life had come to that. Then it began to snow and I left a room full of pastey people holding towells and goggles to go outside and look up at the snow.
As for new identities some believe N and G are not two separate individuals but one split. Which one stayed behind as the teacher? Which one left? They both did.
I dreamt of snow. Do you remember the kind of snow that comes down in large flakes? The silent snow that warms the ground? That was the snow of my dream. In the dream I was irritated with my job. I was working in a tanning salon and was very annoyed that my life had come to that. Then it began to snow and I left a room full of pastey people holding towells and goggles to go outside and look up at the snow.
quit your tents
Here G.is pondering the fate of her soul, and I am still narcissistically hung up on my new identity as N. This is probably because I’ve been hung up on identity for many weeks now, and playing identity fantasy scenarios like: What would happen if you walked out of your life completely, changed your name, clothes, hair, and all your preferences about everything--would you be the same person, or would your true self hunker down someplace inside you like a dormant virus just waiting to attack?
Prayer is a much more sane thing to be contemplating, G. And thighs, of course. I can be walking down the street all worried about global warming and suddenly think, Oh my God, I’ve got to lose weight. It seems do-able, within reach--not as daunting as figuring out how to live a carbon-neutral life.
We were talking about dreams. Here’s one for you, G. I was in a house designed by one of my favorite professors, D., somewhere near the edge of the mountains. All the students were touring the rooms, and staying over night. After dark I realized that the forest nearby was on fire. I rushed down to the barn by the river to try to let the horses out, but they were so wild, I couldn’t get close.
Anyway, prayer. Recently I re-read one of my favorite essays by Annie Dillard, “Teaching a Stone to Talk":
Prayer is a much more sane thing to be contemplating, G. And thighs, of course. I can be walking down the street all worried about global warming and suddenly think, Oh my God, I’ve got to lose weight. It seems do-able, within reach--not as daunting as figuring out how to live a carbon-neutral life.
We were talking about dreams. Here’s one for you, G. I was in a house designed by one of my favorite professors, D., somewhere near the edge of the mountains. All the students were touring the rooms, and staying over night. After dark I realized that the forest nearby was on fire. I rushed down to the barn by the river to try to let the horses out, but they were so wild, I couldn’t get close.
Anyway, prayer. Recently I re-read one of my favorite essays by Annie Dillard, “Teaching a Stone to Talk":
"The soul may ask God for anything, and never fail. You may ask God for his presence, or for wisdom, and receive each at his hands. Or you may ask God, in the words of the Shopkeeper’s little gag sign, to not go away mad, but just go away. Once, in Israel, an extended family of nomads did that. They heard God’s speech and found it too loud. The wilderness generation was at Sinai; it witnessed there the thick darkness where God was…It scared them witless. Then they asked Moses to beg God, please, never to speak to them directly again.”
N.
N.
firsts
I am feeling the fear of being the first to write. I am not a "first" kind of person. I usually react and leave the acting to others. With firsts comes risk, with firsts comes vulnerability, with firsts comes a brash attitude of "Here I am! Look at me!" I don't spend my time trying to forge new paths for myself,rather I would prefer to improve upon the path I am comfortable with. And that may be the one of least resistance. Last night I lit a candle of the Virgin Mary. I said a simple shout out to her "Mary help". No novenas, no counting beads, a generic request for help. Help me sleep through the night, help me lose weight help, me clean my house.
The candle was blinding in my otherwise dark room so I figured I would get no help on the sleep issue. Is it okay to ask for Divine Intervention for my thighs? Will having buns of steel bring me any closer to God?
I don't really expect Mary to help me with my housecleaning, we have already been told that "cleanliness is next to Godliness" I can only assume that this means I am meant to use my own elbow grease. But if this is the case is my self cleaning oven sent from the Devil and I am hellbound for cheating?
My Dear Friend, as you are off trying to improve upon and create new things in the world trust that I am here contemplating the fates of my thighs and the effects of modern technology on my soul.
G.
The candle was blinding in my otherwise dark room so I figured I would get no help on the sleep issue. Is it okay to ask for Divine Intervention for my thighs? Will having buns of steel bring me any closer to God?
I don't really expect Mary to help me with my housecleaning, we have already been told that "cleanliness is next to Godliness" I can only assume that this means I am meant to use my own elbow grease. But if this is the case is my self cleaning oven sent from the Devil and I am hellbound for cheating?
My Dear Friend, as you are off trying to improve upon and create new things in the world trust that I am here contemplating the fates of my thighs and the effects of modern technology on my soul.
G.
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