Not for Ourselves Alone

Of Winter Flowers

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 22:00:00 +0000

Sometimes little girls (who aren't so little anymore) make things out of paper they've painted, taped, tied with yarn.

Mother and son collect once-a-year songs.

We wrap ourselves into ourselves. We make. And then we give. Then we make again.

The shortest day is a song. The next, a flower. The next, they are grown.

Of Playmobil and Jesus

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 23:12:00 +0000

Apology

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 23:38:00 +0000

I want to write an "if I had the time" post. It's silly, decadent, not necessary.

But autumn makes me do it. Something about the way light hangs on a tree, cat on a branch. Everything orange. And sad--in a happy, loved way.

Bird on a wire.

A song. Flight.

Catch.

There are photographs everywhere. I breathe and take a picture. Pucker, sweetly.

To kiss a new baby. Nuzzle a cheek. Stretch.

Fingers--long. A kiss for each one.

For you.

August

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 00:31:00 +0000

Summer, it is here. Immediate. And demanding.

It is a breath. Fleeting. Green. And envious.

It is blueberries. Raspberries from the garden. Sweet peas. In a bunch.

Ankle deep. A whisper. A kiss.

A yawn. A moon, before a swim.

This sky. It is now.

Thread....

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 19:03:00 +0000

Fiesta is over. Shadow of rain competed with this year's festivities, but could not overtake the sense of community that staggers, leaving behind a path of invisible thread--a mystery weaving, of sorts.

I still consider myself an outsider looking in, but after 11 years, St. Peter's Fiesta is familiar. I've held candles given me by tiny Italian grandmothers. I've shouted. Laughed. Stared at a sky of cast off cares and swirling confetti. I've visited Ambie's famous sausage stand and been encircled by the sweet, greasy smell of fried dough.

I've watched children call out to one another, surrounded by a sea of rocks as men crab walk out to the end of the pole, oars quietly pushed through a threat of rain, the boulevard filled with watchers and drinkers and swimmers and onlookers--looking on for sport and to catch the locals doing what the newspaper says they do best.

Some describe Fiesta as nothing more than a ridiculous, drunken party that the city has to clean up after--but with this description comes a failure to see the invisibly fine strands of community that persist in Gloucester as soulless enclaves of nothingness creep up around the country.

We've got something here, but you've got to look beyond the surface of the party to see it. For every drunken fight that gets recorded in the police notes, dozens of significant connections go quietly unnoticed. Families come together. They anticipate. They plan. They take time to catch up. They dress up--little girls with fancy white ribbons, boys in handsome sweaters and shoes. People smile. They pray. They take notice. They care.

There is no question about it as statues are carried through the streets of downtown Gloucester on the backs of boys and men preceded by prominent religious figures that Fiesta matters--not just as an excuse to party, but as a time to honor God, to honor family and those who have died, a time to honor tradition, a time to reunite and reconnect. People come out of their houses to celebrate and to mourn and to talk to one another. Strangers strike up conversations. The feeling of community is palpable.

This time of year makes me feel lucky--lucky to be living where I am, raising a family with people I love. St. Peter's Fiesta brings this out in me.

Viva. Viva. Viva San Pietro.

Additional photos here.

City Wide

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Mon, 11 May 2009 01:03:00 +0000

Art made by Gloucester Public School students K-12 as displayed at various places during the citywide arts festival--City Hall, Sawyer Free Library, downtown businesses. Everywhere, Gloucester, Mass.

Standing

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Fri, 01 May 2009 15:16:00 +0000

Too much change and loss all at once. I want to grieve, but I wonder what it is that I'm grieving. Unable to give it a name. Unable to quantify or qualify or bullshitify.

I think it's that I want people with me instead of straddling the fence--that place where people quietly pretend. It's hard to know where people stand these days.

Of Washington, District of Columbia

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 23:23:00 +0000

I will myself to write about Washington. D.C. I will write. I will. I will. I'll write about photographer Robert Frank. Today with Ernie I called him Frank Blank. I get confused when there is black or Frank or Jack Black.

He sequenced photographs with a wink. A wink and a smile. A black smile. "Cynical," said EM. "That," I said. "Coming from you?" "He made a film about the Rolling Stones called Cocksucker Blues." Is it necessary to say more?

Who is cynical now?

I am not cynical today, the air after a rainstorm lovely. And art. Art everywhere, least in the museums. High boots and short skirts. A man laughing or falling asleep. Game Fish. Hope along Pennsylvania Avenue and in throngs, not thongs. I photographed a flower that belongs with Dr. Seuss. Or in gardens. Southern gardens.

Exquisite light and a pint and talk of Gloucester.

I walked. I walked like the pioneers walked once as it goes in song. "Pioneer children sang as they walked and walked and walked."

The city all lit up at night made shadows on the wall and I took photographs. Moving. Along the wall. Deep as bodies and up again for air.

One, a self portrait, but in shadow. Distant, in memory, but moving.

Always moving. That moving. And this moving. Then, not moving at all.

Some Thing

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Tue, 31 Mar 2009 13:03:00 +0000

It glitters in the light of morning. Found. Held atop the railing by a rock or heavier. Trellis covered with drops of rain. Or small glistening splinters of metal. The sun plays tricks. Metal or water? Air or water. It hangs like a cross might if worn around my neck. It swings. It shines. The metal is real. From here. From here it is real.

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Sun, 15 Mar 2009 21:59:00 +0000

Tonight I boil beets and rub them with my hands to gently remove the skin. They are red, redder than I am used to. What other red is this red? Is it wine? An apple? Strawberry juice. Tomato red. The reddest red that I can think.

But nothing is this red, this purply red against stainless steel sink, yellow colander, early evening light of March through my kitchen window. Red stains my hands. Red stains my lips. My teeth. Red stains the sky when nothing is left.

I have a heart. A beet. A heart.

Dreaming in Fiction

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Sun, 15 Mar 2009 00:53:00 +0000

Fiction's the thing, to catch the conscience of the queen.

I know. I borrowed it. I've been thinking about writing a little fiction--using it in the way that Hamlet uses the play.

Play within a play within a play.

Back

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 14:30:00 +0000

The rain is plinkety plinking outside my window. Honey colored grass taller than a person grows next to snow. It is mixed up. All mixed up this weather it doesn't know what to be. I don't know what to be, come to think of it. Today I feel like writing. This is all that I know.

Valentine's Day Diva

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 19:39:00 +0000

I can't help myself...

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 20:41:00 +0000

After I wrote 29 Things for that 25 Thing thing, I continued to add to the list, in my head. Maybe writing lists is like vacuuming for me. Once I get going, I can't stop. I appreciate your humoring the phase that I am in.

1. I like the number 11. It is the number on my house. I've also been told that it is the master number. I like that about it.

2. I once bicycled 100 miles in Ireland with a public library hardcopy of Ulysses in my side bag. I didn't finish the book then, but I plan to finish it now--as in this year.

3. I'm an album girl, so much so that I fall in love with them and can't stop listening to them. My latest infatuation (I know, earlier post): The Walkmen, You & Me.

4. All of the felt in our piano is in danger of being eaten by tiny moths.

5. I first saw the Pogues live in NYC on St. Patrick's Day. I was 6 months pregnant with Thea. We almost didn't make it to the show, mostly because Tad threw the tickets away. The night before we left I was able to cancel the old tickets by phone and order new tickets to be picked up at will call. Kids--save your online receipts.

6. One summer I worked as a breakfast waitress in Denali, Alaska. I hid the cash that I made in the bottom drawer of my dresser. About halfway through the season we drove to Fairbanks and I bought a mountain bike with a large wad of bills--mostly ones.

7. If you write me a letter I will write you back. I know--I should go first. Maybe I will. Look for letters from me. Soon.

8. I want to play violin with The Cape Ann Symphony.

9. In a past life, I spent the better part of my days making mix tapes for people. I used watercolors to make the list of songs pretty. I wonder if anyone still has one of these babies. And a better question? What's on it? Peter Gabriel? Led Zeppelin? Depeche Mode? General Public? Definitely General Public.

10. I'm horribly nostalgic, sometimes maudlin.

11. I used to eat French toast at Dot's Diner once a week. Now I can barely eat French toast. Times change.

12. The majority of the furniture in our house was found alongside the road or given to us by a friend. I used to think that this was a phase and that some day we'd buy furniture. I now know that this is not a phase.

13. Christmas is my least favorite holiday. I'm trying to turn this around by making peace with Jesus.

14. When I take pictures I don't notice myself thinking at all, which is why I like photography as much as I do. Which is a lot.

15. I am proud of the friendship that I have with my brother. It took wrangling and letting go and then hanging on to shape it into what it is.

16. I used to like snow a lot more than I like it now. Maybe this is because after it snows in Utah and Colorado the sun comes out and it is tomorrow.

17. I like to know people's stories. And backstories.

18. I do my best writing when I am driving, taking a shower or lying awake in bed.

19. I'm working on a definition for "family."

20. Giggling children make me giggle.

21. Crying children make me cry.

22. I identify with giraffes.

23. What if I made a list without using the word "I"?

24. I'm a sucker for sultry summer nights.

25. And ocean swimming. And salt.

26. I try to find beauty in the world. Every day. Today it is warm afternoon light on snow.

27. One day, when the kids ask, I want to be able to tell them about religion--what it is and what it isn't.

Neglect

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 19:53:00 +0000

I haven't been writing here because I've been writing here. If ever I had intentions of not writing to the "internets," I've successfully failed. Also, I'm seriously interested in knowing what you think about the books I posted about recently.

Anyone?

In other news: listening to The Walkmen, You & Me and digging it, really digging it.

Pie for You

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 05:07:00 +0000

God Bless America

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 13:35:00 +0000

Museum

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 17:17:00 +0000

In the news.....

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 14:34:00 +0000

As critical as I am about the role of the Mormon Church in the passage of Prop 8--and I AM critical--vilification is NOT a solution.

There are Mormons who support gay marriage. There are Mormons who spoke out and continue to speak out against the proposition. There are Mormons who WILL decide that it is discriminatory to deny gay people the right to marry.

Some very ugly things are being said. I hope that people will stop.

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 19:22:00 +0000

Blatant Discrimination

My Two Cents on the Passage of Prop 8

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Sat, 08 Nov 2008 14:27:00 +0000

I am happy that we have a new president. I'm cautiously optimistic. I'm hopeful.

But at the end of this historic election I am also very sad.

I've read everything that I can on both sides of the Proposition 8 campaign. I've tried to understand how Christians justify their position of bigotry.

They argue that marriage is sacred and that it is between a man and a woman.
They argue that change is bad for our country, for our children.
They argue that children will be corrupted by learning about the love of a man and a man. Or the love of a woman and a woman.
They argue that our culture is being corrupted by this love.
They argue that this isn't about civil unions, but about marriage--that marriage is their term to define, their term to raise their children by. They argue for ownership of this word.

They live in fear.

This is not about children.
This is not about corrupting our culture.
This isn't about marriage and how it's defined and by whom.

This is about discrimination. And persecution. And about second-class citizenship.

It's about civil rights.

The exorbitant funding of Yes on Eight's campaign by the Mormon Church will be seen as one of the ugliest things 21st century Americans did in the name of Christianity, in the name of religion.

This discrimination committed in large part by the church of my upbringing and the consent of my loved ones leaves me indescribably sad.

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 20:45:00 +0000

This is a photo of Billy Bragg in concert at Somerville Theater--though I'm fairly certain that most people who view this photo will be thinking something like,"What the hell is that?"

The picture was taken at the end of the concert from the balcony with my cheapo camera phone and I admit to being a bit foggy--mostly because I'd fallen asleep during the lullaby like ballads and awakened for the rise-up-against-the-man songs.

I apologize in advance to Billy for what I am about to write. If you are here in search of a legitimate concert review, please redirect yourself accordingly.

I first met Mr. Bragg (in song) when I was teaching Animal Farm to unsuspecting high school freshmen. After a robust discussion about the different definitions of capitalism, socialism and communism over PB&J at the teachers' lunch table, Mr. Carlson the physics teacher proclaimed that there was an album that I needed to hear. The next day he brought in The Internationale. He'd recommended that I have a listen to "The Marching Song of the Covert Battalions," maybe even play it for my students in conjunction with my lesson on the -isms. It being my first year teaching I was unaware of the huge potential for major fun making of my music. Rap and "Stairway to Heaven" seemed to be safe choices, but most kids had never heard of Billy Bragg and they especially hadn't heard of "I Dreamed I Saw Phil Ochs Last Night."

I went ahead and played "The Marching Song of the Covert Battalions." They didn't really get that Bragg was making fun of the defense of capitalism and they somehow determined that I was a "communist" in the style of Mao or Castro, not in the fashion of Mother Teresa. On this day I also branded myself as having very bad taste in music. During the "tra, la, la, la" section there was a student I'll call Fernando who marched around the room pretending to play a trumpet while laughing hysterically.

The short of it is that the lesson was not my best of all time and in subsequent years I dropped "The Marching Song..." in favor of songs that students found less strange. However, I'd been hooked by The Internationale and Billy Bragg's nods to Woodie Guthrie and The Clash in his lyrics and music.

I bought a couple more albums and took them on long road trips. I thought about joining a commune.

Until recently when I learned that THE Billy Bragg was coming to a concert venue near me. I looked into going. This meant trying to listen to his new album for free and in doing so determining that it was terrible. I could no longer conjure up visions of the younger, protest Billy that I'd fallen for. I envisioned (sorry Mr. Bragg) an old (at 51--I know--I'm a bad, bad person), tired, post punk dude who had said all that he had to say. Or, that if he still had things to say, I wasn't sure that I wanted to hear them. On a whim, I purchased tickets.

And HE shoooooowed me. He kicked my cynicism and apathy on their asses and made me want to do something. Since my night with Billy, I've called the Democratic Headquarters in Gloucester and arranged to canvass for Obama in New Hampshire. I've posted videos on Facebook, where I'm in contact with my LDS family, about Mormons who are NOT for Proposition 8 (small things, but something).

It's not that I didn't care before I went to hear Billy Bragg. I do care. At least I think that I care. But sometimes it takes a swift kick in the butt to realize exactly how much I care. And that I need to act. It's not that I agreed with everything Billy Bragg said. Because I didn't. But there was a real earnestness in the way that he approached politics, cynicism, our election. It woke me up--literally and figuratively.

Billy Bragg--you showed me. And you kick ass. Yes, even for an old guy.

Five Things

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Sun, 19 Oct 2008 15:43:00 +0000

1. We have a new toilet flapper. I never knew that a new toilet flapper could make me feel this way.

2. I turned the heat on this morning. For half an hour. I tried to make it until November. I tried. I promise.

3. Fru-fru coffee. I like it. I get a maple latte (usually) at the Lone Gull once a week. I think about my fru-fru coffee all week and then it's Sunday and I ride my bike to the coffee shop and buy a froo-froo (trying out different spellings) coffee.

4. Today is Sunday. The Sox are still in it. I will drink a fru-fru coffee soon. The toilet flapper is flapping. Or not flapping, depending on how I think about it. It's October. Cole and Aidan have been giving me red and orange leaves and asking me to keep them in my pockets. I'm wearing slippers. And sweaters. And thinking about all of the people I love.

5. Four is symmetrical and five is only kind of, depending on how I think about it.

Fall....

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Sun, 12 Oct 2008 22:18:00 +0000

The next day...

noreply@blogger.com (Jane) — Fri, 03 Oct 2008 21:34:00 +0000

Last night I drank from the effervescent, drunkenly adorable mug of champagne that was Sarah Palin.

Today I woke up with a headache. And a stomachache. And a lifeache.

Where's the substance? Beyond the bubble? Where, where and where?

Damn bubbly, making me feel so good and then so bad. So, so bad.