Tuesday is the day we have everything to do. My work. Baby Blogger's school, then dance class, then piano lesson. It's a draining day, made more draining by the dead-stop traffic on the way back home at the end of it all, the lights and sirens up ahead indicating it might be a long wait. I inch forward, with all the other bumpers, in typical Atlanta fashion, waiting on line to get home.
When I'm finally close enough to see what all the fuss is about, I do the other Atlanta thing--the one I'm compelled to do every time I see an accident (which is too often)--and tell myself, "Quit your whining about the traffic and be glad you aren't the one they're shoving into the ambulance. Your big wreck is still ahead of you." It's a kind of metro "do unto others oath." We all take the pledge, this prayer to the jaws of life.
I remember when I was new to this town, how it would knock the air out of me the way people talked about wrecks (southern for car accidents). "I saw a good one on the way to work today." I heard that more than once. The news blink-blink-blinks these firey orange explosions on the traffic map every morning, not relaying that someone just lost a husband, wife, mother, father, friend, set of legs, but letting us know that taking an alternate route would be a good idea.
So as I pull up to the remnants of the wreck this Tuesday, I'm smack dab next to the paramedics working on one man, with a birdseye view into the ambulance. I notice someone's inside, being attended to by animated medics. I quickly turn my attention to the mangled truck and the small white sedan it ate. I edge past the scene and get the expected result that no one wants to admit is pure relief: traffic disolves instantly as you pass an accident--it's always a faster-than-usual drive from there onward.
Relieved to be past the mess, able to once again haul ass, I forget there's an innocent bystander in my back seat, until I hear:
"Mommy, was he dead?"
"Who honey--you mean at the accident?"
"Yes, was he dead?"
"No, I'm pretty sure he was alive. They're just taking him to the hospital to make sure he's okay."
"It was a boy."
"Well, it was probably a man. They had the stretcher on the grass. I think I saw a man."
"No, mommy, inside the ambulance."
"Oh. Yes there was someone inside. Probaby the man driving the other car."
"No, it was a boy," she insists.
"Well how do you know that?"
"Because his feet were very, very small."
June 18, 2002
it's Ismat to you
I just discovered Ismat's Top ten things not to say to the judge while defending yourself in court for a traffic ticket post. It is a good giggle, and her blog is a good read. The post just below the Top Ten Things is ripe with voice:
"I cut through the construction-muddled street, my bag flapping against my side. I notice the 'I'd rather be in Ann Arbor' bumper sticker on a passing car, and smile at its irony since the little Honda is most definitely in its favorite city. I wonder for a moment if it's not referring to an Ann Arbor gone by, much like the one I want to grasp on now. The air is thick, replete with enveloping humidity, swirling dust and the sounds of hulkish machines stabbing through concrete. After safely crossing on to the paved pathways surrounded by grass, old buildings and tall trees, I wipe the dust from my eyes and continue on to the Diag."
Read her.
"I cut through the construction-muddled street, my bag flapping against my side. I notice the 'I'd rather be in Ann Arbor' bumper sticker on a passing car, and smile at its irony since the little Honda is most definitely in its favorite city. I wonder for a moment if it's not referring to an Ann Arbor gone by, much like the one I want to grasp on now. The air is thick, replete with enveloping humidity, swirling dust and the sounds of hulkish machines stabbing through concrete. After safely crossing on to the paved pathways surrounded by grass, old buildings and tall trees, I wipe the dust from my eyes and continue on to the Diag."
Read her.
June 16, 2002
Fatherless Day
This is my 34th Fathers Day without my dad. It's not easy for me to believe that--that this is the 34th, I mean. Because the girl-child watching him play, sing, then die an excruciating death from pancreatic cancer, only 38 himself, lives at the surface of me. That little girl is my skin, I've never had the luxury of pushing her down, sending her back, taking her off. God knows I've tried, but she won't go.
She's the child who sits crying on her bed while classmates glide off to father-daughter dinner dances; she's the one who stammers when asked, "what does your father do?" thinking that "rot under the earth" isn't a great answer to give. She's the one who hates being told "I'm sorry" by people who don't have a clue what it is to have your father's hug disappear before you ever got used to it, being asked "Do you remember him," and wanting to strangle well-intentioned adults; she's the one who listens to the recordings alone trying to summon him back, imagining he didn't really die at all--maybe he left us--maybe he's playing music somewhere in Europe, coming back from the road any day now. She's the girl who got married with a brother, not a father, on her arm. She's the girl who got cheated out of an entire lifetime of love.
This day, 34 years later, I think of his grave in Holy Sepulchre Cemetery, mourn for how far away I am from that place, that man, that grave, that faith, and I hug the little girl-child who doesn't leave me still.
She's the child who sits crying on her bed while classmates glide off to father-daughter dinner dances; she's the one who stammers when asked, "what does your father do?" thinking that "rot under the earth" isn't a great answer to give. She's the one who hates being told "I'm sorry" by people who don't have a clue what it is to have your father's hug disappear before you ever got used to it, being asked "Do you remember him," and wanting to strangle well-intentioned adults; she's the one who listens to the recordings alone trying to summon him back, imagining he didn't really die at all--maybe he left us--maybe he's playing music somewhere in Europe, coming back from the road any day now. She's the girl who got married with a brother, not a father, on her arm. She's the girl who got cheated out of an entire lifetime of love.
This day, 34 years later, I think of his grave in Holy Sepulchre Cemetery, mourn for how far away I am from that place, that man, that grave, that faith, and I hug the little girl-child who doesn't leave me still.
June 15, 2002
A certain longing
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.
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.
Steroid Withdrawl
I've been on steroids for two weeks (two rounds) to knock his bronchitis out of my tired lungs. Came off two days ago. Have you ever come off of steroids? They are wonderful drugs which remove every bit of inflamation from your body. With steroids, you can breathe, you can soar, you can clean your house at 3:00 a.m. And then you finish your course of meds. And you feel precisely like cotton, from your brain to your feet, tired old cotton, wet even. And so tired. Jenna went off with family today. I closed my eyes at 1:00 and opened them six hours later. I could sleep for three days if someone would just give me the chance... If someone were here to help me. If George were home.
But George can't come home yet. And so I think of Elaine and if she were here I know I could clean my house, I could tackle the seven baskets of laundry waiting in the basement, I could register both of our cars, which are now two-weeks illegal, I could get the dogs to the vet to get their shots that are three months overdue, I could bother to go food shopping, bother to call the doctor about the yeast infection on my tongue thanks to the steroids, I could remember to take the overflowing garbage to the curb that I forgot about last week... But Elaine isn't here; she is taking some time for her, because I'm sure there are days, taking care of her mom, where she feels like cotton too.
So here I am alone, off to get my sweet sunshine, handle her energy one way or the other, and that's why no new blogging. Because more than any of these tasks awaiting me, I want to sleep. Deep sleep. No-Dream sleep. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
But George can't come home yet. And so I think of Elaine and if she were here I know I could clean my house, I could tackle the seven baskets of laundry waiting in the basement, I could register both of our cars, which are now two-weeks illegal, I could get the dogs to the vet to get their shots that are three months overdue, I could bother to go food shopping, bother to call the doctor about the yeast infection on my tongue thanks to the steroids, I could remember to take the overflowing garbage to the curb that I forgot about last week... But Elaine isn't here; she is taking some time for her, because I'm sure there are days, taking care of her mom, where she feels like cotton too.
So here I am alone, off to get my sweet sunshine, handle her energy one way or the other, and that's why no new blogging. Because more than any of these tasks awaiting me, I want to sleep. Deep sleep. No-Dream sleep. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
June 14, 2002
Privacy be damned
If you want a look at the best of generosity blogging, look here at the comment discussion happening in response to this honest post on alcoholism vs drinking by stavrosthewonderchicken. I learned more here than from all the little alanon pamphlets I ordered online.
RageBoy's Topic
Asking for it, I was. I say, "Give me a topic, I'll blog it." Before I finish Gary's "what if you weren't allowed to blog" question, I thought I'd tackle RageBoy's puzzle:
"Privacy is to generosity as iceboxes are to Eskimos. True or false."
I stunk at word problems in school. It may become very clear that I still suck at them. But, not doing something well never stopped me from doing it anyway. Iceboxes and Eskimos. Here I assume one thing, but remember I'm in atlanta where it's like 90 degrees right now: Eskimos don't need iceboxes. Refrigeration is useless. Do I have it right so far?
What about privacy and generosity, and let's stick within the realm of blogging here. Privacy in blogging means what? It means keeping yourself to yourself. It means keeping the personal out of your writing, keeping your family jewels safely within your briefs, quite literallly.
Privacy is something I don't do so well, evidenced by the fact that my kid's face is plastered all over my blog (and her own), as are my loving and sexual longings for my husband, my feelings of horror and disgust toward sex abusing catholics (small c), my childhood career as a shoplifter, my experiences as a kid with a dying father. Little private jewels like that--the experiences I share, those pieces of me I feel compelled to give you.
Does that mean I'm generous? I don't know. I'm sharing huge pieces of my self, for sure. But, I'm sure you can also argue that there's a hint (maybe more) of exhibitionism in it all. Although there is a generosity inherent in all sharing/giving, I get something from it too. It ain't all charity here on allied. I get the release. I get the opening up, the laying out, the eyes, the ears, the souls, and I get the conversation that follows, you telling me you love me "even though."
But let's get away from me for a minute. When you think of bloggers you would describe as "generous," several come to mind--to my mind anyway. They are the bloggers who dare to get personal: Golby, Halley, Marek, Locke, Shelley. They are generous because they dare to lay themselves down naked in front of us: "Here I am. Fuck with me if you want. Or decide you love me. I'm laying down either way."
So cool. So brave. So not private.
But there are generous bloggers who don't push the envelope on privacy to the max too. In this category I'd put Tom Matrullo and AKMA. Theirs is a generosity of spirit and prose and thought. Eloquent, winding prose and voice. Even if they don't always open their chests and show us their beating hearts, they opens our minds just the same. They give us glimpses of their families, their children, the ideas that matter most, but they pull up on the laying down naked thing. Who can blame them.
Then you have the disingenuous, the ungenerous, the very private, the antibloggers. The guy I reference near the top on the right of this page is one of those. I'm afraid they may be growing in number--but I think they'll fall by the wayside eventually.
These are the bloggers who refuse to give any hint of who they are. They remain wrapped and cloaked and yet afford no one that same opportunity. They are all about exposing others without daring to expose themselves. Here the disconnect between privacy and generosity is most clear. They give away nothing. They share nothing. They are absolute privacy. And they are reaaaallly boring. I would like to send them to live with the Eskimos for a month. Maybe then they would have something to say, some genuine experiences to share. But alas...
I must now go be mom, maker of dinner, bather of daughter, feeder of dogs, those other generous roles I play every single day.
So, my answer, I think, is "False."
Discuss.
"Privacy is to generosity as iceboxes are to Eskimos. True or false."
I stunk at word problems in school. It may become very clear that I still suck at them. But, not doing something well never stopped me from doing it anyway. Iceboxes and Eskimos. Here I assume one thing, but remember I'm in atlanta where it's like 90 degrees right now: Eskimos don't need iceboxes. Refrigeration is useless. Do I have it right so far?
What about privacy and generosity, and let's stick within the realm of blogging here. Privacy in blogging means what? It means keeping yourself to yourself. It means keeping the personal out of your writing, keeping your family jewels safely within your briefs, quite literallly.
Privacy is something I don't do so well, evidenced by the fact that my kid's face is plastered all over my blog (and her own), as are my loving and sexual longings for my husband, my feelings of horror and disgust toward sex abusing catholics (small c), my childhood career as a shoplifter, my experiences as a kid with a dying father. Little private jewels like that--the experiences I share, those pieces of me I feel compelled to give you.
Does that mean I'm generous? I don't know. I'm sharing huge pieces of my self, for sure. But, I'm sure you can also argue that there's a hint (maybe more) of exhibitionism in it all. Although there is a generosity inherent in all sharing/giving, I get something from it too. It ain't all charity here on allied. I get the release. I get the opening up, the laying out, the eyes, the ears, the souls, and I get the conversation that follows, you telling me you love me "even though."
But let's get away from me for a minute. When you think of bloggers you would describe as "generous," several come to mind--to my mind anyway. They are the bloggers who dare to get personal: Golby, Halley, Marek, Locke, Shelley. They are generous because they dare to lay themselves down naked in front of us: "Here I am. Fuck with me if you want. Or decide you love me. I'm laying down either way."
So cool. So brave. So not private.
But there are generous bloggers who don't push the envelope on privacy to the max too. In this category I'd put Tom Matrullo and AKMA. Theirs is a generosity of spirit and prose and thought. Eloquent, winding prose and voice. Even if they don't always open their chests and show us their beating hearts, they opens our minds just the same. They give us glimpses of their families, their children, the ideas that matter most, but they pull up on the laying down naked thing. Who can blame them.
Then you have the disingenuous, the ungenerous, the very private, the antibloggers. The guy I reference near the top on the right of this page is one of those. I'm afraid they may be growing in number--but I think they'll fall by the wayside eventually.
These are the bloggers who refuse to give any hint of who they are. They remain wrapped and cloaked and yet afford no one that same opportunity. They are all about exposing others without daring to expose themselves. Here the disconnect between privacy and generosity is most clear. They give away nothing. They share nothing. They are absolute privacy. And they are reaaaallly boring. I would like to send them to live with the Eskimos for a month. Maybe then they would have something to say, some genuine experiences to share. But alas...
I must now go be mom, maker of dinner, bather of daughter, feeder of dogs, those other generous roles I play every single day.
So, my answer, I think, is "False."
Discuss.
June 13, 2002
Where was Tom then?
Where was Tom Matrullo when I was trying to explain to anyone who would listen why I thought Napster was such a good idea--why it blew my mind to pieces, why sitting at the PC with my husband saying, "how did that chord progression go?" and tapping into that vast online living room of like-minded music freaks called Napster was so wonderful. Where was Tom when we were downloading "with love" pieces and parcels of music and sounds that were right on the tip of our tongues, sparking the next wave of creativity, "yeh, that's right, and remember?"
Tom was here being brilliant, and I didn't know. Although I didn't have the chance to read his 24 Notes on Napster then, I just took a joy ride back in time, some George Clinton funk blastin' from my radiadio, tearin the roof off the mothersucker, reliving the love that was Napster in this most exquisite article.
If only...
Tom was here being brilliant, and I didn't know. Although I didn't have the chance to read his 24 Notes on Napster then, I just took a joy ride back in time, some George Clinton funk blastin' from my radiadio, tearin the roof off the mothersucker, reliving the love that was Napster in this most exquisite article.
If only...
COMMERCIAL BREAK
On this Open Line Thursday, we pause for this important commercial message:
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Marek's looking for a job. Craig's looking for a job. Starting salary for Craig is 17 gazilion dollars, while Marek will do just about anything for 4 gazillion dollars.
TODAY ONLY we're offering a two-fer-one!!! Hire one bookworthy genius, get a funny brilliant Pole for free!
[Offer valid only while supplies last. Not valid in all states. 46-percent sales tax applies for purchaes made in Georgia.]
Open Forum: What if You Could No Longer Blog
Gary Turner took the bait but fast on my Open Line Thursday, giving me an interesting question to blog about. Gary asks:
"What if you lost your blog and were not allowed to start another one?"
You've been hanging out with Frank Paynter, haven't you Gary? Lots of dynamite packed into this question.
First, I think about losing my blog, and assume you mean LOSING it, as in, gone, bye, finis. All the writing disappears, all the sweat and hard work down the drain. I'm left with two strong emotions: Terror and Despair. Terror: It could happen, couldn't it? My words don't live on my own server. What if, what if, what if it all disappeared tomorrow?
I remember getting the call from George a dozen years ago, him in New York, me at home in Rochester, him saying all that was left was the rock they used to bash the van window in. Everything was gone. The upright bass he'd had all his adult life, the Guild fretless he'd had since he was 16, the one he played with Jaco. His amps, too, everything gone.
Welcome to New York, Motherfucker.
What I heard on the phone was pure anguish.
"Honey everything's gone."
"What everything--what do you mean?"
"Everything. They got everything."
"The upright? They took the fucking upright?"
"That, the Guilds. Everything."
"Oh my god."
That was a day out of time, the room spun. He would later refer to that loss this way: "I lost my sound. My sound is gone." Those instruments were a second skin for him--they were his voice, and they were gone forever. The depression that followed lasted a good long time. Financially, the loss of the basses and equipment represented the loss of our only real assets. And even though other instruments would come along--the Sadowsky, the Padulla, even the 100+ year-old upright--well, even I knew, I know still. Beautiful, inspiring, lively, exotic, but not the sound of the man I met. Not worse, not better. But not the sound. One instrument meets two hands makes one sound. World without end, amen.
So how does this relate? In many ways. If words are our songs, then blogs are our instruments--carriers of voice. If I had been blogging here for 15 years, and all of my collective songs and voice suddenly vanished, I think I would feel much the same pain, dismay, drifting. Voice, place, song, home, center--to lose it then would be horrible. But the blog isn't my only instrument, and this day it's not my most "important" instrument. Blogging is my love, my hobby, but it's not my life. I will not die if I do not blog. I can write on paper if I have to. I can start an e-zine if the mood strikes me. One thing I've learned from that little PR gig that pays the bills is how to adapt. Adapt my voice, adapt my attitude, adapt adapt adapt.
The truth is, I have less than a year's worth of "me" here. It's important, yes, but it wouldn't kill me to lose it. Hurt? Yes. Badly. But, I would understand, at the same time, that it could be much, much worse. Like if it happened a dozen years down the road.
Consider then the Sessum's thoughts at the time of the great instrument hoist--if we can find the fuckers who took the stuff, and if we didn't slit their throats, how much would we be willing to give them to get it back? How much, then, is your sound worth? How much can you afford to protect that sound, or to get it back if someone takes it? All serious, relative things we should be thinking about in Blogaria. As it stands right now, if my blog disappeared and Blogger/Blogspot said we need $500 to get it back for you, I'd say, okay; here's a check. If they said, it will cost you $1,000 to get it back, would I? hmmmm. Ouch. I dunno. $10,000? No way. I can recreate. I will live to spew another day. So long, bye bye, what a shame. I can take a nice vacation with that money and drink my tears away.
Still, it may be time that we start putting a personal value on what we're doing here, just to level set a little bit.
In George's case, if we could have found the instruments--and we did check stores and pawnshops for years, STILL do--we would have easily anted up a few grand. (This is me talking, not him. Hypothetically. George can explore this on his blog if he wants to.) If we had $20,000, it wouldn't have been too much to pay to have those instruments back. $70,000? hmmmm. Feet are getting colder. $100,000? Het-hem. You can get lots of pretty sounds for $100,000.
But I digress...
The second part of Gary's question is just as loaded. Having lost my blog, what would I do if I was not allowed to start another one? Oooooh. Allowed. Interesting word. Who would be doing the disallowing? Work? Blogger? Spouse? The whole notion of "permission" is wrapped in here--a quagmire of its own. In fact, it deserves another post.... Stay tuned.
"What if you lost your blog and were not allowed to start another one?"
You've been hanging out with Frank Paynter, haven't you Gary? Lots of dynamite packed into this question.
First, I think about losing my blog, and assume you mean LOSING it, as in, gone, bye, finis. All the writing disappears, all the sweat and hard work down the drain. I'm left with two strong emotions: Terror and Despair. Terror: It could happen, couldn't it? My words don't live on my own server. What if, what if, what if it all disappeared tomorrow?
I remember getting the call from George a dozen years ago, him in New York, me at home in Rochester, him saying all that was left was the rock they used to bash the van window in. Everything was gone. The upright bass he'd had all his adult life, the Guild fretless he'd had since he was 16, the one he played with Jaco. His amps, too, everything gone.
Welcome to New York, Motherfucker.
What I heard on the phone was pure anguish.
"Honey everything's gone."
"What everything--what do you mean?"
"Everything. They got everything."
"The upright? They took the fucking upright?"
"That, the Guilds. Everything."
"Oh my god."
That was a day out of time, the room spun. He would later refer to that loss this way: "I lost my sound. My sound is gone." Those instruments were a second skin for him--they were his voice, and they were gone forever. The depression that followed lasted a good long time. Financially, the loss of the basses and equipment represented the loss of our only real assets. And even though other instruments would come along--the Sadowsky, the Padulla, even the 100+ year-old upright--well, even I knew, I know still. Beautiful, inspiring, lively, exotic, but not the sound of the man I met. Not worse, not better. But not the sound. One instrument meets two hands makes one sound. World without end, amen.
So how does this relate? In many ways. If words are our songs, then blogs are our instruments--carriers of voice. If I had been blogging here for 15 years, and all of my collective songs and voice suddenly vanished, I think I would feel much the same pain, dismay, drifting. Voice, place, song, home, center--to lose it then would be horrible. But the blog isn't my only instrument, and this day it's not my most "important" instrument. Blogging is my love, my hobby, but it's not my life. I will not die if I do not blog. I can write on paper if I have to. I can start an e-zine if the mood strikes me. One thing I've learned from that little PR gig that pays the bills is how to adapt. Adapt my voice, adapt my attitude, adapt adapt adapt.
The truth is, I have less than a year's worth of "me" here. It's important, yes, but it wouldn't kill me to lose it. Hurt? Yes. Badly. But, I would understand, at the same time, that it could be much, much worse. Like if it happened a dozen years down the road.
Consider then the Sessum's thoughts at the time of the great instrument hoist--if we can find the fuckers who took the stuff, and if we didn't slit their throats, how much would we be willing to give them to get it back? How much, then, is your sound worth? How much can you afford to protect that sound, or to get it back if someone takes it? All serious, relative things we should be thinking about in Blogaria. As it stands right now, if my blog disappeared and Blogger/Blogspot said we need $500 to get it back for you, I'd say, okay; here's a check. If they said, it will cost you $1,000 to get it back, would I? hmmmm. Ouch. I dunno. $10,000? No way. I can recreate. I will live to spew another day. So long, bye bye, what a shame. I can take a nice vacation with that money and drink my tears away.
Still, it may be time that we start putting a personal value on what we're doing here, just to level set a little bit.
In George's case, if we could have found the instruments--and we did check stores and pawnshops for years, STILL do--we would have easily anted up a few grand. (This is me talking, not him. Hypothetically. George can explore this on his blog if he wants to.) If we had $20,000, it wouldn't have been too much to pay to have those instruments back. $70,000? hmmmm. Feet are getting colder. $100,000? Het-hem. You can get lots of pretty sounds for $100,000.
But I digress...
The second part of Gary's question is just as loaded. Having lost my blog, what would I do if I was not allowed to start another one? Oooooh. Allowed. Interesting word. Who would be doing the disallowing? Work? Blogger? Spouse? The whole notion of "permission" is wrapped in here--a quagmire of its own. In fact, it deserves another post.... Stay tuned.
Blogger Open Forum!
NOW--THROUGH TODAY ONLY! The Request Line is OPEN.
What do YOU want me to blog about? Screw this "My Blog, I Say" concept. Nuh-uh. Today is your day on allied. Gimme a topic, I'll blog it. It may not be good, but it might be interesting....
C'mon. What is it? Whatcha want to know about? Death? Love? Sex? Integrity? Loss? Lies? K-Mart? More about cats? (don't have one--it disappeared two years ago--ooops, more on that loss topic again---why does it always go back to that?)
You gotta topic, I gotta blogit.
Leave me a comment.
What do YOU want me to blog about? Screw this "My Blog, I Say" concept. Nuh-uh. Today is your day on allied. Gimme a topic, I'll blog it. It may not be good, but it might be interesting....
C'mon. What is it? Whatcha want to know about? Death? Love? Sex? Integrity? Loss? Lies? K-Mart? More about cats? (don't have one--it disappeared two years ago--ooops, more on that loss topic again---why does it always go back to that?)
You gotta topic, I gotta blogit.
Leave me a comment.
Come, Ride with Me
Excuse me while I take time out to enjoy my ride on daypop just now courtesy of my interview with Frank Paynter. At number 20, I have hurdled my husband, who rode into the 30s earlier this week. Sessum double hit--Outrageous!
June 12, 2002
George the Bass Whore
George has been quiet the last couple of days because he's been rushing around Hong Kong trying to undo some big bass damage. But he's back. Some of my favorite bits from this morning:
"The begining of the week. Hands are rested but stiff. The club is empty except for some early week die-hard partiers and the working girls who got wind that it's the bands payday."
"Last song of the set.They want an encore [I've learned this much in all my years of performing; Every band in the world becomes the best band in the world after the last note is played. You can quote me on that."
I just did.
"The begining of the week. Hands are rested but stiff. The club is empty except for some early week die-hard partiers and the working girls who got wind that it's the bands payday."
"Last song of the set.They want an encore [I've learned this much in all my years of performing; Every band in the world becomes the best band in the world after the last note is played. You can quote me on that."
I just did.
June 11, 2002
I have digested it.
It's funny, reading something you said/wrote in pieces. Well, I've had time to digest my interview with Frank Paynter now. As a whole. I think I'm pretty happy with it. Among other things, I confess that I dropped Robert Creeley's poetry class after attending stoned five times, that my husband is my first and only love, and that I can still throw up when I think about him. Allow me to tap some other highlights for you:
"To have as a mate one who is OF art and music, that is, one who has that art in the core of their being, in their DNA, that is a wonderful match for both people--to have an inborn understanding of what it is to love art as to love one's parent, one's lover, oneself..."
"And so we come to weblogging. Here is where everything converges--poetry, music, humanity, worlds, prose, journalism, literature, philosophy. Blogging is everything we want it to be."
"Even more reticent women can start out tentatively with blogging, testing their voices, then connecting with others, gaining power as they embrace and are embraced, achieving respect and acceptance-all within a very short period of time, especially compared to our same quest within the confines of the corporate world. What it has taken me 18 years to achieve in my realworld career in terms of respect, readership, and credibility, I have achieved in 8 months as a blogger."
"As to where we've made love, hmmm. Park, check. Bowling alley, check. Nightclub, check. Beach, oh yes, honey, remember Jamaica in the sea?"
"It isn't all slime and sweat and goo and moans. It's the space in between those things. What you do with it."
"Yes, low-end is my preferred frequency, more so as I age. The boomier the better, which is what's nice about living in the south. They appreciate the low end down here."
"Everything you're learning from these souls you connect with begins to inform you, your thinking. Your being. It feeds back into your blog, your job, your family, your relationships within the realworld. The spark-to-flame ratio is staggering."
"Yes, I think Chris Locke is a genius. He's also a real person, brave, willing to live in public, show us how he loves, how he cares, how far the knife has to go in before he bleeds."
"But then you grow up. And doesn't that suck. And you realize some things *you* can't fix quick--somethings you can never fix. You can do yourself some real damage by beating your head against the wall trying."
"Blogging and the blogging community have changed me as a women in so many ways, giving me permission to speak, to think, to experiment, to fail, to stop, to start again, to become something 'more than.' "
"If you have ever suffered -- felt pain to the point where you thought (a) I cannot stand this for another milisecond, never mind another fifteen minutes or hour, OR (b) I cannot stand my life laid open in front of me, the expanse of years I have yet to endure -- then Cixous' words will resound in you as they have in me."
"To have as a mate one who is OF art and music, that is, one who has that art in the core of their being, in their DNA, that is a wonderful match for both people--to have an inborn understanding of what it is to love art as to love one's parent, one's lover, oneself..."
"And so we come to weblogging. Here is where everything converges--poetry, music, humanity, worlds, prose, journalism, literature, philosophy. Blogging is everything we want it to be."
"Even more reticent women can start out tentatively with blogging, testing their voices, then connecting with others, gaining power as they embrace and are embraced, achieving respect and acceptance-all within a very short period of time, especially compared to our same quest within the confines of the corporate world. What it has taken me 18 years to achieve in my realworld career in terms of respect, readership, and credibility, I have achieved in 8 months as a blogger."
"As to where we've made love, hmmm. Park, check. Bowling alley, check. Nightclub, check. Beach, oh yes, honey, remember Jamaica in the sea?"
"It isn't all slime and sweat and goo and moans. It's the space in between those things. What you do with it."
"Yes, low-end is my preferred frequency, more so as I age. The boomier the better, which is what's nice about living in the south. They appreciate the low end down here."
"Everything you're learning from these souls you connect with begins to inform you, your thinking. Your being. It feeds back into your blog, your job, your family, your relationships within the realworld. The spark-to-flame ratio is staggering."
"Yes, I think Chris Locke is a genius. He's also a real person, brave, willing to live in public, show us how he loves, how he cares, how far the knife has to go in before he bleeds."
"But then you grow up. And doesn't that suck. And you realize some things *you* can't fix quick--somethings you can never fix. You can do yourself some real damage by beating your head against the wall trying."
"Blogging and the blogging community have changed me as a women in so many ways, giving me permission to speak, to think, to experiment, to fail, to stop, to start again, to become something 'more than.' "
"If you have ever suffered -- felt pain to the point where you thought (a) I cannot stand this for another milisecond, never mind another fifteen minutes or hour, OR (b) I cannot stand my life laid open in front of me, the expanse of years I have yet to endure -- then Cixous' words will resound in you as they have in me."
Who Am I?
Well, my fifteen minutes of fame are HERE. Frank Paynter of Sandhill Tech added me to his illustrious list of interviewees, and the results are in:
Gosh, I'm long winded.
Frank, I am truly honored. And now hurry up with Golby before everyone sees the steamy erotica I wrote. ;-)
Gosh, I'm long winded.
Frank, I am truly honored. And now hurry up with Golby before everyone sees the steamy erotica I wrote. ;-)
June 10, 2002
My Man, George
Well well, it helps to have a wife who loves and supports you. It also helps to have a strong voice and something to say. Evidence: George Sessum is number 32 on Daypop as I blog this. Wait until George sees. As I write this he should be finishing up the last set of the night, wrecking his hands and wrenching his neck playing for the ladies of the evening in far away Hong Kong. Ah the stories he has to tell--he just has to find a computer to tell them from. Hopefully tonight we'll hear more. As always, links and nepotistic recognition are appreciated!
By the way, a photo-chronology of the man who swept me off my feet in 1982 (though we didn't officially "meet" until 84) is here. Dare I show the ladies? Yeh, he's the cute one. Still is.
Thanks to RageBoy for letting me know and for linking to George early on.
By the way, a photo-chronology of the man who swept me off my feet in 1982 (though we didn't officially "meet" until 84) is here. Dare I show the ladies? Yeh, he's the cute one. Still is.
Thanks to RageBoy for letting me know and for linking to George early on.
Who Knows You Blog, And Who Doesn't?
And what would you do if they did?
Over the last month, I've become more and more convinced that we're writing for each other. Which means, if you are not a blogger, or a blog reader at least, I’m not writing for you. Which means, I'm not writing for my family or three dozen of my closest friends.
Are they missing the core of who I am? Probably. But perhaps some people don't need to know my core. That not knowing gives me a certain amount of freedom. And I think I like it.
You and I, we've been together a while now. I know what it takes to surprise all of you--something like homicide at this point, or at least conspiracy to commit murder. You might say, "Gee, I didn't know Jeneane was that far gone." Aside from some gruesome revelation like that, I'm not sure I could surprise any of you--disappoint any of you--with prose and poetry that tells you "who I am." I continue to try to titilate you (breast feeding post, exhibit A), but beyond that, it's just me out here saying, "Hey."
For those who know me in the realworld, though, you know, parents, siblings, aunts, old-school friends, it's a different story. The fact is, they would be very surprised by just about everything I've written here. Like the last post. And the one before that. And probably the one before that. Yikes. Surprised may be the wrong word. Disturbed might be closer.
What does this mean? It means that I ask myself, once every few days, what would I do if Aunt Marian wrote and said, "I saw your website." (She's a nun and my aunt.) Or, what if my brother's wife, who is quite net savvy, found me here and said, "Hey, I saw that weblog you have…" Or worse yet, my boss: "What's this site you have? I've been looking at it but can't really make sense of it--what is this thing?"
I don't want that. I don't want them to know because I love the freedom of having NO ONE on my shoulder. No one checking my posts from inside my head before I press publish.
My husband, sure, he's there, but he really does live on my shoulder and that means nothing here much surprises him. And if it does, he will most likely ask me, "Hey, what was that post about?" And we'll talk about it. Besides, he's blogging himself now, so he falls into *our* camp.
But it does raise certain questions for all of us: Who doesn't know you blog and would it change how you blog--what you write, whether or not you self-censor--if they did?
Mommy, did I ever tell you I used to be a really good shoplifter? How about that I wish I would have tasted George all up and down his body after he fell through the ceiling instead of being so practical and worrying about the repair bills? You taught me that stuff, you know?
See what I mean?
But still, as I grow more confident in my voice, in how I say what I have to say, and in the power of what I'm saying, I'd like to think I wouldn't change much. Not anymore. Well, maybe the "tasting" part. Well, okay, I might not want to talk about the alcoholism thing either.
So you see, the truth for me is that I really don't know. Because it hasn't happened. Yet.
And you?
Over the last month, I've become more and more convinced that we're writing for each other. Which means, if you are not a blogger, or a blog reader at least, I’m not writing for you. Which means, I'm not writing for my family or three dozen of my closest friends.
Are they missing the core of who I am? Probably. But perhaps some people don't need to know my core. That not knowing gives me a certain amount of freedom. And I think I like it.
You and I, we've been together a while now. I know what it takes to surprise all of you--something like homicide at this point, or at least conspiracy to commit murder. You might say, "Gee, I didn't know Jeneane was that far gone." Aside from some gruesome revelation like that, I'm not sure I could surprise any of you--disappoint any of you--with prose and poetry that tells you "who I am." I continue to try to titilate you (breast feeding post, exhibit A), but beyond that, it's just me out here saying, "Hey."
For those who know me in the realworld, though, you know, parents, siblings, aunts, old-school friends, it's a different story. The fact is, they would be very surprised by just about everything I've written here. Like the last post. And the one before that. And probably the one before that. Yikes. Surprised may be the wrong word. Disturbed might be closer.
What does this mean? It means that I ask myself, once every few days, what would I do if Aunt Marian wrote and said, "I saw your website." (She's a nun and my aunt.) Or, what if my brother's wife, who is quite net savvy, found me here and said, "Hey, I saw that weblog you have…" Or worse yet, my boss: "What's this site you have? I've been looking at it but can't really make sense of it--what is this thing?"
I don't want that. I don't want them to know because I love the freedom of having NO ONE on my shoulder. No one checking my posts from inside my head before I press publish.
My husband, sure, he's there, but he really does live on my shoulder and that means nothing here much surprises him. And if it does, he will most likely ask me, "Hey, what was that post about?" And we'll talk about it. Besides, he's blogging himself now, so he falls into *our* camp.
But it does raise certain questions for all of us: Who doesn't know you blog and would it change how you blog--what you write, whether or not you self-censor--if they did?
Mommy, did I ever tell you I used to be a really good shoplifter? How about that I wish I would have tasted George all up and down his body after he fell through the ceiling instead of being so practical and worrying about the repair bills? You taught me that stuff, you know?
See what I mean?
But still, as I grow more confident in my voice, in how I say what I have to say, and in the power of what I'm saying, I'd like to think I wouldn't change much. Not anymore. Well, maybe the "tasting" part. Well, okay, I might not want to talk about the alcoholism thing either.
So you see, the truth for me is that I really don't know. Because it hasn't happened. Yet.
And you?
June 09, 2002
Ta Ta to Ta Ta
Let's talk turkey. Cold turkey. Our lovely Baby Blogger has given me a gift for my 40th birthday -- for her, the most serious and significant gift she could muster. And although she will want to kill me one day for telling you what that gift is, I'm doing it anyway: she has finally gone cold turkey and quit the pacifier she has, until now, relished sucking at night (and any other time she could find it laying around the house). She'll be 5 in September.
Two weeks ago we went to the doctor with this bronchitis plague we've had in our house. The doctor mentioned her overbite--to me it's slight; to the doctor it isn't. The doctor told me that the pacifier had better be gone in a week because we were heading for big orthadontist bills...and pain for her. I scoffed. I have been scoffing for years.
And I have stood mostly alone in my support for her "ta ta"--that's what she has always called it. "Nonesense," I've said. "I sucked my thumb til I was 6 and I never needed braces." My husband has tried to hide the things, has always dared to take her on outings without it. Me on the other hand, I make sure I have two in my purse. Just in case. Not so much recently, but up until pretty darn recently.
When my friends arrived for my birthday weekend on Thursday, they asked her, sweetie, why do you still want that thing? She explained it so well:
"Well, I really like to use it when I twirl my hair and sleep,
and I really do love it, because it tastes so sweet."
And yet, somehow they convinced her (and me?) that it was indeed time to toss the ta-ta (or ta-tee for short). And for the last three mornings she's awoken with a jolt--bolting upright from a sound sleep: "I DID IT!!! I SLEPT WITHOUT TA-TEE AGAIN!" And I've hooped and hollered HURRAY! And have bought her treats and told her how big she is and all of that. And still...
Tonight when she went to sleep, I understood the significance, for her and for me, of this surrogate nipple that has been so important to us all of these years--since I stopped breast feeding her at three months of age (after the hospital adventure that nearly killed me).
Because tonight when she went to sleep, she could not get close enough to my breasts. "OOO mama, your potatoes got bigger," she tells me, sleep catching up with her, making her giddy and giggly, until she curls up against my tie-dye t-shirt, her little face burried as close as she can get to where she feels most at home, each hand holding a fold of cloth, her hot breath warming my skin through the cotton.
As she starts that raspy snore, my chin is resting on her head, and I'm holding her tight, wishing I could turn back the clock, just long enough for her to drink from me one more time. I summon that heady feeling that I've never heard described just right--that place without consciousness or conscience, without mores or shame, that single-minded place where you demonstrate your power to nurish the world, or at least your piece of it. Let down. I remember it so well, the letting down. No words to describe the sensation, but I'm there now, feeling the tingling and the filling up, closing my eyes, massaging, Helene Cixous where are you? We need to talk.
Put your baby to your breast and you must accept that someone needs you just *this* badly, and you accept that you are the only one who can give what's required. It is a mighty thing. It is a miracle. Changing baby changing you. A loss and a gain, I grieve and I celebrate.
"Because it tastes so sweet."
Two weeks ago we went to the doctor with this bronchitis plague we've had in our house. The doctor mentioned her overbite--to me it's slight; to the doctor it isn't. The doctor told me that the pacifier had better be gone in a week because we were heading for big orthadontist bills...and pain for her. I scoffed. I have been scoffing for years.
And I have stood mostly alone in my support for her "ta ta"--that's what she has always called it. "Nonesense," I've said. "I sucked my thumb til I was 6 and I never needed braces." My husband has tried to hide the things, has always dared to take her on outings without it. Me on the other hand, I make sure I have two in my purse. Just in case. Not so much recently, but up until pretty darn recently.
When my friends arrived for my birthday weekend on Thursday, they asked her, sweetie, why do you still want that thing? She explained it so well:
"Well, I really like to use it when I twirl my hair and sleep,
and I really do love it, because it tastes so sweet."
And yet, somehow they convinced her (and me?) that it was indeed time to toss the ta-ta (or ta-tee for short). And for the last three mornings she's awoken with a jolt--bolting upright from a sound sleep: "I DID IT!!! I SLEPT WITHOUT TA-TEE AGAIN!" And I've hooped and hollered HURRAY! And have bought her treats and told her how big she is and all of that. And still...
Tonight when she went to sleep, I understood the significance, for her and for me, of this surrogate nipple that has been so important to us all of these years--since I stopped breast feeding her at three months of age (after the hospital adventure that nearly killed me).
Because tonight when she went to sleep, she could not get close enough to my breasts. "OOO mama, your potatoes got bigger," she tells me, sleep catching up with her, making her giddy and giggly, until she curls up against my tie-dye t-shirt, her little face burried as close as she can get to where she feels most at home, each hand holding a fold of cloth, her hot breath warming my skin through the cotton.
As she starts that raspy snore, my chin is resting on her head, and I'm holding her tight, wishing I could turn back the clock, just long enough for her to drink from me one more time. I summon that heady feeling that I've never heard described just right--that place without consciousness or conscience, without mores or shame, that single-minded place where you demonstrate your power to nurish the world, or at least your piece of it. Let down. I remember it so well, the letting down. No words to describe the sensation, but I'm there now, feeling the tingling and the filling up, closing my eyes, massaging, Helene Cixous where are you? We need to talk.
Put your baby to your breast and you must accept that someone needs you just *this* badly, and you accept that you are the only one who can give what's required. It is a mighty thing. It is a miracle. Changing baby changing you. A loss and a gain, I grieve and I celebrate.
"Because it tastes so sweet."
This is TOO rich not to blog...
Gary Turner has "southparked" me for my 40th:
Be sure to click on my little GIFt to hear Gary's advice for 40 year olds everywhere.
Be sure to click on my little GIFt to hear Gary's advice for 40 year olds everywhere.
So it's my birthday!
THANK YOU one and all for the amazing birthday wishes. I think a dozen bloggers remembered my 40th in incredible ways--book, amulet, pictures, cards, e-cards, and a wonderful song in Polish (who could that be?)--fully 75% more remembrances than from my realworld friends, which is rather staggering. To me at least. And humbling. And heartwarming, scary, profound, telling, all of those things and more.
Company is still here, though off to bed. Which is where I need to go. I'll blog on the other side of 40 tomorrow.
Just had to take a second to say, you guys are the best.
THANK YOU!
"The Management"
Company is still here, though off to bed. Which is where I need to go. I'll blog on the other side of 40 tomorrow.
Just had to take a second to say, you guys are the best.
THANK YOU!
"The Management"
June 07, 2002
Roots
Two friends from college are here visiting for my birthday. I've known them 20 years now--it seems like that can't possibly be so. I look at their faces, and yes they have lines I don't remember being there. Voices are more tired. But, not 20 years' worth. They are upstairs, still sleeping. Jenna's bouncing around getting ready for school--we're late as usual. And I'm thinking about roots.
Last night we sat on the floor eating sticks of pepperoni, hunks of italian bread (ripped, not sliced), and crumbled Fontinella cheese, all hand carried from Rochester and Utica with love, understanding--you can't get that here. (Did I mention the hard lemonade?). There were moments when it seemed otherworldly--the tastes so familiar and warm and my own. Intoxicating.
These friends aren't bloggers. They don't even know I blog. Between trips to the kitchen, I perch in my spot on the couch, flip my laptop open to see if George has blogged anything new, what Elaine is up to, what's new with RageBoy. I read posts as I talk, sneaking back into Blogaria just to make sure. Ah, new email. Good. Yes. Of course. Me too, sweet friend. I open and close my laptop, punctuating laughs about the past with the huge piece of me that lives here, my present and future.
These friends don't live on the net. They don't breathe the same words as I do. And still. They know me too--that other me, the one who used her bed as a desk, who always forgot to close her dorm window when the rain came, who couldn't go to the record store and come out without an armful, who spun and danced to imagined songs, who wrote at night and slept during the day, who laid down in the middle of East Ave one night, drunk as a skunk, daring the cars.
Curious. The things I tell you about that me, that me then, you buy, accept. Easy enough to imagine me doing them. ME is the person I bring here with me. But this me, who's here, now, these friends don't know. They would wonder, if they came here, "Why do you do it?"
And I would say, because I have to. You should do it too.
And they would say no, I would never do that.
And I would say, it's so wonderful.
And they would say, see you're still crazy.
And I would say no, it's okay here.
And they would say, but why did you write *that*? It's so personal.
And I would say, because I wanted to.
And they would say, Oh. Well, you're *still* still crazy.
And I would say, not here I'm not.
And they would love me still, shaking their heads, wondering if I'll ever change.
And here I don't have to.
Last night we sat on the floor eating sticks of pepperoni, hunks of italian bread (ripped, not sliced), and crumbled Fontinella cheese, all hand carried from Rochester and Utica with love, understanding--you can't get that here. (Did I mention the hard lemonade?). There were moments when it seemed otherworldly--the tastes so familiar and warm and my own. Intoxicating.
These friends aren't bloggers. They don't even know I blog. Between trips to the kitchen, I perch in my spot on the couch, flip my laptop open to see if George has blogged anything new, what Elaine is up to, what's new with RageBoy. I read posts as I talk, sneaking back into Blogaria just to make sure. Ah, new email. Good. Yes. Of course. Me too, sweet friend. I open and close my laptop, punctuating laughs about the past with the huge piece of me that lives here, my present and future.
These friends don't live on the net. They don't breathe the same words as I do. And still. They know me too--that other me, the one who used her bed as a desk, who always forgot to close her dorm window when the rain came, who couldn't go to the record store and come out without an armful, who spun and danced to imagined songs, who wrote at night and slept during the day, who laid down in the middle of East Ave one night, drunk as a skunk, daring the cars.
Curious. The things I tell you about that me, that me then, you buy, accept. Easy enough to imagine me doing them. ME is the person I bring here with me. But this me, who's here, now, these friends don't know. They would wonder, if they came here, "Why do you do it?"
And I would say, because I have to. You should do it too.
And they would say no, I would never do that.
And I would say, it's so wonderful.
And they would say, see you're still crazy.
And I would say no, it's okay here.
And they would say, but why did you write *that*? It's so personal.
And I would say, because I wanted to.
And they would say, Oh. Well, you're *still* still crazy.
And I would say, not here I'm not.
And they would love me still, shaking their heads, wondering if I'll ever change.
And here I don't have to.
June 05, 2002
Where Else in Blogland Are You Gonna Get This?
When you meet my husband, and you may one day, you'll be saying to yourself what everyone says... "He's so soft spoken, such a gentleman, such a sensitive man..." (and then there's his business side... and there's his artist side... but I too digress...) Part of me thinks, gee, it would be better if you were reading his blogging adventures after you met him... BUT... that isn't how this works, is it? We all know that.
Earlier this month, I wrote this loving tribute to my first encounter with my George (scroll down to "I've been waiting so long"). Interestingly, I was sober at the time of that writing. My husband of almost-16 years, on the other hand, has taken to Scotch to get through the wasted days and wasted nights away from home, playing not-even jazz in Hong Kong.
Earlier today, he and I were exchanging emails, and he told me, among many other things I won't share here, that he was going to start blogging his way through the rest of what has turned out to be a nearly-crappy adventure playing overseas. I'm thinking, sure, he might blog something. And part of me is like, well, you're a wee bit intoxicated--what might you write? Well, HE'S BLOGGING. Stunning. Just wait til he has all of his faculties about him. This could be a dicey and interesting journey, husband and wife parallel blogging about REAL stuff. Hmmm. Deserves some thought. (deeep thought.)
If it's amazing to you to compare our versions of our early encounter now that I pointed you there, imagine my surprise to hop over to George's blog and see it. Yep. He knew me. And look at this honesty:
"I've tried to keep her to myself for so long and now everyone else knows
the kind of wonderful woman she is. The secrets out."
And, gee wiz, you guys know me; would I ever be sending out signals like this?
"Boy, I know what you're thinking and I can read every thought in your pea brain."
The truth is in what he says about how he has nurtured me. I was really very young when we met, and we've grown together and come out into the world in amazing and sometimes terrifying ways together. So why stop now? Blog on, honey. This is the man who's been telling me "yes you can" for the 18 years I've known him. And while I'm living out here, with you all, and sharing some really personal stuff, George knows it, he reads it. He hasn't yet said, "That's not a good idea." (subtext: so if he does, i'll know he's probably right).
Honey baby, I'm yours. Now bring your sorry butt home so I can dry you out! Don't worry, you'll be back into Daddy mode before you know it. The bean's energy will wrap around you like an ace bandage and you'll know you're home-sweet-home. No time for drink, no money for fun. But we'll make fun of our own. ;-)
Earlier this month, I wrote this loving tribute to my first encounter with my George (scroll down to "I've been waiting so long"). Interestingly, I was sober at the time of that writing. My husband of almost-16 years, on the other hand, has taken to Scotch to get through the wasted days and wasted nights away from home, playing not-even jazz in Hong Kong.
Earlier today, he and I were exchanging emails, and he told me, among many other things I won't share here, that he was going to start blogging his way through the rest of what has turned out to be a nearly-crappy adventure playing overseas. I'm thinking, sure, he might blog something. And part of me is like, well, you're a wee bit intoxicated--what might you write? Well, HE'S BLOGGING. Stunning. Just wait til he has all of his faculties about him. This could be a dicey and interesting journey, husband and wife parallel blogging about REAL stuff. Hmmm. Deserves some thought. (deeep thought.)
If it's amazing to you to compare our versions of our early encounter now that I pointed you there, imagine my surprise to hop over to George's blog and see it. Yep. He knew me. And look at this honesty:
the kind of wonderful woman she is. The secrets out."
And, gee wiz, you guys know me; would I ever be sending out signals like this?
The truth is in what he says about how he has nurtured me. I was really very young when we met, and we've grown together and come out into the world in amazing and sometimes terrifying ways together. So why stop now? Blog on, honey. This is the man who's been telling me "yes you can" for the 18 years I've known him. And while I'm living out here, with you all, and sharing some really personal stuff, George knows it, he reads it. He hasn't yet said, "That's not a good idea." (subtext: so if he does, i'll know he's probably right).
Honey baby, I'm yours. Now bring your sorry butt home so I can dry you out! Don't worry, you'll be back into Daddy mode before you know it. The bean's energy will wrap around you like an ace bandage and you'll know you're home-sweet-home. No time for drink, no money for fun. But we'll make fun of our own. ;-)
Happy Birthday, Helene Cixous
Wonderful blogger and fellow Blog Sister Tish of Fatshadow let me know that today is Helene Cixous' birthday. As I may have mentioned a dozen times, I am in love with Cixous' writing, and as I may have mentioned several dozen times, my birthday is Sunday. So today, I think of Helene and the gifts she has already given me, and I wish I could connect with her and give her something back, fellow Gemini, twins to twins, but maybe I have, somehow, in this weblog, and maybe she'll see it if she one day stumbles across this place. That image is good enough for me. In the mean time I wonder if google will ever boost me up in the Cixous standings, so she might one day happen upon me. And it would be so nice for her to find me that way, instead of coming upon me by searching up "shoplifting."
until later.
until later.
June 04, 2002
Busted by AKMA
Well, I thought my little K-Mart post (Bluelight Special) went mostly unnoticed. I guess it did, except for AKMA. On the topic of forgiveness, of which he has become the inspired master, AKMA uses my sins of the past as a jumping off point to discuss whether or not we are better off for having gone wrong in our early days, or whether maybe we just *are.* Would we change the course of events if we could? Would we erase certain experiences--ones we're not the proudest of? Or are they woven into our fabric in such a way that we wouldn't have become the same people if we hadn't run on the bad side for a time? All good questions. I'm not sure I have answers--at least not ones as good as AKMA's.
But I will say this--while I felt guilty for some time about shoplifting during my teen years, some of my best memories are those that resulted from a particularly good day on the prowl. Sitting with my best friend, behind Sibley's deparment store, sharing a can of Betty Crocker vanilla frosting, talking about things that mattered, why we wanted to run away, we'd make our plans, we'd pack our clothes in our minds, we'd grab a train, head south, who knows, but we'd make it. All the while, we're licking finger-full after finger-full of Betty Crocker until the sugar high kicks in just right, taking us to that place where 12 year olds shouldn't have to go, but if we had to go, vanilla frosting wasn't such a bad way to get there.
As a consumer and worker, I think I've made my amends. Would I recommend this abnoxious diversion to kids or anyone else? NO. (Wynona, are you listening?) Would I be plenty pissed if my child did what I did? YES. But I'd like to think I'd know if she were doing it. No one knew that I was. Therein, perhaps, lies the difference.
But, AKMA forgive me, I wouldn't take an eraser to those times either--I mean, if I could. Those were days of friendship and early bonds, we had a power out there that we didn't have at home. We were, for a few minutes every couple of days, in charge of our own destiny. Those were my days. Our days. And we did have our day, oh yes. We did.
But I will say this--while I felt guilty for some time about shoplifting during my teen years, some of my best memories are those that resulted from a particularly good day on the prowl. Sitting with my best friend, behind Sibley's deparment store, sharing a can of Betty Crocker vanilla frosting, talking about things that mattered, why we wanted to run away, we'd make our plans, we'd pack our clothes in our minds, we'd grab a train, head south, who knows, but we'd make it. All the while, we're licking finger-full after finger-full of Betty Crocker until the sugar high kicks in just right, taking us to that place where 12 year olds shouldn't have to go, but if we had to go, vanilla frosting wasn't such a bad way to get there.
As a consumer and worker, I think I've made my amends. Would I recommend this abnoxious diversion to kids or anyone else? NO. (Wynona, are you listening?) Would I be plenty pissed if my child did what I did? YES. But I'd like to think I'd know if she were doing it. No one knew that I was. Therein, perhaps, lies the difference.
But, AKMA forgive me, I wouldn't take an eraser to those times either--I mean, if I could. Those were days of friendship and early bonds, we had a power out there that we didn't have at home. We were, for a few minutes every couple of days, in charge of our own destiny. Those were my days. Our days. And we did have our day, oh yes. We did.
So who is this husband of yours?
He's George Sessum, and he's here talking about musical improvisation, and here talking about the glamour of the music biz. See why we're quite a pair? He'll be blogging more. I made him promise. So link to his ass.
the hole
I'm sorry about the hole. I was looking up at it just now, up above the dresser, the shape of your thigh outlined in white plaster by the ceiling guy who never came back, never charged us, never finished the job. A half-broken reminder of that day, you walking carefully across the attic beams to get that box I wanted, me downstairs boiling water for spaghetti, then the crash. I remember rushing up, looking up, there was part of you--just a leg, just a shoe, a sock, a calf, a thigh, one leg of your denim shorts. You had become part of the ceiling and the ceiling was of you. "OH NO! OH SHIT!" I said. And you nailed it that very moment. I was moaning for the ceiling, the money it would take to fix it, the gaping hole up into the dusty attic, the insulation debris raining down into our bedroom. My words were not for your thigh, for your already aching back, for the cut sending blood down your shin.
This was the very worst of me.
If I could take it back, trade it, I would. I would forget about the house, the money, the insulation storm, the ugly gaping hole just above the dresser. Instead I would run to you, up the attic steps, pull you free, hold you, rub your thigh, help you downstairs, carefully, one step at a time until we're both safe, lay you on the bed, gently roll up the leg of your shorts, just to see if there are wounds to tend to, and sure enough you are bleeding, and I get a warm washcloth and bathe your sore leg, start with the ankle, maybe the toes, work up, shins and thighs, roll up the leg of your shorts some more, just to check, to make sure you're not hurt there, and I swab as I go, until the washcloth falls to the floor and its my tongue, just making sure you are fine, up here on your thigh, and there, and there, zipper has to go, and shorts, sure I have to check around there too, and did you hurt your stomach just there, look another hole, I should check. And you are so fine, but what about your chest where you grabbed the beam, here let me see, and I'm checking between the hairs with my tongue, and up your neck, and there are your lips, amazing full lips, and we're kissing now, your tongue so deep, and there is no more house, no more gaping hole in the ceiling, no more dusty attic air still spilling out onto our floor. There is only us, and sky not ceiling, and beach not bed, and all of your hurt is in me and I love it away, and all of my hurt is on you and you wash it away, tears absolve us, and it takes a long, long time to rub away all the hurt, and I'm riding and loving and screaming, and I'm with you. I'm of you.
And we don't finish until you come home, where I'm waiting, looking up at the plaster, the hole outlining your thigh, promising to make it up to you.
This was the very worst of me.
If I could take it back, trade it, I would. I would forget about the house, the money, the insulation storm, the ugly gaping hole just above the dresser. Instead I would run to you, up the attic steps, pull you free, hold you, rub your thigh, help you downstairs, carefully, one step at a time until we're both safe, lay you on the bed, gently roll up the leg of your shorts, just to see if there are wounds to tend to, and sure enough you are bleeding, and I get a warm washcloth and bathe your sore leg, start with the ankle, maybe the toes, work up, shins and thighs, roll up the leg of your shorts some more, just to check, to make sure you're not hurt there, and I swab as I go, until the washcloth falls to the floor and its my tongue, just making sure you are fine, up here on your thigh, and there, and there, zipper has to go, and shorts, sure I have to check around there too, and did you hurt your stomach just there, look another hole, I should check. And you are so fine, but what about your chest where you grabbed the beam, here let me see, and I'm checking between the hairs with my tongue, and up your neck, and there are your lips, amazing full lips, and we're kissing now, your tongue so deep, and there is no more house, no more gaping hole in the ceiling, no more dusty attic air still spilling out onto our floor. There is only us, and sky not ceiling, and beach not bed, and all of your hurt is in me and I love it away, and all of my hurt is on you and you wash it away, tears absolve us, and it takes a long, long time to rub away all the hurt, and I'm riding and loving and screaming, and I'm with you. I'm of you.
And we don't finish until you come home, where I'm waiting, looking up at the plaster, the hole outlining your thigh, promising to make it up to you.
June 03, 2002
Frank Paynter Likes Women
...bloggers that is. Frank's adding me to his list of upcoming blogger interviews. The Barbara Walters of blog interviews, Frank prys and goads you into telling all. His job ain't over til you're crying and talking about potty training and puppy love. Just look at Elaine's interview. I hear Denise the Cyberlawyer Howell's interview is forthcoming. Followed by yours truly. And Mike Golby.
Will I spill the beans? You'll have to wait and see!
Here are my nominees for upcoming interviews:
Shelley Powers
Halley Suitt
Anita Bora
Gary Turner
Of course, any and all of the blog sisters would make great interviews too, Frank. I told Frank I wasn't very interesting. He said he knows horndogs on four continents who want the goods on me. My husband will be so proud!!!
Will I spill the beans? You'll have to wait and see!
Here are my nominees for upcoming interviews:
Shelley Powers
Halley Suitt
Anita Bora
Gary Turner
Of course, any and all of the blog sisters would make great interviews too, Frank. I told Frank I wasn't very interesting. He said he knows horndogs on four continents who want the goods on me. My husband will be so proud!!!
June 02, 2002
count down to 40
Alright, I'm gonna say it and I expect you to remember it. June 9th. Got it? June 9th I turn 40. That would be a milestone, bob. Two friends are coming down from Rochester to pamper me on the 6th. They'll be leaving to go back on my birthday evening. It will be the first birthdays my husband and I have spent apart since we've been married. His is June 14th. But he's WAY older than me. ;-) (okay, three years.) Yes we're both Geminis. That makes four, and baby makes five.
Halley tells me that your 40s are an amazing and wonderful time--an energized, sexy, mature, knowing decade. So why am I thinking, "yikes"? The friends coming to visit me are friends from college, which feels like it was five or six years ago. But, it was 20 years ago. Holy cow--I've lived almost two college lifetimes already, and I feel like I just graduated a few years ago. Time continues to play tricks on me.
To me, aging is this mysterious thing, scary too. My own father didn't live as long as I have lived already. Maybe that's why I feel like I'm living on borrowed time. Or maybe it's because I almost died after having Jenna. Scooting by within an inch of my life. Leaves a nagging feeling that tells me I'm not supposed to be here, left over by chance, squatter's rights on a bizarre life. That's part of the power in Helene Cixous for me. She writes much on the feeling of exile, of having no country, of being at home abroad. These are things I feel every day. Feeling like I should have already died, and with that, feeling very much alive.
In the aftermath of a death that didn't happen, you are more aware, in tune, intuitive, open, electric. I tend to tune into things that I have no business tuning into, in people, in friends, in strangers. Ghostlike, I walk along observing, from here, but from the other side too, a little bit of both. Cixous would understand.
And so, 40 will come, a week from today. Whether I'm ready or not.
Get your party hats out.
Halley tells me that your 40s are an amazing and wonderful time--an energized, sexy, mature, knowing decade. So why am I thinking, "yikes"? The friends coming to visit me are friends from college, which feels like it was five or six years ago. But, it was 20 years ago. Holy cow--I've lived almost two college lifetimes already, and I feel like I just graduated a few years ago. Time continues to play tricks on me.
To me, aging is this mysterious thing, scary too. My own father didn't live as long as I have lived already. Maybe that's why I feel like I'm living on borrowed time. Or maybe it's because I almost died after having Jenna. Scooting by within an inch of my life. Leaves a nagging feeling that tells me I'm not supposed to be here, left over by chance, squatter's rights on a bizarre life. That's part of the power in Helene Cixous for me. She writes much on the feeling of exile, of having no country, of being at home abroad. These are things I feel every day. Feeling like I should have already died, and with that, feeling very much alive.
In the aftermath of a death that didn't happen, you are more aware, in tune, intuitive, open, electric. I tend to tune into things that I have no business tuning into, in people, in friends, in strangers. Ghostlike, I walk along observing, from here, but from the other side too, a little bit of both. Cixous would understand.
And so, 40 will come, a week from today. Whether I'm ready or not.
Get your party hats out.
to the pool
If I can stop coughing long enough, I'm taking Jenna to the pool today. It's hot here now--Georgia hot. The hot that makes northern transplants wonder: why did we come here again? So, to the pool to watch my golden girl flounder and splash her floaties with delight. And me? I love water.
I mean, I really LOVE the water, to be in water, of water. When I was 12, I'd spend the night on a rubber raft drifting about my grandmother's pool, star gazing, shivering, water temperature just 65, wrapped in a beach towel to keep me warm. I just wanted to float. As a teenager, I spent summers swimming my horse in Lake Ontario. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, like swimming with your horse, all power and snorting, reaching and floating. Aloft. adrift. apart from the earth.
When I was pregnant, I sometimes took 6 baths a day. Friends and family wondered if this might be obsessive, unhealthy. I didn't bother telling the doctors. It seemed every bit normal to me. My husband would watch the t-shirt come off, smiling, "Off to the bath again?" Belly full of stone-hard fibroids, some bigger than Jenna, it was like carrying twins, triplets. The dead and undead growing inside. All I wanted to do was float. And I did. And she would come alive in that tub, making waves with me, an elbow emerging from between two rock-hard tumorous lumps. The beauty and the horror. In my own little tub in my own little house in my own little world. Safe.
So today, the pool is calling. Healing? I hope so. I'm still not well. And so, I go back, give in to my need to float, to drift. To go home.
I mean, I really LOVE the water, to be in water, of water. When I was 12, I'd spend the night on a rubber raft drifting about my grandmother's pool, star gazing, shivering, water temperature just 65, wrapped in a beach towel to keep me warm. I just wanted to float. As a teenager, I spent summers swimming my horse in Lake Ontario. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, like swimming with your horse, all power and snorting, reaching and floating. Aloft. adrift. apart from the earth.
When I was pregnant, I sometimes took 6 baths a day. Friends and family wondered if this might be obsessive, unhealthy. I didn't bother telling the doctors. It seemed every bit normal to me. My husband would watch the t-shirt come off, smiling, "Off to the bath again?" Belly full of stone-hard fibroids, some bigger than Jenna, it was like carrying twins, triplets. The dead and undead growing inside. All I wanted to do was float. And I did. And she would come alive in that tub, making waves with me, an elbow emerging from between two rock-hard tumorous lumps. The beauty and the horror. In my own little tub in my own little house in my own little world. Safe.
So today, the pool is calling. Healing? I hope so. I'm still not well. And so, I go back, give in to my need to float, to drift. To go home.
June 01, 2002
I Found Her!
Halley, that is. After dimming the lights on her own blog for a time, she's over on Blog Sisters now, exploring connotations and intuitions, language and life. Cool! We'll keep the light on for you, Halley.
May 31, 2002
Help Shelley Get Her UNIX On
Hey, wanna help Burning Bird with a book? Shelley's Looking for Folks who work with Linux (all flavors), Darwin, Solaris, HP UX, FreeBSD, etc. - any version of UNIX - to contribute to the book she's working on. Specifically, send her stories on: SSH, encryption, firewalls, PGP, installing and building software, creating software packages for installation, user and file security, Kerberos, security concepts and tools, preventing security problems, finding security problems.
Flap on over to the bird if you have a story to share. (Shelley, do I get a tim tam for this?)
Flap on over to the bird if you have a story to share. (Shelley, do I get a tim tam for this?)
CDs
I'm sitting here tonight letting my mind wander, thinking about digital generations, resurrecting the dead through digital technology. Stuff like that. Because tonight I put on a CD my cousin had burned last year, a CD featuring my grandfather on mandolin, my dad on bass and piano, and my great uncle on guitar, playing, like they did every Sunday of every week of every year, while we children danced and played and sang off-key.
I know the CD. I mean, I've listened to it before. But before tonight, I had never listened to it with my own daughter. Here she is in front of me, almost five years old, the age I was day this family session was taped. I'm looking into her eyes, and I see them all. Every one of them gone, gone long before I had a chance to ask questions, to find out everything I needed to know. And I'm explaining to her that this is her grandfather, and her great grandfather--mommy's dad and grandpa. And she's looking at me, again in her eyes I see each of them. There is my dad, her chin is his chin. And there is my grandfather--her stubborn brow.
And I'm realizing that these oak speakers, yep, these right here on the floor, are resurrecting, if only briefly, her great grandfather and her grandfather. Here we are, four generations, gathered in my living room joined by music recorded in 1967. And I hear myself laughing on the CD, and I sound just like her. It's like an echo of an echo of something so familiar. I sound so happy. I was so happy.
It's all the history I can give her--the music. It's all I have. I was too young when he died to give her anything other than sounds, because those are what I remember. So we share them. And she shares them. And we're happy.
I know the CD. I mean, I've listened to it before. But before tonight, I had never listened to it with my own daughter. Here she is in front of me, almost five years old, the age I was day this family session was taped. I'm looking into her eyes, and I see them all. Every one of them gone, gone long before I had a chance to ask questions, to find out everything I needed to know. And I'm explaining to her that this is her grandfather, and her great grandfather--mommy's dad and grandpa. And she's looking at me, again in her eyes I see each of them. There is my dad, her chin is his chin. And there is my grandfather--her stubborn brow.
And I'm realizing that these oak speakers, yep, these right here on the floor, are resurrecting, if only briefly, her great grandfather and her grandfather. Here we are, four generations, gathered in my living room joined by music recorded in 1967. And I hear myself laughing on the CD, and I sound just like her. It's like an echo of an echo of something so familiar. I sound so happy. I was so happy.
It's all the history I can give her--the music. It's all I have. I was too young when he died to give her anything other than sounds, because those are what I remember. So we share them. And she shares them. And we're happy.
allied health update
still coughing. still blowing. still feeling crappy. still taking my medicines. still a crab. still blogging. thanks for asking, those who have.
nine more days til 40. wow. wowowowow.
nine more days til 40. wow. wowowowow.
Getting Jiggy with Merriam-Webster Online
So I set off today to find out a little about the abbreviation "porn," because lately I've been noticing that some people say "porn" and some say "porno." Cunning linguist that I am, I had a theory: Porn is most often used as a noun: "Do you watch porn?" And porno is used primarily as an adjective: "That was a great porno flick." Now, this alone should have you wondering, is this what she does all day? Well. Guilty.
I set off to dictionary.com, my sole online destination for finding words that stupify me. But the site was down today. It's never down. What's up with that? Did someone stump it, send it into futile, endless cycles? (RageBoy, what were you doing today?). Well, never fear, Mirriam is a click away.
What I find out is that I'm WAY overthinking all this. In fact, Porno is a variation of Porn, which is short for, Class? Yes. Pornography. They are interchangable. My theory is junk.
Undaunted, I decided to click around a little more, and I did find something VERY special on the M-W site. Audio pronunciation assistance!!! Wow. Of course, my mind raced considering the many possibilities. Which word would I most like to hear spoken on this rather elite looking grammar and usage reference portal?
Fuck, of course. Hey, how much you think the dude got paid for this gig?
(Oh, uh, maybe don't click if you're at work. Or maybe do.)
I set off to dictionary.com, my sole online destination for finding words that stupify me. But the site was down today. It's never down. What's up with that? Did someone stump it, send it into futile, endless cycles? (RageBoy, what were you doing today?). Well, never fear, Mirriam is a click away.
What I find out is that I'm WAY overthinking all this. In fact, Porno is a variation of Porn, which is short for, Class? Yes. Pornography. They are interchangable. My theory is junk.
Undaunted, I decided to click around a little more, and I did find something VERY special on the M-W site. Audio pronunciation assistance!!! Wow. Of course, my mind raced considering the many possibilities. Which word would I most like to hear spoken on this rather elite looking grammar and usage reference portal?
Fuck, of course. Hey, how much you think the dude got paid for this gig?
(Oh, uh, maybe don't click if you're at work. Or maybe do.)
The mailman came
Ah! The package arrived from daddy today. Wonderful wonderful treasures - spoons and photos, buildings of Hong Kong stretching to the sky like oversized dominos, neckaces and coins, an autographed doll made in the likeness of the singer he's working with, a beautiful outfit for our little lady, and more. Wrapped carefully in tissue paper by those strong bassist hands, packed with care and love on the otherside of the world, reminding me why.
May 29, 2002
The Sisters Are Doin' It
I happened to glace at the archives over on Blog Sisters tonight, and I realized we just had our three-month anniversary last Friday. So I'm sitting here. And I'm thinking about that night, when I woke up from one of my usual hallucinatory dream states to say, "I've Got It!" Usually, by the next morning those midnight ideas scare me. But this one seemed special. And as it turns out, it was special. We climbed to number 2 on daypop our first day out, rode daypop for two days, fielded tons of insults from insecure assholes, and got requests to join the blog in a flury that kept me awake nearly 24 hours straight.
It had me thinking then, and it has me thinking now: Wow. You know? Wow. We are changing the world.
Back in March, I hired the very capable Elaine to serve as President of Blog Sisters. You'll remember Elaine. She's the one whose magic nearly killed me last week. Yes, well, in her role as President on BS, Elaine keeps me from getting in deeper trouble than I usually do and adds members faster than a crone can stir a pot. Of course, I think I've fired her and re-hired her six times, but we don't talk about that much in public. She's really good about it when I go crawling back bringing her toads and strands of hair.
But enough about management! Blog Sisters now has nearly 40 women members with posting privileges, and dozens of women who are proud to be on our blogroll. I'm reading and hearing and learning things it could take me a lifetime to fully digest over there.
And I'm hangin' with the sisters, which makes it that much more special.
So, ya know? I had to share.
It had me thinking then, and it has me thinking now: Wow. You know? Wow. We are changing the world.
Back in March, I hired the very capable Elaine to serve as President of Blog Sisters. You'll remember Elaine. She's the one whose magic nearly killed me last week. Yes, well, in her role as President on BS, Elaine keeps me from getting in deeper trouble than I usually do and adds members faster than a crone can stir a pot. Of course, I think I've fired her and re-hired her six times, but we don't talk about that much in public. She's really good about it when I go crawling back bringing her toads and strands of hair.
But enough about management! Blog Sisters now has nearly 40 women members with posting privileges, and dozens of women who are proud to be on our blogroll. I'm reading and hearing and learning things it could take me a lifetime to fully digest over there.
And I'm hangin' with the sisters, which makes it that much more special.
So, ya know? I had to share.
more on comments
I'm working on trying to get my old ones back. I did a very stupid thing. I have two identities on Yaccs, one for baby blogger and one for my blogs, hoping that this way, when she's old enough to type, she doesn't stumble onto all my profanity, at least not all at once. WELL, I went and added allied to THAT identity at Yaccs, and put that new code into my template. dumb dumb dumb. See? Too many blogs and it's easy to forget who the fuck you are.
SO, now I'm trying to generate the code via my old (own) Yaccs identity. We'll see if that works. Or else, I'll probably have nothing. Which is maybe just where I should leave this mess.
Cross your fingers. toes. ears. nose. panty hose. and stuff.
SO, now I'm trying to generate the code via my old (own) Yaccs identity. We'll see if that works. Or else, I'll probably have nothing. Which is maybe just where I should leave this mess.
Cross your fingers. toes. ears. nose. panty hose. and stuff.
i am currently in a deep depression...
over my comments being gone.... any ideas? shit. When I went to YACCS they said I had to upgrade, so I did, and let YACCS insert the code, and now look. all those months of witty responses from themasses are gone. help.
May 28, 2002
Venus and Mars (and Halley's Comments)
Standing In The Hall
Of The Great Cathedral
Waiting For The Transport To Come
Starship 21zna9
A Good Friend Of Mine
Studies The Stars
Venus And Mars
Are Alright Tonight.
Come Away On A Strange Vacation
Holiday Hardly Begun
Run Into A Good Friend Of Mine
Sold Me Her Sign
Reach For The Stars
Venus And Mars
Are Alright Tonight.
-Paul McCartney, Venus And Mars - Reprise
Halley's Comment is going dark for a time.
But not before I send Halley a message of my own:
A million miles or more from here,
where wine's water and water's wine,
It must be Mars, baby,
'cause Venus ain't no friend of mine.
-jeneane sessum
Of The Great Cathedral
Waiting For The Transport To Come
Starship 21zna9
A Good Friend Of Mine
Studies The Stars
Venus And Mars
Are Alright Tonight.
Come Away On A Strange Vacation
Holiday Hardly Begun
Run Into A Good Friend Of Mine
Sold Me Her Sign
Reach For The Stars
Venus And Mars
Are Alright Tonight.
-Paul McCartney, Venus And Mars - Reprise
Halley's Comment is going dark for a time.
But not before I send Halley a message of my own:
A million miles or more from here,
where wine's water and water's wine,
It must be Mars, baby,
'cause Venus ain't no friend of mine.
-jeneane sessum
The Crone Speaks
EXCLUSIVE.... Frank Paynter inverviews Elaine of Kalilily Time in an exclusive tell all, that, well, really tells all!
the diagnosis
You'll all be happy to know I got my ass to the doctor this afternoon. Diagnosis: Everyfuckingthingitis. Yeh, that means acute bronchitis, double-ear-infectionitis, sinusitis, sick-of-carrying-the-world-on-my-fucking-shouldersitis, missing-my-husbanditis, hornyitis, if-i-have-to-do-one-more-bylined-article-i'm-gonna-shoot-myselfitis, pissed-offitis, whythefuckdoIbloganywayitis, turning40in12daysitis, mylifeisoveritis, terribleevilmotheritis, and a few other rare and sometimes-fatal diseases -- something about the coxis. Or maybe I just like to write the word.
But don't worry 'bout me. I'm FINE.
Doc also said this shit goes straight for the eyes. So if you're reading this, it's already too late. Only cure is to fucking COMMENT once in a while.
Shooting stars, full moon, commets. I'm making the t-shirt: "I helped Elaine cure RB, and all I got was this damn disease."
hugs, kids.
But don't worry 'bout me. I'm FINE.
Doc also said this shit goes straight for the eyes. So if you're reading this, it's already too late. Only cure is to fucking COMMENT once in a while.
Shooting stars, full moon, commets. I'm making the t-shirt: "I helped Elaine cure RB, and all I got was this damn disease."
hugs, kids.
May 27, 2002
"Salted Milk"
Cixous writes:
"If we give ourselves over to it, this is because it is a response
Resistance to mourning.
-- Tears of pain
One responded to loss with a flood, a libation
something one gives nobody to drink."
"If we give ourselves over to it, this is because it is a response
Resistance to mourning.
-- Tears of pain
One responded to loss with a flood, a libation
something one gives nobody to drink."
The Fever - 6
Stop, fall.
pound,
twitch,
flush, blush,
cold sweat, chills,
fire, climbing again,
and again,
and then, again,
softness comes to rest,
hush.
Sun streams in,
lights dust like smoke.
Gentle strokes,
head to hip,
memory of pain
erased,
peace then.
the quiet
rains down.
pound,
twitch,
flush, blush,
cold sweat, chills,
fire, climbing again,
and again,
and then, again,
softness comes to rest,
hush.
Sun streams in,
lights dust like smoke.
Gentle strokes,
head to hip,
memory of pain
erased,
peace then.
the quiet
rains down.
The Fever - 5
I am realizing that I am on top of the covers, not under the covers. I am realizing that I haven't been under the covers since you left. Under, where I miss you most. The comfort inside, too much a reminder. I rest on top of the covers, and you aren't really gone. I am napping. I am not sleeping. You will be home any minute, and I'll hear your steps, coming up, pausing to lay your keys on the table. I'll wait for you, come home, crawl into bed, touch, sleep.
The Fever - 4
Distraction, protection. Addiction. Hiding. The moment is frightening because the moment is elastic, stretching forward, a lifetime in an instant, and an instant infinite.
Learning to be in the moment, stepping down into the moment, a warm pool, I am so cold.
Learning to be in the moment, stepping down into the moment, a warm pool, I am so cold.
The Fever - 2
No rest. Don't rest. Don't step down. These are roots, these are hospital vigils, unexpected deaths, lost wars against mortality. I will not let death surprise me. Guard up. Sickness is my mind/body keenly alert. Surprise and death, to me, the same thing.
The Fever - 1
A white canvas, a white canvas, and I am wide open. I see my voice from a distance, it is my partner, my other, comforting, and that's what writing is, laying your voice outside of yourself. Laying it down. The vulnerability of love again, when you lay your voice down, outside. You trust, and you risk, and you are at risk. That is the link of writing and love, infecting, affecting one the other.
unwell
The fever is gone, for now? But it kept me good company last night. I was somewhere with Cixous, a place I recognized but had never paid attention to before. She writes:
"Fever, which is unbearable, is a defensive phenomenon. It is a combat. It is the same thing for suffering: in suffering there is a whole manoeuvre of the unconscious, of the soul, of the body, that makes us come to bear the unbearable.... Where does this manoeuvre lead us? For example to not being expropriated; to not being the victim but rather the subject of the suffering."
In bed, last night, I am in that place of illness, holding my own vigil, a vigil to me, in that space of perfect physical stillness, as my mind races warp speed. I am a contradiction. I am unwell, but undead. I am dead still, yet still alive with the battle raging inside me. I know whose place this is. I decide to pay attention. In one last heroic effort, I take a rickety walk downstairs, find the tape recorder, and bring it to bed with me. aparitions. visitors. gifts. offerings. Scenes that come and go almost in the same instant, daring memory to capture them. Tonight, I don't want to lose them.
I don't remember much of the night. But I am playing it back now, listening to the stillness, and the pain, reliving the dream as it happened.
"Fever, which is unbearable, is a defensive phenomenon. It is a combat. It is the same thing for suffering: in suffering there is a whole manoeuvre of the unconscious, of the soul, of the body, that makes us come to bear the unbearable.... Where does this manoeuvre lead us? For example to not being expropriated; to not being the victim but rather the subject of the suffering."
In bed, last night, I am in that place of illness, holding my own vigil, a vigil to me, in that space of perfect physical stillness, as my mind races warp speed. I am a contradiction. I am unwell, but undead. I am dead still, yet still alive with the battle raging inside me. I know whose place this is. I decide to pay attention. In one last heroic effort, I take a rickety walk downstairs, find the tape recorder, and bring it to bed with me. aparitions. visitors. gifts. offerings. Scenes that come and go almost in the same instant, daring memory to capture them. Tonight, I don't want to lose them.
I don't remember much of the night. But I am playing it back now, listening to the stillness, and the pain, reliving the dream as it happened.
May 26, 2002
And then there's this
My face is on fire, the stabbing, jabbing pains of a roaring sinus infection. Fever. Unrepentent energy of a four-year-old buzzing around me, this way, that, asking "mama can I have some..." "mama can I call..." "mama get me some..." make it stop. I am drained. I am done. Got nothing, but nothing left. Exhaustion. The last two months catching up with me. Whatever reserve I had has disappeared. I think some folks ran off with it last night. One wish--put it to good use.
The brightness hits my eye like a knife this night, as I step outside to watch the sun set in the west while my heart beats to the East. I am between; I am not here, not there - entredeux. His day is my night, my night his day, we are half a clock apart, and how many miles. Not even two months. More than a month to go. Tonight nothing seems possible, bearable.
And I know this is the place where my voice is waiting. But I can't go get it. Because I'm thinking about you. I know what you're doing just now. You're getting breakfast, noodles and the rest, to fill you up before you sleep. Turn it on tonight. Don't forget. Late, long nights. The roaring rush of the absence of. Space where nothing and everything happens. Here too. Here too.
A little more than a month to go.
The brightness hits my eye like a knife this night, as I step outside to watch the sun set in the west while my heart beats to the East. I am between; I am not here, not there - entredeux. His day is my night, my night his day, we are half a clock apart, and how many miles. Not even two months. More than a month to go. Tonight nothing seems possible, bearable.
And I know this is the place where my voice is waiting. But I can't go get it. Because I'm thinking about you. I know what you're doing just now. You're getting breakfast, noodles and the rest, to fill you up before you sleep. Turn it on tonight. Don't forget. Late, long nights. The roaring rush of the absence of. Space where nothing and everything happens. Here too. Here too.
A little more than a month to go.
losing myself in you
The way Cixous describes the physical, the sexual morsels of love are exquisite. She speaks of the physical offering and acceptance of love, the deposit of the self, with what I think is a profound and deserving reverence. The physical union of two who would remain foreign from one another inextricably links them for eternity, even when the end result is death/abandonment. The organic part of all of this, the crux, is that in love, we receive ourselves back from the other. Cixous reveals it this way:
"Because in love -- if not there is no love -- you give yourself, you trust, you entrust yourself to the other. And, contrary to what one might think, this is not at all abstract. It is true that one deposits oneself. There is a deposit, and one is deposited in the other person. And if the other goes off with the deposit, one truly cannot recuperate the deposit. What was given can never be taken back. Even if we do not know it at the moment we give; even if we do not imagine that what we have given cannot be taken back -- while most things one gives can be taken back. So in reality, virtually, when we love we are already half dead. We have already deposited our life in the hands that hold our death: and this is what is worth the trouble of love. This is when we feel our life; otherwise we do not feel it.
"It is an extraordinary round: what you give, that is to say yourself, your life, what you deposit in the other, is returned to you immediately by the other. The other constitutes a source. You are not your own source in this case. And as a result, you receive your life, which you do not receive from yourself."
"Because in love -- if not there is no love -- you give yourself, you trust, you entrust yourself to the other. And, contrary to what one might think, this is not at all abstract. It is true that one deposits oneself. There is a deposit, and one is deposited in the other person. And if the other goes off with the deposit, one truly cannot recuperate the deposit. What was given can never be taken back. Even if we do not know it at the moment we give; even if we do not imagine that what we have given cannot be taken back -- while most things one gives can be taken back. So in reality, virtually, when we love we are already half dead. We have already deposited our life in the hands that hold our death: and this is what is worth the trouble of love. This is when we feel our life; otherwise we do not feel it.
"It is an extraordinary round: what you give, that is to say yourself, your life, what you deposit in the other, is returned to you immediately by the other. The other constitutes a source. You are not your own source in this case. And as a result, you receive your life, which you do not receive from yourself."
absolute vulnerability
If you have ever loved this way--the way Cixous describes--you know that you have. In other words, if you don't know that you have, then you haven't.
Her words unwrap a gift in me, and I say yes, that is just what it's like. In love, we surrender our vulnerability, an offering to the other, the one we love. This, says Cixous, puts us at risk and removes risk from us all at once. Consider that. It's not until we are fully exposed that we can love the other. And in that full disclosure, we risk everything, including the other's love for us. Absolute vulnerability. No wonder.
Let me let her tell you....
"In the face of love we disarm ourselves, and indeed we keep the vulnerability. It does not disappear, but it is offered to the other. With the person we love, we have a relationship of absolute vulnerability. Why? First of all because we think they will do no harm to us at the same time we think and we have the experience that they are the only person who can do all the harm in the world to us. Through death: either by dying or killing us, that is to say abandoning us. But also, and this is the childlike and magical side of love, we think that the person who can kill us is the person who, because she loves us, will not kill us. And at the same time we do not believe it. In love we know we are at the greatest risk and at the least great risk at the same time."
Her words unwrap a gift in me, and I say yes, that is just what it's like. In love, we surrender our vulnerability, an offering to the other, the one we love. This, says Cixous, puts us at risk and removes risk from us all at once. Consider that. It's not until we are fully exposed that we can love the other. And in that full disclosure, we risk everything, including the other's love for us. Absolute vulnerability. No wonder.
Let me let her tell you....
"In the face of love we disarm ourselves, and indeed we keep the vulnerability. It does not disappear, but it is offered to the other. With the person we love, we have a relationship of absolute vulnerability. Why? First of all because we think they will do no harm to us at the same time we think and we have the experience that they are the only person who can do all the harm in the world to us. Through death: either by dying or killing us, that is to say abandoning us. But also, and this is the childlike and magical side of love, we think that the person who can kill us is the person who, because she loves us, will not kill us. And at the same time we do not believe it. In love we know we are at the greatest risk and at the least great risk at the same time."
Roped Slips Underwear
The best thing about that little site meter gadget is seeing what people search up on google to arrive at your blogstep. Today, I am honored to be 7th most popular return on Roped+Slips+Underwear, and right below some script of an X-Files episode. See? This blogging hasn't been all for naught!
Note to Mr./Ms. Google Visitor: Next time you come looking for Roped Slips Underwear, could you at least leave a comment? That'd be great. Thanks.
Note to Mr./Ms. Google Visitor: Next time you come looking for Roped Slips Underwear, could you at least leave a comment? That'd be great. Thanks.
great, now i'm sick
Elaine, what did you do? I was fine, and now I'm sick with a cold, sinking lower, worse, can't sleep. I promise I looked at the moon through the toilet paper thing like you told me to. Great. Halley's cavorting around Cape Cod, RageBoy's back to blogging, and all I got is this hacking cough. What went wrong? Who robbed my soul?
Someone make me some stinkin soup.
Someone make me some stinkin soup.
May 25, 2002
dream life
And while I'm reading, I fall asleep. Light sleep, widthwise across the bed, unintended sleep. I awake startled, what time is it? where is she? Oh my god, I've fallen asleep with my child here alone--it's been two hours--"JENNA!?" Nothing, and with my heart outside of myself, I run up and down the stairs three times, "JENNA!?" it is my terror yelling for her, sure she is gone, already in that place of her being gone, of loss-dread, before I remember that she is not supposed to be here, she is with her aunt, that I drove her there three hours ago, that she's not supposed to answer me, because she is not here, she is there, and I have been dream writing, sleeping on the edge of loss again.
she was under the covers
I was looking for Cixous all morning. I looked upstairs/downstairs, trying to remember where I sat when I last read her, last night, or was it today? I found her just now, under the covers. As I wind in and out between work and unwork, I think of her, open her again. Rootprints. I understand what Calle-Gruber writes, but I live what Cixous writes. And so, it's to her text I'm drawn.
Helene Cixous, the space between the words, between notes, the silence between songs, the gap between knowing and not knowing, the place that isn't a place between suffering and joy. That is where she finds her words. So much power. She is the ladder down, not up. She is neither the journey, nor the destination; she is the quiet moment leaning back against the tree at the side of the road. She is not the desolving or the manifestation, she is the waiting.
And just now, I am reading her, she is reading me. About Love. Dare we? Let's.
Cixous: "There is a point where the unknown begins. The secret other, the other secret, the other itself. The other that the other does not know. What is beautiful in the relation to the other, that moves us, what overwhelms us the most -- that is love -- is when we glimpse a part of what is secret to him or her, what is hidden, that the other does not see; as if there were a window by which we see a certain heart beating. And this secret that we take by surprise, we do not speak of it; we keep it. That is to say, we keep it: we do not touch it. We know, for example, where the other's vulnerable heart is situated; and we do not touch it; we leave it intact. This is love."
Re-read it. Do you see? The window, the heart. Open, vulnerable, the thinnest of membranes between you and the other, between love and abandonment, and you do not break that membrane. You see it; it would be easy. You could poke it, prod some, or simply point attention to it. But you don't. You hush. You keep it. You keep it *for* the other. The comfort of having the secret remain so.
And more from Cixous on love:
"There are things that we do not understand because we could never reproduce them: behaviours, decisions that seem foreign to us. This also is love. It is to find one has arrived at the point where the immense foreign territory of the other will begin. We sense the immensity, the reach, the richness of it, this attracts us. This does not mean that we ever discover it. I can imagine that this infinite foreignness could be menacing; disturbing. It also can be quite the opposite: exalting, wonderful, and in the end, of the same species as God: we do not know what it is. It is the biggest; it is far off. At the end of the path of attention, of reception, which is not interrupted but which continues into what little by little becomes the opposite of comprehension. Loving not knowing. Loving: not knowing."
Helene Cixous, the space between the words, between notes, the silence between songs, the gap between knowing and not knowing, the place that isn't a place between suffering and joy. That is where she finds her words. So much power. She is the ladder down, not up. She is neither the journey, nor the destination; she is the quiet moment leaning back against the tree at the side of the road. She is not the desolving or the manifestation, she is the waiting.
And just now, I am reading her, she is reading me. About Love. Dare we? Let's.
Cixous: "There is a point where the unknown begins. The secret other, the other secret, the other itself. The other that the other does not know. What is beautiful in the relation to the other, that moves us, what overwhelms us the most -- that is love -- is when we glimpse a part of what is secret to him or her, what is hidden, that the other does not see; as if there were a window by which we see a certain heart beating. And this secret that we take by surprise, we do not speak of it; we keep it. That is to say, we keep it: we do not touch it. We know, for example, where the other's vulnerable heart is situated; and we do not touch it; we leave it intact. This is love."
Re-read it. Do you see? The window, the heart. Open, vulnerable, the thinnest of membranes between you and the other, between love and abandonment, and you do not break that membrane. You see it; it would be easy. You could poke it, prod some, or simply point attention to it. But you don't. You hush. You keep it. You keep it *for* the other. The comfort of having the secret remain so.
And more from Cixous on love:
"There are things that we do not understand because we could never reproduce them: behaviours, decisions that seem foreign to us. This also is love. It is to find one has arrived at the point where the immense foreign territory of the other will begin. We sense the immensity, the reach, the richness of it, this attracts us. This does not mean that we ever discover it. I can imagine that this infinite foreignness could be menacing; disturbing. It also can be quite the opposite: exalting, wonderful, and in the end, of the same species as God: we do not know what it is. It is the biggest; it is far off. At the end of the path of attention, of reception, which is not interrupted but which continues into what little by little becomes the opposite of comprehension. Loving not knowing. Loving: not knowing."
AKMA Isn't Bill Bennett
But Mike Slanders would like to make them bedfellows. AKMA takes exception. As usual, with kindness and brilliance. "Don't worry your heads about those nuances; just trust us." Thanks AKMA.
giggle
It's already on its way up daypop, so it doesn't need my help, but I'm pointing to it anyway because it's a laugh. Take em where you can get em.
grand illusions
The thing about deciding to stay up all night and work is that you forget you have a child who gets up at 7 a.m., whether or not you stay up all night. And so ugh. IV Coffee please. The night was delightful, made so by one Mary Lu Wehmeier, who induldged me in an hour-long--or was it two--IM conversation, discovering and uncovering that we are all separated by one sixth of a degree, not six degrees, here in Blogaria. Homes and homelands, roots and passions. And Mary, trying to disconnect me from all my wires so I can blog outside. A treasure of an evening.
May 24, 2002
Shelley Powers IS The Center Of My Universe
Fucking bloggers. Or whater this Lemur considers itself in slicing and dicing Shelley halfway to Sunday. I read what Shelley said about realtime blogging. I think, well, she's got a point here. Maybe there's a less disruptive way to do it. A designated blogee to the world. But, she's got a point. Try to get a laugh as you rant across a room of 50 sets of clacking fingers.
Then I read Shelley's reaction to the shit that's been thrown her way over this issue, and some others. And I start to think a little more. And my blood starts to boil from the criticism she's been getting. Because while I'm reading all this stuff, Shelley is hard at work, for free, helping this fellow blogger debug her template and fix permalinks, all without being asked or thinking twice about it.
THAT's the kind of person Shelley is. Anyone following the ebb and flow of Blog Sisters knows that Shelley and I don't always see eye to eye. She's taken me to task more than once over my theories of unopposed estrogen (heh). And I don't always agree with her. But I do respect her and value her among the highest-caliber voices in blogaria today. And I adore her passion. She unleashes it in virtually every post, and it's beautiful and powerful and electric.
And beyond than that, Shelley don't take no shit. Instead of trying to tear her down, we should support the foundation that is her voice.
Thanks Shelley.
Then I read Shelley's reaction to the shit that's been thrown her way over this issue, and some others. And I start to think a little more. And my blood starts to boil from the criticism she's been getting. Because while I'm reading all this stuff, Shelley is hard at work, for free, helping this fellow blogger debug her template and fix permalinks, all without being asked or thinking twice about it.
THAT's the kind of person Shelley is. Anyone following the ebb and flow of Blog Sisters knows that Shelley and I don't always see eye to eye. She's taken me to task more than once over my theories of unopposed estrogen (heh). And I don't always agree with her. But I do respect her and value her among the highest-caliber voices in blogaria today. And I adore her passion. She unleashes it in virtually every post, and it's beautiful and powerful and electric.
And beyond than that, Shelley don't take no shit. Instead of trying to tear her down, we should support the foundation that is her voice.
Thanks Shelley.
all nighter, anyone?
Well, my mess of an email situation seems to be healing, and I have long distance help on my template--fingers clacking away somehwere in Blogaria, on another coast--but more on that later. Tonight I'm up for some kind of all nighter, with work I've tossed aside, work I've already been paid for. That's not nice. I need to do it. And to blog, and read, and think. There is an energy that comes from greeting the day without sleep, no? Awake, so that terror can't sneak up on you. No surprises. Dreams. Spending the night awake--an unnight.
And if we were all in my woods this evening, in our blogosphere, we'd be hanging out in the main blog room, futons and fireplaces, laptops and lanterns, fire, wind, moon, giving our voices to the night.
See you later (and later).
And if we were all in my woods this evening, in our blogosphere, we'd be hanging out in the main blog room, futons and fireplaces, laptops and lanterns, fire, wind, moon, giving our voices to the night.
See you later (and later).
just so irked
It appears that the email migration I've suffered through at work is having some unintended glitches--not the least of which is delayed sending of my mail by days. So if you received an email from me today that seems like I wrote it, oh, say, days ago, I probably did. For anyone used to sending to me at my ketchum mail address, if you need to reach me, please use the ewriter@bellsouth.net address for now.
Crap. I'm scattered like Waffle House hashbrowns.
Crap. I'm scattered like Waffle House hashbrowns.
the first person....
to tell me what code I need in my template, precisely (from blogbody or whatever it is onward to the end of blogbody) that will let me add permalinks by post (rather than linking to the week of the post) wins the cashew brittle I wrote about on 5/19, "The Score." Free shipping inside the U.S. I'll fricking autograph the box for you even.
May 23, 2002
entredeux
I can't tell you the world I have found in Helene Cixous. If you've been around here for a while, you've seen me journey through her Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing, a book that helped launch this Blog, led me to my otherness, unliving, agony, writing/dying/living. I was then, and am still now, wrapped up in these things. So tonight, I decide to open the box of seven new books I splurged on, freshly arrived from Amazon. There are six books I really need to read first. Right away actually. But I don't.
I can't. I have to open her. Have her open me.
And I open Rootprints : Memory and Life Writing, where I stumble immediately onto the notion of entredeux, which Cixous calls a place of in between, "between a life which is ending and a life which is beginning."
I have lived there. Unthere. Entredeux. That powerful, agonizing chasm, between was and is, and between is and will. Entredeux. Words unformed, voice unspoken, jagged nails claw the earth from a grave not yet dug. A place where I mourn for a death still living, where I hear songs unwritten. Exiled at home. entredeux.
She's doing it to me again.
And this...from Ms. Cixous....in her own words:
"For me, an entredeux is: nothing. It is a moment in a life where you are not entirely living, where you are almost dead. where you are not dead. Where you are not yet in the process of reliving. These are innumerable moments that touch with the bereavements of all sorts. Either there is bereavement between me, vilolently, from the loss of a being who is part of me -- as if a piece of my body, of my house, were ruined, collapsed. Or, for example, the bereavement that the appearance of a grave illness in oneself must be. Everything that makes up the course of life interrupted.
"In this case we find ourself in a situation for which we are absolutely not prepared. Human beings are eqipped for daily life, with its rites, with its closure, its commodities, its furniture. When an event arrives which evicts us from ourselves, we do not know how to 'live.' But we must. Thus, we are launched into a space-time whose coordinates are all different from those we have always been accustomed to. In addition these violent situations are always new. Always. At no moment can a previous bereavement serve as a model. It is, frightfully, all new: this is one of the most important experiences of our human histories. At times we are thrown into strangeness. This being abroad at home is what I call entredeux. Wars cause entredeux in the histories of countries. But the worst war is the war where the enemy is on the inside; where the enemy is the person I love most in the world, is myself."
I can't. I have to open her. Have her open me.
And I open Rootprints : Memory and Life Writing, where I stumble immediately onto the notion of entredeux, which Cixous calls a place of in between, "between a life which is ending and a life which is beginning."
I have lived there. Unthere. Entredeux. That powerful, agonizing chasm, between was and is, and between is and will. Entredeux. Words unformed, voice unspoken, jagged nails claw the earth from a grave not yet dug. A place where I mourn for a death still living, where I hear songs unwritten. Exiled at home. entredeux.
She's doing it to me again.
And this...from Ms. Cixous....in her own words:
"For me, an entredeux is: nothing. It is a moment in a life where you are not entirely living, where you are almost dead. where you are not dead. Where you are not yet in the process of reliving. These are innumerable moments that touch with the bereavements of all sorts. Either there is bereavement between me, vilolently, from the loss of a being who is part of me -- as if a piece of my body, of my house, were ruined, collapsed. Or, for example, the bereavement that the appearance of a grave illness in oneself must be. Everything that makes up the course of life interrupted.
"In this case we find ourself in a situation for which we are absolutely not prepared. Human beings are eqipped for daily life, with its rites, with its closure, its commodities, its furniture. When an event arrives which evicts us from ourselves, we do not know how to 'live.' But we must. Thus, we are launched into a space-time whose coordinates are all different from those we have always been accustomed to. In addition these violent situations are always new. Always. At no moment can a previous bereavement serve as a model. It is, frightfully, all new: this is one of the most important experiences of our human histories. At times we are thrown into strangeness. This being abroad at home is what I call entredeux. Wars cause entredeux in the histories of countries. But the worst war is the war where the enemy is on the inside; where the enemy is the person I love most in the world, is myself."
this is hip
You can't have a bad day when you're listening to Tower of Power jam "What Is Hip?" into your skin as loud as you can possibly stand it.
note to papa: I took the blanket off the gretsch kit today and pounded pretty good. make a daddy proud. ;-)
note to papa: I took the blanket off the gretsch kit today and pounded pretty good. make a daddy proud. ;-)
looking for new talent
If you have a blog that's not on my blogroll and you think it ought to be, leave a comment here. Lookin' for new talent.
happy day
My neighbor yelled across the street to me today, "Hey, it's like we've got somebody else's weather!" And I'm thinking, that's exactly what it's like. This is an amazing week here in Atlanta. No humidity, blinding sun, cool temps, green everywhere, and happy people. Happy people. Unusual for a town that dubs itself, "The city too busy to hate." If you live here, you don't think twice about that moniker. Unless you think twice. And you say, hey, I guess that's as good a reason as any not to hate. Just too damn busy.
But back to the weather. Usually, by the end of May, we are a bunch of hot, cursing, road raging, sweaty, pissed off displaced northerners, wondering why the hell we ever moved south. May is summer here, a lot late July back home. But this week, and even last, have been a sweet out-of-season dream for us all. Cool days, crisp nights. Sit out on the porch, light one up, and think, yes, this is why we're here.
Laughing, smiling, taking a break from the "too busy to hate" thing, it's like we're all on some vacation from hell. Which, in fact, we just may be.
So, what I want to know is this: Elaine, is this your doing? And if so, let me know what I have to do to make it stick. I'll dance, sweat, strip and bathe myself in the eternal springs of Blogaria. Whatever. Just don't let it stop.
But back to the weather. Usually, by the end of May, we are a bunch of hot, cursing, road raging, sweaty, pissed off displaced northerners, wondering why the hell we ever moved south. May is summer here, a lot late July back home. But this week, and even last, have been a sweet out-of-season dream for us all. Cool days, crisp nights. Sit out on the porch, light one up, and think, yes, this is why we're here.
Laughing, smiling, taking a break from the "too busy to hate" thing, it's like we're all on some vacation from hell. Which, in fact, we just may be.
So, what I want to know is this: Elaine, is this your doing? And if so, let me know what I have to do to make it stick. I'll dance, sweat, strip and bathe myself in the eternal springs of Blogaria. Whatever. Just don't let it stop.
May 22, 2002
dancin for dad
Tonight she comes downstairs, in tie-dye t-shirt and underwear she picked out on her own, "I'm ready for my show." And that means, it's time for the Jackson Five (the o-l-d Jackson Five). It's time for her to boogie. She hides behind the wall, I press play on the CD player, and I'm transported to a living room show, just for me, and for Daddy far away....
Stop! The love you save may be your own,
Darling, take it slow
Or some day you'll be all alone.
You'd better stop the love you save may be your own,
Darling, look both ways before you cross me
You're headed for the danger zone.
And she bops on 2 and 4, just like she should, and her little hand makes a stop sign in all the right places, her pony tail keeps time. She's centered just behind the beat, right where she should be, shoulders back, chin out.
The babyblogger is ON.
Stop! The love you save may be your own,
Darling, take it slow
Or some day you'll be all alone.
You'd better stop the love you save may be your own,
Darling, look both ways before you cross me
You're headed for the danger zone.
And she bops on 2 and 4, just like she should, and her little hand makes a stop sign in all the right places, her pony tail keeps time. She's centered just behind the beat, right where she should be, shoulders back, chin out.
The babyblogger is ON.
Anthurian
So here he is, as promised, and added to my blogroll. Anthurian. His blog is new, so let's bring him along with us, okay guys? That means link. His voice is nice. This is a guy I've worked with for years, and never knew, until now. Because we're here more than there. And that means it's a wonderous time; it's starting to come true.
May 21, 2002
I'm telling you people, it's happening.
I'm at work today. Those of you who know me understand that this, in itself, is a rare event. Anyway, the IS guy is migrating my laptop to Outlook from Netscape Mail, which we've used there for the last few years. And while I'm glad to go back to my old friend Outlook, I'm not so glad to be using some less-than-perfect webmail version since I do work mainly from home. Ah well. I could go on.
But that's not what this story is about, not really. It's about what I said to him, as he worked away magically on my faithful Dell's email app. To pass the time, I open my mouth. Surprise.
"You know what weblogs are?" I ask him.
"No. What's a weblog?"
The question you love to hate.
"Somewhere between a journal and journalism, and like that, but not like that at all." I say, and then explain how clusters of these weblogs, which are really just interconnected conversations around things people care about are springing up around, among, and between every instance of knowing that exists," or something like that, because I stopped when his eyes glazed over.
So he says, "Let me call Antonio. I bet he knows."
Anthony. A tech wiz in the web services department of our company, who works on the floor below me, someone I've passed in the corridors dozens of times, think I've been in a couple meetings with him, all without having a real conversation. That's who he's calling.
So he dials Antonio up.
"Antonio. I'm here in Jeneane's office. Do you know what a weblog is?"
I hear this: "Oh, really? okay... something like a personal site, a diary, huh. Do you have one? Oh, you do?"
At which moment I shout, "He BLOGS? Give me the phone!" and grab the receiver.
"Anthony, no way, you blog?"
"Yeh, do you?"
"YES! Seriously, man? Holy cow, I can't believe it. A blogger. I want to come hug you."
And we laugh, and we talk about what we use--I think he's still a little scared of me, but he's warming up. Says he uses Blogger too but hosts his blog on his own site [and I want to shoot myself because I lost his URL after I wrote it down... anyway... I already emailed him to get it tomorrow.] And I ask him what he blogs about, and he says a little of everything, mostly tech, and I say yah, me too, but mine's got kind of a marketing slant, and I tell him about Blog Sisters and RGE, and he takes down the addresses, pulls this very blog up on his screen while we're talking, says, Ya, I got yours right here. Cool. And I say, Hey I'll stop downstairs sometime and we can talk about it more. And we agree that would be great. And we'll do it.
To me this is a Holy Shit moment of maximum importance. A person I've been physically working with and not connecting with for what, one, maybe two years, in physical proximity, MISSING each other all the while, then bingo-bango connected in an instant. How? This web WE'RE weaving here. Not through the org charts in the office that have us in separate disciplines, on separate floors. But HERE. Right now. Check my archives. Read me. See me. Hear me. I'll know him and he'll know me, and when I get his site and put it on my blogroll, you'll know him too and he'll know you and how fucking great is the world gonna be???????????????????????????????????????????
But that's not what this story is about, not really. It's about what I said to him, as he worked away magically on my faithful Dell's email app. To pass the time, I open my mouth. Surprise.
"You know what weblogs are?" I ask him.
"No. What's a weblog?"
The question you love to hate.
"Somewhere between a journal and journalism, and like that, but not like that at all." I say, and then explain how clusters of these weblogs, which are really just interconnected conversations around things people care about are springing up around, among, and between every instance of knowing that exists," or something like that, because I stopped when his eyes glazed over.
So he says, "Let me call Antonio. I bet he knows."
Anthony. A tech wiz in the web services department of our company, who works on the floor below me, someone I've passed in the corridors dozens of times, think I've been in a couple meetings with him, all without having a real conversation. That's who he's calling.
So he dials Antonio up.
"Antonio. I'm here in Jeneane's office. Do you know what a weblog is?"
I hear this: "Oh, really? okay... something like a personal site, a diary, huh. Do you have one? Oh, you do?"
At which moment I shout, "He BLOGS? Give me the phone!" and grab the receiver.
"Anthony, no way, you blog?"
"Yeh, do you?"
"YES! Seriously, man? Holy cow, I can't believe it. A blogger. I want to come hug you."
And we laugh, and we talk about what we use--I think he's still a little scared of me, but he's warming up. Says he uses Blogger too but hosts his blog on his own site [and I want to shoot myself because I lost his URL after I wrote it down... anyway... I already emailed him to get it tomorrow.] And I ask him what he blogs about, and he says a little of everything, mostly tech, and I say yah, me too, but mine's got kind of a marketing slant, and I tell him about Blog Sisters and RGE, and he takes down the addresses, pulls this very blog up on his screen while we're talking, says, Ya, I got yours right here. Cool. And I say, Hey I'll stop downstairs sometime and we can talk about it more. And we agree that would be great. And we'll do it.
To me this is a Holy Shit moment of maximum importance. A person I've been physically working with and not connecting with for what, one, maybe two years, in physical proximity, MISSING each other all the while, then bingo-bango connected in an instant. How? This web WE'RE weaving here. Not through the org charts in the office that have us in separate disciplines, on separate floors. But HERE. Right now. Check my archives. Read me. See me. Hear me. I'll know him and he'll know me, and when I get his site and put it on my blogroll, you'll know him too and he'll know you and how fucking great is the world gonna be???????????????????????????????????????????
May 20, 2002
the touch
Today was an unremarkable day. Tonight too. Nothing extraordinary about it. Unless you count the call I got from Marek, and our plans for fixing a broken world. Yes. Although they're still forming, I'd put a check-mark in the remarkable column for that.
Then, as the day winds down, and I climb in the bed to rest beside the little girl child who came out of my body, hushing her to sleep, still feeling that place where she nested for all those months inside me, cross-legged and breech, tickling me with her toes in places a baby's feet aren't supposed to be, I realize that it is a very remarkable day.
I rest in that same place every night, until she's asleep, my mind climbing and falling away again. This night, as her hand slides up inside the sleeve of my t-shirt, up, up to the spot on my shoulder I was just thinking of scratching, a hairline of an instant before, I smile. Her nails move gently, slowly, right where they should be, but this isn't the hand of a four year old, brushing and stroking my tired shoulder. The hand is broad, calloused, heavy. The weight unmistakably male. The knowing is too deep to come from her.
Of same mind, souls tied, I think of him on the other side of the world, try to touch him back.
Then, as the day winds down, and I climb in the bed to rest beside the little girl child who came out of my body, hushing her to sleep, still feeling that place where she nested for all those months inside me, cross-legged and breech, tickling me with her toes in places a baby's feet aren't supposed to be, I realize that it is a very remarkable day.
I rest in that same place every night, until she's asleep, my mind climbing and falling away again. This night, as her hand slides up inside the sleeve of my t-shirt, up, up to the spot on my shoulder I was just thinking of scratching, a hairline of an instant before, I smile. Her nails move gently, slowly, right where they should be, but this isn't the hand of a four year old, brushing and stroking my tired shoulder. The hand is broad, calloused, heavy. The weight unmistakably male. The knowing is too deep to come from her.
Of same mind, souls tied, I think of him on the other side of the world, try to touch him back.
May 19, 2002
The Score
The whole reason I decided to go to K-Mart was to find a new digital camera. Well, that was one reason. Also because everything there is almost free, and I hadn't been out of the house in days. We need a new digital camera because I can't find our old one. Turned this place upside down. Inside out. On the other side of the world, Papa's waiting for pics of his sweet baby. Sony nowhere to be found. I have suspicions. I try to push them to the back of my mind. Don't want to think what I think happened to it.
But the matter is, I need a camera and a cheap one. I hit the aisles thinking, if I can find one at half price or less, I'm going to buy it. If I find the Sony, then we'll have two. So what. Doesn't everyone?
I head back to electronics, high with the possibilities, only to find that it's gutted. Doesn't exist anymore. Roped off with crime scene tape, or its nearest cousin, "caution." Shit. I should have left the house days ago. Let this be a lesson to us all. Leave the house at least every other day. New mantra for me.
Since I was there, I decided to check out the rest of the stock, which was thin but interesting. Luggage had possibilities. Two shelves left, but nothing was marked, and I had visions of standing on line forever only to find out I couldn't afford it. My resolve: Don't put anything in my cart that doesnt' have a price on it. Move on. More aisles to explore.
I see the picture frames. Rows and rows of them. I wonder why? The age of digital. Who frames pictures anymore. I see the sign above the frames, appealing to the webless, "Frames 75% off... Preserving memories for generations." No thanks, I blog.
My reason for being here gone, I wonder what I'm looking for. Fake nails were 75% off. pass. Makeup 75% off. pass. Patio chairs, pass. A shelf load of d-CON. I wonder why. pass. I hear a guy talking to his wife, or I think it's his wife. He's holding a cheapy PDA. Regularly $30. What could it do for $30, now 50% off?
"You need the Web for that," she tells him.
"Hell, I know that," he says.
She thinks about it for a minute, puts it in the cart and says, "Happy Father's Day." I wonder if she's thinking it's about time her man gets online, checks out some of those girly sites, brings new tricks to the bedroom. I wonder if he's thinking, finally, gonna get me some net. Jenna Jameson, here I come. But it's the "Happy Father's Day" that touches my heart. No, really.
Keep walking. Score some notebooks. Happy about that, since I've started writing things down again.
Cat food for my next door neighbor's cats--only $1.00 for the bag. I can't resist. Damn cats are always in my house. Our neighbor has been away in rehab since January, and even though folks stop by and feed his four cats once in a while, they are wild in their wanting, for food and strokes. For a buck, I can make them happy all week. Money well spent.
I happen upon a shelf that makes me smile. Loaded with shower heads. Has to be at least 50 of them, of all designs and colors. Massage this, relax that. Calgon take me away. I need a new one anyhow, being that the one we have is leaking now in places it shouldn't, so I look closer. Wow. check this one out:
The Interbath Rio. Refreshing showers from 72 spray channels. Powerful, variable speed massage, combination sprays, and trickle valve. Lifetime warranty to boot. I toss it in the cart before I look closer, where at the top of the plastic box, I see words from the marketing hacks written just for me:
"Escape without Leaving Home."
A+ for the Interbath positionig exercise that uncovered my urgent need.
I'm thinking it's time to go. As I head to the checkout I see another goodie I can't pass up. Called JaimIt, from Jam, it's "The digital sound mixer for online fun." Okay. Let's check it out. Records, warps, syncs, and shares voice online. Adds sounds to pictures. No, I don't really need it, but let's see how much. Regularly $50. Turns out with the discount it's $10. And what sold me: $20 rebate waiting for me online. So, in a nutshell, it's free, and if a really stupid rep opens my rebate envelope, I stand to make $10 on the deal.
I toss it in, thinking I should buy them all and sell 'em on ebay, but don't want to front the money. Decide to be happy with what I found and go home. Find out later it's a good thing, since no one seems to be buying.
Checkout was uneventful. Surprisingly. And I'm heading back to my Pacer on steroids, when a kid walks up to me. Red jersey, #64, hip-hop and bad as a motherfucker, but trying not to be, one foot in gangstahood, one foot on the right track. He's got a box. He's selling if I'm buying. Peanut brittle. I don't like peanut brittle, but I like the kid.
Gives me his rap, something about staying off drugs, off the street, selling this peanut brittle to raise money for something or other. Tries to shove a piece of paper into my hand that explains it better than he can, but I don't need the paper.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Kielan," he says.
"Let me see what you've got in there," I say looking in the box, where I found his loot wasn't selling so well. Maybe one's gone. I'm thinking, in Kennesaw, Georgia, Kielan, you're lucky they haven't run you off this lot by now.
"How much for the cashew-nut brittle?"
"$5.00"
I open my purse, look through my ones, hand them one at a time as I rummage through and find them, just seeing if he bolts with $3 or waits to finish the deal. And he does wait. We finish the transaction, I tell him good luck, and he walks across the parkinglot, stands a gainst a lamp pole. I decide to sit there for a few minutes in the van, seeing if he goes up to anyone else. He doesn't. Of course, I already knew that.
My big question now, besides how do I hook up this new shower head, is who wants the cashew brittle? I haven't opened it. I don't like the stuff. Any takers? I'll send it free to the person who makes the 15th comment on this post, unless you're international. Then you pay shipping.
Get busy. Maybe you can score too. Bring a little bit of Kielan into your day.
But the matter is, I need a camera and a cheap one. I hit the aisles thinking, if I can find one at half price or less, I'm going to buy it. If I find the Sony, then we'll have two. So what. Doesn't everyone?
I head back to electronics, high with the possibilities, only to find that it's gutted. Doesn't exist anymore. Roped off with crime scene tape, or its nearest cousin, "caution." Shit. I should have left the house days ago. Let this be a lesson to us all. Leave the house at least every other day. New mantra for me.
Since I was there, I decided to check out the rest of the stock, which was thin but interesting. Luggage had possibilities. Two shelves left, but nothing was marked, and I had visions of standing on line forever only to find out I couldn't afford it. My resolve: Don't put anything in my cart that doesnt' have a price on it. Move on. More aisles to explore.
I see the picture frames. Rows and rows of them. I wonder why? The age of digital. Who frames pictures anymore. I see the sign above the frames, appealing to the webless, "Frames 75% off... Preserving memories for generations." No thanks, I blog.
My reason for being here gone, I wonder what I'm looking for. Fake nails were 75% off. pass. Makeup 75% off. pass. Patio chairs, pass. A shelf load of d-CON. I wonder why. pass. I hear a guy talking to his wife, or I think it's his wife. He's holding a cheapy PDA. Regularly $30. What could it do for $30, now 50% off?
"You need the Web for that," she tells him.
"Hell, I know that," he says.
She thinks about it for a minute, puts it in the cart and says, "Happy Father's Day." I wonder if she's thinking it's about time her man gets online, checks out some of those girly sites, brings new tricks to the bedroom. I wonder if he's thinking, finally, gonna get me some net. Jenna Jameson, here I come. But it's the "Happy Father's Day" that touches my heart. No, really.
Keep walking. Score some notebooks. Happy about that, since I've started writing things down again.
Cat food for my next door neighbor's cats--only $1.00 for the bag. I can't resist. Damn cats are always in my house. Our neighbor has been away in rehab since January, and even though folks stop by and feed his four cats once in a while, they are wild in their wanting, for food and strokes. For a buck, I can make them happy all week. Money well spent.
I happen upon a shelf that makes me smile. Loaded with shower heads. Has to be at least 50 of them, of all designs and colors. Massage this, relax that. Calgon take me away. I need a new one anyhow, being that the one we have is leaking now in places it shouldn't, so I look closer. Wow. check this one out:
The Interbath Rio. Refreshing showers from 72 spray channels. Powerful, variable speed massage, combination sprays, and trickle valve. Lifetime warranty to boot. I toss it in the cart before I look closer, where at the top of the plastic box, I see words from the marketing hacks written just for me:
"Escape without Leaving Home."
A+ for the Interbath positionig exercise that uncovered my urgent need.
I'm thinking it's time to go. As I head to the checkout I see another goodie I can't pass up. Called JaimIt, from Jam, it's "The digital sound mixer for online fun." Okay. Let's check it out. Records, warps, syncs, and shares voice online. Adds sounds to pictures. No, I don't really need it, but let's see how much. Regularly $50. Turns out with the discount it's $10. And what sold me: $20 rebate waiting for me online. So, in a nutshell, it's free, and if a really stupid rep opens my rebate envelope, I stand to make $10 on the deal.
I toss it in, thinking I should buy them all and sell 'em on ebay, but don't want to front the money. Decide to be happy with what I found and go home. Find out later it's a good thing, since no one seems to be buying.
Checkout was uneventful. Surprisingly. And I'm heading back to my Pacer on steroids, when a kid walks up to me. Red jersey, #64, hip-hop and bad as a motherfucker, but trying not to be, one foot in gangstahood, one foot on the right track. He's got a box. He's selling if I'm buying. Peanut brittle. I don't like peanut brittle, but I like the kid.
Gives me his rap, something about staying off drugs, off the street, selling this peanut brittle to raise money for something or other. Tries to shove a piece of paper into my hand that explains it better than he can, but I don't need the paper.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Kielan," he says.
"Let me see what you've got in there," I say looking in the box, where I found his loot wasn't selling so well. Maybe one's gone. I'm thinking, in Kennesaw, Georgia, Kielan, you're lucky they haven't run you off this lot by now.
"How much for the cashew-nut brittle?"
"$5.00"
I open my purse, look through my ones, hand them one at a time as I rummage through and find them, just seeing if he bolts with $3 or waits to finish the deal. And he does wait. We finish the transaction, I tell him good luck, and he walks across the parkinglot, stands a gainst a lamp pole. I decide to sit there for a few minutes in the van, seeing if he goes up to anyone else. He doesn't. Of course, I already knew that.
My big question now, besides how do I hook up this new shower head, is who wants the cashew brittle? I haven't opened it. I don't like the stuff. Any takers? I'll send it free to the person who makes the 15th comment on this post, unless you're international. Then you pay shipping.
Get busy. Maybe you can score too. Bring a little bit of Kielan into your day.
May 18, 2002
The Ride
If you want any context for my adventures today, you'll have to read the last two posts. If you don't, then dig in. There are no rules here. I'm making this up as I go.
What I set out to do today, in getting "out," was to go to the store, observe the world, hit some sales, get the big deal. As I mentioned, the soon-to-be-defunct K-Mart near my house is down to the bare bones, 70 percent off everything left, if you can find anything left.
It was enough to get me out the door. I was feeling pretty good. Daughter off my hip, free to flow with the wind for a whole 3 hours. Nothing but possibilities.
So there I am, cruising down I-75, windows down, hair down, blowing just right, nice cool day here, the kind of Atlanta day you just don't get in mid-May. I'm feeling like maybe I am all that, an apparition of RageBoy, with a new ride of my own, no responsibilities, not for now, just me, cruisin. Uh-huh. This mama's got her groove back.
Except for a few things, not the least of which is that I'm driving a blue minivan, a 2002 Chevy Venture Value Van no less, bought for the sole purpose of getting out from under our Ford Explorer, which was about to bite the dust. Requirements: Cheap, Must hold upright bass, Must hold three people and upright bass in a pinch.
The van is a vehicle of necessity, not of choice. I hate fucking minivans. I feel like my life is over when I drive it. And the "Value" in Value Van doen't mean you feel anymore valuable than a bag of fertilizer behind the curise-controless wheel. No cassette. No CD player. No power windows. Mama said there'd be days like this.
I'm at a pivotal point here. Risk going tuneless or turn on FM Radio. Oh, the humanity.
I decide to try the oldies station, 40th birthday just three weeks away. Feeling nostalgic for I don't know what. But I haven't programmed the four buttons that run this power sound system, so I press the plain black "seek" buttons up and down til I find it, 97.1. Oh they're in commercial. That's okay. I got all the time in the world. Until my ears perk up and I hear this really disarming message from the station manager, saying that advertisers are taking their marketing money to younger audiences, and their programming may not survive, so write your friends, phone your neighbors, fly your flags extra high--God save the queen.
Not really, but the marketing money thing is true, followed by the advertorial poster lady named Lila, who said she raised three kids listening to this station, don't take it away. And then the tagline: "Save our Oldies."
By now I'm thinking, if I steer this beer can on wheels just right, I could hit the embankment doing 85 and be out of my misery. Instead I vow to be rocked back to life, one way or the other, and I push "seek" again.
I don't care how much money I got to spend
I won't find my way home again
Oh the lonely days are gone
I'm a goin home
My baby, she wrote me a letter.
"SEEK"
So take a good look at my face
You see my smile looks out of place
If you look closer it's easy to trace
The tracks of my tears
I need you, need you.
And there I learn my first lesson being back in the world. The radio is fucking depressing. But I'm at K-Mart now, and that's good. I steer the blue potato into a parking space and decide to sit and people watch for a minute or two. Catch my breath after my exhilarating ride. This place of concrete, a hundred plazas just like it in this suburb, is unremarkable. That's what I decide. And when you get to that place, you know with certainty, at least in Atlanta, it's time to buy something. Fill the void. Scissors cut paper, Plastic melts cement. Charge!
Not a shopping cart in sight. It takes me five minutes of waiting just to get my hands on one.
This better be worth it. It's my three hours of freedom, after all.
What I set out to do today, in getting "out," was to go to the store, observe the world, hit some sales, get the big deal. As I mentioned, the soon-to-be-defunct K-Mart near my house is down to the bare bones, 70 percent off everything left, if you can find anything left.
It was enough to get me out the door. I was feeling pretty good. Daughter off my hip, free to flow with the wind for a whole 3 hours. Nothing but possibilities.
So there I am, cruising down I-75, windows down, hair down, blowing just right, nice cool day here, the kind of Atlanta day you just don't get in mid-May. I'm feeling like maybe I am all that, an apparition of RageBoy, with a new ride of my own, no responsibilities, not for now, just me, cruisin. Uh-huh. This mama's got her groove back.
Except for a few things, not the least of which is that I'm driving a blue minivan, a 2002 Chevy Venture Value Van no less, bought for the sole purpose of getting out from under our Ford Explorer, which was about to bite the dust. Requirements: Cheap, Must hold upright bass, Must hold three people and upright bass in a pinch.
The van is a vehicle of necessity, not of choice. I hate fucking minivans. I feel like my life is over when I drive it. And the "Value" in Value Van doen't mean you feel anymore valuable than a bag of fertilizer behind the curise-controless wheel. No cassette. No CD player. No power windows. Mama said there'd be days like this.
I'm at a pivotal point here. Risk going tuneless or turn on FM Radio. Oh, the humanity.
I decide to try the oldies station, 40th birthday just three weeks away. Feeling nostalgic for I don't know what. But I haven't programmed the four buttons that run this power sound system, so I press the plain black "seek" buttons up and down til I find it, 97.1. Oh they're in commercial. That's okay. I got all the time in the world. Until my ears perk up and I hear this really disarming message from the station manager, saying that advertisers are taking their marketing money to younger audiences, and their programming may not survive, so write your friends, phone your neighbors, fly your flags extra high--God save the queen.
Not really, but the marketing money thing is true, followed by the advertorial poster lady named Lila, who said she raised three kids listening to this station, don't take it away. And then the tagline: "Save our Oldies."
By now I'm thinking, if I steer this beer can on wheels just right, I could hit the embankment doing 85 and be out of my misery. Instead I vow to be rocked back to life, one way or the other, and I push "seek" again.
I won't find my way home again
Oh the lonely days are gone
I'm a goin home
My baby, she wrote me a letter.
"SEEK"
So take a good look at my face
You see my smile looks out of place
If you look closer it's easy to trace
The tracks of my tears
I need you, need you.
And there I learn my first lesson being back in the world. The radio is fucking depressing. But I'm at K-Mart now, and that's good. I steer the blue potato into a parking space and decide to sit and people watch for a minute or two. Catch my breath after my exhilarating ride. This place of concrete, a hundred plazas just like it in this suburb, is unremarkable. That's what I decide. And when you get to that place, you know with certainty, at least in Atlanta, it's time to buy something. Fill the void. Scissors cut paper, Plastic melts cement. Charge!
Not a shopping cart in sight. It takes me five minutes of waiting just to get my hands on one.
This better be worth it. It's my three hours of freedom, after all.
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