They grow. They grow.

Blogging since 2001, our sweet Jenna turns seven tomorrow.

If I Could Smoke, I Would

This is a post in which I tell you that I want a cigarette so freaking bad.

October 4th is coming up. Some three months later, and if I didn't know smoking one could cause an immediate and dire consequence to my immediate and dire health, I would light one up in a nanosecond. That's right all you fine friends who cheered me on, I am here to tell you that I spent today tossing truths and dares bewtween my two ears, and in the end, the very end, which was approximately 30 seconds ago, I came down on the side of: I sure would smoke if I could. I sure would light one up and love it and smoke it and love it all over its fine tobbaco self.

You just don't understand. I miss it so much.

I noticed the other day that I now smell cigarette smoke when its coming from the lady inside the sedan THREE CARS AHEAD OF ME! What's with that? I'm minding my own business, and my sniffer says--hey, I smell smoke! And I look all around. Then I see her tan arm, so cool, thin, freckled, hanging out the window, tapping the ashes off her cigarette.

I'm embarrassed. I've wandered so far from my beloved habit that it now assaults me from three car lengths.

I need to be glad about this.

I can't be.

I believe I've gained approximately 850 pounds from the combination of starting hormones for a little issue I'm dealing with at the same time as stopping smoking.

The fuck with all of it! I'm thinking of tossing the dice on the table--stopping all medicines EXCEPT cigarettes, and let the cards fall where they may.

Well, you know.

I'm all blustery.

I won't do it.

Except in pixels.

It feels so good to toy with it.

I really wish I could.

I still miss it every day.

That's just wrong.

healthcareless

Heya Jeb!

Sorry ya'll hadta tho away yo niggalist.

The decision [to scrap the purge list] means that 28,000 Democrats who might have been banned from voting can cast their vote in November. By comparison, the list contained only 9,500 registered Republicans.

It's not like God's not trying down there in Florida. Jeb just won't get under the right tree.

Get Your IM On

Karsh is killin' me again.

Karsh: Damn, I almost got mowed down in the hall
Karsh: They bought pizza for the department
Karsh: and i was coming back from the vending machine
Karsh: swarm of folks
Kia: damn
Kia: did you get some?
Karsh: nope
Kia: why?
Kia: oh you can't eat cheese
Karsh: they gave us lunch in the financial planning meeting
Kia: so!
Karsh: i got like six sammiches
Kia: it's still free
Kia: *dead*
Kia: you nigga
Karsh: shit, my tupperware only hold so much
Karsh: shit
Karsh: LMAO
Karsh: you know i bought some tupperware FOR work yesterday?
Karsh: ain't that some shit?
Kia: you aint shit
Kia: nan.bit.

Cartoonist needed. I'll by a shirt--first one gets it done.

Not so small, not so tall

"Hey Jenna, are you the tallest girl in your class or are there some taller?"

"I'm medium. I'm actually the mediumest one in my class."

Ivana new school

A quick update from the hurricane backwash city of Atlanta, Georgia.

It appears that Ivan (and perhaps the 20 years of mismanagement and poor maintanence of the facility) have combined to make our child's school uninhabitable.

Imagine, if you will, driving happily to carpool Friday afternoon to pick up your little cherub only to discover, from a note stuffed in her backpack, that the school has been having some "water intrusion" (terror alert orange!) and "air quality" problems from the hurricane we borrowed, and the Powers Who Be (plus the guys in hazmet suits) decided to close the school today so the children would not be vaporized as we all wait with baited breath for lab results.

Okay. I can do that. No school Monday. That's cool. Don't want to send her into a poison factory. Wondering now. What the hell is really going on? Thinking. Thinking about how sick she's been these last two years. Starting to watch my blood pressure rise. Trying to keep it cool.

Pick up the phone yesterday (that would be Sunday) and there's a message from "calling post", which apparently lets you leave voice mails for a group of people you REALLY don't want to speak to in person because they'd chew your ass off.

The message was from the Principal who had met with the board (this is a privatized public school, if you remember), and possibly the landlord (the building's leased), and decided to close the school all of this week, and, well, possibly forever.

Wow. Okay. How 'bout that. Huh.

As they "aggressively seek" an alternate location for the school, I decided to drive by there today. I saw the cafeteria windows had been sealed up with terrorist-proof plastic sheeting, each sheet with a big billowing hole in the middle, puffing air to the outside. No one was inside. No one was working on it. It was deserted.

WHAT THE FUCK IS INSIDE THAT SCHOOL?!?!

All the crap they've given me for her sick days and asthma last year and already this year--and you mean to tell me there's something toxic enough inside those walls to have scared all human activity away?

Okay. Not going postal. Not yet.

Wait and see. Could be a simple explanation.

Waiting.

Seeing.

Seething.

Anyone who's been through something remotely similar or has ideas, please share.

Thanks.

Do you really think your vote counts?

Carter fears Florida vote trouble

[[my subtitle: This election will turn bloody.]]

Full text of article:

Voting arrangements in Florida do not meet "basic international requirements" and could undermine the US election, former US President Jimmy Carter says. He said a repeat of the irregularities of the much-disputed 2000 election - which gave President George W Bush the narrowest of wins - "seems likely".

Mr Carter, a veteran observer of polls worldwide, also accused Florida's top election official of "bias".

His remarks come ahead of the first TV debate between Mr Bush and John Kerry.

They are expected to discuss the war on Iraq and homeland security during the programme on Thursday.

Both men have cut back on their campaign touring to go behind closed doors and rehearse the arguments and techniques they will need during a series of three debates to be held over two weeks.

Each has held mock debates with aides standing in for their opponent.

Tens of millions of television viewers are expected to watch Thursday's head-to-head.

Mr Kerry, a debating champion at high school and college, will hope it can help him claw back a deficit in the polls variously put between 3% and 9%.

Florida vote

In an article in the Washington Post newspaper, Mr Carter, a Democrat, said that he and ex-President Gerald Ford, a Republican, had been asked to draw up recommendations for changes after the last vote in Florida was marred by arguments over the counting of ballots.

Mr Carter said the reforms they came up with had still not been implemented.

He accused Florida Secretary of State Glenda Hood, a Republican, of trying to get the name of independent presidential candidate Ralph Nader included on the state ballot, knowing he might divert Democrat votes.

He also said: "A fumbling attempt has been made recently to disqualify 22,000 African Americans (likely Democrats), but only 61 Hispanics (likely Republicans), as alleged felons."

Mr Carter said Florida Governor Jeb Bush - brother of the president - had "taken no steps to correct these departures from principles of fair and equal treatment or to prevent them in the future".

"It is unconscionable to perpetuate fraudulent or biased electoral practices in any nation," he added.

"With reforms unlikely at this late stage of the election, perhaps the only recourse will be to focus maximum public scrutiny on the suspicious process in Florida."

Show me those baby browns

The single, solitary, and I mean ONLY, beauty of carpool in the morning (and I mean in the MORNING) is listening to Jenna yammer away about this and that in the back seat as I guzzle coffee off the dashboard.

This morning she was telling me about a baby rabbit her class saw outside this week.

"He was hopping around and he was so coool! We all decided that we are going to bring carrots in, tie them to a stick, and then he'll follow us back to our classroom so he can be our classroom pet!"

"Wow, baby, he sounds cute. You might want to leave him in the woods--he probably has family there."

"No, we didn't see any family. We want a classroom pet. And he's sooo cuuuuttte. He's baby brown--you know baby brown?"

"Baby brown?"

"Yes, like when babies first come out and they're brown and soft--baby brown. That's what color the bunny is, with teeny tiny white teardrops on by his tail. Ooooh I just want to pet his baby brown fur."

"Mmmmm. Me too. I sure would like to pet him with you."

Baby brown. She's so cool.

Cross-Selling Coup

From Broken Type, a magnificent if not jarring marketing triumph. A local video store (cough) targets (tempts, tantalizes) the leather crowd with Handsome Mel Gibson's The Passion DVD. A trick from the up-sell playbook, said store also stocks a variety of fine leather toys of "passion" with the display.



Someone's got to be going to hell for this.

Maximum Efficiency

Loft offices. I got dibs on the bottom!!!

"well, they're going to start doubling people up in offices."

"that sucks."

"yes, it does suck. but we all just have to make due for a while."

"a while being a year."

"more or less."

we're chattering around the table, discussing various office configurations, and trying to decide which would be the least onerous.

"i don't want to face someone all day long, man, that is weird."

"well, how about sitting there with your back to someone else all day? it's like you're pretending that there isn't someone right behind you. that's even more weird."

"okay, well, what if your back was to them, but they were facing you?! they'd be, like, staring at your back all day long. that has to be the creepiest."

murmurs of agreement begin to ripple around the table.

What? Am I just supposed to never do anything with these?

my standard musical accompaniment--not-work-safe.

New Peeps

A funny thing happened to me on the way to blogrolling.com.

I first signed George up for the service a year or two ago, but I avoided signing up for it myself. You see, back in "the day" I was a blogroll purist. I had this crazy idea that we should all be pruning our blogrolls by hand, tending to them lovingly like tiny gardens of herbs and roses, with the care and kindness all living things deserve.

Kumbaya--was that was soooo 2002 or what? Yah, I know.

Nonetheless, while George clicked and updated his blogroll like a pro, I painstakingly added new voices, one a-href code at a time, feeling somehow cleansed by the extra effort I made.

I can be so annoying.

Anyway, a few months back, I finally caved into automation, re-engineered my critical blog processes, and signed up for blogrolling.com. Why fight progress? I've been clicking-and-adding bloggers to my blogroll ever since.

Or so I thought.

You see, when I signed George up, I used my ewriter email address so that I could verify and set up everything he needed. Well that'd be just dandy as long as I had remembered that.

But noooooo.

In fact, until yesterday, when I figured it out, I'd been signing in to MY blogrolling.com account with GEORGE's username and password and adding people to HIS blogroll instead of mine!

Does that not beat all? Here I think I'm rolling with progress, and in fact I'm breaking shit.

I made up for the mistake yesterday and today by scouring the web for great blog voices that I want to read more of--folks whose aquaintances I'm happy to make. If you see a stranger listed over there on the right, go read them.

Let's all get neighborly now. Plant a flower. Kiss a bug.

Paralysmosis Yellow

I didn't know the sun could be this bright. The outside is actually yellow today. It's the color of the sun as artists paint it--that yellow orb contrasting blue.

The tree leaves, still moist and deep green from so much rain, are yellow-coated with sun. The sky is unending.

It's the kind of day that scares me.

I have never been a fan of the beautiful day. Good people don't get buried on beautiful days. They get buried on rainy messy muddy days, with tents over open graves as the sky weeps without shame.

I used to say I was a bat.

I liked it grey and drizzly. If I could have hung upside down from a bedpost, I would have slept that way. Fortunately, I never tried. That's the kind of thing you get committed for. Ah well.

So, today, in its very shocking yellow brightness, has me paralyzed. I have a mound and a half of work to begin. I have, in fact, four brochures and a web site that need a smart brain and fast hands to write them.

Me? I'm staring at all that yellow out the window.

I consider the advice my husband gave me a week ago: "Go outside. Just go outside and walk."

Easy for him to say. He's not so scared of all that yellow.

The pressure of pretty days wears on me. The pressure to feel happy and light, to want to go sailing or hiking, to want to do anything really, is more than I can stand. Especially when I have perseverating about work to do.

Tick. Tock.

Sure is yellow out.

I have so much work to do.

I don't know how I'm going to get it all done.

Maybe I'll just put my head back on the couch for five minutes.

Besides, it's an "early release" day for Jenna.

Have to go get her in an hour.

Might as well cover up with the comforter for 45 minutes.

Better remember my sunglasses.

Sure is yellow out.

Hurricane Ivan-a whup your ass.

Karsh's life has become a virtual sit-com with the latest barrage of hurricanes responsible for chasing his family up I-75 to his doorstep. Holy fucking funny!

"Ma'dea, whom I love dearly, is about as short-sighted as a Christian can get. Anything she doesn't (or won't) understand is "the devil". Including my kiwis and artichokes which she maliciously cut up and threw away because "the thorns scared her". The only food she'll eat nowadays are McDonald's hamburgers. "Good All-American food" is what she calls it.

Smokedawg smokes a lot. I tell him not to smoke in my apartment and he wants to fight me. It's really not that serious...two ass whuppings later, that is.

Yes Man sits about two inches away from the television when watching it. No comment.

Estranged Aunt wants to go out and party. "Where the clubs at? I'm tryin' to go get my jiggy on!" she says while shaking her fat ass to an imaginary beat. Keep in mind she's 45 and don't need to be in anyone's club getting anything on.

The few moments of peace I've been able to gather this weekend have been from them going on their McDonald's excursions. There's also a Moe's nearby me, but they won't eat any Mexican food unless it's from an Ortega box or Taco Bell. And there's the grocery store, but Ma'dea doesn't trust East Indians. The last time I went to dinner with her, she called our East Indian busboy a "terrorist". The Blacks, I tell ya."

I'm not worthy...

Albo Jeavons rocks.

"Like many people, I'm trying to make popular culture that offers a critique of the Big Culture that is forced upon us at every turn by the weird semi-random collection of people, powers, and influences who make so many of the decisions that determine so much of how things happen in the world. Here's a graphic I came up with to express how I feel about the way the world is run:"

Don't miss the Corporacist page or his portfolio.





Bastard son of rageboy, come forth.

How'd I Miss 'em?

Fetus Mart

I found the real memo!!!!!!!

God Bless Get Your War On

In a world of so few lights... the latest GYWO from mnftiu.

Tornado Trauma

I told you a month or so ago about Jenna's storm phobia. Tornados specifically. Well, as you can imagine, she's been going through some forced behavior modification - exposure therapy real-time - courtesy of Frances and Ivan the last couple of weeks.

Although we're one state up from poor Florida, we get the afterglow, so to speak. Mostly, in Georgia, that's spelled t-o-r-n-a-d-o.

I was careful not to scare jenna into a frenzy last week by mentioning too much about the bad weather that was headed our way. I made sure she knew about hurricanes--just enough. And that it would get windy around here and rainy too. But not bad. We're safe. Blah blah. I left out the "T" word on purpose for fear of sending her under her bed for the duration.

That worked pretty well until they had a tornado drill in school.

A WTF?

Yes, a tornado drill.

I had the distinct pleasure of being at the school for the tornado drill, since I was making a volunteer appearance in Jenna's class helping stick glue all over myself and sixteeen children. That wasn't the end goal of the craft project, but I was good at it.

Peeling tissue off glued finger tips, I heard: BING BING RING RING BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

The teacher announced the tornado drill--it was obvious she knew it was coming and that she'd mentioned it to the class as well, because they jumped only half way up the walls.

We all filed out, and the children took their places against the walls of the hallway, heads kissing asses goodbye. I remembered that particular useless pose from the air-raid drills when I was a kid. At least when we were that little, they let us get under our desks.

I'm standing in the hall looking at these poor kids who were squeezing their heads until they tipped over, when I hear a teacher actually tell the kids: "Cover your brains with your hands, now."

Cover your brains? HOLY! Are you insane lady? Do you know how many nights of explaining to my kid that little phrase is going to cost me?

Instead I turned to the maintenance guy who I enjoy cracking up and said:

"They look like sitting ducks to me, Jim." He cracked up.

My poor kid.

She didn't move a muscle during the entire 9-minute drill.

Her head was burried so far into that carpet that when she finally got up she had fiber indentations on her forehead and knees for an hour. If there were a blue ribbon--or a promise of tornado survival--for the kid with the best duck and tuck position, she would have won hands down.

Unfortunately, life doesn't work that way.

Suck.

At the grocery store today, jenna said: "You know mom, I was doing fine in school that day you were there for the art project. I was minding my own business, feeling so much joy, just relaxing and liking what I was doing, and then the teacher had to say the words 'tornado drill' and I felt all throw-uppy."

So young to feel yanked from the joy of a quiet moment--from "joy" to "throw-uppy"--so quickly.

And so young to be able to tell me about it.

She turns seven on the 30th.

My goodness.

How To Shit Out a Blog Post

All of you newbies out there are probably wondering how to get noticed like the big-blog-wizes, huh? OH comeon now, we know you are. Well, it's a good thing you happened upon Jeneane's tutorial: How To Shit Out a Blog Post in Six Easy Steps.

First, the urge. Now, the urge isn't something you go looking for. The urge comes looking for you. That's right. Just like your writing--don't go looking for a "story" or the latest "news" by searching technorati. Instead, wait until nature tugs at your intestines, tickles your anus, and then simply answer the urge.

Second, the bowl. Don't make the mistake of calling a post a "blog". No, a blog is this big area here where you type your letters and make word-pooh. A post is simply one of the pieces of pooh within the larger bowl. Please, if you want to seem like a real weblogger--the kind who gets noticed--don't call a post a blog, and don't call a blog a post. They are as different as the flush handle and the bowl, as Charmin and Northern.

Third, the bowel. Some say blog posts should be short. Short bursts of nicely shaped predictable shit. Others say, bull crap! Blog posts should be long and strong. Me? I say, what the fuck are we talking about this for? I have to take a dump. I say that unless you are writing from your bowels outward, it really doesn't matter if you post in little spurts or long logs. It's the bowels that make the difference. It's nature's urge and what you do with it.

Fourth, the push. Look, if you want to get noticed, you have to hone your pushing technique. When blogger first got going, their tagline was "Push Button Publishing for the People." Even back then I liked it. So I say to you seeking blog notoriety--it's about pushing! It's about the effort, the toil, the sweat, the patience, the holding on, the letting go. Push goddammit. And if you want that extra traffic, try AudBlogging as you go.

Fifth, the ripple. Nothing matters in blogging more than the attention your post gets, the noise it causes, the notoriety it elicits for YOU, the blogger. This is what I call the ripple effect. One good post shat out correctly will ripple across your blog career in ways you can't imagine. One time Dave Winer linked to me because I called him psychotic, then slashdot got in on it, and low and behold, I got 20K hits in a day, all because I got down in the shit, kicked somebody's can, and rode the ripple effect for as long as it lasted. Look, this place isn't about conversation. It's about getting noticed. Let's face it. If we wanted conversation, we'd actually be listening to each other. HA HA!

Sixth, the stench. Simply put: Don't be afraid to stink. Stink at what you say, stink at how you say it, act stinky to other bloggers, and most of all, be careful not to link to women too frequently in your posts because they stink too. They have cooties. You get lumped with them, Sullivan and Reynolds won't touch you. You either be ready smell like a man, from the anus outward, or don't bother playing in the blog leagues.

These are my six tips for shitting out blog posts like a pro. If you want to know what real bloggers think of this, go read Shelley who talks about some recent posts by the bloggerati on how to get noticed.

But remember, she's a girl. So be careful. Don't get her stank on you.

five-four-three-two-one: Contact!

I'm reading this novel called The Coffin Dancer, and one of the things I like best about it is that our villian, The Coffin Dancer, aka Stephen, uses words that don't exist to describe his rat-tat-tattered emotional state.

Words like "cringey" and "wormy". The Coffin Dancer uses this language in conversation with himself (aka his introject military commander abuser step-father).

Cringey and wormy are wickedly cool words. I didn't need anyone to define cringey for me. I HAVE FELT CRINGEY and have shuddered from it.

I know from wormy--feeling like ten thousand earthworms and a dozen pale white grubs are inching their way up my ankles from between my toes.

This is why this blog-her post called "Contacts Make Me Stupid" fits so perfectly with this afternoon's discussion.

When I was five, my cool Aunt Penny was the only person in the whole of my universe who used contact lenses. I spent the weekend with her often in those days, and the two of us could make fun out of a rain soaked gray day.

But when she had to take her contacts out at night, I disappeared under the bed. To me, the whole process was a horror show--one I never could bring myself to watch. Because the mere thought of it made me feel---all together now---CRINGEY!!!

Back to the post at hand, and how it (if tenuously) relates...

You see, our heroine, in dire need of Lasik surgery, attempts to remove her contact lens only to discover--much to her embarassment and eventual horror--that SHE ALREADY HAD ALREADY TAKEN IT OUT, and that she has instead spent a good ten seconds digging at her own now-quuite-rare cornea!

I leaned back over to the mirror and began poking at my right eyeball again to remove the contact. Well, I spent a good ten seconds trying to pull it out when I realized that I had already taken it out.

CRINGEY!!! WORMY!!!

I love the net.

Obsessive what?

Peter Merholz has an interesting post on the many and varied types of paper towel dispensers.

I don't know why bathrooms still have dispensers that require manipulation -- touching them defeats the hygienic purpose. --Peter Merholz

You know, it's this kind of post that makes me glad I came back.

Appreciating Purple

I've been so busy in the real world I've not had the time to be around here. It's a good thing and a bad thing all at once. There are times when I don't feel completely balanced unless I'm here. There are times I don't feel completely balanced unless I'm away from here.

One thing I'm no good at is updating. That's why I've never been a good or faithful letter writer. If it's not real-time, or near real-time, I don't want to relate it to you--or re-relate it to myself. I can't stand to watch a movie more than once. I never understood the idea of video-taping a TV show and watching it later. If it already happened, why would I want to watch it? The world already ticked it by.

So, updating is hard for me.

Which is why once I go a day, or two, or three, without writing here, it'd be easy to just never come back. Easy and hard at the same time.

But here I am. With at least one update that I think is cool enough to relive.

I had the chance to attend the world premiere of Broadway bound The Color Purple musical here in atlanta a couple of nights ago. George is playing bass(es), so Jenna and I got complimentary tickets to opening night.

Had I known that this would be the huge deal it was, I would have at least taken a camera--never mind bought a new dress--so that I could come back and blog about it, and look somewhat chic while attending.

I could have been a real-time event blogger, for once in my wretched bloglife, like the folks who attend conferences and blog them from the scene. I COULD have remembered to take a camera, but I didn't. What's an unprepared blogger to do?

Rely on the work of the paparazzi, of course.

The show was tremendous, and temendously moving. It was made more moving by Alice Walker's presence at the pre-show gathering, and on stage at the end of the show, and what she had to say:

"I thank you so much," she started, gesturing to the cast, "because I know what you are doing tonight is healing us of our hurt and our woundedness. We are going to recover. We were never supposed to be sick forever. We are going to be well, and we are going to be shining, and we are going to be the people were meant to be."



The acting was superb, the music too. Jenna was transfixed, and so was I.

And, because you know it's not like me to get too gushy about a musical, especially one I've waited too long to tell you about, let me tell you my REAL favorite moments:

1) Looking at the back of Jenna's head as she squeezed her face next to Gloria Steinem's left butt cheek to get a glimpse of the red carpet. The sight of my daughter pressed up against Gloria's ass tickled me silly.



2) Looking across the table wondering why the guy in the expensive suit and purple shirt looked so familiar before realizing it was Pee Wee Herman, much to Jenna's joy and dismay. Forget Gloria Steinem--we're talking Pee Wee's Playhouse!



3) Saying hello to Andrew Young, and realizing that this man I always assumed was was tall and dashing is dashing, but not so tall at all.



And man, if that wasn't enough, HONEY THE FOOD WAS TO DIE FOR.

We're talking free drinks. We're talking salmon the size of the elevator. We're talking fresh cooked pasta, we're talking cheeses aged for 3000 years, roasted peppers and pitted olives, we're talking a WHITE CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN and Jenna with a stick of marshmallows and rice-crispie squares, fresh strawberries and pound cake, sliding her skewer from heaven in and out of the chocolate fountain with a look on her face as close to pure mania as I've ever seen.

Applause to all of the Purple cast, the orchestra, 'specially my sweet bassist husband for withstanding the amazingly long hours and unending pressure (while sounding so good) to make it to opening night, and most especially, respect and thank you to Alice Malsenior Walker, one of my favorite modern American writers.

Editorial Assistant

Jenna wanted to help me with a press release I had to write for the financial services industry. She asked what it was about. I said, "banks." She said, well then, just tell them this:

“A bank is where you get money. At the bank, when your credit card runs out of money, you send it to the bank and they put the money inside the card.

Then, when they’re done, they send it back. Sometimes, if you have a cracker box or a cookie box you can save it and you can put nickels, dimes, and dollars inside.

And when it gets full, you can send it to the bank and they can put it in your bank account.

The end.”

HIRED!

On the scene

Great pictures of Ivan coming through from a Jamaican resident.

And goodbye to Aaron

No easy way to say that Aaron Hawkins, better known around these parts as The Uppity Negro, is dead.

His is a voice we can little afford to lose in the blogworld, but that doesn't compare to the loss his family and close friends must be wrestling with.

Sympathies and sadness seem to be all I can muster. Damn.

Read George Kelly and Trancejen.

And Sour Bob: "Suicide is what happens when the pain someone feels outweighs his or her ability to deal with pain."

Remembering

Some of my posts that have referenced Jamaica over the last couple of years follow. When I think of what is happening there, I can't really think at all. I love that country, that sea, the people, the cadence.

Love Locked

A Certain Longing, June 2002

This is the time of year we usually visit Jamaica, a place and people I've come to love, a music I understood only once I set it to the rhythm of the waves. But this year, we couldn't go, and it's left a longing in me that I wrote about yesterday. Figured I'd post it here:

Jamaica

Runaway Bay, my toes hit the water, I am home, cool Jamaican sea, salt smells comfort, a place I never want to leave. Quiet waves, I sink in, drifting, green-blue carries me far from shore. Sky sea horizon cools ancient fires, drifting still, on my back, bobbing, unnoticed, I do not exist: this is peace.

What brushes against my thigh? Bringing me back, it is slow and gentle, not a creature. I tread water, bring myself upright, as you emerge from under me. Splashes smiles welcoming arms, let's float together. I wrap around you, arms and legs, you hold me there, so you can swim us further out.

From the shore, children giggle and play, call "party wave!" and ride sea to sand. They are echos, distant songs, their cheering and laughter remembers us. I reach between my legs, slip my swimsuit to the side, dip under water long enough to pull your trunks down, take your sweetness out, you floating now, reaching for me as I re-emerge, wrap my arms around your neck, greet you eye to eye, tongue to tongue, we kiss long and slow.

Finally a place out of time to be just us, away from home, away from shore, weightless, no past/future, you probe for me, guide me onto you, bringing the cool sea water with you as I slide you deeper in.

Can we stay this way forever? Love locked. Even now. Still, floating, you inside me, me holding you with legs that wrap tight, breasts riding the water's surface, I feel your heat warm me, my wetness caress you, float with it, drink it in, this love sea.

Like a seam, zipping the world closed

Sea Dream Interpretation, January 2003

I managed to live the first 38 years of my life without ever having a recurring dream. Not so anymore. Over the last year or two there's one dream I have again and again.

First, some history.

We've visited Jamaica twice over the last three years. Jamaica represents the sea to me. I know this. More than the daunting poverty, the imbalance of riches in the country, more than jerk chicken or reggae, I associate Runaway Bay with the sea. For me, nothing compares to standing at the edge of the sea, fixing my eyes on the the fine line of the horizon, a seam zipping the world closed.

More about me and water. Water and I go way back.

I grew up never more than a few miles from Lake Ontario. Not the sea, by any means, but an expansive Great Lake and a force nonetheless. I had a love hate relationship with the lake. I did my dreaming there. I rode my horse across Lakeshore Boulevard in the summer and swam him in the lake. Nothing in my life--still--compares to the feeling of that lake, of swimming my horse. Muscle meets water, floating, snorting. Riding across the sand on this soily beach. Looking for driftwood. The stench of seaweed and dead fish. The summer air lit with beating waves, hot sun, shade trees. These are memories of the lake I treasure. I can snap them front and center in my mind with one mental click.

Then there was my stepfather's sailboat. Our family recreation in the summer consisted of my step-sister and I being dragged for weekends out on the lake in my step-father's 28-foot sailboat. We'd sail to Sodus Bay or spend the weekend in Fairhaven.

You might think I'd remember these times fondly, but for a twelve-year-old held captive in a dysfunctional family, 48 solid hours sharing a 28x10 with space our parents, no sight of land--just an expanse of water--was not joyous. It's hard to escape family wounding when you're sharing the small confines of a sailboat for hours or days on end. Mostly, it brought out the worst in us all, if you don't count the bonus that my step-sister and I got nicely tanned, and that somehow the ancient waters empathized with us.

Ripe with reason, I have always loved, have never blamed, the water. When I couldn't get to the lake, I sought out swimming pools as a kid--never deterred by cold water or 60-degree evenings. I cleansed in rivers and dug clay with my hands from the bottoms of streams.

That is some history of me and water.

Back to my recurring dream. We are on vacation in Jamaica (George, Jenna, and me). Sometimes it looks like the resort we visit, sometimes it doesn't. The crux of the dream is this: I never make it into the sea before we leave. There is always something keeping me from the sea. We're having drinks, I'm getting food for Jenna, we're talking with our friends who meet us there, we're taking island tours that we've never taken. And all of a sudden the bus is coming to take us to the airport when I, in a panic, realize I forgot to get into the sea. I never made it--it's further away and less obvious in my dream, and I forget to make my way to the water.

Did some digging on Google for dream interpretations. Found this about water:

Water symbols i.e. sea, rivers, lakes, canals, etc. reflect the spiritual or cultural life of the dreamer. How water appears or is organized indicates the dreamer's philosophy of life. A river indicates the dreamer needs a more free spiritual flow. A canal or swimming pool, both man made structures, indicates man-made or conventional ideals are restricting the dreamer's Spiritual flow. A lake or pool indicates that the dreamer does not have a spiritual outlet. The sea or ocean indicates the dreamer's spirituality / life is the subject matter. Diving into the any body of water is a request for the dreamer to get into life. The state of the water can also indicate the condition of the dreamer's blood. Polluted water indicates a need to cleanse the blood by a change of diet and/or improved elimination. - avcweb

A ring of truth to that--needing to redefine, to find, to unwrap and nurture my spiritual self. She isn't sure what's out there, which way to go, and at the same time sees the expanse of what's out there. Finding my place. Remembering to find my self. I think that's the reminder within this water dream of mine.

Once you've been

Reggae Sea, June 2002.

Right now, this very minute, I wish I were in Jamaica, 2 a.m. Nights there on the beach at runaway bay, the heat lifting just enough, and all-day swimming with a still-wet suit on, a welcoming cool breeze, open bar, smoking and talking and just listening to the waves crash. The Piano Bar's the only thing left open, and stays open until the last indulgent visitor is done indulging in the last drink of the night. Purple Rain anyone? It goes down smooth.

I never understood Reggae, never got into it before seeing for myself the enthralling beauty, the endless sky against the despair and poverty that is Jamaica. I would say to my husband, "It all sounds so much the same." Him telling me, "Listen closer."

This isn't one of those, "I go to Nashville and now I 'get' country music" things. It's much more primal, internal--has to do with waves, tide, moon.

It's the cadence of the waves; the sea is the context for reggae. Every break of every wave comes at just the right instant in every song, embellishing, making it so much more. I can still hear it; it goes like this, as I invoke Bob Marley (play the song in your head--not just the words):

Get up, stand up
(wave crash)
stand up for your right
(wave crash)
Get up stand up
(wave crash)
Don't give up the fight
(wave crash)

Preacher man don't tell me (wave crash) heaven is under the earth (wave crash)
I know you don't know (wave crash) what life is really worth
(wave crash)
Is not all that glitters in go--(wave crash)--ld and
Half the story has never been to--(wave crash)--ld
So now you see the light, (wave crash) aay
Stand up for your right. (wave crash) Come on.

The sea is missing in the recordings. But once you've been, you play it for yourself, bring yourself to the song, bring the sea with you.

So much trouble in the world

God bless Jamaica.

The clouds move in this evening.

They talk about Ivan.

The night is as still as they get, the sea is calm, the stars are out - but we heard hammers pounding until after dark. The neighborhood is getting ready.

The eye is projected to hit within .07 mile of Kingston.




Oh no.

Date: 09-10-04 21:29people on strom2k.org were connected to Power106 FM until the server became too busythey posted these comments they heard on the air:Woman calling in now looking for transportation to a shelter. They're telling her the winds are probably too strong for any public transportation to pick her up, so she has to find her own way there.Yorktown person talking ....... most windows gone, some people in shelters. The wind is taking down houses, trees and light poles.people are now starting to flock to the shelters.some are filling up and some of the shelters are prone to flooding and people are being directed elsewhere.gangs of men are looting, armed and dangerous..Roads are void of traffic and full of debri.. Trees and parts of roofs....A woman just called in to report that her house is coming apart and the roof is coming off, relating the information as calmly as if she was reciting a recipe to the commentators.Zinc roofs flying left and right, sounds of flapping roof to be heard in the background in Manchester and St. Andrew.Heavy looting in Montego Bay, warehouses and cars are broken into.school serving as a shelter for 600 people lost it's roof..so they are moving the people...In St. Mary various buildings have been flattened.

And it hasn't even made landfall yet.

FIRE!

Brilliant, interim tom.

D is for Dance Mob

Looks like by these cool pictures and John Perry Barlow's report that the Repugnantcan Convention got some rhythm after all. WSHEW!

Dance on.

P is for "Put a Punk in Jail" Week

I vote for these two little pricks. Please. Please let me slap the shit out of the mayor's son.

S is for Storm Chasers

Weatherbug is on the case of Florida's Francis.

There is plenty of room here in Georgia, Floridians. Now might be the time to consider a state change.

Tell me the Truth

M is for Matrullo, mad.

facts stranger than fiction.

Tell Me a Story

N is for November and Novels.

Trippy

Merry-go-rounds on acid.

SOS

Sending out an.

After School Nanny Needed for the Next Three Months

Inquire within.

Make Believe Meeting Anxiety

Barely hanging on with the barrage of work I have. It doesn't help that the newest SPAM trend is sending subject lines that reference my upcoming nonexistent meetings. Please. I can't take it. Every time I see the word meeting I get hives, because when I meet I can't write, and I have to meet frequently these days, and in the end, whether they "get it" or not, something written is what they are paying me for.

Spammers, if you have a soul, kindly return to the days of old when you promised me a bigger johnson and let me know that my lesbian wife was cheating on me. Stop scaring me with pretend meetings. Okay?

I thank you.

Hi! We're Black!

Back from our tour of white america, well, not totally white, because we spent a couple of days in Buffalo where I got to spy some relatives of color, and even regular non-white citizens on occasion, as long as I stayed out of the suburbs.

Outside of the city, we saw many cool attractions (if color-free), including Vidler's Five and Dime, a treasure from the good old days, when blacks weren't allowed to eat in the same restaurants as whites, weren't allowed to drink out of the same drinking fountains, and often weren't allowed to vote.

Like any good member of these UnitedStates, I bought lots of things from the five and dime, like shoe horns and t-shirts and little toy ponies and plastic items--only two of which cost a dime.

...where at least I know I'm free...

We also visited the Carousel Museum, where Jenna rode the painted pony let the spinnin' wheel spin.

Seeing friends and family was incredibly refreshing, if not confounding, and traveling with Jenna is always like seeing the world brand new. You can't beat flying into Atlanta at night, seeing the world of lights from on high through her joyous eyes.

Now I am tired and my head hurts.


"what you say?"