"I remember being shinier" Nathan said as he looked at the photo projected on the wall.
"This is the gayest photo of all time" Nick said. "Seriously dude, we can't show this one to our parents!"
"I did" I said. "I showed it to my mom"
"Seriously????" Nathan asked.
I looked at the photo. In it Nick, Nathan and I were shirtless having just hiked down to Phantom Ranch in the Grand Canyon. It had been hot - over a hundred - and we'd hiked through cloudbursts. Now the sun was setting and our skin glowed in the soft sunlight. Our hair was damp and hastily pushed out of our eyes with sweaty hands. But best of all, behind us a double rainbow lit up the sky like two rainbow flags.
"Yeah. Mom said we looked like an advert for 1-900-dial-men."
"Your mom," Nick snorted, "she's cool!"
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Memory...
Copper...yeah. Copper. Not cooper - 'cause that would be a barrel - big and round. Copper.
I tried to write it down but all I got was a scrawl.
Copper. Yeah. I can remember that. Copper Pipe.
I went out to the garage.
Orange. sometimes green. That's the color of.....of....one of those long narrow pipes made of.....
I looked at the car. It was dusty
..But Trusty!
the word sprang into my mind and I smiled feeling (finally) familiar to myself.
I tried the car door but it wouldn't open. I looked at the garage wall and a button glowed brightly. I pushed it and the big garage door opened.
Orange...Oranges...Oranges and... Olives!!
I walked around the car and the keys fell from my hand to the floor. I examined the key fob. More buttons. I pushed one and the car beeped.
"Hi!!!" I breathed..."Oh, Hi!!"
I opened the unlocked car door and slid behind the wheel.
Olives and....Vodka!!
I wrinkled my nose. I don't like vodka. Maybe I'm having a party. I'll need wine for the party, too.
The keys grew warm in my hand. Some motions, like the ones you've practiced your whole adult life are in grained in you - like breathing. I knew what to do with the keys and the car started.
Wine and Vodka.
Wine and Vodka.
Where do I get that? I thought I was going to the hardware store.....
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
This voice....
It was hard to do, but it needed done. I faced him down, stuck a knife in his bubble and burst it. It was liberating--all those years of feeling trapped -- feeling unworthy--feeling........well it finally came to me that these feelings were just thatt - feelings. And as they were my feelings I could make them true or prove they weren't and so I faced them -- faced the fear-- and won.
I know it sounds stupid, but I really didn't know. All those years, I didn't know I could do that...face him down, I mean. Make him back off.... Oh, and when I say I used a knife I don't mean a real one. I didn't need to. I just, well you know the phrase "she had a sharp tongue"? I just sharpened my tongue - my words actually. Once I started using that tongue it just seemed to get sharper and sharper....like some possessed ginsu knife.... He did end up looking wholly deflated even though he initially reacted in anger. I expected the anger to just keep growing, escalating until he hit me or something. You know, he never did hit me. He wasn't that kind of cruel--much more with the words that one.
After I was done - after the possession left me, I left him. And it was good.
I know it sounds stupid, but I really didn't know. All those years, I didn't know I could do that...face him down, I mean. Make him back off.... Oh, and when I say I used a knife I don't mean a real one. I didn't need to. I just, well you know the phrase "she had a sharp tongue"? I just sharpened my tongue - my words actually. Once I started using that tongue it just seemed to get sharper and sharper....like some possessed ginsu knife.... He did end up looking wholly deflated even though he initially reacted in anger. I expected the anger to just keep growing, escalating until he hit me or something. You know, he never did hit me. He wasn't that kind of cruel--much more with the words that one.
After I was done - after the possession left me, I left him. And it was good.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Shaman
"I asked the Shaman and he told me what to do"
"What Shaman? I mean, you know a Shaman?
She gave me a look that let me know I was clearly clueless.
"No, silly, I looked him up in the yellow pages." She shoved me in jest. "Seriously, how can you not know a Shaman?"
I shook my head "You know I'm just a sheltered, Lutheran, Swede. So what did the Shaman say?
"I'm supposed to smudge the room with sage"
"What does that mean, exactly?"
"Well, that was what I was hoping you'd tell me - That's why I had you bring over your sage."
"Sandy!" I said, with exasperation. "I'm a cook - not a medicine woman! I brought sage but it's rubbed sage - the kind you put on turkey stuffing or on turkey - I don't know if it will work for .... what did you say? Smoking?"
"Oh," she said.
"Wait, I said 'smoking' but what was the right word?"
"Smudge"
"What does that mean? Maybe this is the right stuff?
Sandy brightened "Well it means to make smoke - I looked it up!"
"Okay," I said, "let me get this straight - you went to see a Shaman - one that you found in the yellow pages - "
"I was kidding about that" she interrupted.
"-And he told you that to get rid of the bad feelings from the fight you had with Marcus you should burn sage in this room?"
"Yeah, he said that it would cleanse the air."
"And by 'sage' he meant the herb - that kind of sage?"
She looked puzzled, "Is there another kind of sage?"
"Oh, Sandy I don't know. Why don't you call your Shaman back and clear it up - ask where we can get the sage he wanted you to use?"
Sandy looked exceptionally uncomfortable at this idea. "I don't have his number." she said.
I thought "hmmm - that's pretty lame." I looked at her more closely and said "Sandy, is this Shaman a real person - or is he someone you 'met' in a book?"
"Well, not in a book, exactly."
"Where?"
It came out of her in a rush "At writing, this morning. Someone wrote about a Shaman and smudging a room with sage to clear it and I thought it sounded like such a good idea.... And I knew you'd know about sage...."
"Yeah, well, just for cooking."
"Hey! Maybe we can look it up on the Internet....."
"What Shaman? I mean, you know a Shaman?
She gave me a look that let me know I was clearly clueless.
"No, silly, I looked him up in the yellow pages." She shoved me in jest. "Seriously, how can you not know a Shaman?"
I shook my head "You know I'm just a sheltered, Lutheran, Swede. So what did the Shaman say?
"I'm supposed to smudge the room with sage"
"What does that mean, exactly?"
"Well, that was what I was hoping you'd tell me - That's why I had you bring over your sage."
"Sandy!" I said, with exasperation. "I'm a cook - not a medicine woman! I brought sage but it's rubbed sage - the kind you put on turkey stuffing or on turkey - I don't know if it will work for .... what did you say? Smoking?"
"Oh," she said.
"Wait, I said 'smoking' but what was the right word?"
"Smudge"
"What does that mean? Maybe this is the right stuff?
Sandy brightened "Well it means to make smoke - I looked it up!"
"Okay," I said, "let me get this straight - you went to see a Shaman - one that you found in the yellow pages - "
"I was kidding about that" she interrupted.
"-And he told you that to get rid of the bad feelings from the fight you had with Marcus you should burn sage in this room?"
"Yeah, he said that it would cleanse the air."
"And by 'sage' he meant the herb - that kind of sage?"
She looked puzzled, "Is there another kind of sage?"
"Oh, Sandy I don't know. Why don't you call your Shaman back and clear it up - ask where we can get the sage he wanted you to use?"
Sandy looked exceptionally uncomfortable at this idea. "I don't have his number." she said.
I thought "hmmm - that's pretty lame." I looked at her more closely and said "Sandy, is this Shaman a real person - or is he someone you 'met' in a book?"
"Well, not in a book, exactly."
"Where?"
It came out of her in a rush "At writing, this morning. Someone wrote about a Shaman and smudging a room with sage to clear it and I thought it sounded like such a good idea.... And I knew you'd know about sage...."
"Yeah, well, just for cooking."
"Hey! Maybe we can look it up on the Internet....."
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Because...
Because of my tender and boundless love for him I love and care for him. He is my dad. In his bathroom there hangs a piece of art, a row of ceramic houses and a poem I wrote to him on the occasion of his 70th birthday. 12 years ago. He and mom were still active. Mom was only using oxygen at night. They still traveled. Great and Abu were still alive - still going strong although Great would leave us less than a year later - slipping away in the dark of night.
The poem outlines the fun bits of childhood - cigars as punks under a sky of fireworks on the shores of Lake Pepin. Orange Ni-hi at the bar in Stockholm, movie nights in the long narrow living room of my childhood. Fun times indeed.
Now he's in a wheel chair most days. Outings - to the store, to the doctor - wear him out. He no longer travels - not even to visit his daughter. He prefers to hold court in the high rise apartment we converted, in the course of a March weekend last year into "home." All of his old familiar things are there - the mantle clock no longer on the mantle, but on the curio cabinet containing my mother's paperweight and royal china collections; the china cabinet that my great grandfather had at his house now contains a castle collection instead of china. On top of it perches my mother's photo and a box containing the ashes of what was once her physical body.
When we moved him he insisted on "helping" although he could no more help than a three year old. He sat, holding court yet again, and directed us to the placement of his things. Half way through the day he was exhausted so we all took a break. As we sipped on lime colas - Green Rivers of his youth - he looked at me and asked "Elizabeth, where is your mother?"
Mom had died '03 - four years before. I began to panic. Does he not remember? Is he so tired that the beginnings of Alzheimer's is showing? I looked at him. He was serious, but the spark that was, and is, my dad still glimmered in his eye. With a flood of relief I realized what he was asking. "Oh, Dad" I said, "She's in one of the boxes we've not unpacked yet. Do you want her on the china cabinet again?" He nodded and said "Let's find her. and we went back to unpacking.
The poem outlines the fun bits of childhood - cigars as punks under a sky of fireworks on the shores of Lake Pepin. Orange Ni-hi at the bar in Stockholm, movie nights in the long narrow living room of my childhood. Fun times indeed.
Now he's in a wheel chair most days. Outings - to the store, to the doctor - wear him out. He no longer travels - not even to visit his daughter. He prefers to hold court in the high rise apartment we converted, in the course of a March weekend last year into "home." All of his old familiar things are there - the mantle clock no longer on the mantle, but on the curio cabinet containing my mother's paperweight and royal china collections; the china cabinet that my great grandfather had at his house now contains a castle collection instead of china. On top of it perches my mother's photo and a box containing the ashes of what was once her physical body.
When we moved him he insisted on "helping" although he could no more help than a three year old. He sat, holding court yet again, and directed us to the placement of his things. Half way through the day he was exhausted so we all took a break. As we sipped on lime colas - Green Rivers of his youth - he looked at me and asked "Elizabeth, where is your mother?"
Mom had died '03 - four years before. I began to panic. Does he not remember? Is he so tired that the beginnings of Alzheimer's is showing? I looked at him. He was serious, but the spark that was, and is, my dad still glimmered in his eye. With a flood of relief I realized what he was asking. "Oh, Dad" I said, "She's in one of the boxes we've not unpacked yet. Do you want her on the china cabinet again?" He nodded and said "Let's find her. and we went back to unpacking.
Great is Life, Real and Mystical - Walt Whitman
Turner's paintings have skies that are larger than the life depicted in the painting. Didja ever notice that? To us, to regular people the world we live is huge. We travel, see different things, people and places we'll never know even though we've met. Yet Turner turns that upside down. With towering thunderheads of purple and pink, flowing light highlighting only pieces of the life we identify most closely with. Making us small in the eyes of the Gods observing the painting.
The Green Moon
The green moon rose above the horizon just after we landed. I stood by the door and stared at the moon until the interpreter arrived. "Ah" he said, his English had only a trace of an accent "I see you've noticed the moon." "Yes", I said turning to him "it's green."
He handed me a pair of eye shades. "Try these and you'll see why" I slipped the darker glasses on and the odd color of the moon became instantly understandable. "It's a sales tool we call Moon-ver-tizing" he explained as I watched the images on the back lit screen that the moons surface had become. "we are having trouble in some of the provinces because of it." He said. "The discoloration that results from the Moon-ver-tizing rays has them convinced that the end is coming. Peasants!" he said deridingly.
The images were fascinating. Commercials in a language I couldn't hear but could clearly understand. A woman selling laundry soap, a group of teens listening to music and eating some snack food, even a public service announcement. Wow.
"Is this available every night?" "Yes, providing it's clear" he shrugged. "Mostly it's a novelty - the disturbances in the east are more a result of the politics of ownership."
I looked at him perplexed. "You own the moon?" "Yes, of course. We - the Araidian people, bought the moon and announced it to the rest of the world. They resent our claim but now with Moon-ver-tizing and soon Moon Movies, they can all see that we do indeed own the moon.
I tried to think if the moon was owned by anyone back home but my thoughts of 'back home' were fuzzy. I turned again to the moon. "Yes, he said, the subliminal messages make it very attractive." "Uh-huh" I was turning into a moon zombie - being sucked into a world I didn't know but couldn't bear to leave.
The interpreters voice was disappearing into the background as I became aware of the music and sound coming from the moon. "Soon," he said, "you won't need an interpreter - you'll be one of us....."
He handed me a pair of eye shades. "Try these and you'll see why" I slipped the darker glasses on and the odd color of the moon became instantly understandable. "It's a sales tool we call Moon-ver-tizing" he explained as I watched the images on the back lit screen that the moons surface had become. "we are having trouble in some of the provinces because of it." He said. "The discoloration that results from the Moon-ver-tizing rays has them convinced that the end is coming. Peasants!" he said deridingly.
The images were fascinating. Commercials in a language I couldn't hear but could clearly understand. A woman selling laundry soap, a group of teens listening to music and eating some snack food, even a public service announcement. Wow.
"Is this available every night?" "Yes, providing it's clear" he shrugged. "Mostly it's a novelty - the disturbances in the east are more a result of the politics of ownership."
I looked at him perplexed. "You own the moon?" "Yes, of course. We - the Araidian people, bought the moon and announced it to the rest of the world. They resent our claim but now with Moon-ver-tizing and soon Moon Movies, they can all see that we do indeed own the moon.
I tried to think if the moon was owned by anyone back home but my thoughts of 'back home' were fuzzy. I turned again to the moon. "Yes, he said, the subliminal messages make it very attractive." "Uh-huh" I was turning into a moon zombie - being sucked into a world I didn't know but couldn't bear to leave.
The interpreters voice was disappearing into the background as I became aware of the music and sound coming from the moon. "Soon," he said, "you won't need an interpreter - you'll be one of us....."
I don't think that's the right answer....
I don't think that's the right answer" he paused and pushed his glasses back up on his nose. "Think about your patterns - about your past."
He was right, of course. Why is it that people outside of your life - not central to it in any doing kind of way - can see the patterns you are so diligently trying to hide from yourself? I looked back on my life.
Unhappy in a relationship? Marry the guy! It's easier (HA!) than breaking it off.
Unhappy in your marriage? Why grad school, a new house, a new job, a baby or two or three is just the ticket!!
Unhappy after your divorce? With your next relationship? Buy a house! because your permanance and insanity will solve the relationhip issue.
Unhappy again? Move! Don't want to move? Buy a puppy!
Unhappy in your job? Get a new one!
Wait. That last bit actually makes sense - but only if I'm unhappy because of the job not the relationships within it.
I thought for a moment.
It's the relationship, damn it.
I sighed and looked at him. He'd taken his glasses of and was cleaning them. They caught the sunlight just right and the room glowed with rainbow light. He grinned in recognition of my awareness "You're learning" he said, "you're learning."
He was right, of course. Why is it that people outside of your life - not central to it in any doing kind of way - can see the patterns you are so diligently trying to hide from yourself? I looked back on my life.
Unhappy in a relationship? Marry the guy! It's easier (HA!) than breaking it off.
Unhappy in your marriage? Why grad school, a new house, a new job, a baby or two or three is just the ticket!!
Unhappy after your divorce? With your next relationship? Buy a house! because your permanance and insanity will solve the relationhip issue.
Unhappy again? Move! Don't want to move? Buy a puppy!
Unhappy in your job? Get a new one!
Wait. That last bit actually makes sense - but only if I'm unhappy because of the job not the relationships within it.
I thought for a moment.
It's the relationship, damn it.
I sighed and looked at him. He'd taken his glasses of and was cleaning them. They caught the sunlight just right and the room glowed with rainbow light. He grinned in recognition of my awareness "You're learning" he said, "you're learning."
9 Ball, Corner Pocket
His hair hung over his face and his voice was so soft that if you hadn't been listening you would have missed his call. Cue lined up, push! Crack, thunder moving down the table - plonk. The nine slid into the corner pocket. He straightened, shook his head and satisfaction flew across his face.
He was a loner, a stranger to this town. She'd never seen him before. Another call, another shot, another plonk and one by one the balls fell just as he told them to. A crowd grew to watch the magic. Stella constantly delivering beers and nachos kept her eyes on the kid. He looked like a kid although she was sure that 'lanzo had checked his ID at the door.
The kid pocketed the modest fiver that he'd won by clearing the table as Cake, the best player in the county, ponied up a $20 and the magic started again.
This time the kid broke, sending the first ball into a pocket - stripes. Once again, without scratching or missing a beat the kid cleared the table. Cake, a big barrel of a man, picked up his twenty and handed it to the kid. "Double-er - nuttin? And I break?" he asked. The kid nodded and cake took the table racking the balls. The silence gave Stella a chance to study the kid under the guise of asking him what he wanted to drink.
He was tall - thin. Thin as a rail her grandma would have said. A shock of blond hair fell over his forehead and obscured his face. He had long narrow hands - piano players fingers, that held the cue carefully even as he slouched awaiting his turn. "Dew" he answered her query and shook his head at the offer of food.
___________________________
Often times he would go sit by the Minnesota River and throw rocks into the water for hours on end. Looking at him you wouldn't be able to tell whether he was sober or stoned - homeless or not - old or young. Well, that part wasn't really true. He was young, but he was older than he looked and that, when he thought about it, was what counted.
Today was a rare sunny March day. The wind was pushing the winter remnants of trash in swirls around the parking lot as he walked toward the river. He'd spent some of the money he'd won the previous day on food, a pack of cigarettes and a large bottle of Mountain Dew.
He reached the river and squatted on the bank. He nestled himself between the forked roots of a large cottonwood tree. The river, like time, rushed by. He paid it no attention.
As the sun set he grew aware of the stiffness in his body and the cool air gave him a chill. He didn't know where he went when his mind took off like that, but he was always thankful for his return. He stood, stretching, wondering about the time. He was hungry, so it had been awhile, but he hadn't moved, so he was pretty sure it hadn't been days.
He ran his hand through his hair, dirty, and across his face, stubbly, although he was so fair that he looked to be too young to shave.
_________________________________
He awoke in a cold sweat. It was the same dream and it always scared him. The thing was, with his eyes open he could never remember it. No matter how many times he planned to remember it coaching himself to keep his eyes closed, to keep still until it came back to him - he always jerked awake; heart pounding eyes flying open involuntarily. He'd grip the edge of his bedroll, orienting himself back to his body.
Afterwards - after his eyes opened - they would be no returning to sleep and he always knew that the dream heralded a call to move on. He'd been waiting for it. He'd been in the small town for the past three weeks. Longer than usual and many folks had started to recognize him and they had begun to seem familiar to him.
The only one he thought he'd miss was the girl in the bar. Stella her name tag had read. After his first night there she'd made a point of keeping his Mountain Dew filled and his ashtray empty. He'd never spoken to her, except that first day when he'd asked for a dew, but her quiet care taking had reminded him of his mother and he'd gone back to that bar. Not every night, but often enough to know her work hours.
He packed his things without fanfare, his movements small, tidy, borne of repetition. His long fingers pushing his few possessions into his pack. He headed south, toward the railroad yards at the edge of town. He'd check there for a lift first before walking to the truck stop at the highway. He preferred trains. The rolling sway was hypnotizing like the river current, but the slowing or stopping of the train almost always brought him back. And it was easier to figure out where he was if he'd been gone on a train.
Trucks were how he'd ended up in Southern' Minnesota in March. He'd gotten to Chicago by train, but the rail yards were too well secured; patrolled by dogs he couldn't find to befriend; and so he'd gotten a ride with a trucker in February. It was early March before he'd figured out where he was. Trains, yep, trains were easier.
He was a loner, a stranger to this town. She'd never seen him before. Another call, another shot, another plonk and one by one the balls fell just as he told them to. A crowd grew to watch the magic. Stella constantly delivering beers and nachos kept her eyes on the kid. He looked like a kid although she was sure that 'lanzo had checked his ID at the door.
The kid pocketed the modest fiver that he'd won by clearing the table as Cake, the best player in the county, ponied up a $20 and the magic started again.
This time the kid broke, sending the first ball into a pocket - stripes. Once again, without scratching or missing a beat the kid cleared the table. Cake, a big barrel of a man, picked up his twenty and handed it to the kid. "Double-er - nuttin? And I break?" he asked. The kid nodded and cake took the table racking the balls. The silence gave Stella a chance to study the kid under the guise of asking him what he wanted to drink.
He was tall - thin. Thin as a rail her grandma would have said. A shock of blond hair fell over his forehead and obscured his face. He had long narrow hands - piano players fingers, that held the cue carefully even as he slouched awaiting his turn. "Dew" he answered her query and shook his head at the offer of food.
___________________________
Often times he would go sit by the Minnesota River and throw rocks into the water for hours on end. Looking at him you wouldn't be able to tell whether he was sober or stoned - homeless or not - old or young. Well, that part wasn't really true. He was young, but he was older than he looked and that, when he thought about it, was what counted.
Today was a rare sunny March day. The wind was pushing the winter remnants of trash in swirls around the parking lot as he walked toward the river. He'd spent some of the money he'd won the previous day on food, a pack of cigarettes and a large bottle of Mountain Dew.
He reached the river and squatted on the bank. He nestled himself between the forked roots of a large cottonwood tree. The river, like time, rushed by. He paid it no attention.
As the sun set he grew aware of the stiffness in his body and the cool air gave him a chill. He didn't know where he went when his mind took off like that, but he was always thankful for his return. He stood, stretching, wondering about the time. He was hungry, so it had been awhile, but he hadn't moved, so he was pretty sure it hadn't been days.
He ran his hand through his hair, dirty, and across his face, stubbly, although he was so fair that he looked to be too young to shave.
_________________________________
He awoke in a cold sweat. It was the same dream and it always scared him. The thing was, with his eyes open he could never remember it. No matter how many times he planned to remember it coaching himself to keep his eyes closed, to keep still until it came back to him - he always jerked awake; heart pounding eyes flying open involuntarily. He'd grip the edge of his bedroll, orienting himself back to his body.
Afterwards - after his eyes opened - they would be no returning to sleep and he always knew that the dream heralded a call to move on. He'd been waiting for it. He'd been in the small town for the past three weeks. Longer than usual and many folks had started to recognize him and they had begun to seem familiar to him.
The only one he thought he'd miss was the girl in the bar. Stella her name tag had read. After his first night there she'd made a point of keeping his Mountain Dew filled and his ashtray empty. He'd never spoken to her, except that first day when he'd asked for a dew, but her quiet care taking had reminded him of his mother and he'd gone back to that bar. Not every night, but often enough to know her work hours.
He packed his things without fanfare, his movements small, tidy, borne of repetition. His long fingers pushing his few possessions into his pack. He headed south, toward the railroad yards at the edge of town. He'd check there for a lift first before walking to the truck stop at the highway. He preferred trains. The rolling sway was hypnotizing like the river current, but the slowing or stopping of the train almost always brought him back. And it was easier to figure out where he was if he'd been gone on a train.
Trucks were how he'd ended up in Southern' Minnesota in March. He'd gotten to Chicago by train, but the rail yards were too well secured; patrolled by dogs he couldn't find to befriend; and so he'd gotten a ride with a trucker in February. It was early March before he'd figured out where he was. Trains, yep, trains were easier.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Cold Air, Blue Sky.
Cold air, blue sky. My own slice of heaven. Lying on my bed with the air conditioner blowing full blast across my body, I kept my eyes on the patch of blue sky that I could see through the sky light.
I felt my body sink into the firmness of my bed. My mind drifted but my eyes fixed hard on the patch of blue.
It had been raining and grey for so long. And it was so hot and humid that the windows sweated and fogged even if they were sheltered from the pouring rain. For a time, stranded in my house by the rising water of the creek, I'd felt like Noah. A check of the calendar, a flick of the wrist on the 'net and I was immediately assured hat it had been four not 40 days. Still..... Blue sky.
Some time later I awoke. The patch of blue had given way to black and I could see the moon playing hide and seek among misty clouds. I shrugged into my robe and stepped out onto the deck. Steamy. Humid and steamy. The grass in my back yard seemed to have grown a foot in the past four days. Mowing would be on the list for tomorrow, I thought, and prayed for a cool breezy afternoon. The sweat that formed on my skin, though, didn't cool me even at this late hour and I knew my wish was denied. Sighing, I stepped back into my sanctuary and shut the door against the oppressive heat.
Orange juice and eggs later, I switched on the TV. Predictably, it was all about the weather - absurd temperatures and high humidity - better than 70% - bathed the continent. More rain was coming. So much water.
Since the ice caps melted drought had not been a problem. Flooding though, particularly on the coast and in the lower lying central plains, had been fatal for more people and domestic animals than even Al Gore had foreseen....
I felt my body sink into the firmness of my bed. My mind drifted but my eyes fixed hard on the patch of blue.
It had been raining and grey for so long. And it was so hot and humid that the windows sweated and fogged even if they were sheltered from the pouring rain. For a time, stranded in my house by the rising water of the creek, I'd felt like Noah. A check of the calendar, a flick of the wrist on the 'net and I was immediately assured hat it had been four not 40 days. Still..... Blue sky.
Some time later I awoke. The patch of blue had given way to black and I could see the moon playing hide and seek among misty clouds. I shrugged into my robe and stepped out onto the deck. Steamy. Humid and steamy. The grass in my back yard seemed to have grown a foot in the past four days. Mowing would be on the list for tomorrow, I thought, and prayed for a cool breezy afternoon. The sweat that formed on my skin, though, didn't cool me even at this late hour and I knew my wish was denied. Sighing, I stepped back into my sanctuary and shut the door against the oppressive heat.
Orange juice and eggs later, I switched on the TV. Predictably, it was all about the weather - absurd temperatures and high humidity - better than 70% - bathed the continent. More rain was coming. So much water.
Since the ice caps melted drought had not been a problem. Flooding though, particularly on the coast and in the lower lying central plains, had been fatal for more people and domestic animals than even Al Gore had foreseen....
His soul died....
He chopped the onions and held back tears. He'd blame them on the onions if they broke forth while Mary was around. The usual breakfast ritual had become so ingrained - so accustomed to it that without thinking, he'd come down to the kitchen, opened the garden door and started pulling out the food until... he remembered.
A week. Had it only been a week? He stopped chopping and rested his hip against her stool. He slumped into his memory.
The dogs playing in the garden. Zoey chasing them out the door and down the path to the chicken coop. Returning with fresh eggs ready for omelet making. A typical Saturday morning. Since she was an infant Saturday breakfasts had been their job. She had, early on, become an omelet connoisseur. In fact, he smiled at the memory, the chickens had been her idea " 'Cause then, Dad, we can always have really fresh eggs for our omelets!"
Together they had researched chickens and egg laying. Learning how to get a permit to raise them here in town. Even at 8 Zoey had been able to talk anyone into anything. They had gone to their neighbors and he had listened as she convinced them to sigh the permit application she'd printed in her best third grade penmanship.
So last Saturday she'd brought the eggs in and, for the first time ever, she sat down on the overstuffed chair on the porch rather than coming in and taking up her perch on the stool. He'd checked on her and found her pale, running a temperature. He'd given her a blanket and finished the omelets on his own. When he returned with steaming plates, she was asleep but something wasn't right. He sat with her a moment before going to the phone.
"Mary? It's Jeff. Zoey's sick. Can you come with us to Urgent Care?"
Mary, his sister, was the closest thing to a mom that Zoey had ever had.
By the time she arrived, Zoey was unresponsive, he'd bundled her up in a blanket and was standing at the street Zoey limp in his arms. Mary took one look at his face and stomped on the gas - skipping Urgent Care and going straight to the Emergency Room.
The rest of the morning was a blur... but even now - even as a memory - he could still feel his soul slipping with Zoey's as though down a drain. And then, when they came to tell him, he knew and he felt as though his soul had died.
A week. Had it only been a week? He stopped chopping and rested his hip against her stool. He slumped into his memory.
The dogs playing in the garden. Zoey chasing them out the door and down the path to the chicken coop. Returning with fresh eggs ready for omelet making. A typical Saturday morning. Since she was an infant Saturday breakfasts had been their job. She had, early on, become an omelet connoisseur. In fact, he smiled at the memory, the chickens had been her idea " 'Cause then, Dad, we can always have really fresh eggs for our omelets!"
Together they had researched chickens and egg laying. Learning how to get a permit to raise them here in town. Even at 8 Zoey had been able to talk anyone into anything. They had gone to their neighbors and he had listened as she convinced them to sigh the permit application she'd printed in her best third grade penmanship.
So last Saturday she'd brought the eggs in and, for the first time ever, she sat down on the overstuffed chair on the porch rather than coming in and taking up her perch on the stool. He'd checked on her and found her pale, running a temperature. He'd given her a blanket and finished the omelets on his own. When he returned with steaming plates, she was asleep but something wasn't right. He sat with her a moment before going to the phone.
"Mary? It's Jeff. Zoey's sick. Can you come with us to Urgent Care?"
Mary, his sister, was the closest thing to a mom that Zoey had ever had.
By the time she arrived, Zoey was unresponsive, he'd bundled her up in a blanket and was standing at the street Zoey limp in his arms. Mary took one look at his face and stomped on the gas - skipping Urgent Care and going straight to the Emergency Room.
The rest of the morning was a blur... but even now - even as a memory - he could still feel his soul slipping with Zoey's as though down a drain. And then, when they came to tell him, he knew and he felt as though his soul had died.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Sometimes
Sometimes in the morning
I lie awake
listening
to the dawn
rustling the covers
arousing the birds.
I smell the night air
Still rich with our scent
Feel the warmth
of your breath
on my cheek and the
weight
of your limbs
entwined with mine
I employ the
newness of my
senses before
their exposure to the sun
tarnishes them
and renders me
worn and jaded
to the dark
of the night
again.
I lie awake
listening
to the dawn
rustling the covers
arousing the birds.
I smell the night air
Still rich with our scent
Feel the warmth
of your breath
on my cheek and the
weight
of your limbs
entwined with mine
I employ the
newness of my
senses before
their exposure to the sun
tarnishes them
and renders me
worn and jaded
to the dark
of the night
again.
Train Ride
The last thing she wanted to do was get on that train, but she had no choice-it was the only way to get back home, and she DID want to go home. Still, she hesitated. Bookie and Wolf started yelling at her as the train jerked to life
"C'mon! If yer comin!!"
"Here we go!!"
"C'mon!"
She came to life with the sound of their voices and she realized they were slipping away down the track.
"COMING!!" she yelled suddenly wanting with all her might to be on that train.
The train was gaining speed and she ran along beside to catch up to the open door.
Bookie stuck his big black hand out and she grabbed it after slinging her kit into the darkness behind him.
"On 3" he called "1 - 2 - 3 - JUMP!" and she complied flying into the boxcar like a fish reeled in by an exuberant boy.
"Queenie," he said " I didn't think you would make it girl. Good 'un." He flashed a smile at her as Wolf struck a match and lit his hand rolled cigarette. The match eliminated his face - the darkness of his beard over shot with his oddly yellow eyes. It was his eyes that gave him his name - that and his silence.
Wolf and Bookie had been riding the rails for close to 30 years. They'd taken her under their protection when she'd been brought to the hobo camp by a dealer. Queenie they called her because her years as a scoliosis survivor had given her a ram-rod straight back. That was the only regal thing about her. Still, they had noticed and the accepted and protected her. A single woman on her own in their world was either an addict or a camp whore and she was neither. She was a college kid who had slipped out of her life - abducted by the lure of anonymity and perceived independence of life outside of the box.
Queenie settled back against her burlap bag of belongings. She curled her hand around the bottle Bookie passed her, took a swallow and began to sing. Wolf closed his eyes and Bookie smiled as she sang them through the darkness and into the dawns light.
By noon the next day they were in Iowa. She could feel the fall cold sneaking in underneath her as they pushed northward.
She nudged Bookie with her foot and he opened one eye. "Soon" she said. He sat up stretching a bit and looked at her "You sure, girl?"
Queenie nodded and then smiled - lighting her eyes with her certainty.
"Good, you're sure." he said catching her excitement "Okay, just remember to roll."
The train slowed as it entered Ames and when she saw the campus rail sign she crouched by the door. Then she was flying through the air. She hit the ground hard and her wind left her as she fell and rolled as Bookie had told her. As her breath came back it took a minute for her to realize that she'd stopped - that it was the train that carried the motion forward while she laid still. She lifted her head and waved at Bookie watching her from his perch in the boxcar now picking up speed on its way out of Ames.
Queenie stood and picked up her burlap bag. She shook out her hair and brushed the grass off of her soiled jeans. She turned toward campus and Queenie became Jera as she stepped back into her college student life.
"C'mon! If yer comin!!"
"Here we go!!"
"C'mon!"
She came to life with the sound of their voices and she realized they were slipping away down the track.
"COMING!!" she yelled suddenly wanting with all her might to be on that train.
The train was gaining speed and she ran along beside to catch up to the open door.
Bookie stuck his big black hand out and she grabbed it after slinging her kit into the darkness behind him.
"On 3" he called "1 - 2 - 3 - JUMP!" and she complied flying into the boxcar like a fish reeled in by an exuberant boy.
"Queenie," he said " I didn't think you would make it girl. Good 'un." He flashed a smile at her as Wolf struck a match and lit his hand rolled cigarette. The match eliminated his face - the darkness of his beard over shot with his oddly yellow eyes. It was his eyes that gave him his name - that and his silence.
Wolf and Bookie had been riding the rails for close to 30 years. They'd taken her under their protection when she'd been brought to the hobo camp by a dealer. Queenie they called her because her years as a scoliosis survivor had given her a ram-rod straight back. That was the only regal thing about her. Still, they had noticed and the accepted and protected her. A single woman on her own in their world was either an addict or a camp whore and she was neither. She was a college kid who had slipped out of her life - abducted by the lure of anonymity and perceived independence of life outside of the box.
Queenie settled back against her burlap bag of belongings. She curled her hand around the bottle Bookie passed her, took a swallow and began to sing. Wolf closed his eyes and Bookie smiled as she sang them through the darkness and into the dawns light.
By noon the next day they were in Iowa. She could feel the fall cold sneaking in underneath her as they pushed northward.
She nudged Bookie with her foot and he opened one eye. "Soon" she said. He sat up stretching a bit and looked at her "You sure, girl?"
Queenie nodded and then smiled - lighting her eyes with her certainty.
"Good, you're sure." he said catching her excitement "Okay, just remember to roll."
The train slowed as it entered Ames and when she saw the campus rail sign she crouched by the door. Then she was flying through the air. She hit the ground hard and her wind left her as she fell and rolled as Bookie had told her. As her breath came back it took a minute for her to realize that she'd stopped - that it was the train that carried the motion forward while she laid still. She lifted her head and waved at Bookie watching her from his perch in the boxcar now picking up speed on its way out of Ames.
Queenie stood and picked up her burlap bag. She shook out her hair and brushed the grass off of her soiled jeans. She turned toward campus and Queenie became Jera as she stepped back into her college student life.
Grief
The card had been mailed 12 years ago and had I received it then, things would have been so different. I opened it. The paper - air mail paper thin as onion skin - was brown with age and crackled beneath my finger tips.
Dear Jen,
I got your card yesterday. My darling, I miss you, too. Call the embassy when you get this and we'll work out the distance issue. We can be together always.
All my love,
Allen
Tears tracked slowly down my face. I'd written him telling him I loved him--that I couldn't go back to just friends, that I would give up my teaching job if he'd have me in Gambia. But, if that wasn't what he wanted, to let me go - to let me continue my life with out him in peace.
I'd waited a month after I thought he'd have gotten my card. Then another month. I don't remember eating during that time, but I do remember not breathing every time I opened the mail box. Day-after-day. Nothing.
So I'd gone on being single. Being me. Living with mom, taking over the house when she died. Teaching at the elementary school I'd attended as a child. Solitary life. Not a wife.
At 42 I no longer held my breath when I checked the mail. I'd long since stopped expecting a reply - just as I'd long since stopped living - just existing.
Dear Jen,
I got your card yesterday. My darling, I miss you, too. Call the embassy when you get this and we'll work out the distance issue. We can be together always.
All my love,
Allen
Tears tracked slowly down my face. I'd written him telling him I loved him--that I couldn't go back to just friends, that I would give up my teaching job if he'd have me in Gambia. But, if that wasn't what he wanted, to let me go - to let me continue my life with out him in peace.
I'd waited a month after I thought he'd have gotten my card. Then another month. I don't remember eating during that time, but I do remember not breathing every time I opened the mail box. Day-after-day. Nothing.
So I'd gone on being single. Being me. Living with mom, taking over the house when she died. Teaching at the elementary school I'd attended as a child. Solitary life. Not a wife.
At 42 I no longer held my breath when I checked the mail. I'd long since stopped expecting a reply - just as I'd long since stopped living - just existing.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Pocket findings....
I found the strangest thing in my pocket Well, maybe it wouldn't be strange for some people, but for a confirmed city dweller like me a fresh blade of green grass is not what I'd expected to find. I'd been looking for a kleenex to wipe the city grime from my face and found instead this interloper - this reminder of a life I'd chosen not to live.
I examined it. Vibrant green. An in-your-face kind of green that even the limes in the green grocers have the good sense to cover up with city dust. There were lighter veins of color, too. And when I squinted at the blade I could see an entire rainbow of color trapped in the slender stalk.
It was crisp like lettuce served on ice and, when I snapped it between my fingers it released a fragrance that was indescribable. Fresh, clean. It brought to mind a cotton sheet hung taut on a line, snapping in the bleaching sun.
How did it find its way into the pocket of my coat? How did it come survive the city and in its broken-ness -- its loss of roots -- seem to thrive? Where had I been that it could have inserted itself into my pocket like a parasite catching a ride on an unsuspecting host?
I looked at the blade of grass - now in two pieces - resting in the palm of my hand. I lifted it up so I could see it, the window and the city outside of the train car. Perhaps it was a commuter like me.
My stop. My two pieced new friend and I stepped onto the platform. I opened my hand and like the single sheet of newspaper or the plastic bag held aloft by unseen forces, the grass continued its commute on the wind.
I examined it. Vibrant green. An in-your-face kind of green that even the limes in the green grocers have the good sense to cover up with city dust. There were lighter veins of color, too. And when I squinted at the blade I could see an entire rainbow of color trapped in the slender stalk.
It was crisp like lettuce served on ice and, when I snapped it between my fingers it released a fragrance that was indescribable. Fresh, clean. It brought to mind a cotton sheet hung taut on a line, snapping in the bleaching sun.
How did it find its way into the pocket of my coat? How did it come survive the city and in its broken-ness -- its loss of roots -- seem to thrive? Where had I been that it could have inserted itself into my pocket like a parasite catching a ride on an unsuspecting host?
I looked at the blade of grass - now in two pieces - resting in the palm of my hand. I lifted it up so I could see it, the window and the city outside of the train car. Perhaps it was a commuter like me.
My stop. My two pieced new friend and I stepped onto the platform. I opened my hand and like the single sheet of newspaper or the plastic bag held aloft by unseen forces, the grass continued its commute on the wind.
It's over
She comes across as an extrovert but isn't really. Silence is what really feeds her - well silence and the sound of her own voice. She can spend hours on the phone driveling on about the most inane things. I can only listen with have an ear most of the time. I like it when she calls, but it does go on and on.
One day she was rambling about something and I put down the phone. I didn't hang up. I just set it down and went about my business. I picked up the receiver about 3 minutes later and said "Uh huh" and set it down again. I didn't know what she was on about and, when it came down to it, I didn't much care. We'd been together so long that I didn't think it would matter. I know it sounds callous now, but that was how I felt.
I guess that was where our ending starts for her. Me walking out on her when she was pouring out what she calls soul...what I call drivel.
For me the ending probably started with the first call.
Maybe it wasn't her, though. My self doubts never flag. Maybe it was the fact that our relationship was all about the phone. I don't have much patience with the phone. The spoken word is so ethereal that without the body language, it is fairly useless......
One day she was rambling about something and I put down the phone. I didn't hang up. I just set it down and went about my business. I picked up the receiver about 3 minutes later and said "Uh huh" and set it down again. I didn't know what she was on about and, when it came down to it, I didn't much care. We'd been together so long that I didn't think it would matter. I know it sounds callous now, but that was how I felt.
I guess that was where our ending starts for her. Me walking out on her when she was pouring out what she calls soul...what I call drivel.
For me the ending probably started with the first call.
Maybe it wasn't her, though. My self doubts never flag. Maybe it was the fact that our relationship was all about the phone. I don't have much patience with the phone. The spoken word is so ethereal that without the body language, it is fairly useless......
Sea Monkeys
"To get the most out of your relationship with your Sea Monkeys you will want to keep them out of the sun. For external use only."
What the heck? Like I would ingest or otherwise insert the tablets into my body so I could grow sea monkeys where I couldn't 'see' them.
"When they're inside me, where it's dark. I walk around like Noah's Ark..." The old song came back to me and I laughed out loud. My son looked up at me, his eyes serious "What does it say, Mommy?"
"It says not to eat the sea monkeys."
"Is that funny?"
"No, not really. It just reminded me of an old song about animal crackers."
"Can we make the sea monkeys?"
"Yep."
I picked up the fish bowl now devoid of fish since Freddy died 5 days ago. Colin, 5 was still saddened by his pal's demise. I'd bought the sea monkeys and a book at a toy store in town while Colin was at school hoping that they would take his mind off of Freddy. I continued reading the instructions. "Warm tap water. Remove the chlorine..." we had well water so that was unnecessary. I gave the open packet to Colin. He very carefully took the tablet out and said to it "I don't know why they put you guys in medicine, but I hope you like your new home."
He dropped the tablet into the fish bowl and together we watched the Sea Monkeys come to life.
What the heck? Like I would ingest or otherwise insert the tablets into my body so I could grow sea monkeys where I couldn't 'see' them.
"When they're inside me, where it's dark. I walk around like Noah's Ark..." The old song came back to me and I laughed out loud. My son looked up at me, his eyes serious "What does it say, Mommy?"
"It says not to eat the sea monkeys."
"Is that funny?"
"No, not really. It just reminded me of an old song about animal crackers."
"Can we make the sea monkeys?"
"Yep."
I picked up the fish bowl now devoid of fish since Freddy died 5 days ago. Colin, 5 was still saddened by his pal's demise. I'd bought the sea monkeys and a book at a toy store in town while Colin was at school hoping that they would take his mind off of Freddy. I continued reading the instructions. "Warm tap water. Remove the chlorine..." we had well water so that was unnecessary. I gave the open packet to Colin. He very carefully took the tablet out and said to it "I don't know why they put you guys in medicine, but I hope you like your new home."
He dropped the tablet into the fish bowl and together we watched the Sea Monkeys come to life.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Artist Prayer
O creator, still creating
I open myself to you
Let me be an instrument
of your will
Shaddai, let me be
with full acceptance,
who I am and help me
to accept others as they are.
Open us all to your healing.
And allow us to see
holiness and wholeness
in all creation.
I open myself to you
Let me be an instrument
of your will
Shaddai, let me be
with full acceptance,
who I am and help me
to accept others as they are.
Open us all to your healing.
And allow us to see
holiness and wholeness
in all creation.
Dear Artist....
Dear Writer Liz,
Please spend time with me. I don't want to talk. I want to write, draw, or paint. Coloring is good, too. Make time for me in places where you are. In your office, I'm small, I don't take up much space. I'd like a quarter of the space on your desk. A note book for me. You can publish whatever works on you management blog or on your own blog, which ever. I am not asking for money or a lot of time. Just some nurturing and space. Another thing I would ask for is more time out doors. Remember how good it felt to carve in the sun? Remember in the dead of winter how it feels to write in the sun. Create space for you and for me. We will create!
Please spend time with me. I don't want to talk. I want to write, draw, or paint. Coloring is good, too. Make time for me in places where you are. In your office, I'm small, I don't take up much space. I'd like a quarter of the space on your desk. A note book for me. You can publish whatever works on you management blog or on your own blog, which ever. I am not asking for money or a lot of time. Just some nurturing and space. Another thing I would ask for is more time out doors. Remember how good it felt to carve in the sun? Remember in the dead of winter how it feels to write in the sun. Create space for you and for me. We will create!
Diaphrams and Depression
"Flexing the diaphram to any significant extent requires conscious effort". Crap. I hate physiology. I snapped the book shut, stood, and stretched. My dorm room was a mid-term disaster. Papers mixed with dirty clothes were strewn about. My room had gone round - the corners each containing a collection of bags, books, CDs, papers and clothes. I hated it at that moment.
I glanced out the window into the courtyard. Empty. Everyone else was in a mid-term funk, too. The rain skittered off the window onto the tarmac below. Grey, grey, grey.
"God", I wondered "Is this what depression is like?"
Yep. I wonder how much of my life I've been depressed. I can look back and see the mania, but not the darkness. Not until I was in grad school and the knowledge that this IS all there is overcame me. Before I was excited by the possibilities that life held. But then I realized that we are pack animals and we structure our lives and our days to be much the same. Day after day.... That's when the greyness wins. Meds help. But I feel weak giving my mental health over to the chemical concoction that allows me to focus, to function. To not give in to the grey goat that lives on the roof of my house - trying to keep me prisoner.
What do I want? I want to be amazed - external. Try again. I want to be whole; to be different; lose the anger find the love; be a hippie; live lightly; dance; find joy.
If you live joyfully, though, how do you know? Don't you need the contrast of down days and sleepless nights to illuminate the joy? If not, how do you recognize her?
Anyway. My dorm room is a mess. It's raining and glooming and I'm struck studying my navel when I ought to be studying physiology. I think I'll go watch TV. Maybe I'll feel more inspired later. HA!
I glanced out the window into the courtyard. Empty. Everyone else was in a mid-term funk, too. The rain skittered off the window onto the tarmac below. Grey, grey, grey.
"God", I wondered "Is this what depression is like?"
Yep. I wonder how much of my life I've been depressed. I can look back and see the mania, but not the darkness. Not until I was in grad school and the knowledge that this IS all there is overcame me. Before I was excited by the possibilities that life held. But then I realized that we are pack animals and we structure our lives and our days to be much the same. Day after day.... That's when the greyness wins. Meds help. But I feel weak giving my mental health over to the chemical concoction that allows me to focus, to function. To not give in to the grey goat that lives on the roof of my house - trying to keep me prisoner.
What do I want? I want to be amazed - external. Try again. I want to be whole; to be different; lose the anger find the love; be a hippie; live lightly; dance; find joy.
If you live joyfully, though, how do you know? Don't you need the contrast of down days and sleepless nights to illuminate the joy? If not, how do you recognize her?
Anyway. My dorm room is a mess. It's raining and glooming and I'm struck studying my navel when I ought to be studying physiology. I think I'll go watch TV. Maybe I'll feel more inspired later. HA!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)