some time off

I won't be blogging for a while. Some other things demand my attention right now. Thanks for understanding.

we went to chuck-e-cheese

My mother decides to run her game on me--she knows that we try to make Sunday "family day," and that we didn't get to have our family days--well, not the usual ones anyway, which are, well, fun--while George was in Hong Kong. Lots of in between here that would take me staring a dysfunctional families team blog to recount, but the bottom line is that we offered them some visiting time with Jenna Saturday, and on that day they became mysteriously not around.

So by Saturday night my mom is appologizing for missing us, asking if they can take Jenna for a few hours on Sunday. Now, consciously, she believes this is just a simple request, oh they miss her so. But unconsciously it's LOADED. So yesterday when the Sunday Request phone call comes in earnest, I say no. I say, Sunday is family day and we have plans. She is dejected, hurt I can tell, but I'm getting better at NOT letting it ruin my day or yank my survivor child chains.

And we had a really nice day. We went to the hobby shop and raced cars. Then off to Chuck E. Cheese. George writes about it it better justice than I could:

"There is a beautiful common bond parents can share with one another and that bond is their progeny. It is truly a thing of beauty to behold so many people who decided to take the chance of procreating and sacrifice a considerable amount of freedom [mental and emotional freedom, especially]."

Every time I hate Atlanta and begin looking at it through the eyes of someone who doesn't live here anymore, I become more and more aware of its one redeeming quality: diversity. I don't think there was a country or ethnicity missing at Chuck E. Cheese this day. At the booth next to us a family in traditional garments from Africa chatted in a language I didn't know. On the "Take Your Photo with Chuck E." ride, a mother perhaps speaking Portuguese was watching her incredible daughters with whisps of curls that I wanted to sink my fingers into, take a lock and keep it for my own. Hispanic, East Indian, Mediterianian, varieties of Asian, African Africans, African Americans, Red Necks--and, my FAVORITE--mixed families crossing and bluring all of these lines, just like the net.

And the unity among the fathers, which George writes about made me teary eyed. Here were men that could be doing anything else on a Sunday, and they were there with their children, and in many cases, their wives. Good dads. Dads that lifted their daughters on and off rides, not with a monotone stare, but with the contagious joy of a child.

George hit a payday at one of the games. He figured out how to align the trigger mechanism just so, nudging it a milimeter at a time, until the coins roled upright across this spinning wheel and threaded themselves inside a thin slot. The other dads gathered round. I glanced over to see three at one time in rapt attention at George's technique. And once he'd won about 1,000 tickets, he took a break and handed his perfectly-aligned shooter to a fellow father, who brought home at least that many before handing it off to another dad, who soon learned the technqiue before handing the reins back over to George.

All these dads, giving one another the thumbs up across the expanse of children. Winking at one another--their secret safe with eachother. They'd walk by George and say, "Thanks, man. Thanks for showing us." I'm proud to be there--wife of the Chuck E. Cheese game master.

Meanwhile, Jenna--yes, she was there too--had the time of her life, making friends and learning how to finally boss other kids around instead of being on the receiving end.

All in all, it was a fine family day.


Although I don't think we're here for the long term, it sure was a pleasant day in historic Kennesaw, Georgia.

so, like, if we were going to move....

Say we're thinking of moving out of the U.S., you know, packing up the blogs and taking them with us, so to speak. Does anyone think they live in a really great place outside of the U.S.? And, is there a house for sale or rent near you? And why do you love where you live? What's it like there--what makes it special?

Because, really, I'm trying to figure out if it's the climate here in America, which seems to be growing ever more obnoxious, or if it's Atlanta proper that's getting unbearable, or if it's just that the world is ready to spin off its axis, in which case we won't bother packing but instead get into the bathtub and prepare for a bumpy landing.

Everything seems amiss. Nothing seems right. I just got Letters of Transit: Reflections on Exile, Identity, Language and Loss to add to the pile of books I want to read, not so much thinking of this displaced feeling I've had based on geography, but more based on rootlessness or something I haven't quite "got" yet.

But I will get it, and when I get it I'll blog about it, if I get it this decade. Anyway, here's a snippet of an editorial review to tell you what the book's about, which, since I've only read a very nice 5 pages worth, I can't tell you yet (though I CAN tell you it doesn't have the cool briefcase looking handle it appears to have--it's a paperback.) Nonetheless, it looks like a very promising read.

---->In these distinct and forthcoming original essays, five prominent writers offer their meditations on exile and memory. The authors represented in Aciman's (Out of Egypt: A Memoir, 1995) collection are a varied lota not atypical sampling of men and women who have found their way to the US from around the world: Aciman, an Alexandrian in exile via Paris; Eva Hoffman, a Pole in exile via Canada; Bharati Mukherjee, a Bengali in Berkeley; Edward Said, a Palestinian exile via Egypt; and Charles Simic, a Yugoslav exile of 1945 vintage. These voices of exile are unusually eloquent ones. All five authors are non-native speakers who write professionally in English. For them, the common duality and instability of exile are heightened by the very nature of their work. Aciman puts it well: ``their words . . . are the priceless buoys with which they try to stay afloat both as professional thinkers and human beings.'' <----

See, their WORDS are buoys that keep them afloat when they are exiled, homeless, rootless. Ring a bell? A poetry bell? A music bell? a blogging bell?

Anyway, it's really late, and I need to be sleeping, but instead I'm sitting in a relatively comfortable home with my nice laptop and air conditioning thinking somehow I've always been in exile from myself. Either that, or I've been living in the wrong places, places that don't quite feel like home.

So give a shout if you happen to know where home is.

exile 1

when you cut
me open
the thing
that will suprise
you the most
is the mysterious
ball of twine
that is my heart
twisted tight, its
genesis invisible,
hidden within
a tight coil
it would take
too long
to unravel.

this is what
exile
feels like.

unable to
touch the
beginning of
things
roots buried
so deep
it takes
memory
to unearth
them.

And then,
they are cold.

Understand.
It's not always
about leaving
a place, about
leaving family,
exile is a place
leaving
you
is family
gone because
you
never knew
them.

Exiled
from yourself:
the wind.

I leave myself,
a homeland
wasted by
war,
this war
is inside me
and
not the best
answer
but the only
answer
is to
flee.

people are saying...

Hey, j., I like your poetry. When do you write it--do you write right there in your blog?

Answer: Gee, thanks. and, uh, yep. I write right here in this posting spot, and most often, I write the poetry as I'm nodding off at night, in that space between wake and sleep where I find that having my fingers on the laptop keyboard pays infinite rewards, the most fun being, I don't know until the next day what I wrote. And sometimes I acutally like it! Write a stanza, nod off, pull my head up, write another, nod off, and so on. It's not for everyone. For instance, if you have a life and/or need your sleep, this method of writing may complicate things.

That's pretty much how I do it. No real thinking. Just finding the words leftover when my mind goes dark.

A highly recommended exercise for blogging junkies.

And now, speaking of sleep, I'm off to put the kiddo to bed.

Bottom's Up, by the way

This is precisely how we are going to change Korporate Amerika. Not so much the "role of weblogs in organizations" thing. That's nice. That's a good way to get companies used to it--unafraid of it. But the bigger change is going to be more about the role of BLOGGERS within organizations.

I am waiting a little bit anxiously for the convergece of George Partington's and Jeneane Sessum's and Gary Turner's (and more) split personalities into one well-informed, tightly-connected, dangerous, risky and serious weblogging mofo. Today we have one foot on the net and one in the workplace. Tomorrow we are the workplace, or more appropriately, the workplace is us.

Go George!

Hello, he's one of us.

Lots of talk yesterday about the Worldcomm article on weblogging and organizations. Doesn't seem like anyone noticed that the author of the article is George Partington, Atlanta blogger and author of the recent interview with Chris Locke.

Doc blogged it (but his archives gave me an error so you'll have to scroll down to the post--and Doc I think your link to the aritcle is off.)

blogroots blogged it.

And the article is 23 on Daypop right now.

So it's only fitting that George take a bow. You could say George P. is clued. Smart. Creative. A great writer. And an all around great guy. Well, that's what I say.

Denise Howell and I chatted by phone last night--HI DENISE!--and she told me about the article and how no one had picked up on George being one of us. She wasn't sure if George wanted anyone to pick up on that--those of us with corporate day jobs can be kind of sensitive about that--so I emailed George, who called while George S. and I were still in bed--SORRY GEORGE P.!, or should I say SORRY GEORGE S.?--and so I didn't answer, but rose and shone to an email from George P. telling me to blog away about him being the author.

George also has a link off his article to an information page he put on blogspot. Nice!

So there you have it, the REAL scoop from the early edition of allied. all the news that fits we blog.

Links to George Partington's blog and his Worldcom article on blogging are welcome. Let's push him to number 1 today.

soar

ima take a ride
ima go too fast
ima smash a wall
ima not come back

ima fly so far
ima lick a cloud
ima do some flips
ima yell real loud

ima stay up high
ima feel so cold
ima slice the sky
ima make a hole

ima fly on in
ima float above
ima hug the dark
ima die for love

motion

wind barely moves
tattered blue drapes
remind me
that nothing
is still
in time

always
going away,
her footprint
in grey carpet
lifts and fades
three steps
from now

night is charged
ripples displeasure
the neighbor
on the phone
says a big storm
is on the way

Back from rehab
four weeks,
he knows storms,
been home
too much,
I've started
to look for
packages
in his hands

you come/go
and the wind
moves us,
I reach back
for you.
Hold me.

racetrack

George's post today tells where we're at. It's a big adjustment going from a physically and emotionally charged performance situation six nights a week at a five-star hotel in the opposite time zone to a messy livingroom where a four year old tests your patience every chance she gets. He's doing remarkably well; off tonight to buy a hard-earned fretless--I can't wait to hear how it records, how it sounds through his gear. We have so much work to do to hook him up with the right management this time around--maybe keep him from having to go so far away next time--Europe in autumn has a nice ring to it.

Meanwhile, back to the old responsibilities of momhood and dayjob, fatherhood and business. What I think we need is a vacation. Away from home, atlanta, routines, work, school everything. Fishing. Amberjack are biting in Pensacola. How hot could it be there now--any hotter than Atlanta? I'm not sure. As long as there's a pool and the ocean, it's good by me.

And what is the payoff? I don't know anymore. Once I had hopes that what we're doing right here, right now would pay off. I still have a glimmer--part of me wonders if Shelley isn't right. If I stopped doing this, would I follow through on the other, more important things? Or does doing this give me the confidence and energy I need to do the other, more important things? No answer yet.

The payoff, the checkered flag, who's in the race, who's gonna win. Used to be when George went on the road there were gigs to be had at home when he came back. Since 9/11 and the economic blunders of our current administration, ain't nothing extra going on. Corporations have eliminated entertainment budgets; parties are a thing of the past. The production business is tougher than ever--folks are conservative with their money thanks to our daily dose of bad news.

One answer is hightail it out of here, maybe to Europe, pick up and go. Harder for me than for George, but if it had to be, I could do it. The nice thing about my online family is that I could take you with me. Matter of fact, you'd be there ahead of me. That is an amazing feeling. That confidence thing I was just talking about.

No decisions to be made yet, but so much work to do; press kits to get done for George, CDs to make, dayjob dayjob, house, house, jenna jenna jenna.

and no sleep for the weary.

Halley Rules

quite literally.

to be real

dusk mountains
streaked
blue gatoraide
lightning slices
wind moon,
moon, moon
skinned faces
fried in oil
nuclear winter
fire rain
trees ignite
dead crow
children holler
open door
the old lady
on three wheels
rolls by --
looks like
fun
agony
take meds
turkey sandwich
piles of books
loss, forgiveness,
self, relate
abandon
cry don't cry
loss
never was
mother
peanuts by the door
lead me not into temptation
evil, sex, acid
drop
coffee
snow drifts
blues
writing not writing
heat, sleep, moan
ring
the colors
red black blue
white
lights
crawling clawing
to get to you
then undone
love unloved
christ
madness
escape voice
exile
heart
rage
page
247.

stresssssssss

I rested for two hours this afternoon--stretched out on the bed across four or five pillows... I love lots of pillows because it's like laying on a cloud. The "nap" was something I could do only rarely the last four months. I didn't get much rest--hardly any from April-July. But since George has been home, I have had sweet relaxation, the kind I forgot existed, the kind where you don't wake up in a panic. I drifted off thinking about how many single moms were wishing, at that very moment, that they could lay down too. Take a break. Listen to silence for just a half hour.

So many single moms, single dads never get the relief I got today, while Jenna and George worked on the computer, and I slept, pure simple uninterrupted rest, until she couldn't stand it another minute and came to find me, her hair smelling like bubble gum and baby powder, the scents of the oils daddy had put in her hair as he combed it through while I slept.

I wish I could bottle the feeling and send it to other moms who are missing their rest. I can't pretend to know what it's like to be a single parent day in and day out, but I do know what it was like for almost four months to carry the load by myself, to have my child on my own, with Dad on the other side of the world. I do know the fried patience, the wear and tear that sometimes buckles your knees as you wonder, can I do this another day? Why won't she listen to me? What happened to my kid? Who is she and who am I? Why can't I focus? Why can't I pay the bills, keep the house up? And will frozen dinners for one more night kill us? And if they did, would it be so terrible? And who's taking care of me anyway?

Showers for mom put off until after bedtime, books I'd like to read piled up with the mail; instead it's Phonics and fights over bathtime, friends I'd like to talk to who can't hear me through the wildings of a four year old who wants nothing more than my undivided attention.

I think of Halley, who posted today that she will be getting divorced, and I'm sad and sorry for her trauma, her stress, and wish I could bottle my rest today for her, for a time in the future when she will need it most.

and on this odd day...

of traversing the neighborhood, looking for Shelley's missing house, I find a photo of Dane Carlson's radiant and pregnant wife among the sunflowers.

That is sweetness. Enjoy the ride, Dane.

BurningBird, I miss you and your blogroll

I just realized how many places I used to get to through BB's blogroll. Now that it's gone, where's my jumping off point? I'm disoriented. I have to rearrange my unconscious map around Blogaria my brain, in my fingers. It'll take me some time, I think, to get used to not reading Shelley, to get used to not jumping off from her place to other places.

It's like someone erased a road from my neighborhood. The road to the familiar mom and pop grocery store where I could count on cold, fresh milk and my favorite Cheese Doodles (JAX). I knew the way, always found what I was looking for. Now the road's gone, and I'm wondering how I ever got places before I knew about that road.

Off to drive around the neighborhood for a while, find a new route to the places I go.

Damn.

grocery shopping for dummies

Make a list that goes something like this:
bread, meat, eggs, toilet paper, lettuce, salad dressing, chicken breast, microwave popcorn, coffee, cream, soda.
Think about going to the grocery store
Find anything else to do instead
Blog
Stop blogging
Get off the fucking couch
Get car keys and purse
Walk down the steps
Get into the car
Start the car
Drive
Park in fire lane
Get out of the car and lock it
Remember you left the list at home
Say, oh fuck
Grab cart and start down the isles
Get stuck behind some lady checking the many sizes of pampers
Load cart with 1 bag of Doritos, six frozen dinners, three frozen pizzas, microwave egplant parmesean, 1/2 gallon chocolate chip ice cream, whipped cream, hot fudge, salted peanuts.
Grab a bottled water and drink it while looking for your checkbook
Toss the bottle in the garbage before checking out
Pay $44.23
Load healthfood into the car
Drive home
Carry all the bags upstairs at once
Cook til al dante and serve

enjoy!

and the world turns

Getting back to normal family life here, which means Jenna is getting sick, I'm pretty tired, and George is off to do the business thing and show off his hands tonight. We haven't been apart since he got back. Feels odd--to have the old routine coming back slowly, elation subsiding, replaced by something resembling comfort, though it's vaguely unsettling, because I forgot how to feel plain old comfort. The last four months have resembled something more like manic depression. Now life is going and coming. Our default. Memories are giving way to real life. Live or memorex? I'm somewhere in between.

And in the middle, Shelley Powers signed off of blogging, I hope not forever, but with her usual style, she gave evidence that was hard to argue with on why it was time to go. Still, she remains one of my blogger heroines and role models, and I hope she shows up in my comment box every once in a while, as the spirit moves her.

And in real, real life today, we bloggers have a new granbaby courtesy of Elaine's daughter--YAY!!! And I guess that means we have an Uncle Bix too. Bix, I got a copy of the free book too. Whatup? I never look a gift book in the mouth. Three free books in one day is about as good as it gets (the two Perseus blogging books and Nexus). I will be reviewing something about them soon.

Today was a day of go, come, end, start, disappear, appear, and so it goes.

just another friday night

We set out to Dave and Busters tonight as a family. Jenna loves the place--nothing but loud music and a thousand games, some better than what her imagination could conjur, and great prizes at the end when you turn in your cup full of tickets. For the adults, it's even better. Alcohol, smoking, and decent food--nice hot wings, pretty good salads, and did I mention drinks and smoking?

There's always a million people (give or take 999,000) running around the place, playing this game and that, and on Friday I knew it would take a team effort to get a table. George kept Jenna busy with the games while I scoped out the booths, waiting for someone to slap the tip on the table and stand up--and there I am, grabbing that red plastic booth seat before you could say daily double.

I'm feeling pretty good--it's 9:00, we just came from Mars where George had to say hello to a bass he's been eyeing for six months, and I haven't heard him play since before he left, and he tries this fretless out and I'm bowled over, because when he told me his hands were back, I didn't realize he meant all the way back, but yes, they are.

And when we're leaving (sans bass because they wouldn't meet his price) we're loading Jenna into the minivan from hell and we hear some crazy motherfucker singing across the parking lot only to find out it's Nathaniel, one of the guys George was playing with in Hong Kong, who'd just arrived back in Atlanta two weeks prior--and Nathaniel doesn't even live here; he lives in Tennessee, so you see, the thrill of watching these two guys laugh and embrace and share war stories with the look of survivors of a long fought battle, the thrill was quite nice.

So I'm sitting in the booth rethinking the night that was, rather minding my own business as I have a smart tendency to do, when this amazing looking blonde woman at the booth next to me strkes up a conversation. "I'm from Nebraska," she tells me, and she's smoking, so I figure she can't be all bad, though the makeup was kind of killing me by then--plastic perfection wears on me after like five seconds. "Oh, wow," I say. (I don't talk like I blog.)

And from there I was sucked into the whirlwind that is Sharlene, who glommed onto me I think because her boyfriend is black, and that's not the half of it.

Because over the next two hours, George and I in varying degrees and of alternating stamina, heard so much more. More than we ever wanted to know about Sharlene and Ron.

She starts crying pretty much right away, and she's in my lap--well she might as well have been--in our booth within the first half hour. She's needing some loving. She's had a hard day.

You see, this morning while Ron, who lives here, not in Idaho, went someplace--might have been church since she says he goes to church a lot and has Bibles all through his house--and Sharlene was left at his house with time on her hands. So what does she do? Gets on his computer. And what does she find? Porn. Plenty of it. And more. Guys, let this be a warning: Platinum blondes with really large breasts CAN figure out your passwords.

And when she figures them out, she finds...

conversations...

lots of them....

of her man with a woman from another state, offering to make a visit and show her, as Sharlene says, "His Big Black Cock." By now our daughter is off playing on a game with Sharlene's five year old girl (from another man, another time). I am quite literally thanking my lucky stars. George and I are wide eyed, smiling, laughing at the absurdity that's playing out across the table.

"And there were pictures," she tells us. "Lots of them! Pussy--all this pussy with stretch marks and right up in my face. I was SO angry, and hurt," and I'm pretty much stuck in the booth, and Sharlene who it now appears is pretty much wasted, is now my best friend. At once point I'm pretty sure she's grabbed my boob instead of my arm by mistake, but I'm still not completely sure, and George and I are exchanging looks like, "How do we get out of this?" since Ron is now entertaining our daughter and hers at a nearby game.

"Now I had a webcam, sure," she tells us. George's eyes perk up. "But that was BEFORE I met Ron. I can't have my daughter exposed to all this--I can't trust him; he says he's going up there to stick his-----(you get it)----into her, and what, now I'm supposed to believe him when he tells me it's just 'entertainment.'?"

George and I have a code phrase now. It's "A-B"

[CONTINUED HERE.]

keep the good thoughts coming for Aunt Penny

She had her open heart surgery as George was touching down from Hong Kong. She is out of intensive care now but has a long recuperation both in and out of the hospital ahead of her. Please keep her in your thoughts and prayers.

It's odd, or maybe not so, that every joyous occasion in my life has been coupled with a parallel and simultaneous traumatic happening. It's something I've gotten used to. That's why it didn't surprise me when George's touchdown coincided with my second-mom Aunt Penny's surgery time.

This time I tried something different though. When the worry and the pain would start to sink in, I'd push it away. I'd hear Marek and Tom, and Elaine telling me to keep this moment sacred, to just--for a couple hours--forget the possibility of the omonous, of me walking out of the airport to a cell phone call saying Aunt Penny hadn't made it. Forget how likely it is to be smacked in the face by tragedy at the moment of building joy--forget carrying the sack of get well cards from your kindergarten classmates home to the person you love most in the world only to have someone tell you--too late; he's dead.

Maybe it's not surprising that I've never been good at pushing those catastrophic thoughts away, agreeing instead to let them rule the moment, spoil the moment. Sometimes EVERY moment.

But this time I won. And it was quite literally the voices of bloggers--your voices--in my head telling me: You deserve this. You deserve this reunion. You deserve it to be a happy occasion. You can't control the cut of the surgeon's hand, so leave it. Put it down and leave it there. Go greet your lifelong love with a light heart. You might just be surprised.

And I was. I felt joy. Very surprising. Disorienting.

I've been tossing around ideas on why I was able to do it this time--to enjoy a moment for a change. And I think it has a lot to do with blogging--with these connections--with feeling maybe a dozen, two dozen people cheering for me, for us. And maybe it's because our voices are so wrapped up in one another here, in our growing community. Maybe your voice is in me now, and mine is in you, and maybe sometimes I can summon the healthy bits of you that you decide to show me, and you can summon the healthy bits of me that I show you, and somehow these twisted and paired emotions and thoughts are together greater than our own individually.

I'm still thinking about it. Marveling. And, somewhere, waiting for the other shoe to fall. But not the same way. More like a gnatt than a ten-ton elephant. More like a whisper than a wind.

thank you.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

Don't wake up George.
He's sleeping.
I love him.

Just for the record

I think Gary Turner is the funniest fucking blogger in all the kingdom of Blogaria. Gary, you bring my blood pressure down, you make me laugh OUT LOUD. You are amazing, inspiring, tireless, kind; You are a turkey sandwich with lettuce AND tomato.

Gary, you bastard, you.

that is all.

I miss you all--so many memes going around, I'm dizzy, help. Send Coffee!

I am still so busy. SO happy. I have nothing to say, nothing to complain about, nothing to bemoan, and nothing to declare at this time. Meanwhile, George will blog for me while I rest.

The coolest thing is watching my husband fall in love with blogging. He's telling me who's doing what as I'm finally paying attention to my life, getting back to work, resting, playing with Jenna who has suddenly calmed down, as if a storm has rolled on by.

George shows me Gary's parody parade. He says, "Look at these!" and I laugh at b!x's cover, then notice Elaine. I say to him, "You know, Elaine is b!x's mom." He says, "NO! Really?!" And he's just digging on all these relationships, and I'm thinking how cool is it that I have someone to tell this stuff to--someone who cares about it? MAN, I know I am one lucky lady. In more ways than twenty.

I'm off to give Jenna her bath--maybe write some more later. Amazing how the muses take a nap when you're happy, huh?

inquiring minds...

Damn paparazzi!

(stay the hell out of our bedroom, Gary!)

the weight of the world

If you haven't read Gary Turner's interview over on Frank Paynter's site, go do it. Right now. That Porridge Boy is amazing. Looky what he made today. I'm laughing myself sick over here. And I never even knew the Turners shared the Sessum's love for Glengarry Glen Ross. Ah, well, read the interview for the famous exchange between Alec Baldwin and the sales team.

Speaking of Love, he's home. He's really really home. And as I tried to figure the right thing to blog about it today, I decided I can't capture it in one post. I can't tell you in one post what it was like standing behind the recently-installed spectator galley (well that's what it feels like) at the top of the escalators at Atlanta Hartsfield, where everyone and their Asian brother was waiting for Korean Air Flight 032 to arrive. I can't tell you how many times I had to say, "Jenna, be patient," as for more than two hours she fidgeted and looked expectantly at every tall-dark-and-handsome who rose into view from the belly of the airport, coming up the escalator from down below where the trains run.

She waited, sat, stood, shuffled, jumped, ran, sat, stood, shuffled, whined, picked, sat, stood, swayed, stomped, shrugged, and I think kicked a couple of times. I stood at the ready with digial camera in hand, wondering if he would ever come, if the plane had even landed. Minutes turned to a half hour turned to an hour turned to an hour-and-a-half, and some two hours after starting our vigil it happened: I saw that forehead I know so well, the eyes, then the face, chest, "JENNA LOOK!" she was already on the run. Into his arms. Me snapping a couple of shots before attacking him myself.

The biggest gift of marriage is familiarity and comfort, something that can turn into complacency so easily. Don't let it. Because the gift of comfort is picking up exactly where you left off. It's him standing in the kitchen saying, "I can't believe I'm finally home," and me saying, "I can't believe you were ever gone." It's sleeping next to the familiar rhythm that you're not sure isn't there until it's back. It's skin touching skin it knows. It's voice within voice, I hear myself in him.

It's waking up this morning without Jenna shoving me out of my dreams, instead coming to peacefully, hearing her downstairs on the computer with her father laughing at the chutes and ladders game and knowing I can close my eyes again for the first morning in nearly four months. It's coffee with lots of sweetner and cream. It's driving and talking--stories from there, from here--later, after Jenna's asleep, it's more sharing and laughter, it's hugging the pillow I'm laughing so hard. Then it's quiet and skin touching skin that feels like home.

For one day I feel like the weight of the world has been lifted from my shoulders. Like my best friend just came to my side to lift this heavy burden onto his shoulders for a while, or at least to share it with me so I can sit down on a rock once every now and then, catch my breath, and just look at the sky. It's me stretched out on the couch feeling like lead and air at once, because I can. No, it's not forever, because the responsibilities of this world won't let it be, but for today I had no burdens. Only joy.

He's home.

"Way down Upon the Swamee River."

I didn't even know!! My Husband's blogging his way home from China and I thought he'd stopped posting on Friday. WOW!

After gafawing at the musak in immigration, he shows his true colors. So many people have cried on this man's shoulder in his lifetime, I can't even tell you. I'm always the one who warns him not to trust. My pitbull instinct trying to keep the world from hurting him any more than it already has. It's not always a good thing. I know I've squelched something very human and innocent in him by teaching him to keep his guard up. Mind you, he's lived a tough life. If you've had it happen to you, it's probably happened to him too. But through it all, he's never lost empathy or compassion. I'm sorry I've doused it as much as I have, but even so, in this world a dose of "wait... think... what do they really want?" isn't such a bad idea. Sure sucks. But not a bad idea.... Now for an excerpt from the HK airport:

"Her friend is dying in London, the airport may have sent her to the wrong gate and she is so flustered she forgets how to use the computer. So I help her type to another friend in London telling him she's on her way and will find her own way to the hospitol. She thanks me, I tell her to breath deep and to put her shoes on. She doesn't. She throws them into her baggage cart and speeds away with a very gracious thank you to me. Jeneane, I gaurded my stuff but I was able to help her out without it screwing me up."

I'm proud of you George. You handled it better than I would have in so many ways. Now, if you read this, can you let me know if this means your plane will be late??

And for others, let this be a lesson to you: Check your spouse's blog often!

In good company

George Partington is at the bottom of the blogging checkmark right now. You know, you've been there. You've been writing a long time anyway, for a living and/or in your head, on paper, wherever, and you come to weblogging and you are all kinds of HOLY SHIT! And your life changes before your very eyes, a brand new addiction, or something like that.

Next you're screaming out your window, into the wind, "LOOK AT ME GO--I'VE GOT SOMETHING TO SAY! YIPEE FOR ME!" And then you find a couple of other trees blowing nearby, echoing back encouragement and right ons. In George P's case, Chris and I were blowing "Yah, mans" back at him.

Then like any good day, the wind dies down, and you hear something like this:

__________wooosh_________________

Right? That's the bottom of the checkmark. Some bloggers never start the climb back up. It's just not for them. Nice try. Yeeesh, what's the big deal. What's everyone so excited about?

Then there's George Partington. He's got a great voice and a lot to say.

There's been lots of talk lately about becoming ho-hum about our blogrolls--then comes blogrolling.com, which I checked out but don't use. I like to use mindrolling.com, which is, for those who are wondering, my brain. I like clicking around until I find someone who matters, then taking the time to find a particular post of interest, highlighting the URL of that post, making the EFFORT to cut and paste it into my template, then talk about it in a post.

I don't want my blogroll to be an organized catch-all. I want it to be semi-random, small pieces joined by me.

Somedays I find no one. Some days I find five. Today I found Greg Greene in my comment box, and learned he's from Atlanta. It dawned on me that George Partington is too. And Anthurian. Plus me, plus George Sessum (did I mention he's coming home tomorrow?). So I'm fiddling with my blogroll and figuring, hey, why not call out some props to my hometown gang? Let's take time to water, grow. Experiment. Toss some seeds in the ground and see what happens.

So what was I saying?

Yes, George Partington has a good weblog. Check it out. Here's a snippet from his recent post talking about cleaning his child's room:

"I had a pile of trash and crappy, unnecessary toys out in the hall. I had a place for everything and everything in its place. It felt good. And I looked around and said, damn, I need to do this with my whole life. My life is cluttered, too. Books, CDs, magazines, bills, newspapers, post-it notes to myself, shoes, socks, unread New Yorkers. I need focus too. Then maybe I’ll get somewhere, and that sense of satisfaction will grow into something resembling a feeling of well-being."

George at 3 a.m.

Exhaustion has taken your place.
With it comes peace
deep slumber
numbs and protects me
from missing you.

All the places you aren't
hands wrapped around
the neck of your bass,
indentations in linens,
and your man smell.

I sniff, sleep with
your pillow against
my cheek
breathing you home.

Is it a dream that
rolls me over
in sudden
sharp darkness?
I can barely tell
that it's you.

Remember you
wanting
me that bad,
stirring me
from sleep
to part my legs
and greet me
with desire?

I wake slowly, wonder
how did you get here:
I fell asleep alone.

Stretching and
coming awake
you're tasting me
telling me, "I love you."

When we join in that
sudden darkness
we are the sparks
that light the moon
the stars wait
for our charge.

Love me electric
play me,
squeeze, bite, moan,
and bring your love inside.

Let me hold you
and move you in circles,
show you how
you make me
glad for the night.

Climb up with me
onto the roof
lay across the peak
envision summer heat
as our blanket.

Take me as close as you can to the sky
before you bring me home.

a note to daypop and blogdex visitors

I guess I'm confused again. I thought there was an unwritten code of conduct for traversing blogs through daypop and blogdex--a code that says visitors who happen upon a new blog should leave a note in the comment box saying--"Hey, just passing through. Cool blog (or, this sucks). Check me out sometime." I do this. When I wind up at an interesting blog through a daypop link, I leave a little something for the blogger--throw my quarter in the tin cup--a few words of encouragement as a comment or discussion post. Sometimes add them to my blogroll.

FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! I've been on Daypop and Blogdex for three days, with 300+ visitors a day (my average is 91). Do you think anyone has passed me a folded up note saying, "psssst. cool. check out my blog." Not one. This, my friends, is depressing. This is anti-conversational. This is not cool.

This is not to take away from my buddies--my brothers and sisters of Blogaria who HAVE commented, who already know me and some of them even like me. I'm talking about the new folks--some who may want to join our discussions. Or maybe they don't.

Yes, blogging is surfing and "reading" and exploring, but it's also communicating--otherwise, what's the incentive to make our blogs public rather than private? Communication and relationships are what we're IN THIS FOR.

I am reading the trite poetry that is my referrer log, singing. "What's it all about, Alfie?" Where'd I go wrong? So many people. Such little conversation.

No, this isn't another "Jeneane whining about the lack of comments" post. This is pure amazement at how none of the 600+ extra passers by felt inclined, invited, or inspired to say hey. I wonder which it is--Am I boring? Am I intimidating? Are you just busy? Were you hopping for cat pictures? WHAT?

As I plummet from my few minutes in the limelight, it's not too late. I'm always looking for good blogroll candidates. If you happen upon this place, let me know you were here, huh? It'd be just plain neighborly for you to say, "Hey."

DID I MENTION...

That my husband, the master bassist*, is leaving Hong Kong and will be home in TWO DAYS!!!!???!!?!?! If I'd ever done it before, I might just paint my toes like jelly beans.

But then, my plain old toes have been his toes for 18 years, and the metallic glare might scare him. So instead, Jenna and I are gonna tape streamers all over the house and hang up a gold and red "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" banner because we never did find one that said "WELCOME HOME!"

Travel safely--can't wait to hear all the stories from the road!

[*Further proof that no living soul in the northeast knows how to mix bass.]

home, awake, and blogging!

Marek is b-a-c-k.

p.s., kindly link the piss out of him.

jenna at four

she tells me,
look at that plastic bag
I see faces in it
do you see them?

she tells me,
I hear TV when it's not on
I hear it in my head
do you hear it?

she asks me,
are the bumps
on the road
giant worms
underneath?

she tells me,
I don't want a baby
when i grow up:
how do I not
have a baby?

she tells me,
five teddy bears
flew across my ceiling
in the nightime,
I wanted you
to see them
but you were sleeping.

her mood spikes
and falls with the wind
submits only
to thunder
she tells me,
oh no
I made the storms
come again.

she fills my soul
then wrecks me,
she dances
light and fierce.

Pack the Van, Woods in Sight

Craig Jensen may have found a place to call home--six acres, big house, woods, pond, and privacy. Little does he know, the blog woodspeople are packing up the moving van. We'll be there soon--better put the coffee on, Craig.

Look what Elaine made for Marek

Even after having sinus surgery herself just two days ago, and judging by her blog still in fits of pain herself, Elaine was kind enough to make a get well present for Marek.

These are the times when I wish we had that place in the woods where we could bring eachother ginger ale with ice, and warm soup with saltine crackers, maybe a medium cheese pizza late at night, a boxload of books, read to eachother, and tell wonderful stories about trips into town, the curious people we'd meet, with bags full of the weekly staples and furrowed foreheads, staring at us in wonder, wanting to ask: "Ya'll aren't from this neck of the woods, are you?"

And we'd smile back and say, "Oh, yes. all of us."

Please know that I'm thinking about you mom Elaine and brother Marek.

Marek on his way home

Had a message on my voice mail a bit ago--it was Marek on his way home from the hospital with meds and his good spirits in tact--YAHOOOO! He expressed many thank yous for the love and phone calls sent his way from fellow bloggers. I'm sure he'll be blogging all about it soon.

The Master of Worst Practices

When Gary Turner decided to put this Tribute Collage together for RageBoy for his lifetime contributions to weblogging, I sent some text along. No real way to link to it from the collage, so guess what, I'm posting it here. For you, RB.

Well I'm standin' next to a mountain....
Choppin' down with the edge of my hand
Well I'm standin' next to a mountain....
Choppin' down with the edge of my hand
Pick up the pieces, make an island....
Might even raise a little sand

Cause I'm a voodoo chile....Lord knows I'm a voodoo chile

I didn't mean to take up all your sweet time
Give it right back to you....One of these days
I didn't mean to take up all your sweet time
Give it right back to you....The rest of my days

I won't see you again in this world....See ya in the next one
Don't be late....Don't be late

Cause I'm a voodoo chile yeah....Lord knows I'm a voodoo chile

-Stevie Ray Vaughan

Chris Locke is as real as real gets. The voices he's urged onto the net know that behind RageBoy, there is a Chris, digging way down deep inside, scratching at the sandy bottom, where there's joy and pain, fear and love, injury and triumph, expressing it like no one else can.

He connects with us when we need it most, through his writing and his latest high-tech obsession--the telephone--giving us brain juice and soul soup and about 8,000 watts of electricity. Here he comes again--OUCH! He wakes us up, dares us to stand for something, makes us look at things we don't really want to see, well, things we kind of want to see. Okay, yes, the things we have no choice but to see. Damn him.

Chris gives us permission to explore, think, speak, stomp, rage, love, fail, laugh, cry, scream--to grow--to be engaged.

His is not the easy path; it's the worthwhile one. Odd metered and a disconcerting, measures out of time, and always just right.

Not only that, but he does a mean Mick Jagger impersonation. Thanks for all of it and then some, Chris.

Confirmation!!

A strange thing happened on the way to cheering a sick friend up. Marek cheered me up! He got me imagining all the possibilities, power to the commons, a better world, worst practices=best life, stuff like that. Then I got some other good news--George is confirmed on a flight home Monday (Hong Kong time) and will get back to Atlanta on Tuesday--just four more days! He's "rappin'" up his blogging from the Grand Hyatt, HK, packing up the electric basses, his dead CPAP machine, some outfits for Jenna, worn-through dress pants, saying so long to the hated "upright replacement" bass, and waving a final "SEE YA!" to the fans and (mostly) hookers who have watched the band play over the last three months.

FOUR MORE DAYS!!!!

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

PRESS RELEASE

BLOGGER'S DESPERATION FOR LINKS CONFINES HIM TO HOSPITAL BED

DALLAS 2:47 PM FRIDAY. Marek J., the rarely-linked-to Polish Blogger, today announced a new worst practices program. After a long argument with heads of his Ukranian satellite office over whether or not this Gonzo Marketing shit actually works, Marek J. made himself physically ill, requiring a stay at a Dallas area hospital, where he was admitted and immediately connected not to the Internet, but to several IV lines, which he says feels about the same.

Despondent over the lack of links to soapbox.radiopossibility.com, Marek skimmed Gonzo Marketing for clues two nights ago, and re-read The Cluetrain Manifesto to find the clues he might have missed the first time around.

"No one ever fucking links to me," said J. "I just got sick of it. I mean, like, really ill. I write on the Cluetrain list. I write on my blog. I comment wherever there's an open spot for me to wax poetic about corporate assholes. I give and give, but links don't come my way."

This blogger's latest program, designed to get Blogaria talking about him, has run into a snag, however. The loveable Pole has discovered he can't blog from his hospital bed.

"I guess I forgot," he said after popping his 2:00 pain medicine. "Here I am killing myself to get links and I'm not even there to see them. I don't have a laptop. Or a connection. Ooops. OUCH! Nurse! Please, that was my .... "

Hoping for a run on Daypop himself, Marek J., is planning to donate a kidney next week.

"I have to try this again--you know, with a little better planning on my part next time," he said. "Of course, if your company is in need of a consultant, I can be outta this place lickety split."

Marek J.is available all weekend for paid assignments. He is mostly lucid between pain medications. If you are interested, please call before 7 when the shit really kicks in.

For more information, visit Marek's Blog or contact him before Sunday at 214-818-7514. The next pill's coming at 7:00 p.m. Dallas time. Call at your own risk.

-30-

A Message from Marek

I talked to Marek. Asked him if he had a message for his friends in blogland. He said yes, then this: Wake Up Motherfuckers!!!

I sat with him while he got an IV, and we laughed about and trashed corporate nonesense. Not one for trashy novels, Marek is reading From Conquest of Abundance: A Tale of Abstraction Versus the Richness of Being by Paul Feyerabend, from his hospital bed. He read me something on page 241 I thought I'd share...

"Rationalists, and that includes scientists and philosophers, like to nail things down. They are confused by change. And they cannot tolerate ambiguity. Poets, painters, and musicians cherish ambiguous words, puzzling designs, nonsensical movement, all instruments which are needed to disolve the apparently so rigid and objective nature of scientists, to replace it by useful and changing appearances or artifacts, in this way to give us a feeling for the enormous and largely unfathomable powers that surround us."

Along with the book, Marek's got good drugs, good phone, good bed, good book, good nurse, lots of water, several nurses actually. And his good sense of humor. Friends can call him--he says he has nothing to do there but read and talk: 214-818-7514. Probably be there til Sunday morning. If the spirit moves you, say hi to Marek. He sounds great as ever.

Crafting for Marek

Okay, for an update: Ann emailed. Marek's groggy but doing alright. Might be an infection. Still being evaluated. Some test results won't be back until Monday or so. Hopefully Marek will get to go home before then.

Meanwhile, Elaine is busy crafting images for Marek into a t-shirt/collage. Email her if you have a contribution.

Ann asked that we fax good well wishes for Marek to her later today, so Elaine and I are on top of that. If you've posted anything--or want to send us words to forward via Ann to Marek, email me or Elaine. While you're at it, send some Love Elaine's way--she had surgery yesterday and is home concocting some love for Marek today.

Tom Matrullo has a great rundown of the Marek posts floating around Blogaria, reflecting the wonder of that passionate Pole who's not afraid to say, "that's just not good enough."

more later

Someone Get Clever?

Wonderful words are coming for Marek today. From Doc, from Euan, from others I haven't happened upon yet.

Does anyone out there know how to put up a page where (without logging in) we can leave comments for Marek--much like folks did for Dave Winer when he was in the hospital recently? I know it made Dave feel loved. I'm sure Ann could print it out and bring it to Marek to cheer him up, keep him feeling connected.

In the mean time, go login at Ann's place and leave a message for Marek.

Let me know if someone cooks up an online get well greeting.

And then you find out a friend is in trouble

Oh boy. How to start this one. No sooner had I hit 'publish' on my tribute to RB's antics than my email dinged in telling me mail's here. I almost ignore it, assuming it is late night spam, but I hop over and find an email from Ann with a note saying that Marek is in the hospital. Ann's post gives as much information as there is to know right now. She also gives such a loving tribute to Marek--to what makes him special, them special--that I had to include some of it here. Read the language of love:

"All I want right now is Marek healthy. No pain. I want to rub my face on his chest. I want to touch his strong legs. I want to watch his fingers on a keyboard and marvel at how facile his fingers are. Working magic on a keyboard. Magic with words. Magic in languages unknown to me. I want to out-funny each other. I want to grill halibut and vegetables listening to Adore/Smashing Pumpkins and Marek's magic fingers on my keyboard. I want to feel his facile fingers on my body. I want to wrestle and tickle and playfight with him. I want to smell him. I want to feel his smooth, soft skin. I want to kiss his sweet head. I want to have a conversation about a paragraph I read by Helene Cixous. What does he think? This is what I saw. I want Marek healthy. Happy. Engaged in conversations for what's possible."

Ann, please let us know if there's anything we can send or do, and we'll make it happen. Please know--and let Marek know--that we're with him and with you, sending positive thoughts and prayers and pieces of conversations to him on the wind so he doesn't miss a thing.

Doesn't He Ever Shut Up?

RageBoy's at it again. You can put super glue on his fingers; you can put duct tape over his mouth; some have even tried knocking him out with a right to the brain, but you won't silence this voice of the voices. Tonight, you'll find him leaving obscene messages on Gary Turner's voice mail. Doesn't he know that Gary's trying to w-o-r-k for a living? Hasn't this guy ever heard of IT Usage Policies? sheesh!

I think it's really gonna happen

I think George is really coming home next week! On schedule so far for a Tuesday arrival. I keep thinking of him coming up the escalator at Hartsfield with his gig bag on his back, tired road warrior. I told him that I think I may collapse onto the ground and sleep right there on the scuffed airport linoleum.

Cross your toes he gets back without a hitch. It's been three VERY long months since he walked me back to my car before heading off to HK April 11th. So much has happened--everything and nothing--and for him as well. Big connections, love and adoration from fans 'round the world, band dynamics--all fodder for blogging, later, after we rest and reunite. Or on the nearly two-day stinking journey back to the states, thanks to Air Korea.

I'm thrilled and anxious and excited and nervous and horny and timid and blushing and wondering and walking on air and falling further behind and making progress... I'm all of these things that make homecomings so special.

SelfChalking

Been exploring my male voice over here. I've been moved by all the sharing from my love George, from George P., and as always, from RageBoy. This is sharing at a deeper level, the level that hurts a little bit. Or a lot a bit. RileyDog's Steve Laidlaw also weighed in with some pretty heavy amo on LifeChalking, scrawling his own life graffiti in my comments box:

"Meds: caffiene, nicotine, kool aid, sex
Issues: loss of father, aging
Fears: losing connie, death of children
Loves: wife, emily, sean, matty, home, old truck, dogs
Hates: winter, morons,
Wants: more chocolate"

I know you better now, Steve. Like you too.

Yes, so back to the male voice... women seem infinitely complex to men, way more complex than we actually are, and especially so in "relationships"--the death knell to many a good man (and woman).

Okay, so that's bullshit. The fact is, human beings aren't divisible by gender. Look closer. Divide yourself by this: who left you first, how early, how bad did it hurt, how much do you remember, how much don't you remember, how bad do you not want it to happen again, how bad do you want it to happen over and over because it's all you know? So much about wanting, waiting, getting, losing, looking. Where'd I put myself? And if you're lucky, finding again. The "rub" is that the damage and anticipation of loss powers how we love, and sometimes we lose before we every really have. Ala, this little experiment: the one-minute relationship, inspired by a conversation with someone you may know.
--------------------------------------------------

Baby, I'm so glad I found you, you're so beautiful and sweet and smart and look at those eyelashes, god I don't deserve you, gonna worship you and treat you right and never ever hurt you, we make each other feel so good, yeah, I want to be with you every day, every night, and sure I'll call you tomorrow, I'll call you every hour of every day, well what do you mean why didn't I call you yesterday, I was just tryin to write something over here, no I wasn't looking at her, that woman? no way, you know you're all I'll ever need, are you saying you're not coming over tonight, you need time for yourself, oh sure, okay, no I understand, I respect your boundaries, but it's not all me here, you need to look at you, okay it's all me, right, sure, I'm way fucked up, but how about this: why don't you get the fuck out of my life, okay, how does that sound to you; pack up your attitude and hit the pavement, bitch. Oh shit, I didn't mean you should leave me, don't go, could you give me one more chance, let me show you how much I love you, how you're so beautiful and sweet and smart and look at those eyelashes, god I don't deserve you....

Darko

George Partington gets it--gets what I mean by perspective. He just turned himself inside out over on High Water; he's letting the flood waters roll in:

"I'm angry, angst-ridden, alienated. Or in gentler moments, bemused, bothered, and bewildered. I'm adolescent."

and

"And I step up daily for more abuse. And if I'm feeling strong, I shake it off and say what else can you show me? Most of the time I'm strong enough not to hate. Most of the time."

What stirred up his words was a movie called Donnie Darko. The website alone gets a holy shit in my book.

Funny, I talked to George last week--knew I liked him, but didn't have much time to get to know him.

I know him lots better now.

perspective

So I guess I'm not a journalist, I don't report events; maybe i'm an internalist, writing from my innards out? oh shit, maybe that's not it. but you know, so what another corporate giant is charged with fraud--who in the name of bill gates ever thought organizations were honest to begin with? the default is fraud the default is screw you. command and control, sure enough, where have you heard that before? What do you expect from top-heavy behemoths soaking up hours and lives and loves and children and babies and aging parents in nursing homes and pets in crates from all of us who scurry around the bottom, the sea floor, picking up corporate litter like shells and selling a conch or two to anyone who will buy.

So where was I going with that--Oh, I know: I was going to you. To you. You. Fuck corporations, fuck technology, fuck feminism, fuch patriarchy, fuck politics, fuck meta blogging, fuck all of that. I was going to You. Who are YOU, what made you the way everyone says you are--"she's just that way," you know, the way you are when you step down into your thoughts, the things that stick in your mind, familiar enemies you're used to pushing away, been doing it so long you're really good at it now. Aren't you? No.

So stop pretending. Let them in. Let thoughts flood over you. Decide to drown in them. Decide it's okay if they pull you under. Don't swim, don't race, don't run, don't distract yourself. Sit with them. Close your eyes and let words start to wrap around those dark places, see then? what color are your words? maybe deep purple and orange and cherry, lots of them are black and midnight blue. What sounds are your words, what sounds repeat over and over--today I was thinking rice paper, and rice paper has been swirling around my head--why? it sounds like what it is, or maybe because I've been walking on it most of my life, but that's me--we weren't talking about me--we were talking about you.

How loud can you make your screams if you don't hold anything back?

Write from there. Blog from there. Not always. Not forever. But for today. Write from the inside out, not the outside in. You dare corporations to do it--to turn their business models all topsy turvy. "Hey, Look at Us. We the People. We Matter!" So dare to turn yourself topsy turvy too, flip yourself around, unzip yourself and wear your innards on your skin for a day.

And let me know when you do it, so I can link you like a motherfucker.

Oh, and by the way, sorry I missed the anger discussions that were floating around Blogaria the last two days. I was sitting with my words, and really, I still am.

LifeChalking

Country, city, age, gender, and connection speed are nice. But, let's get down to it.

Diagnoses: depression, anxiety
Meds: Celexa
Issues: abandonment, death, family dysfunction, adult children of alcoholics
Fears: loneliness, death, public speaking, the blank page, going stark raving mad
Loves: husband, daughter, writing, crisp fall evenings, the smell of cow pastures
Hates: writing, worms, june bugs, the smell of moth balls in old clothes, 100-degree weather
Wants: time out of mind, sleep, peace, understanding, acceptance, faith

Lifechalk this.

voicelessness

1. -- The Loss

He went from me
in silence.
Red crayola in my hand
tired legs rest softly on a
dark blue matt in
Mrs. McKlusky's
kindergarten class.
Handmade shamrocks
stuffed in a brown
paper sack
rest on the seat
between me and Marvin,
we kiss on the bus
all the way home.

Carpeted steps
cushion my climb,
My mother a statue
guarding the white painted
door
to his bedroom,
closed.

Slowing now, taking it
all in
she is never standing
just there
The door is never
shut
like this.

The quiet
in her eyes
is like fire.

Her hand reaches out
opens, and I give her
the bag of good wishes
watch them
disappear behind her back
a flood unseen
rolling over me.

My aunt waits
in my bedroom,
sits softly
on the quilted bedspread,
pats it three times
making a seat for me
next to her.

She tells me that
God calls us to be
with Him,
needs special people
sooner, not later,
sometimes
and I am
already praying
to be ordinary.

I say, my father's dead.
She nods, yes, says
you can cry if you want to.
The TV downstairs
breaks the quiet
and I say no thank you.

My mother waits
outside my room
I hug her skirt
she puts a warm
hand on my shoulder
says this:
It's just you and me now.
My knees buckle
thinking that my
brother and sister
must be special,
must be dead too.

Not dead, but
not the ones who will
light my mother's tired eyes
gather dreams for her.
From now on
this is my job.

I ask can I go
outside to play
she says no
we are in mourning
we stay inside.

Every memory
ends somewhere,
the fits and starts
of remembering
protect us from
too much too
soon.


2. -- The Burial

I am inside my body
then out
then in
out.

They send me away
for the funeral
the long drive
my grandmother
at the wheel
more quiet and stillness,
they don't let grief
touch me.

The Illinois night air
under a bright moon
lights fields of wheat
corn and soybean
as far as I know,
lightning bugs a fireshow
and the fresh smell
of cows in a nearby pasture.

Asleep on the side porch
in the house of an aunt
I hardly know,
everyone agrees
I should be
around other children
at a time like this.

My cousin camps out too,
five or six years older than me
with sun browned skin
a sandy haired farm boy
who notices
my loneliness.

In my sleeping bag
he comes to me
helps me unzip
tells me there's
something he wants
to show me.

I say what is it
he takes down his
pajama bottoms
reveals what I've
never seen before
stretched out
into the cool night
air.

I think what is that,
and ask him.

He says this is my dick
and it goes here
he lifts my nightgown
points his finger
to my panties
the spot between my legs.

I say really?
He says yes.
Let me show you
how this goes in there.

I say I don't think so,
look around
no lights are on
in the kitchen,
the dimness reflected through
the glass pane
tells him the grownups
have gone to bed.

I promise you it's okay
he says.
I do this with all my girlfriends.
At six I wonder
if this will make me
his girlfriend too.

No, I don't want to
I tell him.
Please he says.
Let me just put
it in and then I'll
kiss you here
and he touches
my lips.

I think
that a kiss would
be nice.

I say, tell me what
that's called again
and he does.
And this, I ask,
he tells me.

So I say,
just once.

He brings his stiffness
inside me,
I notice it is hot and cold
at once
he moves on top of me
says, you see?
I say, yes I see
and I wonder when
he will kiss me.

He never does.

When he finishes I ask
is this how it works?
He says yes, this is
how it works, but you
can't tell anyone.

Why, I ask.
Because we would
get in trouble he says,
now hush.

I say Oh and
go to sleep
wondering
what I did.

When the sun comes up
he takes me in the kitchen
breakfast waiting
shoots me a look
that says don't
you ever tell.

I can't eat my eggs,
instead look around
to see if anyone knows
but they move
in a regular cadence
around the kitchen
and I notice that
the clanking of glasses and plates
and forks and knives
is too loud.

3. -- The Lesson

Back home
nothing is the same
my mother tells me
we are moving
my farm, my woods,
my trees, my boulders,
the snakes that surprise
me underneath them,
my cats, the worn rope over
the hay loft just
right for swinging
my barn, smells
of hay in the early
morning,
they won't
be coming with us.

I say, what about my pony
she says we can only
keep one horse, your sister
should keep her horse
and share it with you,
my sister tells me
I'll take the head
you can have the tail
and I say,
okay because
there is nothing
else to say.

I grew up
without
a voice,
in a room
crowded by
silent memories
stuffing down words
as deep as they
would go
afraid that
they might
tumble out
and with them
the tears
that never came.

I am thinking in poems
and I am thinking
actually
Oh God,
I didn't ever want this
to happen again.

1:30 Poem for Penny

when she rises
her beauty unfolds
expressed from a frame
crooked, bent, not
straight like before,
more like
the crescent moon
emerging softly from the
heavy cover of night.

but her smile
but her eyes electric
her beauty rises in
a perfect arc
leans on the back
of her chair
shuffles three steps worth
finds a cigarette
or some cheese
to slice for me.

Sitting again
Using her feet to wheel
her chair into place
at the kitchen table,
in herhouse/myhome,
with a book full of friends
waiting for her to call
say, "How are you, honey?"

My memory is her voice
its warm tenor
its melody like wind
and the quiet reassurance
of her hand
resting on top of mine,
flowered placemat
and a bowl of
half-eaten cat food
in the corner
reminding me
we share one voice.

Reminding me
how to remember.

Commuting with Gary--or--Meta Talking

Got my first incoming blogger phone call on the allied blog hotline today. It was none other than Gary Turner ringing from the UK via cell phone on his drive home! Imagine my surprise and joy. Guess what, Gary's just as funny in real life is he is in Blogaria. And really nice too.

We noodled some ideas on blogging, what it means to us, what we think it means in the corporate and grander scheme of things. Gary and I were both amazed that, as of the last couple of months, emails from blogger friends, this growing circle of amazing folks, now outpace the number of corporate emails we receive each day. And, both of us have day jobs. (you know, the time you spend on the computer that you actually get paid for?)

Gary explained Chalk Chalking to me, at which point I was hysterical. I also learned that Gary's wife and the growing little Turner-to-be are doing well.

It was appropriate that Gary be my first caller, since I was the first blogger to adopt and use one of his blogstickers way back when. Gary was also the first to invite callers to leave VM's on his phone, an invitation I couldn't refuse.

My dime next time, Gary.

David Sits In with the Band

I'm still laughing out loud over David Weinberger's transcription of a sax solo um, let's say, aided by technology. major giggles! (David, are you *sure* you didn't stop off at the Grand Hyatt HK while you were in China?)

If Not Then

what, if not to rush the edge
of love and reel it back.

what, if not to feel sadness with you,
to ache in solitude, engaging the clouds?

what, if not to rage and break silence,
to fill deaf ears with my whispers?

what, if not to endure separation
to accept/embrace an end?

what, if not to sacrifice in love,
then to never know sky, light, flame, burning embers:

to live and die without you.

Goodbye Ray

George reports this morning that bassist Ray Brown is dead at 75.

Original Beauty

Outside a household powered by secrets and anger, I had someone who loved me *just because* and *even though,* someone who herself had to learn how to "be" against tremendous odds and challenges, who taught me it was okay to "be," to be "myself," to acknowledge, ease and forgive my own pain, to love, laugh, cry, to accept, to understand I can't fix what isn't mine, to be open and present, not just a reflection. More than anyone else, she shaped the healthy me. And as I grow older, my husband says, "You are more like her every day." I smile. I know. It's that kind of connection, even though we live 1,000 miles apart. Our hearts live in tandem.

Aunt Penny, my dead father's baby sister, is special. She is a wonder. She took care of me, kept me with her during those days when everything around me was crumbling, kept me laughing, showed me hidden joy, how to access that joy in the worst of times. She is the one who greeted me, coming home from kindergarten that day, took me upstairs, and told me my father was dead.

She is in me.

I'm five, in the back seat with Auntie at the wheel, crawling down Westfall Road, the car ahead of us dawdling along. She says:

"Wouldn't you know I'd get behind Farmer Jones and his Wife."

In my wonder of her, I say: "Aunt Penny, you know everyone!"

We laugh, the 20 years age difference between us erased. She is my friend.

I'm 35, driving down the six-lane Atlanta interstate for the first time, cars flying by me on all sides doing 80. I call her on my cell phone:

"Aunt Penny, It's so disorienting. Overwhelming. I'm driving in six lanes of traffic!"

She knows me, says: "You're only driving in one lane at a time."

We laugh, the 20 years age difference between us erased. She is my friend.

When she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis 30 years ago, I was 10. This former nun who left the convent, married a Jewish man, moruned the loss of two brothers, one of them my father, was the strongest person I knew. I told her, "Auntie you can get through this. You know I know." In her mind, there was never any other option. The disease that gradually took away her ability to walk, cost her any number of surgeries and a career she loved at the University of Rochester, confined her to a wheel chair, challenged her to keep her own home even though she has lived alone since divorcing my Uncle 20 years ago, this disease has not changed or disfigured her--only brought her beauty more intensely to the surface.

She is original beauty. She is the most amazing person I know.

She is also, I just learned from a call to her this morning, having open heart surgery next week. Difficult enough for a healthy 60-year-old, the procedure and recovery will be especially challenging because of her MS. It's a biggie. About the biggest thing she's faced yet. And still, as we talked about it, she was chasing her companion, Sammy the cat, around the downstairs of her home, wheeling after him, "Sammy, get over here!" and I'm laughing with her, telling her, "Auntie, you've faced things this big--I know you will make it."

And this time, I'm hearing something different in her voice, if I'm not mistaken: she's tired. The shere length and suprise sideroads of her personal journey have made her weary. And I'm worried. Not now, Auntie. Not now.

All this is to say, if you find room in your thoughts, meditation, prayers, and whatever else you do to get in touch with positive energy, the creator, empathy for your fellow earth travellers, then please send some prayers and good thoughts Aunt Penny's way.

And thank you.

garage sale from hell

Remind me never to have a garage sale in mid-July in Georgia on the July 4th weekend again.

I would have much rather been at this sale:

"I mentioned our need to sell 'usd bdies, usd sls, 'special' toys, bgfts, yetis, etc.' It ended up that I had to call a supervisor from the Times and fax her a list of all the animal bodies we would be selling so she could ensure that none of them were threatened or endangered... I just made one up (in the end, the cacophonist who promised to bring the carcasses never showed up anyway). The Times eventually did carry the ad, which mentioned no animal bodies but did mention clowns and yetis."

Will you take a dime for that carcass over there?

Um, Okay. I Can Do That.

Shelley says, Get pissed!

Ricky don't lose that number...

I was talking to RageBoy one day this week when he said one of those things that gets me thinking. This time it was: Why don't we have our phone numbers on our blogs? We've got everything else about ourselves on these things, but no invitation or method for connecting offline. It's like having a business card or website without a phone number on it.

Of course, there were a few more f-bombs in the conversation than I'm letting on, but it got me thinking....

why the hell not?

And so, Gary whips me up this little ditty at my request. Cool!

allied is open 10 a.m. - 5:30 p.m. EST monday-friday.
email for extended hours and weekend schedule.

The trip that wouldn't end

My friends here in Blogaria have been helping me through my lonely journey over the last three months with George in Hong Kong. Missing him, pining even, the end is in sight, as he's hoping to be home on the 15th of this month. Everyone cross your fingers. In the mean time, we all need to blow REALLY hard toward China to give George some air--His CPAP machine bit the dust, and things have gone down hill from there. I hope we both make it through what appears to be the longest leg of this journey yet. Thanks, friends, for sticking by us.

Ready, set, SEND GEORGE SOME WIND!

na na na na boo boo

Ha! Euan bought me a pizza! Golden brown, just the way I like it.

Euan's unpacking boxes and no doubt eating some of my pizza at his new blog home. Update your URLs folks.

on independence day

Celebrate.

Squeezing in ALMOST under the wire to say...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAREK!!!

1:30 a.m. Birthday Poem for Marek

Pick up the bat,
chipped wood offering slivers,
feel them break the skin
cut my palm and the
creases where my fingers bend.
Little bit of blood never hurt
me.

Walk the streets, hungry for
something to make sense,
Find myself there
without knowing when or how,
See the red convertible
parked to perfection, six inches
from the curb, outside
the overdone estate
that son of a bitch CEO
calls home.

The glare off the hood
screams at me from
across the street
alarms going off
in my head
RUN you stupid
shit.

With my bat I have
only wishes and dreams
no one and everyone knows.
I cross the street slowly, take in
the chrome wheels and
flawless finish, glaring,
mocking me.

Before I lift it
high above my head
I don't think: and then what?
I bring it down with the force
of fire, speed of wind,
feel the connection
the windshield give way,
and then
shatter into snow
that rains
on the pavement in
a rainbow tapestry
of joy.

high water comin'

This on Bush's latest foot-in-mouth gaffe from George Partington, who shares a first name and blog template style with my husband, George, as well as some good musical tastes. Good to see George3 (better known as double-ya) being honest here on how he looks at things. Ah. Finally. Honesty--that's what the righties have been asking for since the Clinton era, isn't it? Funny how honesty looks on the other side of the isle.

On a related note, I spoke with George Partington today--we had a great chat. George lives here in Atlanta with his family, and once my George gets back from Hong Kong, we're planning to do the hang. "kewl!"

(How many Georges can I fit in a single post?)

Congratulations...

...to Jennifer Balderama, who's great blog I've been reading a long while now. She's leaving news.com and SanFran this month to head to a new job at the prestigious Washington Post. Look Out, D.C. This lady's got a-t-t-i-t-u-d-e.

Something knocked on my brain with this. Remember when Internet pubs were cool? (yes, well, I sure do. best time of my life in Tech PR.) I remember the daily emails about which journalist was leaving what pub to go where, leapfrogging other reporters on their quest for tech journalism fame and the ultimate prize: "respect." It took effort back then to follow the writers you liked as they jumped from one publication to the next. Media Map couldn't keep up. "He's *where* now?" was the big question of the day in the agency world.

When journalists change publications, their style goes with them, their personality goes with them, and their quirks go with them. Their good writing goes with them too.

And that brings me to another "Thank God for Blogging." Because as Jennifer makes her way across the country, starts a new job in a completely new city working for an entirely different kind of publication, her blog will remain a constant. Nonsense-Verse is her voice's real home. She can do her job wherever she wants, but we'll know where to find her--find what she really thinks, feels, cares about. And I'm so glad I don't have to go chasing after her. I am getting too old for that shit.

Jennifer, I'll be waiting right hear for you. Have a safe journey. And give 'em hell.

Upon Waking

Heat moves flames surrounding bodies lying still, noticing, hairs stand, apart, touch no touch, freedom, silence, hush, finding you finding me. Softness, smooth steady arm bending, fold welcomes sleeping cheek. Cascade song unwinding up, lips brush, necks bend, awaken, arouse, arise and go gentle morning sadness.

Come up come up, here beside me linen lovely peach sunrise. Come down come down, here beside me dark and lonely mocha night. Touch yes touch fingers searching moist between inside. Touch yes touch fingers finding hard without above.

Turning touching hands arms lips fire kisses deep tongues explore. Legs open welcome surround hips pull close up in. Hard soft flash light, black white in out quick slow hurt heal pleasure pain, more, ride now gently wet gliding sliding beneath.

Unaware, finding you up inside deep until deeper still climbing holding tight. Twisting circling raming thrusting dance, breathe moan trickle down, sweat scream thrash clutch bend arch tangle brace release.

Loss resolves, no me no you, the moment.

The last ten posts...

...without a comment. What, am I in this for the money and no one told me? WTF? Don't make me sick Dear Chris on you!