keep the good thoughts coming for Aunt Penny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

thank you.

Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

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

Just for the record

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

Gary, you bastard, you.

that is all.

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

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

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

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

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

inquiring minds...

Damn paparazzi!

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

the weight of the world

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's home.

"Way down Upon the Swamee River."

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

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

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

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

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

In good company

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

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

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

__________wooosh_________________

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

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

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

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

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

So what was I saying?

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

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

George at 3 a.m.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a note to daypop and blogdex visitors

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DID I MENTION...

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

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

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

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

home, awake, and blogging!

Marek is b-a-c-k.

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

jenna at four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pack the Van, Woods in Sight

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

Look what Elaine made for Marek

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

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

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

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

Marek on his way home

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

The Master of Worst Practices

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

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

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

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

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

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

-Stevie Ray Vaughan

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

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

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

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

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

Confirmation!!

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

FOUR MORE DAYS!!!!

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

PRESS RELEASE

BLOGGER'S DESPERATION FOR LINKS CONFINES HIM TO HOSPITAL BED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-30-

A Message from Marek

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

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

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

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

Crafting for Marek

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

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

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

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

more later

Someone Get Clever?

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

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

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

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

And then you find out a friend is in trouble

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

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

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

Doesn't He Ever Shut Up?

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

I think it's really gonna happen

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

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

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

SelfChalking

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

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

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

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

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

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

Darko

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

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

and

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

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

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

I know him lots better now.

perspective

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LifeChalking

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

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

Lifechalk this.

voicelessness

1. -- The Loss

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

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

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

The quiet
in her eyes
is like fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


2. -- The Burial

I am inside my body
then out
then in
out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think what is that,
and ask him.

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

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

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

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

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

I think
that a kiss would
be nice.

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

So I say,
just once.

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

He never does.

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

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

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

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

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

3. -- The Lesson

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

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

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

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

1:30 Poem for Penny

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

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

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

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

Reminding me
how to remember.

Commuting with Gary--or--Meta Talking

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

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

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

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

My dime next time, Gary.

David Sits In with the Band

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

If Not Then

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

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

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

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

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

to live and die without you.

Goodbye Ray

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

Original Beauty

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

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

She is in me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And thank you.

garage sale from hell

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

I would have much rather been at this sale:

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

Will you take a dime for that carcass over there?

Um, Okay. I Can Do That.

Shelley says, Get pissed!

Ricky don't lose that number...

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

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

why the hell not?

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



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

The trip that wouldn't end

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

Ready, set, SEND GEORGE SOME WIND!

na na na na boo boo

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

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

on independence day

Celebrate.

Squeezing in ALMOST under the wire to say...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAREK!!!

1:30 a.m. Birthday Poem for Marek

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

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

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

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

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

high water comin'

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

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

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

Congratulations...

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

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

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

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

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

Upon Waking

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

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

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

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

Loss resolves, no me no you, the moment.

The last ten posts...

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

And then...

There's this little multi-instrumental ditty, from back in the day, called Melodious Funk, which played on my heartstrings when I heard it in 1985. An oldie but a goodie. Recording quality ain't great. Remember, I said back in the day. If you've ever heard him play, you'll be able to decipher it and see those fingers in action. Steve this one goes out to you. (It's all George on basses and drums/percussion).

Cabo Daze

George graced one cut on the latest Cabo Frio album (uh, that's CD, Jeneane) with a little bass. He would want me to state, for the record, I know, that he didn't write the tune; he just played on it a little bitz. Sample here. Jenna makes a cameo, we think, with her maniacal laugh toward the end of the cut. It was there last time we heard. But since b'ness relations broke off among the guys (again) before the CD found its final resting label, we're only assuming her cackle made it on. Fucking drummers, man.

connected--or, what I forgot to mention

And if you think they don't know, these children of the wind and rain, consider what she said to me as the thunder hit:

"Ugh oh mommy. I think I made it storm."

"What makes you think you made it storm, baby?"

"I think my screams make the storms come."

Sunday, Unday: Out and Back and Storms and Moods

I should have known. There was a storm coming.

Always, afterward, I say, "No wonder."

The no wonder is that Miss Jenna goes completely and utterly manic for what at first glance is little-to-no reason, and then the storm comes. My little weather girl, our personal barometric pressure sensor, a chip off her daddy's block. Both of them climb and slide into another place just before a storm--brewing and stewing and growling, or reeling and squeeling--all before anyone except maybe Channel 2 has a notion that bad weather's on its way.

As soon as the storm hits outside our windows, the storm in them subsides. Sleep often follows, or peaceful play, which was the case today, when just after reaching the zenith of mad-kid antics, she was sitting quietly in her chair, imagining and pretending, with Barbie teaching Little Kellys how to write their names in her notebook. The yawning was unmistakable. It's always the storm before the calm here.

We made it out. After all that. Once the thunder passed.

Headed off to Big Lots, where I hauled home a week's worth of "the stuff no one carries anymore," frozen dinners, her favorite fruit loops, some Gino's Pizza Rolls, and various non sequiturs, which is what Big Lots is all about.

That and a trip through the dreaded McDonald's drive through for a number 9 and a kid's happy meal made the near-meaningless day complete. Got a glimpse of some road rage on the way home--a pickup truck full of hicks going at it with a car full of punks, flipping eachother off and racing down the road ahead of me. Somehow, it felt good. I wanted to follow them, but supressed the urge. Parked the minivan I hate in the comtemporary attached cedar-sided garage, hit the garage door opener to seal us in, threw some frozen stuff in the freezer that lives in our garage, and dragged the rest of it upstairs.

She's dancing now, in the cool new dress-up shoes courtesy of Big Lots, a deal at $4.99. They're all sparkley and plastic, three pairs in their own little cardboard dresser, fancy and loud, bows and flowers. She's off to her room to check herself out in the mirror her grandma bought for her. She walks with airs, clunkiness aside, eyes saying: Ain't I Something?

The hard, hollow, plastic soles clack against the wood floor just now, and I wonder if my head could feel any worse.

I'm pretty sure it can't.

how do you tell your kid

that you just don't feel like leaving the house today. Can today be a rest day, sweetie? NO MAMA! I wanna do something. Weary, bleary, trying to keep up -- have you seen the pile of bills on my piano? Air conditioner almost toast, our electric bills have soared to $400 a month. Did I pay it? Who knows? Never mind the credit cards. I'm finding that if I wait long enough, they call me on the phone and take a check-by-phone. You can pay for two or three months at once that way--the current month and the two months previous bills, which are, as I said, sitting on the piano. This, I understand, does nothing for the old credit report. Don't much need one when you don't much leave the house. There's a bonus.

It's not that I don't want to go anyplace today. I spent all morning and lots of last night working on a really boring speech for a really important guy at a really big company. All the while, not caring. Get ready, get set, get numb. That kind of thing takes a lot out of me. Spoiled brat that I am. Thankful to have a job. Oh yes, I know, in this down economy. Mantra mantra, who's got my mantra?

So, what's wrong with not feeling like going outside? Nothing, I guess. Except I have a four year old tugging on my shorts--Mama, let's go to Big Lots. Please? No food in the fridge, I'd better decide to do something today. If someone I trusted would sit on the couch and play with her for five hours, I'd pay $100. Seriously. Just to be able to sleep. Not to go anywhere. Just upstairs, to bed. Send her up to kiss me on the cheek once in a while. Listen to her play cheerfully just outside my dreams. Charge my batteries.

Yes, well, no. Not happening. So I need to get in the frame of mind that says, Yahoo--let's head out into the 95-degree afternoon, open up the mess that is my car, hoist her into her booster seat, wish that the car had been in the garage so it wasn't 130 degrees, realizing, I can't park in the garage--all the stuff I was going to sell in the garage sale that hasn't happened yet is taking up one side.

My mother said to me last month, when my daughter's teacher talked to me about getting her to school late, "You'd better get yourself together. I think you're like a delinquent adult. You're rebelling or something."

Yes, or something.

wandering

soft wind blowing
my mind

fierce storm coming
from the east

settle in
find me
waiting

picture where
we were
or some other place

who am I
without you?

glue

get off of me,
get out of me,
unstick yourself
fuck yourself
keep yourself
over there.

stop haunting
stop taunting
turn your eyes
the other way
take yourself
out of here.

Build me
break me
please don't
hate me.

And when
you're done,
Stay?

singin' a happy little tune

Pulled up in the driveway with some top-40 station playing this song--I don't claim to know Pink. Seen her. Don't have any of her CDs. In fact, don't know her from a bag of assholes. But I know I dug the lyrics to this song by Pink and Dallas Austin. Maybe I'm more connected to the Atlanta sound than I think. Oh, and (Halley, sorry 'bout the Brittney dissing. ;-)

Don't Let Me Get Me
-Pink & Dallas Austin

Never win first place,
I don't support the team
I can't take direction,
and my socks are never clean
Teachers dated me,
my parents hated me
I was always in a fight
cuz I can't do nothin' right

Everyday I fight a war against the mirror
I can't take the person starin' back at me

I'm a hazard to myself

Don't let me get me
I'm my own worst enemy
Its bad when you annoy yourself
So irritating
Don't wanna be my friend no more
I wanna be somebody else

I wanna be somebody else, yeah

LA told me, "You'll be a pop star,
All you have to change
is everything you are."
Tired of being compared
to damn Britney Spears
She's so pretty,
that just ain't me

Doctor, doctor won't you please prescribe me
somethin'
A day in the life of someone else?
Cuz I'm a hazard to myself

Don't let me get me
I'm my own worst enemy
Its bad when you annoy yourself
So irritating
Don't wanna be my friend no more
I wanna be somebody else.

mp3 sample

My Two Sons

Tom "Insiteview" Shugart, who has credited me with single-handedly bringing him to blogging, just spoke to Frank "Interview" Paynter, who credits RageBoy and me with his blogging birth. My boys talked for the first time Friday via the telephone, the increasingly popular back-circuit-to-blogging, and have plans in the works to hook up in December in person.

It does a mother's heart good.

reggae sea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I feel like Doc

Okay, it's kind of like the John Lennon "the beatles are as popular as Jesus Christ" thing, and, you know, so don't twist it like that, but for these last few posts I've felt like Doc or David, giving a rundown on current events (with a twist of lemon). Those guys are always so consice yet witty; I marvel at what they do. Doc's headlines alone are worth the price of admission. And David's unassuming humor shows through like a shiny golden nugget (or chicken mcnugget--I'm not sure yet). I admire their style every day. And now that I've tried it, lamely, I admire it even more.

And now, I will return to my former sad, lost, wanting blogger self.

Break it up. Nothing to see here. You can all go home now.

Satirizing the Pledge Debate

No one does it better than Satirewire, ever.

"ONE NATION, (SPONSORSHIP OPPORTUNITIES AVAILABLE),
INDIVISIBLE, WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL."

thank God we live in a Demoncracy.

Elaine made up a new word

"demoncracy" -- she freudian slipped over here in the the blog sisters' comments box where the sisters are discussing patriarchy.

fitting? hee hee.

Yah, what he says.

AKMA takes on the Pledge of Allegiance issue and says just what I was thinking over here, in Tom Matrullo's world, but AKMA says it whole lot better and smarter, which is why he runs that University of Blogaria thingy:

"....[S]wearing allegiance to a material representation of a secular institution amounts to idolatry; indeed, it’s hard to think of a clearer example of idolatry, and the ease with which this nationalist idolatry has saturated American Christianity underlines the danger of soft-pedalling the controversy at hand."

gosh, he's good.

Who Knew, Mary Lu?

Mary Wehmeier is keeping us in the know this week. Of special interest is this post, which features "coffee talk" where Mary chats up a storm on what's going down in the land of communities. She gives an interesting pointer to MeetUp, Scott Heiferman's new project mentioned by Doc.

MeetUp looks pretty cool. The idea is to connect in realtime with people who have shared interests--obviously net-savvy people with whom you might already share some little thing in common--like an obsession with blogging, for instance?--at coffee houses to chat face to face:

"MEETUPs are like book clubs, activist groups, shareholder meetings, user groups, fan clubs, car clubs, support groups, or study groups. Show off your dog, your car, or your handiwork. Maybe play a game or mobilize for a cause."

You do it first and report back on how it works.

Aunt Halley's Policy Dreambook

Minus the numbers... Well, or something like that. Halley Suitt spills the beans about grown-up men and little boys, about girls maturing into women, and about lots of other interesting stuff in the latest Frank Paynter Interview with Blogging Greats and N'erdowells. I think Halley even made me respect Brittney Spears, a little, which is something only persuasive Halley with her energized take on life could make me do.

gonzo squared

Another review of Gonzo Marketing today, this one at Roy Christopher's place:

"Locke evokes Esther Dyson's aphorism 'Always make new mistakes,' inviting corporate marketers and consumers alike to realize that markets aren't clean and tidy; they're messy and ugly - quick and dirty even."

And if you haven't heard Chris Locke's review on Marketplace Morning Report yet, click here to find out what advertising, patriarchy, and enforced gender roles have in common. (hint: institutions use them to fuck up young and old alike.)

dialog with me

You know how it is
when you're lights are low
you're thinking's slow
Got no spark,
no feeling but numb.

It's your imagination, really.
Just press on. What else
can you do?

Too much to fix.
Too much of nothing to do.
just under water
swimming not breathing.

It's really not good that you get
so unhappy. You have so much
to be thankful for:
great kid, great man, great job.

So why am I here alone on the couch,
feeling left, feeling like I'm six
alone in the house, waiting? There's
no energy coming towards me.
Nothing feels very real.
Spending too much time
with myself. But then again,
you have a point, don't you?
Actually, yah, you are right on.
I'm an asshole.
Feeling sorry for myself.
In fact, I should really thank you.
Thank you, thank you, and thanks
to the supreme diety
and the corporate lifesuckers
that are sucking my brain out
slowly with a straw.
No, really, I owe you my life.
I'm so sorry I'm sad.
oh god, i'm so so sorry
what's wrong with me?
I'll slap a smile on right now.
watch me do it.

[shit eating grin.]

Self pity isn't becoming.
And neither is sarcasm.

Not becoming for you maybe.
Feels pretty good to me.
Feels real good to get down in it
and look at the knotted parts
and wonder how they got
so knotted up
and work to untie
those knots, find a few answers
and then start to hurt
and feel what it's like
to chip away at the
red brick wall.

Um, huh?

Oh fuck you.
you don't even know me.
Why do I try to tell you anything?
It's like you've been someplace else
all my life. You want to know
what's wrong with me? Try asking
what's wrong with you,
you manipulative bitch.

You have some issues with anger then?
Is that the place we're coming to?

ISSUES? No, I have no issues
with anger. What I have is a fucking
switch blade in my pocket
calling your name next time
you try fucking with me.

I'm not afraid of you; I hope you understand that.
That's the problem with you.
You can't control your emotions.
You let your feelings control you.
That's why you get so anxious,
so panicy, so down.
You have no idea
how to handle it.
You know what?
You really ought
to schedule
an appointment
with your
shrink.

SHRINK THIS, BITCH!

[Scuffle ensues. Switch blade comes out, razor comes out, the fight is on. Hair pulled out by the root. Kicking, stomping, scratching. Cut! swipe! gouge! bleed!]

Oh, sweet lord, she slit my throat!! Oh.
god, I'm dying. Oh no please.
oh. hhh. e. l. p.
[gasp. silence.]

I'm fucking glad to be rid of her.
For today at least.

It feels so damn good to feel.

A Lesson in Gonzo

George Partington has a wonderful interview with Chris Locke on Gonzo Marketing, where Locke talks about (aha!) human beings on the net. A must read.

who do that hoodoo that RB do so well?

"In hoodoo, one of the oldest traditions is for a male gambler to have a female lover urinate on his mojo bag or lucky hand while he is at play. If the gambler and his partner can retire to an alley to perform the act while the game is in progress, so much the better. This is called 'feeding the mojo...'"

Have you fed your mojo today?

who your daddy is?

Gary BS Turner asks how many of us are offspring of the prolific RageBoy, and how many boggers were begotten during RB's challenge that went something like this: Start a fucking blog and send me the link; I'll blogroll you (gary's got the link to the exact words). I started allied around that time. Read Gary's comments to see who else is brave enough to trace their lineage back to the Ragester.

Is RageBoy your daddy?

Gary proposes a day to honor RB. Maybe we give him the key to Blogaria. That or a new lighter.

confession time

Tell the truth, the whole truth
as long as it shames and blames.

Close your eyes, bow your head
take a knife, plunge it deep
into your small tender chest
rip skin and muscle, split bone
stop your racing heart,
because guilt hurts
worse than this.

I don't know what you're talking about.

Wrap your own cold corpse
white lace neatly arranged
over pale blue skin,
you are my prize
for the world to see.

The bloody masacre
before your eyes
is broken children
breaking children.

Mea culpa, mother?

looking

Light flight
sliding gliding,
there's a magic
in all of this.

I can't reach the place
where it makes sense,
in you, of you, from you
a soul wrapped
in so many layers,
who owns
her, me
he, you?

Out of time
cadence
Out of mind
peace
Out of bounds
borders.

Absorb, contain, release
this is where I find you.

Andrea Got Paynted!

Check out Frank Paynter's latest--an interview with Andrea Roceal James, who has me wondering, was I a blithering idiot at 24 or what? This woman has the wisdom of the ages in her pocket. Find out how she got it and what she does with it. Note--Frank's last two interview subjects--Andrea and me--both mention throwing up. Frank--you bring out the best in us!

Who sent him?

He showed up on our porch three days ago. Well, not exactly. We don't have a porch really; what we have is a set of steps that go straight straight up to the front door. See if this gives you the picture. If you walk out the front door, there's three steps, then a landing, then five steps, then a landing, then maybe eight steps, then the ground.

I say this not to scare off the vertigo challenged, but to tell you that it isn't such an easy feat to "show up" on our porch. But he does it. Every time. I've started to go out looking for him, trying to decipher his origin. I scan the other yards, our front yard, our side yard, peer down under our steps from up high. And sometime during my obsessive scanning, he appears, always about half way up, bounding the rest of the way to say, "Hey, Beautiful."

He's a tom cat that doesn't belong here. He's not from these parts. I've asked my neighbors, and I know the neighborhood cats--five of them live next door, two across the street, one halfway up the block, and so on. No, this is not one of our street cats.

He is maleness personified, perfect head and golden eyes, thick neck, big paws and strong claws, grey and big with a tail striped like a snake. And he knows he is "it," swaggers around the top landing, wagging that snake tail up in the air, ssssssssssssssssssssssss!

I've started to call him ashes. Partly because the ashes from my cigarette dapple him as he squirms around my calves. Partly because he is the color of ash.

Don't want a cat, don't need a cat, especially one who likes to bite my calves, this drifter turned possessive and jealous:

"Get back up on the step, woman!"

But there's something comforting about him for me, nearing my third month with my man gone to China. Ashes is fierce. The cats who used to eat my aloe plants and sneak in my garage to piss don't cross Ashes' boundaries. And when they do, they pay the price. Even our two dogs, on duty in the back yard, seem to have relaxed since he came around. They're off high alert. They're not barking, no more watching for any crackling branch or falling leaf to signify attack mode. Nope, they're hanging out on the deck, looking pleased as can be that Ashes has come by to pick up the slack.

So, last night I fed him. Now his infatuation with me has turned to obsession. And it's not just the food. He flops down half way up the stairs, crosswise, my feline gargoyle taking up an entire step, not letting me down, or anyone else up, he looks up at me and says:

"This is my place. I make the rules. Don't worry, baby, I'll take good care of you." blink. blink.

As I write this, he's outside, stretched out on the fourth step, on the night shift, making sure we're safe and sound.

Thanks, Ashes.

moments beyond

When we're each in our own skin, this mean even more to me. The time apart together, reaching across the bucket seats to place your hand on my thigh, what was that story you were telling me? Your hand rubs my knee, your eyes on the road, gleeful jabbering coming from the back seat.

Tell me the one again about how Buddy was staring at your cute butt that time, when we came back from our honeymoon early, so you could play that gig; tell me the one about Bridget, was that her name? your trouble-making loyal great dane who chased down one too many of the farmer's chickens; tell me again about the time your well-meaning rock found the prize rooster's head, after he clawed your shins for the last time, how you were bereft, laid his lifeless chicken corpse at the side of the road, because he had that reputation for truck chasing, and your mother would never know.

Love me pregnant, cherish me for growing your baby. Sit by my hospital bedside as I bleed, near death, hanging on, hold my hand, look into my eyes, tell me you love me, sleep there on that hard chair day and night, don't leave me. Make them bring me back; you don't give them a choice; you don't give me a choice, and that's why I'm still here. That is the you who loves me, the you I love so much.

It isn't just the sea, our bed, my warm body wrapping around you that makes us last; it's the in between, how we dance around the edges, the time after going, before coming, when you say I understand, you know how my mind tortures me, your smile eases sadness away like a sigh, touch, squeeze, and I remind and remember you in the quiet of your pain.

This is how we make love.

reality check

If you suffered through some early trauma--say your father's death when you were a kid--and at that moment they tell you he's dead you feel it alter who you are, who you will become, and at that moment it settles within you like some heavy suitcase you are assigned to carry around your whole life, well if you've ever felt something like that, then you know what I mean.

You know what I mean when I say it's there, it's always been there, will always be there. Sometimes you can put it down, like for a few minutes at a time--when you're riding your horse, when you fall in love, say "I Do." When the doctor's pulling your baby out of the hole in your abdomen, when you're making love. I can put it down then. I feel it slip off of me. I feel so light. Which makes picking it up again all that much more overwhelming. And when I don't feel the exhaustion, then I feel the anger. Why do I have to lug this stinking thing around everywhere I go, and look at her, she's not carrying one like mine. What'd I do, what am I being punished for? Why am I different?

But the real kicker is that sometimes the loss you have always believed was the biggest loss in your life, that heavy samsonite hardshell you take with you everywhere you go, wasn't the biggest after all. And sometimes you get flashes and glimpses that maybe the things that were there in your life--the things that you counted on--the things that should have helped you with that suitcase when you were just six, and then 12, and then 16, 18, 22, 38, well, they didn't. Maybe they even gave you theirs to carry too.

And then you start thinking, what is the source of my sadness? My anguish-turned-terror sometimes. Is its source that person you had for six years and didn't have for 34 years? That has been my journey--the journey of mourning "without." And maybe you ask yourself, is this kind of a heavy trip to lay on your Dad, and on yourself? Or is it, maybe a convenient one? Can't do anything about that one but deal with it. Can't bring him back. Can't change that six-year-old child's reaction. Job done. Pick up the samsonite and move on. Find a skycap if you're lucky. Get some good poetry out of it.

But, what about the other 34 years? Um. What happened? Who were the players? What were their roles? What was my role?

What the fuck, what the fucking fuck?

And now what?

fowl is fair

My husband ate Hong Kong pigeon. Do I let him come home? Homecoming potentially July 2nd by the way. More on that to follow.

getting to gonzo

The Greenpeace folks have a weblog where Gillo, Trina, Brainfit and others talk about stuff stuff stuff. Like this from Trina:

"Check all headers and sub-heads for consistency. Finish off the About Us section. Check captions and add the final corrections to the press centre, god is that it? Hang on...check over the old archived sites for relative links, skim the news stories, ask Dan to show me how to fix the home page...there must be more but I am sure it will come to me on the way to the office. Oh yeah, buy champagne to pop when we press that magic online button. I wonder ... is there a bottle shop open on Sunday around here? Right go to bed, get some sleep."

Not as risky for them as it is for more conservative mainstream organizations, but cool nonetheless. They are apparently launching something big on Monday. Hints and whisps from the bloggers there. Well, why not--I'm going to check them out tomorrow. Thanks to Rebecca Blood for pointing us there.

David Weinberger Unfucks

David Weinberger is using his head and his hand today. In a mistaken beeping incident, which obviously left David guilt ridden way longer than it should have, he thinks up a new way to say, "um, sorry. my bad." Now known as the Unfuck sign, or by similar imaginative names thanks to Halley, David encourages us to use it accurately and often.

Joe and Mike Talkin Turkey

Joseph Duemer has been drawn into what I've come to understand, from my own experience, as pointless (and actually damaging) discussions with one senior member of the war blogging tribe. I give Joseph credit for keeping the conversation going with Mike--as AKMA has also managed to do. You are better men than me. Oh, wait, I'm a woman!

We won't touch it
can never touch it
so we leave it
sitting unsaid
on the soft pine table top
neatly packaged
arranged just so,
haunting in its beauty,
because unwrapping it
would unfurl misery
like the funeral dress
of a ghost child.

-me

just do it.

Little Exercise at 4 in the Morning
(For Thomas Edwards Wanning)
-by Elizabeth Bishop


Think of the storm roaming the sky uneasily
like a dog looking for a place to sleep in,
listen to it growling.

Think how they must look now, the mangrove keys
lying out there unresponsive to the lightning
in dark, coarse-fibred families,

where occasionally a heron may undo his head,
shake up his feathers, make an uncertain comment
when the surrounding water shines.

Think of the boulevard and the little palm trees
all stuck in rows, suddenly revealed
as fistfuls of limp fish-skeletons.

It is raining there. The boulevard
and its broken sidewalks with weeds in every crack,
are relieved to be wet, the sea to be freshened.

Now the storm goes away again in a series
of small, badly lit battle-scenes,
each in "Another part of the field."

Think of someone sleeping in the bottom of a row-boat
tied to a mangrove root or the pile of a bridge;
think of him as uninjured, barely disturbed.




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First four stanzas of Manuelzinho in her own voice

From this amazing page.

Marek, Did You Bug My House,or My Mind?

I'm not sure which. But the evidence is here. I think I speak for all of us--well maybe some of us--when I say, thank you for the advice, as always.

Off to the liquor store to find some moving boxes

Anyone reading this blog already knows my vision for the perfect world for bloggers, even though, okay, I know it probably can't happen, not yet anyway, but Riley Dog pointed me to Apartment the Earth where it appears move in day has arrived! Nice, nice, nice. Shall we say my digital camera is charging up? Here's this from the "about" page:

"What is Apartment the earth? If it were not for the borders in this world, we could live close together and talk to each other very easily like neighbors of apartments. This is my ideal world. And we can realize this ideal world with the internet because there isn't any borders in there. We can live together here. In this apartment we are citizens of the wrold, we are residents of "apartment the earth."

Beautiful. Happening. Cool.

Back At Ya

Halley and Elaine
Met in Maine
Out on the beach
No sign of rain
Walking in the sun
Playing in the dirt
Hey Ms. Crone,
Where'd ya get that shirt?

Call Me Mme

A friend told me recently that my manners and passions resemble those of Mme Germaine de Stael, of whom this was said:

"Mme de Stael entertained in palatial surroundings the most distinguished personnages in the land. The guests discussed topics of current interest and they were entertained by music, poetry readings and plays. Mme de Stael was quite literally the toast of Europe. She has been described as the first female ambassador, an unofficial title conferred upon her for a legendary role as a hostess and writer."

Apparently she also gave Napolean some good hell. All the more reason to love her--I can't stand those little power-monger types.

And so, I am honored, because I do resemble her, in more ways than a couple.

Someone say patriarchy?

bye trees

They're busy tearing down the last big woods near my house. The petition signs gave way to lumber trucks. George, wait until you see it. Apparently an elementary school will be taking the place of the woods. The've blocked off what might be 3-4 city blocks if this were a city, but it's not. It's a town become suburb. And the logging trucks pull out all day long carrying tree rounds, now lumber, to wherever they take them.

The georgia red clay is bright, bare, lonely looking. I wonder what the school will look like. It will probably be my child's school. I wonder why the kids couldn't have just gone to school in those woods. You know? Set up a little building, some camp grounds, something. Made it a nature school. A park. Something to shield the children from the hot Georgia sun. Not now--it's pretty barren.

Every day up here in what used to be off the beaten path, the City of Atlana edges closer, and woods give way to complexes, plazas, and overdone houses. Now a new school. Why does it look so much like a crime scene? I saw a house way back, deep inside what used to be the denseness of the trees today. You couldn't see that house from the road before. It looked to be a very nice house, big, with a little barn next to it. I could tell by the gouges in the sides that they'll be knocking it down too. I don't know. Maybe it's the dark cherry colored glasses I've been wearing lately, but the world doesn't seem quite right.

this post intentionally left blank.

hurry home

Remember
Jimi Hendrix

Oh, remember the mocking bird, my baby bun
He used to sing for his supper, baby
Yes he used to sing for his supper, babe
He used to sing so sweet
Since my baby left me he ain't sang for two long days
Oh, remember the blue-birds and the honey bees,
They used to sing for sunshine
They used to sing for the flowers
They used to sing so sweet
But since my baby left me they ain't sang in two long days
Hey pretty baby, come on back to me
Make ev'ry body as happy as can be
So, baby, if you'll please come home again you know I'll
Kiss you for my supper,
You know I'll kiss you for my dinner, yeah!
But, ah, if you don't come back you know I'll have to
Starve to death
'Cus I ain't had one kiss all day now
Please remember
You've got to remember
You've got to remember our love
Come on back, baby, come on back in my arms,
I'll make ev'rything that better
Come on, baby, hurry up now
Can you hear me calling you back again now?
Come on, baby, stop jiving around, hurry home, hurry home.

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