Our 96 year old house after the first day of snow. We got about 6 more inches after that, and are due for more over the next 24 hours.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
To the soundtrack of a Charlie Brown Christmas
I figure I have, at most, three viewers. Hello, love of my life! Hello old flame, whom I wish lived about 2000 miles closer! Hello rare and precious friend.
I am excited that we have been buried in snow this week, necessitating a rugged and heavily clothed approach to Christmas preparations. We have been doing some fairly glorious sledding. I have gathered most of the items from which the magic will be spun on Christmas eve. I have begun to anticipate the smells of Christmases past as I make my family's traditional dishes, and also to anticipate the children coming downstairs after Santa comes, their squeals of delight and their happy faces. It is one of those times when everything comes together despite the gaping holes left by the absence of loved ones, despite the emptiness of the religious overtones, despite the commercialism. What is left, after all these years, is the joy of seeing my children believing in magic for a day. It is also the precious gift of remembrance, the smells that take me back to my Grandmother's house, the ornaments I remember hanging on dozens of other trees. I am not a traditionalist, by any stretch, but for the past decade or more, I've felt like I live in a world I hardly recognize. I could never have predicted 20 years ago what my life would be like today...cell phones, the internet, my mysterious infatuation with science, my complete loss of faith in most things I took for granted, my strange husband, my even stranger kids...none of it is remotely as I imagined it would be. Why am I not an artist, and how the hell did I end up in the upper left corner of the country?
Christmas is a blessed bit of continuity in my unexpected life.
I am excited that we have been buried in snow this week, necessitating a rugged and heavily clothed approach to Christmas preparations. We have been doing some fairly glorious sledding. I have gathered most of the items from which the magic will be spun on Christmas eve. I have begun to anticipate the smells of Christmases past as I make my family's traditional dishes, and also to anticipate the children coming downstairs after Santa comes, their squeals of delight and their happy faces. It is one of those times when everything comes together despite the gaping holes left by the absence of loved ones, despite the emptiness of the religious overtones, despite the commercialism. What is left, after all these years, is the joy of seeing my children believing in magic for a day. It is also the precious gift of remembrance, the smells that take me back to my Grandmother's house, the ornaments I remember hanging on dozens of other trees. I am not a traditionalist, by any stretch, but for the past decade or more, I've felt like I live in a world I hardly recognize. I could never have predicted 20 years ago what my life would be like today...cell phones, the internet, my mysterious infatuation with science, my complete loss of faith in most things I took for granted, my strange husband, my even stranger kids...none of it is remotely as I imagined it would be. Why am I not an artist, and how the hell did I end up in the upper left corner of the country?
Christmas is a blessed bit of continuity in my unexpected life.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Still here
I'm still here, in case you were wondering. I'm slogging laboriously through Anatomy and Physiology, trying to eke out an A despite a hideously disorganized and immature teacher (hello, underpaid community college adjunct!) I have to wear a ridiculous respirator in the lab to keep my asthma under control in the presence of irritating formalin fumes from the preserved kitties, and my teacher actually laughed at me for wearing it!
I just worked my skinny old butt off for two weeks learning the muscles in humans and cats, only to have her not ask at all about the tricky extensors and flexors of the hands and feet, which should have been on the exam; to ask repeatedly (as in about four times each) for us to identify the rectus abdominus, the tibialis anterior, the sternocleidomastoid, and the external obliques; and to ask five questions the lab manual specifically said would not be on the exam. It's annoying having to keep this woman in line!
I'm busy, but I'm quite happy for the moment. I love being in school, and I really love science. I feel a vague nostalgia for art, and look longingly at my art materials occasionally, but I still believe that there will be time for that later. The chance that there will not be matters less and less.
I wish I could skip Christmas this year, though. I hate spending money on a Christian holiday. I think that as an atheist I should be exempt. Tell that to the kids, though.
I just worked my skinny old butt off for two weeks learning the muscles in humans and cats, only to have her not ask at all about the tricky extensors and flexors of the hands and feet, which should have been on the exam; to ask repeatedly (as in about four times each) for us to identify the rectus abdominus, the tibialis anterior, the sternocleidomastoid, and the external obliques; and to ask five questions the lab manual specifically said would not be on the exam. It's annoying having to keep this woman in line!
I'm busy, but I'm quite happy for the moment. I love being in school, and I really love science. I feel a vague nostalgia for art, and look longingly at my art materials occasionally, but I still believe that there will be time for that later. The chance that there will not be matters less and less.
I wish I could skip Christmas this year, though. I hate spending money on a Christian holiday. I think that as an atheist I should be exempt. Tell that to the kids, though.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Nasty-gram to a vandal
Last night a vandal slashed tires in my neighborhood, targeting cars with Obama bumper stickers. Just as a person who steals is a thief, the person who slashed those tires is a terrorist. The effect of his behavior is that people are now afraid to express their beliefs and opinions on their bumpers. This terrorist has undermined their freedom of speech. They are also worried that some worse act may follow, perhaps cut brake lines or a brick through a window. These victims do not feel safe in their own neighborhood. This terrorist cut into limited family budgets and kept people who are vital to the health of our community tied up dealing with disabled vehicles. Even those of us who were not targeted are victimized because we do not feel safe either, and our lives were disrupted by the effect of this action on our community.
I don’t know why the terrorist targeted Obama supporters. Perhaps he is a racist or a religious extremist. Perhaps he has bought into the hate and fear which so distorted some people’s view of our new President-elect. I do know that the terrorist has undermined his own cause. He has reinforced the notion that conservatives=racists=hate-mongers=religious extremists=terrorists. Like the Christians who repeatedly target the Scientologists down the street with vandalism, he has given his own cause a bad name. He is no better than the religious freaks who flew planes into the twin towers, and his actions have aligned him with their destructive sort of ideology.
I realize that people who commit acts like this in the dark of night are cowards. They rage against blacks or Democrats or other religions because they feel a sense of powerlessness and impotence in their own lives. Whatever their reasons, though, by their actions, they make themselves criminals. I hope they realize that, and I hope they can see that the only way they can redeem themselves is to confess and make reparations. Until they do, they are criminals, vandals, and terrorists.
When did I become such an angry woman?
I don’t know why the terrorist targeted Obama supporters. Perhaps he is a racist or a religious extremist. Perhaps he has bought into the hate and fear which so distorted some people’s view of our new President-elect. I do know that the terrorist has undermined his own cause. He has reinforced the notion that conservatives=racists=hate-mongers=religious extremists=terrorists. Like the Christians who repeatedly target the Scientologists down the street with vandalism, he has given his own cause a bad name. He is no better than the religious freaks who flew planes into the twin towers, and his actions have aligned him with their destructive sort of ideology.
I realize that people who commit acts like this in the dark of night are cowards. They rage against blacks or Democrats or other religions because they feel a sense of powerlessness and impotence in their own lives. Whatever their reasons, though, by their actions, they make themselves criminals. I hope they realize that, and I hope they can see that the only way they can redeem themselves is to confess and make reparations. Until they do, they are criminals, vandals, and terrorists.
When did I become such an angry woman?
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Twiddle
"I do not fear death, in view of the fact that I had been dead for billions and billions of years before I was born, and had not suffered the slightest inconvenience from it."
- Mark Twain
"Reality is whatever refuses to go away after I stop believing in it."
- Phillip K. Dick
Seven of our 90-ish resident Orca whales have apparently died, including the almost 100 year old matriarch. It makes me sad. I have seen them so many times, I have come to love them. I love the mysterious world they live in, and the mammalian breath they can hold for uncounted minutes. I love that they sing and love each other, and that they are still fundamentally mysterious to us in so many ways.
I've been wanting to go to San Juan Island for a couple of weeks. I haven't been there in a year and a half, since Mom's first posthumous birthday. I feel a compulsion to take the long ferry ride through her beloved green islands, to sit on her beach, and to just be for a bit. I need to let my pieces fall back into place. Maybe I'll see the whales.
- Mark Twain
"Reality is whatever refuses to go away after I stop believing in it."
- Phillip K. Dick
Seven of our 90-ish resident Orca whales have apparently died, including the almost 100 year old matriarch. It makes me sad. I have seen them so many times, I have come to love them. I love the mysterious world they live in, and the mammalian breath they can hold for uncounted minutes. I love that they sing and love each other, and that they are still fundamentally mysterious to us in so many ways.
I've been wanting to go to San Juan Island for a couple of weeks. I haven't been there in a year and a half, since Mom's first posthumous birthday. I feel a compulsion to take the long ferry ride through her beloved green islands, to sit on her beach, and to just be for a bit. I need to let my pieces fall back into place. Maybe I'll see the whales.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
My Apology
Christianity pisses me off. Every time I stumble through Christian stations on the car radio, I say either, “stupid Christians,” or, “fucking Christians,” depending on how painfully strident or prostrate the snippet they inflict upon me in their 2 seconds of air time is. It isn’t rational. It is a gut level, knee-jerk rage I feel every time I see another cattle-barn mega-church or hear a classic Christian phrase like, “God’s plan for us,” or “equally yoked.” I do have some good reasons for objecting to Christianity. All non-believers are familiar with them. Christians annoy everyone with their proselytizing, their smug assurance that they, and they alone are going to heaven, that they alone know God’s will. They try to change the laws of this beautifully secular nation to reflect their narrow values. They famously fail to follow the teachings of their so-called savior. Jesus was all about social justice, non-violence, and deepest integrity. He would have been best buddies with Ghandi, Martin Luther King, Mother Theresa, and John Lennon, but they actually think he’d prefer to associate with the likes of Sarah Palin or Billy Graham. Jesus was all about this life, today. He was about doing the right thing, not saving your sorry-ass soul. Heaven is a despicable lie designed to keep the underdogs of the world working for nothing so the rich can keep getting richer. Christians hurt us all with their condemnations of gays, their antagonism to other religions, their narrow-minded certainty that they know what is right for everyone, and their ignorant willingness to throw away what is magical and beautiful in this life for the promise of the next.
Those are not the only reasons I get so angry every time I am reminded of the existence of Christianity, though. I am angry because I was brought up to believe that shit. I was told that God loves me, that he knows my heart and really loves and accepts me. I was told that I would see all of my departed loved ones again in Heaven some day. I was told that my soul was eternal and would be united with God, himself, on judgement day. I never really understood it all. I couldn’t quite understand what I could ever do that would merit eternal hell. What kind of god would allow someone to burn for all eternity? How could there be any reason or benefit for that? That was the beginning of the end for me. God must be an asshole to be so cruel. Then I started thinking about the meaning of blood sacrifice, that God wanted Jesus, his only son, to die on the cross to redeem me for my sins. How barbaric! Sorry, but I’ve got no use for an asshole god like that. I have done nothing in my life to merit hell or blood sacrifice, and I’d rather burn for eternity than worship such an asshole! Then, in 1987, I had a spiritual journey. I fasted for three days, alone in the woods. I learned that life is mystery and miracle enough. There is no god, and no need for god. It took many more years for me to let go of it all, but that was the day my god died.
I really want to believe that I will see my beloved dead again. It is the most unbearable thing of all to think that I will not. It is unbearable to think that I will be parted from my own children by death. I want to believe that we are here for a reason, that our spark of life and brief arc of existence means something. I cling to the evidence I have. I cling to the rainbows and visions my Mother may have sent. I cling to the rare miracles I believe I have seen. They don’t add up to god any more, but they allow me to believe that there is more than we see. I still need that, and I guess that is the real core of my burning anger. I want a real discussion about the shape and origin of the universe, about our duties as members of society, about the wonder and potential of art and science. Instead I get creationism and bigotry and the politics of narrow minds. I have to spend $8,000 a year to get my kid the education he deserves because the public schools are busy pandering to the lowest common denominator. Do I blame Christians for all that? Yes, I do. Hell, I’ll even blame them for the fact that the US can’t go metric. Christians are skeptical of science. They think scientific curiosity is one of the devil’s tools! They think we’re in the final days, so global warming doesn’t matter. They are jamming on the brakes so we can’t reach for the next great paradigm. That’s why I hates them, Precious. That’s why.
Those are not the only reasons I get so angry every time I am reminded of the existence of Christianity, though. I am angry because I was brought up to believe that shit. I was told that God loves me, that he knows my heart and really loves and accepts me. I was told that I would see all of my departed loved ones again in Heaven some day. I was told that my soul was eternal and would be united with God, himself, on judgement day. I never really understood it all. I couldn’t quite understand what I could ever do that would merit eternal hell. What kind of god would allow someone to burn for all eternity? How could there be any reason or benefit for that? That was the beginning of the end for me. God must be an asshole to be so cruel. Then I started thinking about the meaning of blood sacrifice, that God wanted Jesus, his only son, to die on the cross to redeem me for my sins. How barbaric! Sorry, but I’ve got no use for an asshole god like that. I have done nothing in my life to merit hell or blood sacrifice, and I’d rather burn for eternity than worship such an asshole! Then, in 1987, I had a spiritual journey. I fasted for three days, alone in the woods. I learned that life is mystery and miracle enough. There is no god, and no need for god. It took many more years for me to let go of it all, but that was the day my god died.
I really want to believe that I will see my beloved dead again. It is the most unbearable thing of all to think that I will not. It is unbearable to think that I will be parted from my own children by death. I want to believe that we are here for a reason, that our spark of life and brief arc of existence means something. I cling to the evidence I have. I cling to the rainbows and visions my Mother may have sent. I cling to the rare miracles I believe I have seen. They don’t add up to god any more, but they allow me to believe that there is more than we see. I still need that, and I guess that is the real core of my burning anger. I want a real discussion about the shape and origin of the universe, about our duties as members of society, about the wonder and potential of art and science. Instead I get creationism and bigotry and the politics of narrow minds. I have to spend $8,000 a year to get my kid the education he deserves because the public schools are busy pandering to the lowest common denominator. Do I blame Christians for all that? Yes, I do. Hell, I’ll even blame them for the fact that the US can’t go metric. Christians are skeptical of science. They think scientific curiosity is one of the devil’s tools! They think we’re in the final days, so global warming doesn’t matter. They are jamming on the brakes so we can’t reach for the next great paradigm. That’s why I hates them, Precious. That’s why.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Take my ears, please!
Welcome to my pity party:
I have an inner ear disorder, Meniere's disease. It gives me my own personal symphony in my ears: I have a steel pipe being dragged through a distant alley in my right ear. My left ear has been playing the persistent hum of fluorescent lights for about 6 years, but for the past four weeks, it has also been entertaining me with the constant buzz of single engine planes, complete with Doppler effect. I got used to the pipes and the fluorescent hum, but the planes are getting to me.
Meniere's also causes vertigo. I don't tend to spin, though. I rock, or else I just feel off balance and motion sick. Mild vertigo wages a constant assault on several areas of my brain. It causes irritability and fatigue. It also causes something termed the channel effect. It's the tendency of vestibular disturbances to reduce the amount of information a person can correctly process at a time. I can usually keep dozens of tasks on schedule, managing my education, my family schedule, housekeeping, and bookkeeping, and still pay attention to the lively and fascinating chatter of my brilliant and verbose family. When Meniere's is active, though, I make stupid mistakes all the time. How am I going to make a 4.0 in Anatomy and Physiology this quarter if Meniere's is back to stay? I'm stubborn, though. For now, I am saying I will just have to work harder and be more careful.
Meniere's also causes hearing loss. I have been deaf to conversation in my left ear for about 6 years. My doctor has assured me that the disease is only in my left ear. I have known he was wrong for about 5 years, but only yesterday got the proof: I have lost 20 decibels at 500 hertz in my right ear. Now, in addition to the tinnitus and pressure I've had in both ears all along, and the rocking vertigo which argues that both ears are sending conflicting misinformation, I have documented low range hearing loss in both ears. I have a future of deafness to look forward to. Hopefully I won't have significant loss in my right ear for another 20 years. That is how long it took my left ear to get that bad. You never know, though. I guess I should listen to lots of music while I can.
I'm done moaning for now. I had to do this because it has been knocking around in my head, making me anxious and unhappy for almost a month now, and I thought I could yack it out on my blog and move the fuck on. Wish I could really unload it that easily, but there ain't no goddamn cure.
I have an inner ear disorder, Meniere's disease. It gives me my own personal symphony in my ears: I have a steel pipe being dragged through a distant alley in my right ear. My left ear has been playing the persistent hum of fluorescent lights for about 6 years, but for the past four weeks, it has also been entertaining me with the constant buzz of single engine planes, complete with Doppler effect. I got used to the pipes and the fluorescent hum, but the planes are getting to me.
Meniere's also causes vertigo. I don't tend to spin, though. I rock, or else I just feel off balance and motion sick. Mild vertigo wages a constant assault on several areas of my brain. It causes irritability and fatigue. It also causes something termed the channel effect. It's the tendency of vestibular disturbances to reduce the amount of information a person can correctly process at a time. I can usually keep dozens of tasks on schedule, managing my education, my family schedule, housekeeping, and bookkeeping, and still pay attention to the lively and fascinating chatter of my brilliant and verbose family. When Meniere's is active, though, I make stupid mistakes all the time. How am I going to make a 4.0 in Anatomy and Physiology this quarter if Meniere's is back to stay? I'm stubborn, though. For now, I am saying I will just have to work harder and be more careful.
Meniere's also causes hearing loss. I have been deaf to conversation in my left ear for about 6 years. My doctor has assured me that the disease is only in my left ear. I have known he was wrong for about 5 years, but only yesterday got the proof: I have lost 20 decibels at 500 hertz in my right ear. Now, in addition to the tinnitus and pressure I've had in both ears all along, and the rocking vertigo which argues that both ears are sending conflicting misinformation, I have documented low range hearing loss in both ears. I have a future of deafness to look forward to. Hopefully I won't have significant loss in my right ear for another 20 years. That is how long it took my left ear to get that bad. You never know, though. I guess I should listen to lots of music while I can.
I'm done moaning for now. I had to do this because it has been knocking around in my head, making me anxious and unhappy for almost a month now, and I thought I could yack it out on my blog and move the fuck on. Wish I could really unload it that easily, but there ain't no goddamn cure.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Chloe the Farting Princess
Chloe was born to a loving mother and father in a kingdom far away. From an early age the little girl had a strange gift. Her farts sounded like flutes, smelled like roses, and she could play any tune you might care to hear with that talented little bottom of hers.
Sadly, Chloe’s mother passed away when Chloe was still very young, and her father married a woman with two daughters just a bit older than Chloe. Chloe’s stepmother was not nice, nor were her two stepsisters. They forced Chloe to cook and clean, and, having no ear for music, they did not allow her to fart in the house.
In this kingdom, so far away, was a lonely prince. He had searched and searched for a beautiful girl to be his princess, but had not yet found her. So the king decided to have a royal ball, and invite all the young girls in the land to see if one might be beautiful and talented enough to win the heart of the prince. Royal servants were sent to the farthest reaches of the kingdom to place an invitation to the ball in the hands of every marriageable young girl in the land.
When a royal page arrived at Chloe’s house, she answered the door with a smile and a happy little trill of toots. The royal page’s eyes glazed over a moment, he swayed a bit, then said, “My, what a lovely aroma. Is it roses?” He shook his head as if to clear it, then continued, “Here is your invitation to the royal ball. Every young girl in the kingdom is invited to attend.”
The excitement in Chloe’s home was wild in the days leading up to the ball. Each of the stepsisters was certain she could win the prince’s heart if her dress was sumptuous enough, if her hair was piled up high enough on her head, if she smelled sweet enough. They all made Chloe sew their dresses, fix their hair, paint their nails, and tend to their preparations all day long. The poor girl was exhausted, but she was also excited. Each night after her stepsisters had finally gone to bed in their mud masks and curlers, Chloe sewed her own ball gown from the scraps of her stepsisters’ dresses, and perfumed it with her heavenly farts.
The day of the ball finally arrived in a flurry of final preparations. Chloe’s stepsisters primped and preened, piling their hair into mountains of curls, painting their faces, lacing their bulging bellies into their tight dresses. They looked almost lovely, if you didn’t look too close. Meanwhile, their mother had a plan to keep poor Chloe home from the ball so she would not get the chance to steal the prince’s heart. The rotten woman knew that Chloe had been secretly working on a dress of her own, and that it was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. If Chloe wore that dress to the ball, the prince was sure to fall in love with her rather than one of her stepsisters. Each morning, after Chloe had fallen asleep, exhausted from her many labors, her stepmother had come in and quietly picked loose the seams of Chloe’s dress. She didn’t pick them all the way loose, but just enough. When Chloe came downstairs in it on the eve of the ball, looking like a true princess, and her clumsy stepsister stepped on her hem, the whole dress simply fell apart and crumpled around her feet. Poor Chloe was heartbroken, her farts sounding a low lament as she crouched over her ruined dress. She knew she would never make it to the ball now. She wept and wept as her stepsisters rode off to the ball in their carriage, looking like a pair of bloated Barbie dolls.
The scent of Chloe’s sad gases, and the mournful tune they made carried out over the garden on the evening breeze. It wafted this way and that, like a butterfly amongst the trees of the nearby woods, and stole softly into the home of a forest fairy. The fairy, whose name was Priscilla, flitted out to see where the music and the lovely scent came from. She was enchanted, and very curious, so she followed the heartbroken lament carried on puffs of sweetest rose until BUMP! She crashed right into the bottom of dear Chloe, still weeping over her ruined dress. Chloe, in surprise, ended her lament suddenly with a discordant note that sounded like a bullfrog in love, blasting the fairy back a few feet. Priscilla hit the wall and slid down it, laughing so hard her tiny tummy ached. That was the best fart she’d ever heard!
“Ooh, who are you?” asked Chloe while the fairy still writhed on the floor in laughter.
Priscilla said, “I’m a fairy, of course. Where did you learn to fart like that?”
“I’ve been farting like this since I was a baby. Why?” said Chloe.
“It means you are part fairy, Chloe,” replied Priscilla, “ Only fairies fart roses and woodwinds. Say, our fairy clan is having a big party tonight to celebrate the blooming of the wildflowers in Fairy Meadow. Our orchestra is short one flute-farter. Would you consider coming to our party and playing with the fairy fart orchestra?”
“Oh,” said Chloe, looking sad again, “ I was planning to go to the prince’s ball tonight. He is looking for a girl to be his princess, and I made a beautiful gown especially for the...the...oh, boo-hoo-hoo....” Chloe started crying again.
“You mean this mess of silk and tulle around your feet?” asked the fairy. Chloe just nodded and cried. “I can fix your dress in a jiffy,” and, to Chloe’s amazement, the fairy began pulling silky gossamer threads from thin air and turning out shimmering lace and fine seams with it. She darted from the fabric piled at Chloe’s feet to Chloe’s shoulders, and back. Working her way down Chloe’s figure, she twirled and flitted, stitching together a graceful, beautifully fitted dress suffused with the magic and mystery of fairy artistry. Chloe looked wild and lovely, and as naturally stunning as a wildflower.
Chloe stood in amazement, looking down at her incomparable new gown, and breathlessly said, “Thank you.”
Priscilla waved her hand in a dismissive gesture and said, “Glad you like it. Of course, I could have done something really spectacular with fairy fabrics, but this should suffice to impress any human prince. Well, hadn’t you better get going?”
“Oh, yes,” said Chloe, startled out of her amazement. She thanked the fairy once more and fled, on foot, to the ball.
Chloe burst into the royal ballroom late and out of breath, her cheeks pink from the fresh evening air, tendrils of blonde hair curling around her face, freed from her hairdo during her run to the palace. She looked stunning in her fairy dress, and all eyes turned to her, including the prince’s. He was spellbound by her beauty. Her natural radiance and her magical dress set her apart from the other girls of the kingdom as if she were the one real rose in a room full of silk roses.
The prince abruptly abandoned the girl he had been dancing with and glided over to Chloe, his hand outstretched to invite her to dance with him. She nodded her head in gracious acceptance and moved to the dance floor with him. The band, which had fallen silent upon her entrance, began playing a lively jig, and Chloe and the prince let their feet fly in joyous dance. Her eyes were sparkling, his were gleaming, huge smiles on both of their faces as they spun and bounced nimbly around the dance hall. All the other dancers moved aside, stunned, and watched the two in envy. Chloe and the prince danced their joyful jig in rapt silence, simply smiling at each other and thinking they had each found their one true love. As the jig came to an end, Chloe gave a little shiver of excitement, and in the silence before the next tune, she emitted her most gleeful and beautiful fart song ever. She giggled a bit, and as the scent of roses wafted around the room, she saw that the mouths of the other dancers had fallen open, not in awe, but in horror. Chloe started to blush as she glanced back at the prince. He was stepping back, his mouth also open, his brow furrowing into a look disgust. Feeling as if her perfect dream were suddenly evolving into a nightmare, Chloe realized that everyone in the ballroom, including her handsome prince, was revolted by her fart song. She flushed deep red as her audience began to erupt in harsh laughter. She ducked her suddenly hot and embarrassed face into her hands and ran, almost blindly, for the door.
Chloe emerged from the dance hall at a full run, with no plan to stop, ever. She ran past her deserted village, past her own home, and into the woods beyond, until she was too winded and defeated to run any more. She tripped on a stump and fell face first into a pile of leaves and moss on the forest floor. Once again she cried and cried, morosely farting as she sobbed. She felt awful, thoroughly rejected, misunderstood, and mortified. How could she ever show her face again. She couldn’t even imagine going home because her rotten stepsisters would never let her forget her moment of supreme embarrassment. She cried until she got the hiccups, and her face was covered with tears, bits of leaves and moss sticking to her wet face and hands. Then she sat up and stared, trying to think what to do, tears still trickling down her face. As she sat and thought, a faint sound began to intrude upon her thoughts. It was wild and rhythmic and strange... music, but like none she had ever heard before. She cocked her head and listened hard, and suddenly she knew what the sound was. It was the fairy fart orchestra!
Chloe stood up, brushed most of the leaves and twigs off her face and dress, and began to pick her way through the woods toward the music. She wandered deeper and deeper into the darkening forest, following the sound. Finally she came upon the fairy gathering, inside a ring of ancient, moss-covered evergreens. A shaft of moonlight splashed silver light on glimmering fairy wings and lit up thousands of tiny white flowers on the mossy ground. Fireflies were weaving flickering green lights through the sweet night air. They seemed to be dancing with the fairies. Atop a big flat rock near the edge of the meadow, the fairy fart orchestra was in full rumpus. There were about twenty fairies, dancing like Japanese taiko drummers, in perfect rhythm as they played. Chloe started to dance. She couldn’t help it. The rhythm was so wild and free, she just had to dance with the fairies. She raised her arms and let herself move to the beat, stepping forward into the fairy circle. As she did, the fairies began to move aside to make space for her, to invite her into their midst. She saw Priscilla wave to her from her place in the orchestra, and waved back. Chloe felt a wild sense of joy and freedom here with the fairies. She thought briefly about her recent embarrassment at the palace, and about how miserable she had been just moments ago, and she shook it off like a bad dream. She started to fart with the fairies as she danced, weaving a wild and wondrous melody with her flute-like toots over the deeper, more rhythmic rumbles and drum beats of the orchestra. It was a truly magical music they made together.
Chloe danced and played with the fairy fart orchestra all night. They played loud and fast. They played slow and sad. They played the very mystery and magic of the forest all around, and they didn’t stop until the sky began to blush pink with sunrise. It was the most fun Chloe had ever had, and she felt she belonged with the fairies as she never had with other humans. She wanted to stay with them forever, but as day began to dawn, Priscilla and the rest of the orchestra came to Chloe and started to say thank you and goodbye to her. Chloe started to say, “But I want to come with you...”
“We’ll be back, Chloe.” the fairies said. “ We will play and dance here again at the next full moon. You are always welcome to join us. You are our very own flute farting princess!”
So Chloe started the long walk home, retracing her steps of the night before. She was tired, but exhilarated. She had a secret, a wonderful, wild, joyful secret she would never tell another human. When she finally crept quietly into her own home, where her family was still sleeping off their night at the palace, there was a small, private smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. In her bed at last, she closed her eyes and pulled her covers up to her chin and began to dream of dancing with the fairies.
Sadly, Chloe’s mother passed away when Chloe was still very young, and her father married a woman with two daughters just a bit older than Chloe. Chloe’s stepmother was not nice, nor were her two stepsisters. They forced Chloe to cook and clean, and, having no ear for music, they did not allow her to fart in the house.
In this kingdom, so far away, was a lonely prince. He had searched and searched for a beautiful girl to be his princess, but had not yet found her. So the king decided to have a royal ball, and invite all the young girls in the land to see if one might be beautiful and talented enough to win the heart of the prince. Royal servants were sent to the farthest reaches of the kingdom to place an invitation to the ball in the hands of every marriageable young girl in the land.
When a royal page arrived at Chloe’s house, she answered the door with a smile and a happy little trill of toots. The royal page’s eyes glazed over a moment, he swayed a bit, then said, “My, what a lovely aroma. Is it roses?” He shook his head as if to clear it, then continued, “Here is your invitation to the royal ball. Every young girl in the kingdom is invited to attend.”
The excitement in Chloe’s home was wild in the days leading up to the ball. Each of the stepsisters was certain she could win the prince’s heart if her dress was sumptuous enough, if her hair was piled up high enough on her head, if she smelled sweet enough. They all made Chloe sew their dresses, fix their hair, paint their nails, and tend to their preparations all day long. The poor girl was exhausted, but she was also excited. Each night after her stepsisters had finally gone to bed in their mud masks and curlers, Chloe sewed her own ball gown from the scraps of her stepsisters’ dresses, and perfumed it with her heavenly farts.
The day of the ball finally arrived in a flurry of final preparations. Chloe’s stepsisters primped and preened, piling their hair into mountains of curls, painting their faces, lacing their bulging bellies into their tight dresses. They looked almost lovely, if you didn’t look too close. Meanwhile, their mother had a plan to keep poor Chloe home from the ball so she would not get the chance to steal the prince’s heart. The rotten woman knew that Chloe had been secretly working on a dress of her own, and that it was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen. If Chloe wore that dress to the ball, the prince was sure to fall in love with her rather than one of her stepsisters. Each morning, after Chloe had fallen asleep, exhausted from her many labors, her stepmother had come in and quietly picked loose the seams of Chloe’s dress. She didn’t pick them all the way loose, but just enough. When Chloe came downstairs in it on the eve of the ball, looking like a true princess, and her clumsy stepsister stepped on her hem, the whole dress simply fell apart and crumpled around her feet. Poor Chloe was heartbroken, her farts sounding a low lament as she crouched over her ruined dress. She knew she would never make it to the ball now. She wept and wept as her stepsisters rode off to the ball in their carriage, looking like a pair of bloated Barbie dolls.
The scent of Chloe’s sad gases, and the mournful tune they made carried out over the garden on the evening breeze. It wafted this way and that, like a butterfly amongst the trees of the nearby woods, and stole softly into the home of a forest fairy. The fairy, whose name was Priscilla, flitted out to see where the music and the lovely scent came from. She was enchanted, and very curious, so she followed the heartbroken lament carried on puffs of sweetest rose until BUMP! She crashed right into the bottom of dear Chloe, still weeping over her ruined dress. Chloe, in surprise, ended her lament suddenly with a discordant note that sounded like a bullfrog in love, blasting the fairy back a few feet. Priscilla hit the wall and slid down it, laughing so hard her tiny tummy ached. That was the best fart she’d ever heard!
“Ooh, who are you?” asked Chloe while the fairy still writhed on the floor in laughter.
Priscilla said, “I’m a fairy, of course. Where did you learn to fart like that?”
“I’ve been farting like this since I was a baby. Why?” said Chloe.
“It means you are part fairy, Chloe,” replied Priscilla, “ Only fairies fart roses and woodwinds. Say, our fairy clan is having a big party tonight to celebrate the blooming of the wildflowers in Fairy Meadow. Our orchestra is short one flute-farter. Would you consider coming to our party and playing with the fairy fart orchestra?”
“Oh,” said Chloe, looking sad again, “ I was planning to go to the prince’s ball tonight. He is looking for a girl to be his princess, and I made a beautiful gown especially for the...the...oh, boo-hoo-hoo....” Chloe started crying again.
“You mean this mess of silk and tulle around your feet?” asked the fairy. Chloe just nodded and cried. “I can fix your dress in a jiffy,” and, to Chloe’s amazement, the fairy began pulling silky gossamer threads from thin air and turning out shimmering lace and fine seams with it. She darted from the fabric piled at Chloe’s feet to Chloe’s shoulders, and back. Working her way down Chloe’s figure, she twirled and flitted, stitching together a graceful, beautifully fitted dress suffused with the magic and mystery of fairy artistry. Chloe looked wild and lovely, and as naturally stunning as a wildflower.
Chloe stood in amazement, looking down at her incomparable new gown, and breathlessly said, “Thank you.”
Priscilla waved her hand in a dismissive gesture and said, “Glad you like it. Of course, I could have done something really spectacular with fairy fabrics, but this should suffice to impress any human prince. Well, hadn’t you better get going?”
“Oh, yes,” said Chloe, startled out of her amazement. She thanked the fairy once more and fled, on foot, to the ball.
Chloe burst into the royal ballroom late and out of breath, her cheeks pink from the fresh evening air, tendrils of blonde hair curling around her face, freed from her hairdo during her run to the palace. She looked stunning in her fairy dress, and all eyes turned to her, including the prince’s. He was spellbound by her beauty. Her natural radiance and her magical dress set her apart from the other girls of the kingdom as if she were the one real rose in a room full of silk roses.
The prince abruptly abandoned the girl he had been dancing with and glided over to Chloe, his hand outstretched to invite her to dance with him. She nodded her head in gracious acceptance and moved to the dance floor with him. The band, which had fallen silent upon her entrance, began playing a lively jig, and Chloe and the prince let their feet fly in joyous dance. Her eyes were sparkling, his were gleaming, huge smiles on both of their faces as they spun and bounced nimbly around the dance hall. All the other dancers moved aside, stunned, and watched the two in envy. Chloe and the prince danced their joyful jig in rapt silence, simply smiling at each other and thinking they had each found their one true love. As the jig came to an end, Chloe gave a little shiver of excitement, and in the silence before the next tune, she emitted her most gleeful and beautiful fart song ever. She giggled a bit, and as the scent of roses wafted around the room, she saw that the mouths of the other dancers had fallen open, not in awe, but in horror. Chloe started to blush as she glanced back at the prince. He was stepping back, his mouth also open, his brow furrowing into a look disgust. Feeling as if her perfect dream were suddenly evolving into a nightmare, Chloe realized that everyone in the ballroom, including her handsome prince, was revolted by her fart song. She flushed deep red as her audience began to erupt in harsh laughter. She ducked her suddenly hot and embarrassed face into her hands and ran, almost blindly, for the door.
Chloe emerged from the dance hall at a full run, with no plan to stop, ever. She ran past her deserted village, past her own home, and into the woods beyond, until she was too winded and defeated to run any more. She tripped on a stump and fell face first into a pile of leaves and moss on the forest floor. Once again she cried and cried, morosely farting as she sobbed. She felt awful, thoroughly rejected, misunderstood, and mortified. How could she ever show her face again. She couldn’t even imagine going home because her rotten stepsisters would never let her forget her moment of supreme embarrassment. She cried until she got the hiccups, and her face was covered with tears, bits of leaves and moss sticking to her wet face and hands. Then she sat up and stared, trying to think what to do, tears still trickling down her face. As she sat and thought, a faint sound began to intrude upon her thoughts. It was wild and rhythmic and strange... music, but like none she had ever heard before. She cocked her head and listened hard, and suddenly she knew what the sound was. It was the fairy fart orchestra!
Chloe stood up, brushed most of the leaves and twigs off her face and dress, and began to pick her way through the woods toward the music. She wandered deeper and deeper into the darkening forest, following the sound. Finally she came upon the fairy gathering, inside a ring of ancient, moss-covered evergreens. A shaft of moonlight splashed silver light on glimmering fairy wings and lit up thousands of tiny white flowers on the mossy ground. Fireflies were weaving flickering green lights through the sweet night air. They seemed to be dancing with the fairies. Atop a big flat rock near the edge of the meadow, the fairy fart orchestra was in full rumpus. There were about twenty fairies, dancing like Japanese taiko drummers, in perfect rhythm as they played. Chloe started to dance. She couldn’t help it. The rhythm was so wild and free, she just had to dance with the fairies. She raised her arms and let herself move to the beat, stepping forward into the fairy circle. As she did, the fairies began to move aside to make space for her, to invite her into their midst. She saw Priscilla wave to her from her place in the orchestra, and waved back. Chloe felt a wild sense of joy and freedom here with the fairies. She thought briefly about her recent embarrassment at the palace, and about how miserable she had been just moments ago, and she shook it off like a bad dream. She started to fart with the fairies as she danced, weaving a wild and wondrous melody with her flute-like toots over the deeper, more rhythmic rumbles and drum beats of the orchestra. It was a truly magical music they made together.
Chloe danced and played with the fairy fart orchestra all night. They played loud and fast. They played slow and sad. They played the very mystery and magic of the forest all around, and they didn’t stop until the sky began to blush pink with sunrise. It was the most fun Chloe had ever had, and she felt she belonged with the fairies as she never had with other humans. She wanted to stay with them forever, but as day began to dawn, Priscilla and the rest of the orchestra came to Chloe and started to say thank you and goodbye to her. Chloe started to say, “But I want to come with you...”
“We’ll be back, Chloe.” the fairies said. “ We will play and dance here again at the next full moon. You are always welcome to join us. You are our very own flute farting princess!”
So Chloe started the long walk home, retracing her steps of the night before. She was tired, but exhilarated. She had a secret, a wonderful, wild, joyful secret she would never tell another human. When she finally crept quietly into her own home, where her family was still sleeping off their night at the palace, there was a small, private smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. In her bed at last, she closed her eyes and pulled her covers up to her chin and began to dream of dancing with the fairies.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
24 years ago
From bed I fall
for vaporous dawn and pearly skies,
skip and leap down steep slopes
to the rails:
infinity, straight-pinned to earth.
Like clocks tick,
my feet take tracks.
Liquid shoulders roll,
tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
The sun rounds,
up through the horizon,
mirroring sunset over a distant land.
The rails curve away.
Long, mindless trek,
gone so far, must have flown.
I sit, rail hard under my hand on the bridge,
Sun up, sky solid.
Over Still Creek, thick with algae,
I drop a rock.
Green-cake breaks with a muffled plunk
ripples liquid dark below.
I have to pee,
never can stay
still for long.
Faintly more aware I walk
home.
for vaporous dawn and pearly skies,
skip and leap down steep slopes
to the rails:
infinity, straight-pinned to earth.
Like clocks tick,
my feet take tracks.
Liquid shoulders roll,
tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.
The sun rounds,
up through the horizon,
mirroring sunset over a distant land.
The rails curve away.
Long, mindless trek,
gone so far, must have flown.
I sit, rail hard under my hand on the bridge,
Sun up, sky solid.
Over Still Creek, thick with algae,
I drop a rock.
Green-cake breaks with a muffled plunk
ripples liquid dark below.
I have to pee,
never can stay
still for long.
Faintly more aware I walk
home.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Too much science
After years of repeatedly throwing herself headlong into a wall in fierce pursuit of her elusive muse, our heroine finally thought of a new tactic...sidle up on the muse quiet-like and slow, while reading a heavy textbook to avoid any suspicious look of creative yearning. Of course, the muse is a mythological being, and any real creative pursuit should focus instead on potent catalysts, sustainable fuels, and rich substrates. Consequently, the muse will become "saturated" with substrate and the initial velocity (v) of the catalyzed reaction will react a limiting value called the maximum velocity (Vmax). Goddamn overly fascinating textbook. Now, what was I saying?
Psyche
The soul is nothing,
My desperate self cast against emptiness,
and comes with its own physic,
a doll I prop up in my chair.
My desperate self cast against emptiness,
and comes with its own physic,
a doll I prop up in my chair.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Mark,
Over twenty years ago you told me you believed that life spirals out in ten year cycles, each rotation bringing us not back to where we were, but to someplace very similar. I thought you were full of your usual bluster and bullshit and idiosyncrasy, but you were right. Every ten years, at the start of a new decade of my life, death visits. There are other landmarks I seem to pass about every ten years, but death once a decade is the most striking.
The first death in my life was my great uncle when I was ten. It was strange, surprising, and disturbing, but mostly unfathomable. I didn't realize before then that death could happen to someone I knew.
At twenty I faced my own mortality during 22 days in the wilderness of the North Cascades. By day I slogged and hauled my weak and weary flatlander bones up and over dozens of stunning, awe-inspiring, soul-searingly beautiful mountain passes and summits. By night I shivered in my sleeping bag and dreamed of falling endlessly into the void over razor-blade shale and tumbling boulders. Life by day, death by night. In the final week of the trip, I spent three days fasting in complete solitude under the shelter of pine trees laced with sun-gilt gossamer, rich humus smell of dirt for sustenance and cold babbling creek to slake my thirst. On the third day my mind and heart slowed down to the resonance of the place and I saw that there was no need for gods. Life was enough.
At thirty, I almost died. I came close enough to sense the void again, but this time I was under cold fluorescent lights, my skin was clammy and greenish from septic shock. I was run down from weeks in Thailand and Myanmar, living like the indestructible globe trotter I never was. My family was summoned and came from the four corners of the world to see if I would survive that first night. On some level I didn't. Any illusions I had about my own permanence or importance were lost when I discovered that there is no fighting death. It bloomed in my chest and raged in my blood, and I was not even conscious most of the time. I suffered and emerged and could take no credit for my fortune.
When I was forty, death took my mother. As she breathed her last, and my gaze drifted out the window to the great Red Cedar tossing its boughs in the wind, I felt the pull of the void again and said, "I'm not coming with you, mom, not yet. I've got kids to raise and a life to live." Mom gives us rainbows whenever we meet, my brother and me. She really does. The first was just before her memorial when we met at her favorite beach on San Juan Island. It was a strange feather of rainbow, high above the beach in the middle of the clear blue sky.
After each of these passes, I felt like I'd been cut loose from whatever it was I had been thinking my life was about. I felt untethered and terrified, but also inspired, magical, like anything is possible. It's like being on a plane, and seeing that there is nothing I cannot leave behind. Gravity itself seems like an illusion. Art pulls at me then. I get very creative, poetic, strange and deeply alive, but it doesn't last. I always choose love over art. There are no other options, and I don't have the mind for both.
It's been two years since mom died, and I am trying to hold on to the depth and inspiration her passing brought me, but the days get lost in love and family. I can't maintain the weightlessness.
The first death in my life was my great uncle when I was ten. It was strange, surprising, and disturbing, but mostly unfathomable. I didn't realize before then that death could happen to someone I knew.
At twenty I faced my own mortality during 22 days in the wilderness of the North Cascades. By day I slogged and hauled my weak and weary flatlander bones up and over dozens of stunning, awe-inspiring, soul-searingly beautiful mountain passes and summits. By night I shivered in my sleeping bag and dreamed of falling endlessly into the void over razor-blade shale and tumbling boulders. Life by day, death by night. In the final week of the trip, I spent three days fasting in complete solitude under the shelter of pine trees laced with sun-gilt gossamer, rich humus smell of dirt for sustenance and cold babbling creek to slake my thirst. On the third day my mind and heart slowed down to the resonance of the place and I saw that there was no need for gods. Life was enough.
At thirty, I almost died. I came close enough to sense the void again, but this time I was under cold fluorescent lights, my skin was clammy and greenish from septic shock. I was run down from weeks in Thailand and Myanmar, living like the indestructible globe trotter I never was. My family was summoned and came from the four corners of the world to see if I would survive that first night. On some level I didn't. Any illusions I had about my own permanence or importance were lost when I discovered that there is no fighting death. It bloomed in my chest and raged in my blood, and I was not even conscious most of the time. I suffered and emerged and could take no credit for my fortune.
When I was forty, death took my mother. As she breathed her last, and my gaze drifted out the window to the great Red Cedar tossing its boughs in the wind, I felt the pull of the void again and said, "I'm not coming with you, mom, not yet. I've got kids to raise and a life to live." Mom gives us rainbows whenever we meet, my brother and me. She really does. The first was just before her memorial when we met at her favorite beach on San Juan Island. It was a strange feather of rainbow, high above the beach in the middle of the clear blue sky.
After each of these passes, I felt like I'd been cut loose from whatever it was I had been thinking my life was about. I felt untethered and terrified, but also inspired, magical, like anything is possible. It's like being on a plane, and seeing that there is nothing I cannot leave behind. Gravity itself seems like an illusion. Art pulls at me then. I get very creative, poetic, strange and deeply alive, but it doesn't last. I always choose love over art. There are no other options, and I don't have the mind for both.
It's been two years since mom died, and I am trying to hold on to the depth and inspiration her passing brought me, but the days get lost in love and family. I can't maintain the weightlessness.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Like the new look? The old white type on black background was doing a number on my old eyes, so there ya go.
It's a soggy, droopy drip of a sunday here in B'ham. I'm sewing a McGonagall costume to wear for my second son's Harry Potter birthday party next weekend. It ain't half bad. Next I must transfigure my spouse into Snape. It's a bit of a stretch, but I think we can pull it off.
I'm also baking a peach pie to fool my stepdad into thinking I've cooked him a great meal this evening, when it will really be leftover ham made into simple pasta carbonara with garlicky lacinato kale and some glazed carrots.
I comfort myself with all this domesticity. I went to a Bat Mitzvah yesterday. It was the first time I ever set foot in a synagogue, and it was lovely. The synagogue itself was simple, small, lovingly and sensitively cared for. I already knew a large percentage of its members. Somehow all my friends and neighbors in Bellingham seem to be Jewish. It all kind of made me wish I was. Maybe it wouldn't matter that I've lost the ability to believe in the old patriarch if I could still go through the rituals of caring and participating in the passages of life and community. The Bat Mitzvah was a perfect ritual to honor a young woman. She had the opportunity to teach a lesson from a bit of Torah reading that was assigned to her. She chose to interpret the lavish promises and dire warnings of Moses at the side of the Jordan as warnings to us not to trash our world. Hers was a strident environmentalist message, similar to the one I'm often guilty of assaulting people with. She was heard and rewarded with praise for her thoughts and beliefs and wisdom, though she is only 13. What a profound honor for her. It was sincere and loving and very inspiring. It made me wonder what sort of coming of age ritual my kids might have with their non-believer parents. I formulated the ingredients in my ideal coming of age ritual: a course of study or physical trial to develop a sense of accomplishment, a mentor, a community service project, a ceremony, and a celebration. All of these were parts of the event I witnessed yesterday. I suppose a secular version wouldn't be hard to create, but what community would gather to support this offspring of atheists? I guess the Unitarian Universalists are always game.
It's all so much harder when you can't just work from a template. Why bother? Because the self-confidence, determination, and support that young lady earned yesterday will carry her far in this world, with or without the vengeful deity dude.
It's a soggy, droopy drip of a sunday here in B'ham. I'm sewing a McGonagall costume to wear for my second son's Harry Potter birthday party next weekend. It ain't half bad. Next I must transfigure my spouse into Snape. It's a bit of a stretch, but I think we can pull it off.
I'm also baking a peach pie to fool my stepdad into thinking I've cooked him a great meal this evening, when it will really be leftover ham made into simple pasta carbonara with garlicky lacinato kale and some glazed carrots.
I comfort myself with all this domesticity. I went to a Bat Mitzvah yesterday. It was the first time I ever set foot in a synagogue, and it was lovely. The synagogue itself was simple, small, lovingly and sensitively cared for. I already knew a large percentage of its members. Somehow all my friends and neighbors in Bellingham seem to be Jewish. It all kind of made me wish I was. Maybe it wouldn't matter that I've lost the ability to believe in the old patriarch if I could still go through the rituals of caring and participating in the passages of life and community. The Bat Mitzvah was a perfect ritual to honor a young woman. She had the opportunity to teach a lesson from a bit of Torah reading that was assigned to her. She chose to interpret the lavish promises and dire warnings of Moses at the side of the Jordan as warnings to us not to trash our world. Hers was a strident environmentalist message, similar to the one I'm often guilty of assaulting people with. She was heard and rewarded with praise for her thoughts and beliefs and wisdom, though she is only 13. What a profound honor for her. It was sincere and loving and very inspiring. It made me wonder what sort of coming of age ritual my kids might have with their non-believer parents. I formulated the ingredients in my ideal coming of age ritual: a course of study or physical trial to develop a sense of accomplishment, a mentor, a community service project, a ceremony, and a celebration. All of these were parts of the event I witnessed yesterday. I suppose a secular version wouldn't be hard to create, but what community would gather to support this offspring of atheists? I guess the Unitarian Universalists are always game.
It's all so much harder when you can't just work from a template. Why bother? Because the self-confidence, determination, and support that young lady earned yesterday will carry her far in this world, with or without the vengeful deity dude.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Disillusioned
I’m missing something. That’s why I keep trying to make contact with you, old friend. In the still moments of my days, I start to panic, casting around for something to engage me...a book, a song, something to learn, something to do, because I feel adrift. I think you know what I mean. Something about losing my mom a couple of years ago set something in motion, some chain of reasoning I couldn’t stop, and it left me with no god, no father, no mother, no connection to my past, no sense that I am connected at all, to anyone but my kids, and sometimes my spouse. It isn’t grief, nor is it some cynical or depressive pose. I don’t feel sad, I just feel very compact and a bit too light, like an astronaut without a mother ship. I float, see? I am a little too aware of how alone we all are, really, too aware of how fragile and brief it all is, and I don’t know what to do. This isn’t what I thought mid-life would be like. I thought the way I’d feel about my husband and kids would be similar to the depth, the all encompassing immersion I felt in the family of my childhood. It wasn’t all good. I remember inventing a father for myself, and cramming my brief encounters with my real fuck-up drunk of a dad into that ill-fitting mold. It fit, then, and I didn’t call him anything but dad. I loved him. I remember my mother, her love and her need and her never ending ill health. I always feared that she would leave, but I never really thought she would. I remember my magical grandmother. I thought I could carry her magic forward in my own life. It’s harder than it looks. I remember god. I remember being moved to tears by the certainty that some larger than life parent figure would always love me and guide me. I remember myself, all talent and faith and possibility. I actually thought I was special, arrogance of a youth that lasted way too long, apparently. So what do you do when you finally understand? Pick up and carry on? Is that it? Is there no way to make the present feel as convincingly solid and real as the past? Even the past has lost its solidity, like a play after you’ve watched the set come down and the actors come out without their makeup and costumes. I guess I’m disillusioned.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
On a Roll
So far, today has been delicious. I got my kayak out for the first time in almost a year. I injured a shoulder in February, and it has continued to be painful ever since. Despite that, I hauled my boat on and off the van and into the water with minimal help, and felt fine paddling. It was perfect paddling conditions in the bay...warm and smooth and still. I put in at Marine Park and paddled south past herons and eagles and the occasional school of fish to Teddy Bear Cove. I was hoping to see a hooded nudibranch in the eelgrass. I'm sure they were there, but I didn't see any. I love being on the water. It is such a strange thing to ride on the sloping shoulders of a heaving, teeming, thoroughly inhuman world. Sometimes the surface deflects my curious gaze like a mirror, then a swell rises in front of me and as it slopes upward I can see right through, as if there were no barrier at all. It is hypnotic and rhythmic and seductive. I'm scared to death of it sometimes. An acquaintance died in that water this year, on a sunny day, paddling with a friend.
Now I am alone, a very rare treat. My husband and kids are all at the theater. I could listen to loud music and dance...I could veg in front of something really worthless on the tube (I never do that, but I miss it occasionally)...I could bake something celebratory for my two little actors who are performing at said theater...I could sleep...I could draw or paint.... Whatever I'm going to do, I'm not telling you!
Friday, August 15, 2008
I guess I do feel like blogging
I went dancing with a friend recently. It was the first time I've gone out to dance in a full decade, and it was insane...wild, slightly drunken, deliriously joyful fun. The band was, reggae with a very contemporary sound and big energy. In the weeks that followed, a poem percolated up through the gray matter (look to the upper left), and I found myself daydreaming, doodling, and scheming as I did before I had kids. Cool, thought I, there's still a kernel of my original self under all this efficient maternal hooha. Then, a month or so later, I hear from Jeff, of local comments fame (see below). This, o best beloved, is of gravest significance because Jeff does not know that I was ever less than fascinating. He knows that I was a distinctly dysfunctional artist and girlfriend type person, but he and I lost touch once I committed myself to wifedom and motherhood. Poor Jeff is a busy man, way too busy to delve far into the waters of rekindled friendship or even introspection, but I could just box up a big mess of kisses and UPS them to him for contacting me again because he has sparked yet another smoldering flame in my soul furnace ( and he gives great creative advice). I may be becoming a touch manic in my old age, but I prefer to think I am just reaching my creative and intellectual prime, and not a minute too soon. I cling to each ember and pray for critical mass. Stick around and watch, won't you?
long time no blog
Hello Jeff, Thanks for reminding me I was once, briefly, a blogger. Not sure I want to maintain the habit, though. I'll have to think about it. I mean, really, do I want to share my innermost thoughts, or even my outermost ones with the world at large? If I do, is it right for me to wantonly waste the time of whomever might stumble upon my ramblings? Maybe I should. I have so many thoughts, and they often seem important to me. Perhaps a blog is a measure of the worth of ones thoughts. That's a scary one, that is.
Kisses and fond memories....Wraitch
Kisses and fond memories....Wraitch
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)