So she challenged me, with words. Not a duel so much as a "get out of your tax return right brain mode and play" kind of challenge.
here are the words:
grass,idea,rain,wood,upon,chant,fever,compose,smear,write,find
here was the result, leaving me happy to write prose.
I don't know
if it was the grass we smoked
or the fever of lust,
but when he scattered kisses
in a chant across my thighs
and let his weight down upon me,
his body hard wood,
I got the idea that I could write.
Though before
I could compose the words,
he left me
with a smear of what had once been
love.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Monday, October 09, 2006
barking at the sky
Whether it is because we are between Ellington Field and NASA, or close to the water or what, we get all sorts of interesting aircraft flying over the house. Fighter jets, hot air balloons, antique war planes--a regular air show if you want to sit out and watch it.
I'm sitting in my kitchen with my laptop, waiting for the new battery (ah) to run down so that it will stay as charged as possible for as long as possible. Then I have to plug everything in and deal with the work that waits for me. But i was reading for a few minutes with the back door opened, so the animals can come in and out and I can feel the real air. It is cloudy today, and cool, and the air is soft. Cool, here, of course means it's in the low 80s.
All of a sudden, Scout started barking. She always barks at the doorbell or when strangers approach,
and we've had all sorts of odd break ins in the neighborhood lately...so I was a little concerned...this is the back of the house, no service people due, and she wasn't moving like there was someone at the gate.
I looked out, and realized she was barking at the sky.
A blimp, SANYO across its side, flying so close it made her feel insecure. I tried calming her, but she kept barking until it was out of sight.
Something about it makes me feel like I am doing just that, futile though it is. Just barking at the sky.
edit: make that a Lightship.
I'm sitting in my kitchen with my laptop, waiting for the new battery (ah) to run down so that it will stay as charged as possible for as long as possible. Then I have to plug everything in and deal with the work that waits for me. But i was reading for a few minutes with the back door opened, so the animals can come in and out and I can feel the real air. It is cloudy today, and cool, and the air is soft. Cool, here, of course means it's in the low 80s.
All of a sudden, Scout started barking. She always barks at the doorbell or when strangers approach,
and we've had all sorts of odd break ins in the neighborhood lately...so I was a little concerned...this is the back of the house, no service people due, and she wasn't moving like there was someone at the gate.I looked out, and realized she was barking at the sky.
A blimp, SANYO across its side, flying so close it made her feel insecure. I tried calming her, but she kept barking until it was out of sight.
Something about it makes me feel like I am doing just that, futile though it is. Just barking at the sky.
edit: make that a Lightship.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
sweet
Every once in a while I actually send something out for publication, and every once in a while, someone likes it. The good folks at Long Story Short are publishing me this month. Here's the direct link to my story Outfield.
Nice publication, and I'm flattered to be in such good company.
Nice publication, and I'm flattered to be in such good company.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
is this heaven?
When I woke at five a.m. I was surprised to see so much light. My senses and the chart I downloaded suggested that it was too early for the day to begin. I was thirsty though, so I got up anyway…to every light in the house blazing. I checked the garage, assured that both of the young adults, who live here from time to time, checked their rooms, and went back to bed. There is a cycle going on here and most days, it takes my breath away. That's not a bad thing.
Is this heaven?
The cold rusty taste of well water reminded me of my grandmother's house, the metallic flavor of childhood bubbling up from the fresh spring. A small river ran alongside the park housing the "fountain" …the fountain being little more than a copper pipe stuck into the spring, and a catch basin made of iron or something non-descript, funneling the unused water back to the ground to be cleansed, and bubble up again.
Fresh air, air that didn't make me feel dirty, that made my skin soft and kissed my hair into relaxed curls, blew in gentle breezes and I enjoyed the scent of the Midwest, grass and woods and trees and …home. Parts of home I'd not enjoyed since before my mother was sick and no longer able to get outside, every trip back spent indoors, or running errands, or the non-stop eating that is the essence of socializing in farm country.
We walked along the river awhile, past a butterfly and perennial garden bordered by a stone path, a small refuge. It seemed more like a preliminary graveyard to me…memorial benches and such scattered among the trees. It would have made sense if the park overlooked the river, but it didn't. Next door was a metal pole barn, across the road, someone's house. Strange.
We walked on and came to the cemetery, where the family engaged in the annual spelling of the surname debate… one side spelling it with an "o," the other with an "e." My role was to offer logical educated theories, none of which were given any credence. I figured any family not close enough to know why one brother spelled his name one way while another spelled his differently didn't need any more of my attention, so I wandered away from Rasmus and Sine's grave, and that of their infant daughter whose name was no longer legible on the carved stone tablet. I walked a few hundred yards, and browsed. Obelisks hewn of soft, white stone…definitely not marble, marked graves of entire families, some born and dead in the same week, or month, or day. Many of the simple monuments marked the graves of both infant and mother, none with the poetry I'd like to think belonged there. But these were pioneers, old country Norwegians and Danes and their heritage didn't leave room for the fussiness of words at such times. Stoicism must have come from Scandinavia.
We came back to the house, and my youngest pulled me aside. "Have you noticed that I'm the only one whose picture isn't up?" He doesn't understand. I don't either. I took the risk when my son, my spouse, his brother and father went to play golf. I told my mother-in-law it hurt his feelings. I wasn't sure she'd care; she's never warmed to this child. Still, I had to say something. The omission seemed so blatant, and cruel, especially when he'd ridden 18 hours one way on his last weekend of summer to visit her.
Later, she brought me three folders. The meticulously organized folders were filled with obituaries and photographs of ancestors from my husband's family long gone, some of them from recent years, some from centuries ago. Mostly, they were lists of names and dates of death and birth. In many cases, there were cemeteries listed, so that markers could be located for the deceased. And in the back of the last folder, there were several pages, handwritten in beautiful script. The same script, over and over, as if rehearsing for some handwriting test. My mother in law had been told how important it is for a family to preserve their memories. She was trying, I think, to understand family, but what she'd written was mostly a tribute to her own mother. Her last sentence said: "She is not only my mother, she is my best friend."
The narrative was written the year before her mother died. I saw something in those words that I'd never seen from this woman who, intentionally or not, has antagonized me for nearly 30 years. I saw her as a person. A person who was pacing the kitchen the whole time I was reading. A person who I've felt judge my meager attempts at cooking, cleaning, and other things that are the province of women from her era. And I saw that the tables were reversed, that she was nervous of the judgment I might pass over her attempt at something that I do. So I was honest, and gave her what I give the other people whose words are important.
"This is great," I said. "You should write more."
She breathed and I wonder if she knew she'd been holding her breath. "Thanks. I like to write."
The rest of the family returned after that, and she made a show of pulling out another box, and sifting through its contents until she found what she was looking for. She wiped the dust from the simple frame and carried it to the living room: my youngest, proud in his baseball uniform. Then she stopped and fluffed his hair.
The trip left me aching, lonely for the things that will never be again. But it also gave me some perspective on things I never quite understood.
As we crossed the countryside between their house and the interstate, taking in the luscious rows of tall corn and verdant soybeans, sectioned off in perfect one mile squares, I felt connected to the past, to family, maybe even directly to the earth. I was pondering the clean life of Iowa, the simple wholesomeness. But then I think we crossed into the twilight zone…
Is this heaven?
The cold rusty taste of well water reminded me of my grandmother's house, the metallic flavor of childhood bubbling up from the fresh spring. A small river ran alongside the park housing the "fountain" …the fountain being little more than a copper pipe stuck into the spring, and a catch basin made of iron or something non-descript, funneling the unused water back to the ground to be cleansed, and bubble up again.
Fresh air, air that didn't make me feel dirty, that made my skin soft and kissed my hair into relaxed curls, blew in gentle breezes and I enjoyed the scent of the Midwest, grass and woods and trees and …home. Parts of home I'd not enjoyed since before my mother was sick and no longer able to get outside, every trip back spent indoors, or running errands, or the non-stop eating that is the essence of socializing in farm country.
We walked along the river awhile, past a butterfly and perennial garden bordered by a stone path, a small refuge. It seemed more like a preliminary graveyard to me…memorial benches and such scattered among the trees. It would have made sense if the park overlooked the river, but it didn't. Next door was a metal pole barn, across the road, someone's house. Strange.
We walked on and came to the cemetery, where the family engaged in the annual spelling of the surname debate… one side spelling it with an "o," the other with an "e." My role was to offer logical educated theories, none of which were given any credence. I figured any family not close enough to know why one brother spelled his name one way while another spelled his differently didn't need any more of my attention, so I wandered away from Rasmus and Sine's grave, and that of their infant daughter whose name was no longer legible on the carved stone tablet. I walked a few hundred yards, and browsed. Obelisks hewn of soft, white stone…definitely not marble, marked graves of entire families, some born and dead in the same week, or month, or day. Many of the simple monuments marked the graves of both infant and mother, none with the poetry I'd like to think belonged there. But these were pioneers, old country Norwegians and Danes and their heritage didn't leave room for the fussiness of words at such times. Stoicism must have come from Scandinavia.
We came back to the house, and my youngest pulled me aside. "Have you noticed that I'm the only one whose picture isn't up?" He doesn't understand. I don't either. I took the risk when my son, my spouse, his brother and father went to play golf. I told my mother-in-law it hurt his feelings. I wasn't sure she'd care; she's never warmed to this child. Still, I had to say something. The omission seemed so blatant, and cruel, especially when he'd ridden 18 hours one way on his last weekend of summer to visit her.
Later, she brought me three folders. The meticulously organized folders were filled with obituaries and photographs of ancestors from my husband's family long gone, some of them from recent years, some from centuries ago. Mostly, they were lists of names and dates of death and birth. In many cases, there were cemeteries listed, so that markers could be located for the deceased. And in the back of the last folder, there were several pages, handwritten in beautiful script. The same script, over and over, as if rehearsing for some handwriting test. My mother in law had been told how important it is for a family to preserve their memories. She was trying, I think, to understand family, but what she'd written was mostly a tribute to her own mother. Her last sentence said: "She is not only my mother, she is my best friend."
The narrative was written the year before her mother died. I saw something in those words that I'd never seen from this woman who, intentionally or not, has antagonized me for nearly 30 years. I saw her as a person. A person who was pacing the kitchen the whole time I was reading. A person who I've felt judge my meager attempts at cooking, cleaning, and other things that are the province of women from her era. And I saw that the tables were reversed, that she was nervous of the judgment I might pass over her attempt at something that I do. So I was honest, and gave her what I give the other people whose words are important.
"This is great," I said. "You should write more."
She breathed and I wonder if she knew she'd been holding her breath. "Thanks. I like to write."
The rest of the family returned after that, and she made a show of pulling out another box, and sifting through its contents until she found what she was looking for. She wiped the dust from the simple frame and carried it to the living room: my youngest, proud in his baseball uniform. Then she stopped and fluffed his hair.
The trip left me aching, lonely for the things that will never be again. But it also gave me some perspective on things I never quite understood.
As we crossed the countryside between their house and the interstate, taking in the luscious rows of tall corn and verdant soybeans, sectioned off in perfect one mile squares, I felt connected to the past, to family, maybe even directly to the earth. I was pondering the clean life of Iowa, the simple wholesomeness. But then I think we crossed into the twilight zone…
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Disjointed notes written down sporadically over the last few days.
Tuesday Night: Full moon, blurred by clouds. Wishing I were still at the beach, but remembering it rained today.
Last week in Michigan: Man in the Laundromat when I went back to change the washer to the dryer, having run to the grocery store in the ensuing half hour, had dumped his dirty laundry in on top of my clean. He was tall, about 6"3" and probably 275. But his glasses were so thick that his eyes looked like frog bulges through the lenses. I sorted his dirty clothes from the top of my clean ones in one of the seven machines I'd been using. Sand poured out of some of them, and I felt very odd handling his dirty underwear.
His only comment to me was "I thought it was empty."
A well-meaning patron came over and whispered to me "He's legally blind, but so independent!"
"I can tell," I replied. I shook the sand from the clothes and put them in the dryer. No harm, no foul.
The other day in Chicago: First shock was staying in a room identical to the one I was in when I found out my mother had died. I didn't realize it when the doctors gave me the details. I didn't realize it when my sister called and said you need to come now. I realized it when my friend, on hearing the numbers the doctor had given me said, "oh hon."
Later, I had to go to the lobby. I don't pay good attention to the directions in hotels and so I turned the wrong way out of the room to get to the elevators. I passed someone else I knew but didn't really want to chat with, so kept going as though it was the right way. I ended up at the end of the hall where a floor to ceiling window looked out over the river and straight on to the lake. It was stunningly beautiful. We were on the 34th floor. It made me dizzy.
I've been through the mail from the last three weeks now. I did all the laundry before I came back from the lake, but I need to unpack the suitcases and put it all away. Something really sad about putting the luggage away, even though I 'm desperately ready to be finished traveling for a while.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
June already?
If it weren't for the fact that I've been incredibly busy, I'd feel bad about letting this little blog founder so.
What have I been doing?
reverse order....
-Celebrated our anniversary in San Antonio weekend of the tenth of June.
-Studying creative writing with Justin Cronin for the past six weeks. Great teacher, great writer. I've got ...direction again. Anyone who writes knows how hard that is to maintain over the incredibly ridiculous amount of time it takes to write a novel. I was going to qualify that noun with "plot-driven" or "literary" but none of those words are necessary, or probably even appropriate.
-Spent nearly two weeks traipsing about the United Kingdom with my youngest daughter. Learned that traveling light is something to aspire to, but also that climbing stairs and schlepping luggage is surprisingly good for bad knees.
Those are the most recent passtimes... I'll try to add some more detail in the next couple of weeks. I'm heading back to Michigan next weekend though, and there is no high speed internet there.
What have I been doing?
reverse order....
-Celebrated our anniversary in San Antonio weekend of the tenth of June.
-Studying creative writing with Justin Cronin for the past six weeks. Great teacher, great writer. I've got ...direction again. Anyone who writes knows how hard that is to maintain over the incredibly ridiculous amount of time it takes to write a novel. I was going to qualify that noun with "plot-driven" or "literary" but none of those words are necessary, or probably even appropriate.
-Spent nearly two weeks traipsing about the United Kingdom with my youngest daughter. Learned that traveling light is something to aspire to, but also that climbing stairs and schlepping luggage is surprisingly good for bad knees.
Those are the most recent passtimes... I'll try to add some more detail in the next couple of weeks. I'm heading back to Michigan next weekend though, and there is no high speed internet there.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
free writing, ten minutes
/Ten minutes. 10:58 pm
I used to be able to tune out all the sounds in a room and focus only inside my head. This led to a bad startling habit … being so far gone anyone from the outside world would frighten me if they intruded. I'm a little jumpy that way.
The rain was back by the time I left the gym today and left raindrops on the fence posts like spiderwebs in an iron woods. What light there was sparkled through the clinging drops and made me think of the beauty of an ice storm. I tried to take the picture, but I failed.
I don't miss ice storms, though I must say I'm glad to have known their beauty.
I'm planting an herb garden this year, designing my own planter and placing it outside the window in the family room, which is connected to the kitchen. I thought I would have it in place by now, but won't allow myself the freedom of creation while the tax files are still spread across my desk. Deadlines there, and I face only the deadline of nature with the herbs.
I did lust over some spearmint today. I can't think of what I'd do with it, unless it would be to flavor mojitos. And I'm not particularly fond of mojitos. But it was a nice plant.
I let myself have only one glass of Chianti tonight. Homemade lasagna. I know, it is overkill, but when all I can create is in the kitchen, that's what I'll do. When I went to find the recipe though, I found that the page was missing from the cookbook. It's some thirty years old, can't hold it against the book. So I had to try to remember the recipe, something I've made many times but never really worried about needing to remember. I know I had all the ingredients, but the proportions seemed wrong. It tasted fine, but it wasn't what I expected.
So there is your metaphor for tonight, the things we remember to make the things we want, getting all the pieces right, but missing it somehow. The result isn't bad, just not what we expected.
The iris are blooming in the garden I planted last year, bordered by Mexican heather…the same shades of purple repeating in the tiny blooms and the orchid-like iris. I thought about picking them, bringing them inside to brighten the gloomy rooms.
But I didn't. I let them bloom.
11:09/
I used to be able to tune out all the sounds in a room and focus only inside my head. This led to a bad startling habit … being so far gone anyone from the outside world would frighten me if they intruded. I'm a little jumpy that way.
The rain was back by the time I left the gym today and left raindrops on the fence posts like spiderwebs in an iron woods. What light there was sparkled through the clinging drops and made me think of the beauty of an ice storm. I tried to take the picture, but I failed.
I don't miss ice storms, though I must say I'm glad to have known their beauty.
I'm planting an herb garden this year, designing my own planter and placing it outside the window in the family room, which is connected to the kitchen. I thought I would have it in place by now, but won't allow myself the freedom of creation while the tax files are still spread across my desk. Deadlines there, and I face only the deadline of nature with the herbs.
I did lust over some spearmint today. I can't think of what I'd do with it, unless it would be to flavor mojitos. And I'm not particularly fond of mojitos. But it was a nice plant.
I let myself have only one glass of Chianti tonight. Homemade lasagna. I know, it is overkill, but when all I can create is in the kitchen, that's what I'll do. When I went to find the recipe though, I found that the page was missing from the cookbook. It's some thirty years old, can't hold it against the book. So I had to try to remember the recipe, something I've made many times but never really worried about needing to remember. I know I had all the ingredients, but the proportions seemed wrong. It tasted fine, but it wasn't what I expected.
So there is your metaphor for tonight, the things we remember to make the things we want, getting all the pieces right, but missing it somehow. The result isn't bad, just not what we expected.
The iris are blooming in the garden I planted last year, bordered by Mexican heather…the same shades of purple repeating in the tiny blooms and the orchid-like iris. I thought about picking them, bringing them inside to brighten the gloomy rooms.
But I didn't. I let them bloom.
11:09/
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Listening Up
"What is your favorite?"
I had only time for one question; the great author was only signing his name, only three times per person. Those were the rules we agreed to before we got in line for his autograph. Five people before the signing table, we were told to "nest" our books so that there would be no delays in the execution.
I understood that. There were a thousand people in attendance to hear him read, and most of them wanted autographs. I've been to dozens of readings in that hall and none that were so well attended had even allowed signings.
But I couldn't just stand there while he scribbled his "John Updike" and gawk. I came to the reading with knowledge only of what he'd written, not any personal experience, other than a short story here or there. I'd looked down the list of his publications, and listened carefully as he'd described stories and their history. His credits page is long. Where would I begin?
So I asked him. He smiled, ran his fingers through his hair and laughed an almost nervous little laugh. "That's a hard question," he began, "they are all… "
"Like your children, I know. But which one really? I promise not to tell the others."
"You knew I was going to say that."
Hey, we have the same number and combination of children. It made sense that it would be the same comparison. Only a writer understands that each story is jealous of the one before it and the one that followed. Stories are living creatures!
He stumbled a little more, wrote his name my allotted three times, and the person behind me had his books on the table. I was moving away, when he finally replied. "Coup" he said. And then turned away, redirecting his attention so as not to dwell on his disloyalty. That book, after all, was not available for signing tonight.
The interesting thing about his answer was that he'd already described that particular novel as the one least in his style, the one that made him get out of his comfort zone. Something to think about.
I had only time for one question; the great author was only signing his name, only three times per person. Those were the rules we agreed to before we got in line for his autograph. Five people before the signing table, we were told to "nest" our books so that there would be no delays in the execution.
I understood that. There were a thousand people in attendance to hear him read, and most of them wanted autographs. I've been to dozens of readings in that hall and none that were so well attended had even allowed signings.
But I couldn't just stand there while he scribbled his "John Updike" and gawk. I came to the reading with knowledge only of what he'd written, not any personal experience, other than a short story here or there. I'd looked down the list of his publications, and listened carefully as he'd described stories and their history. His credits page is long. Where would I begin?
So I asked him. He smiled, ran his fingers through his hair and laughed an almost nervous little laugh. "That's a hard question," he began, "they are all… "
"Like your children, I know. But which one really? I promise not to tell the others."
"You knew I was going to say that."
Hey, we have the same number and combination of children. It made sense that it would be the same comparison. Only a writer understands that each story is jealous of the one before it and the one that followed. Stories are living creatures!
He stumbled a little more, wrote his name my allotted three times, and the person behind me had his books on the table. I was moving away, when he finally replied. "Coup" he said. And then turned away, redirecting his attention so as not to dwell on his disloyalty. That book, after all, was not available for signing tonight.
The interesting thing about his answer was that he'd already described that particular novel as the one least in his style, the one that made him get out of his comfort zone. Something to think about.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
intensity
That is the word I'd use for the concert last night. I'm trying to decide what it is about it that makes me feel today like turning over rocks and telling all the bugs of the world to move along, but I'm not sure if that is the music, the presentation or the "package" that went with it.
What do I mean package? Well you know, all the details of a night out. What to wear, what to do with the 13 year old, do we eat first, last, not at all, where to park, buy t-shirts or cd's or beer?
Suffice it to say that we don’t go to concerts of this variety very often. Symphony? Sure, Opera? Occasionally. Theatre habitually. But the music of Sigur Ros is not in any of those categories. But then, it is.
You may not have ever heard the group. I'd heard only the songs played for me by my daughter, who'd given us the tickets to the concert for Christmas, and she tends to have offbeat taste. I liked what I'd heard: haunting melodies, interesting combinations. None of that prepared me for the intensity of the live performance.
I should have had a clue though, from the quiet. The crowd of mostly 20somethings was sober, calm. No one passing joints around, the occasional cigarette was the only disruption to the air. A bar in the lobby, but no line, no one really all that interested in the offerings.
We found our seats, and listened to the opening band, young women from, I assume Iceland, because they didn't speak English very well and their sound had those haunting, wide open tones that seem to come from that part of the world. For their "big" number, one woman played the saw… a real live cut wood saw, with a bow, and it was so beautiful it could bring tears … mournful and full and a touch wild. Two others played what looked like service bells from a hotel, while the other played water glasses. All of this orchestrated by a computer, incidentally the same brand and model as the one I type on this morning.
I wasn't completely sure these girls weren't the band. I hadn't adjusted my attitude appropriately yet, and still thought we were in for the kind of good time we used to have at rock concerts years ago.
I was ready not to be my age. Had on my jeans, which fit well thanks to all the salad, white shirt and had straightened my hair. Okay, if one looked close, they'd see that the concealer doesn’t really deal with the dark circles around my eyes, and the texture of my skin beneath them lately has me trying every kind of anti wrinkle cream I can get my hands on. I won't say we were the oldest people there, but we were in the top ten percent.
My husband was just as bad. He's been to more rock concerts than I ever dreamed of, was actually part of that generation of students who did things like close colleges with protests, went to war. You know, real intense situations. I was always in awe of them, being just a few years too young for it in any capacity but tagalong. He'd already made me promise that if it was bad, we could leave, and just be polite to our daughter should she ask.
So we invited my son's best friend to spend the night… leaving one thirteen year old alone seemed wrong, but the two of them together was okay. (Best friends parents were home, just five minutes away.) Ordered them pizza, decided not to eat before the show. Got directed to four parking lots before we could park.
The second clue that things weren't going to be as we expected was a line in the men's room. But not the women's. Any woman who's ever been out to a public place knows there is something wrong there.
We found our seats, high in the second tier, in the next to last row along far aisle. I will have to ask my daughter if that was intentional… I suspect it was. We really were able to fade into the theater and observe.
The music… electronic and vocal and gifted. Bows used on guitars, I guess that is a new thing, but I'd not seen it. Behind the band, a constant light mural, changing from the faces of the most innocent looking little girl you could imagine, all bright eyes, round cheeks and braids, to, by the end of the set, army boots marching through puddles. The audience was quiet, (and for the most part, there were a couple of inappropriate whoops) respectful. And once I got through the mindset that this was supposed to be a fun concert, and listened, just listened, the intensity of what this little group of people from Iceland were doing struck me. I looked around the room and realized this is the generation that has to deal with things almost harder than that Vietnam group. These people have the legacy of what we've …their parents… done to the Earth, to the world. They don't take anything as lightly as my apathetic generation did. Even their music is intense, and meaningful and what felt like, important.
I can't say I enjoyed it. But I was moved.
The group took no intermissions, did only one curtain call, and returned the standing ovation that carried on for what felt like ten minutes to the audience.
They didn't speak one word. It was all the music.
We left the hall and I realized that I had found something of "not my age" after all. I realized I used to feel that intense about what was going on in the world, that I used to carry a torch with me wherever I went. That was the stake that drove through hearts of my family members. They didn't want to know about global warming or overpopulation or hunger or racial cleansing or back alley abortions and welfare mothers and homeless people and HIV and all the other atrocities that were going on all over the world. It was the Seventies man, and they wanted to hide under rocks and live the lives they were given in their safe little corner of the world, run off to Wal-Mart and Target and buy cheap electronics and country western music cds. They wanted to just be, while I burned with the injustice of it all.
And I'm ashamed. I became more like them, less the idealist. And under what excuse? I had children, a marriage, a job, a career! I could just sit back and enjoy the fruits of labors, not only my own, but those of the rebels before me, who'd won me the right to work for equal pay, to take time off for maternity leave without losing my job, to send my children to free public schools that addressed even their exceptional needs.
And what did it all come down to?
Going to a concert where I wanted to straighten my hair, recapture my youth and rock out, but finding instead, that recapturing youth isn't about sexuality or looks or what to wear… we knew that then…it is about recapturing the fire, the intensity of feeling, that let us have the courage to at least think we could change the world.
And realizing what gifts my daughters have really given me.
What do I mean package? Well you know, all the details of a night out. What to wear, what to do with the 13 year old, do we eat first, last, not at all, where to park, buy t-shirts or cd's or beer?
Suffice it to say that we don’t go to concerts of this variety very often. Symphony? Sure, Opera? Occasionally. Theatre habitually. But the music of Sigur Ros is not in any of those categories. But then, it is.
You may not have ever heard the group. I'd heard only the songs played for me by my daughter, who'd given us the tickets to the concert for Christmas, and she tends to have offbeat taste. I liked what I'd heard: haunting melodies, interesting combinations. None of that prepared me for the intensity of the live performance.
I should have had a clue though, from the quiet. The crowd of mostly 20somethings was sober, calm. No one passing joints around, the occasional cigarette was the only disruption to the air. A bar in the lobby, but no line, no one really all that interested in the offerings.
We found our seats, and listened to the opening band, young women from, I assume Iceland, because they didn't speak English very well and their sound had those haunting, wide open tones that seem to come from that part of the world. For their "big" number, one woman played the saw… a real live cut wood saw, with a bow, and it was so beautiful it could bring tears … mournful and full and a touch wild. Two others played what looked like service bells from a hotel, while the other played water glasses. All of this orchestrated by a computer, incidentally the same brand and model as the one I type on this morning.
I wasn't completely sure these girls weren't the band. I hadn't adjusted my attitude appropriately yet, and still thought we were in for the kind of good time we used to have at rock concerts years ago.
I was ready not to be my age. Had on my jeans, which fit well thanks to all the salad, white shirt and had straightened my hair. Okay, if one looked close, they'd see that the concealer doesn’t really deal with the dark circles around my eyes, and the texture of my skin beneath them lately has me trying every kind of anti wrinkle cream I can get my hands on. I won't say we were the oldest people there, but we were in the top ten percent.
My husband was just as bad. He's been to more rock concerts than I ever dreamed of, was actually part of that generation of students who did things like close colleges with protests, went to war. You know, real intense situations. I was always in awe of them, being just a few years too young for it in any capacity but tagalong. He'd already made me promise that if it was bad, we could leave, and just be polite to our daughter should she ask.
So we invited my son's best friend to spend the night… leaving one thirteen year old alone seemed wrong, but the two of them together was okay. (Best friends parents were home, just five minutes away.) Ordered them pizza, decided not to eat before the show. Got directed to four parking lots before we could park.
The second clue that things weren't going to be as we expected was a line in the men's room. But not the women's. Any woman who's ever been out to a public place knows there is something wrong there.
We found our seats, high in the second tier, in the next to last row along far aisle. I will have to ask my daughter if that was intentional… I suspect it was. We really were able to fade into the theater and observe.
The music… electronic and vocal and gifted. Bows used on guitars, I guess that is a new thing, but I'd not seen it. Behind the band, a constant light mural, changing from the faces of the most innocent looking little girl you could imagine, all bright eyes, round cheeks and braids, to, by the end of the set, army boots marching through puddles. The audience was quiet, (and for the most part, there were a couple of inappropriate whoops) respectful. And once I got through the mindset that this was supposed to be a fun concert, and listened, just listened, the intensity of what this little group of people from Iceland were doing struck me. I looked around the room and realized this is the generation that has to deal with things almost harder than that Vietnam group. These people have the legacy of what we've …their parents… done to the Earth, to the world. They don't take anything as lightly as my apathetic generation did. Even their music is intense, and meaningful and what felt like, important.
I can't say I enjoyed it. But I was moved.
The group took no intermissions, did only one curtain call, and returned the standing ovation that carried on for what felt like ten minutes to the audience.
They didn't speak one word. It was all the music.
We left the hall and I realized that I had found something of "not my age" after all. I realized I used to feel that intense about what was going on in the world, that I used to carry a torch with me wherever I went. That was the stake that drove through hearts of my family members. They didn't want to know about global warming or overpopulation or hunger or racial cleansing or back alley abortions and welfare mothers and homeless people and HIV and all the other atrocities that were going on all over the world. It was the Seventies man, and they wanted to hide under rocks and live the lives they were given in their safe little corner of the world, run off to Wal-Mart and Target and buy cheap electronics and country western music cds. They wanted to just be, while I burned with the injustice of it all.
And I'm ashamed. I became more like them, less the idealist. And under what excuse? I had children, a marriage, a job, a career! I could just sit back and enjoy the fruits of labors, not only my own, but those of the rebels before me, who'd won me the right to work for equal pay, to take time off for maternity leave without losing my job, to send my children to free public schools that addressed even their exceptional needs.
And what did it all come down to?
Going to a concert where I wanted to straighten my hair, recapture my youth and rock out, but finding instead, that recapturing youth isn't about sexuality or looks or what to wear… we knew that then…it is about recapturing the fire, the intensity of feeling, that let us have the courage to at least think we could change the world.
And realizing what gifts my daughters have really given me.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
No words, but looking up
Blogs without pictures get boring. These are just in my files. It is too dreary to leave them there tonight.
Skyfire, in South Haven, Michigan.
Skyfire, in South Haven, Michigan.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
the power of touch
Sometimes I take out memories, and just think about them, about what they meant then, what they mean now.
When my mother was lying in the hospital, trying to recover from the heart attack that led to the stroke that caused her kidneys to shut down, her lungs to fill and eventually, her death, I was lucky enough to get to be with her, at least some of the time. It took nearly two weeks for death to finally claim her. In that period of time many moments stand out as extraordinary. The most intimate moment between just she and I, perhaps any time since maybe infancy, was the night I was alone with her, and massaged her leg.
There was less than half of the leg left, she'd endured so many amputations in that last ten years, and I never touched her before that. I wondered if massage would help increase the circulation that she lacked, the absence of which led to each successive operation. But I didn't live near, I saw her four times a year or so, and she had a husband. It wasn't really my "place" to offer to rub away the pain.
I suppose I was in denial all those years. The last nights in the hospital made me understand that all the people who were close around her those last years were not there out of concern for her, but out of their own needs. Needs which she, even in her compromised state, filled without complaint.
But she was lying there in a hospital bed, unable to move, unable to breathe without assistance, denied even ice chips for fear of aspiration, and the people who'd surrounded her in her years of need were down the hall in the lounge, eating pizza and having a party.
I stayed in her room. It was cold. So cold. Probably sixty degrees, and she was still feverish. The medication they'd given her to regulate her heart rate had the side effect of something thermal, overheating her. The nurses knew this and dialed the thermostat down as low as it would go. But we were dressed for summer, and easily chilled. They gave us blankets to drape over our shoulders.
She moaned; the pain from her tubes, her afflictions surely awful, but it wasn't that. It was the phantom pains that woke her crying in the nights. Pain in the limbs whose circulation had shut down and killed the tissue.
I can handle crises. I don't fall apart when immediate danger threatens, or when someone is hurt. I forgot all about my denial, and went to her. Her leg was bare; she'd pulled the hospital gown up as high as she could to feel the blessed cool air. I'd never really looked at it, and when I placed my hands on the skin of her thigh, she quieted. I kneaded the muscle, soft and pliable, more like the feeling of those water tubes we get at conferences with advertisements, to handle for stress.
The connection was immediate. I knew that it felt good to her, to be touched, to feel my hands working the pain from their memory. I didn't mind, and unlike the way my fingers get when I'm giving a massage I'm not really in the mood to give, I didn't tire. I didn't stop until the nurse came in to do a breathing treatment, and to sedate her so she could rest.
Before I left the room, she took my hand and squeezed it.
I looked in on her the next morning, but they'd decided her best chance was to be drugged to a state of unconsciousness, so that they could perform the next procedure needed if she was ever to come home. Her husband gave consent. His right, his responsibility. She never woke from that state, and a week later we had to turn off the machines.
I wasn't the last person to touch her, there were people in and out the whole week as she slept, but I'm pretty sure I'm the last one whose touch she knew. No one else was with us, we didn't speak, but the power of touch between us reaffirmed a connection that isn't explainable without the experience of it. Parents know it, it is the same one that settles a child's nightmares when he doesn't quite wake up, the
I will always wonder, if I'd been there more, if I'd been there to touch her legs, rub her feet before the doctors began their surgical solution, could her life have been better? Could it be so simple?
This isn't about my mother, or me for that matter, but about the power that humans hold in their hands with such simple things. A soft voice, a kind word, a simple touch, given without obligation or expectation. It astounds me really.
When my mother was lying in the hospital, trying to recover from the heart attack that led to the stroke that caused her kidneys to shut down, her lungs to fill and eventually, her death, I was lucky enough to get to be with her, at least some of the time. It took nearly two weeks for death to finally claim her. In that period of time many moments stand out as extraordinary. The most intimate moment between just she and I, perhaps any time since maybe infancy, was the night I was alone with her, and massaged her leg.
There was less than half of the leg left, she'd endured so many amputations in that last ten years, and I never touched her before that. I wondered if massage would help increase the circulation that she lacked, the absence of which led to each successive operation. But I didn't live near, I saw her four times a year or so, and she had a husband. It wasn't really my "place" to offer to rub away the pain.
I suppose I was in denial all those years. The last nights in the hospital made me understand that all the people who were close around her those last years were not there out of concern for her, but out of their own needs. Needs which she, even in her compromised state, filled without complaint.
But she was lying there in a hospital bed, unable to move, unable to breathe without assistance, denied even ice chips for fear of aspiration, and the people who'd surrounded her in her years of need were down the hall in the lounge, eating pizza and having a party.
I stayed in her room. It was cold. So cold. Probably sixty degrees, and she was still feverish. The medication they'd given her to regulate her heart rate had the side effect of something thermal, overheating her. The nurses knew this and dialed the thermostat down as low as it would go. But we were dressed for summer, and easily chilled. They gave us blankets to drape over our shoulders.
She moaned; the pain from her tubes, her afflictions surely awful, but it wasn't that. It was the phantom pains that woke her crying in the nights. Pain in the limbs whose circulation had shut down and killed the tissue.
I can handle crises. I don't fall apart when immediate danger threatens, or when someone is hurt. I forgot all about my denial, and went to her. Her leg was bare; she'd pulled the hospital gown up as high as she could to feel the blessed cool air. I'd never really looked at it, and when I placed my hands on the skin of her thigh, she quieted. I kneaded the muscle, soft and pliable, more like the feeling of those water tubes we get at conferences with advertisements, to handle for stress.
The connection was immediate. I knew that it felt good to her, to be touched, to feel my hands working the pain from their memory. I didn't mind, and unlike the way my fingers get when I'm giving a massage I'm not really in the mood to give, I didn't tire. I didn't stop until the nurse came in to do a breathing treatment, and to sedate her so she could rest.
Before I left the room, she took my hand and squeezed it.
I looked in on her the next morning, but they'd decided her best chance was to be drugged to a state of unconsciousness, so that they could perform the next procedure needed if she was ever to come home. Her husband gave consent. His right, his responsibility. She never woke from that state, and a week later we had to turn off the machines.
I wasn't the last person to touch her, there were people in and out the whole week as she slept, but I'm pretty sure I'm the last one whose touch she knew. No one else was with us, we didn't speak, but the power of touch between us reaffirmed a connection that isn't explainable without the experience of it. Parents know it, it is the same one that settles a child's nightmares when he doesn't quite wake up, the
I will always wonder, if I'd been there more, if I'd been there to touch her legs, rub her feet before the doctors began their surgical solution, could her life have been better? Could it be so simple?
This isn't about my mother, or me for that matter, but about the power that humans hold in their hands with such simple things. A soft voice, a kind word, a simple touch, given without obligation or expectation. It astounds me really.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
changes
It is the New Year, time for reflection, resolution, revival. I could go on with the "r" words, reason, ruffled, rational… well. You get the idea. I want to get back in touch with words in this blog, and am thinking of stealing the word a day practice that my friend Seliot seems to have abandoned. I've long been addicted to A Word A Day and I can try using them to keep a bit of blogging practice going. There are enough words for both of us. And the rest of you, too!
But tonight's blog entry is about changes. I've given up the Horror writing so many of you have watched me play with. Not because I don't still enjoy playing, but because it wasn't about writing anymore. Many other fine objectives, but the people who I'd enjoyed no longer wanted to have fun with it…it became too serious. So I vacated. I'll move the stories to the website soon, and we can all laugh at Megg's antics. She worried me sometimes anyway.
And look! No more pink! I am not crazy about this color scheme either, but the pepto bismol tones were long overdue for remodeling. The website is next… I don't even have anything I've written in this century posted there.
But tonight I'm in the mountains of Colorado, and I'm using dial up. I don't have the patience for web work on dial up. I know, I'm terribly spoiled. A deal I couldn't refuse. We got ten inches of new snow last night, and clear blue rocky mountain skies this afternoon. Very nice for skiing… tomorrow I hope to actually put some on. Knees, you know.
They tell me it was in the eighties in Houston. It won't be hard to go home.
I've several notes I've not transcribed into this blog that belong here, things from workshops and teleconferences I'd like to share, even some pretty cool photos. I don't think humility is a word of the day.
I'll be adding more links soon, so drop me a note if you want to be included. And for those of you who've faithfully linked to me, thank you. I'll try harder to earn the honor.
But tonight's blog entry is about changes. I've given up the Horror writing so many of you have watched me play with. Not because I don't still enjoy playing, but because it wasn't about writing anymore. Many other fine objectives, but the people who I'd enjoyed no longer wanted to have fun with it…it became too serious. So I vacated. I'll move the stories to the website soon, and we can all laugh at Megg's antics. She worried me sometimes anyway.
And look! No more pink! I am not crazy about this color scheme either, but the pepto bismol tones were long overdue for remodeling. The website is next… I don't even have anything I've written in this century posted there.
But tonight I'm in the mountains of Colorado, and I'm using dial up. I don't have the patience for web work on dial up. I know, I'm terribly spoiled. A deal I couldn't refuse. We got ten inches of new snow last night, and clear blue rocky mountain skies this afternoon. Very nice for skiing… tomorrow I hope to actually put some on. Knees, you know.
They tell me it was in the eighties in Houston. It won't be hard to go home.
I've several notes I've not transcribed into this blog that belong here, things from workshops and teleconferences I'd like to share, even some pretty cool photos. I don't think humility is a word of the day.
I'll be adding more links soon, so drop me a note if you want to be included. And for those of you who've faithfully linked to me, thank you. I'll try harder to earn the honor.
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