Not for Ourselves Alone

Summer Singing

2011-07-06T07:29:00.000-07:00

It is true that summer makes me sing.

Not in the shower, or with the radio.

More like sun singing, green and purple.

Moxie singing. Pesto songs.

Fiddle sounds flutter out of her window and into mine.

Trill. Skip. Moths and butterflies and ladybugs and birds.

And singing.

Bob and Poison Ivy

2011-07-05T09:20:00.000-07:00

by Cole

**Note. This story includes drawings. I so want to scan all of the drawings, but for now, it's just the story. The comments regarding the drawings are made by me (unless in quotes).

Aside from a few spelling/punctuation corrections this is exactly how Cole wrote the story.

Cover

*Drawing. Bob saying, "It won't hurt," with all sorts of bumps protruding from his body.

Page 2

Bob was an ordinary man. He liked pizza and going on adventures and rainy days. He went into the woods and touched a leaf. He did not know it was poison ivy.

*Drawing. Bob saying, "It's just a leaf, right."

Page 3

Then Bob's finger started to itch. So Bob called the doctor but all the doctor said was that he should be on a liquid diet.

*Drawing. You should see Bob's face when the Dr. tells him to go on a liquid diet.

Page 4

So then he had to explain it to the doctor. But then he remembered that he was on a liquid diet. And that he ate a turkey for dinner last night.

*Drawing. Bob having lots of funny looks on his face.

Page 5

So Bob said that he ate a turkey. The doctor was so mad that he pulled his beard off and hung up. So Bob went on "Itch" dot com. Itch dot com showed bug itches, instalation (I'm not sure what this is) itches and last but not least plant itches. It showed a plant that was familiar to him; he also remembered he had touched it.

*Drawing. Bob sitting at his computer, straight-faced, visiting itch dot com.

Page 6

It said its name was poison ivy and if you were allergic to it you would have blisters and before you got blisters it would itch a lot lot lot.

Page 7

Well apparently he was allergic. His hand kept itching and it started to get wrinkly too.

*Drawing. Bob looks gigantic and very, very itchy.

Page 8

One week later a blister appeared. It looked green and ugly and it didn't itch anymore. But he didn't know how to get it off.

*Drawing. Four squares showing how Bob cannot get the blister off. Bob has an exclamation point over his head.

Page 9

Bob called the doctor again. He said he was on a liquid diet which made the doctor calmer. Bob talked to the doctor about the poison ivy. He said that it would go away in a week.

*Drawing. Bob on the phone with funny expressions on his face.

Page 10

In a week the bump went away. So Bob was up and running into trouble.

*Last drawing. Scanned for my personal viewing pleasure as I adore the ending to this story.

Kid Stuff

2011-07-05T08:30:00.001-07:00

My children are in Maine with their grandparents and I am taking the time to go through the world's largest paper pile--paper accumulated over the past year--or maybe longer.

I am finding things that I have not seen before. Little sketches, stories, poems, pictures, notes. A year's worth of children being children.

A year's worth of pink kitty drawings.

I have been laughing out loud. And crying out loud. And doing other things out loud.

I have been invigorated, inspired, illuminated, awed, soured (like a pickle, not milk), surprised.

I am profoundly thankful for the teachers, friends, and humans interacting with my children; you are a gift.

My children are a gift and I am grateful.

Over the next few days I am going to try to post found things that I love. My favorites...and then I will shove everything into a folder or box or file or cabinet. I will freeze moments in time. I will let go and live.

Baby Learns to Crawl

2011-01-30T10:13:00.000-08:00

A few days ago we noticed a loose tooth in Thea's mouth. Bottom right. A little wiggly.

Thea is four and has expressed great enthusiasm for having a wiggly tooth like her older brother and sister.

But four seems a little young for a wiggly tooth.

We went through all of the things that it could be:

1. Sucking two fingers, regularly.
2. A bump to the mouth.
3. Sibling rambunctiousness.
4. Alien abduction.
5. Pink Kitty (Pink Kitty gets blamed for a lot these days).

Of course it took us forever to realize that it might be that she is losing her first tooth.

Why would she lose a tooth? How could she lose a tooth?

MY BABY IS NOT LOSING A TOOTH!

A quick look behind the loose tooth revealed the cause: a big girl permanent tooth making its way into the world, rearing its bumpity little head, causing parents to hide tears of sadness--I mean joy.

Thea is genuinely happy about the prospect of gaining a big girl tooth in the place of her silly old baby tooth. She is genuinely happy about her first visit from unicorns and the tooth fairy.

But I'm not as easily convinced that this tooth thing is a good thing.

It means one thing: I'm losing my baby. She is being replaced by a girl. A big, big girl, a teenager, almost. And there is nothing to be done about it.

Do you hear that internet? Nothing.

She will grow and I will mourn and hold on to the bits of baby that are left, cat whiskers, for example.

When she stops drawing 100-whiskered cats, expect another ridiculously maudlin post from me. You might not want to be around, say, when I write about her first day of kindergarten (September, you've been warned).

Love you baby girl.

Love you. Always.

Eel the Komodo Dragon

2011-01-19T13:30:00.000-08:00

Cole's class is making self-published, hard cover books. He is very excited about this project.

I found this draft on our dining room table.

PS--I asked Cole a little bit about his drawing and ideas. He reports that the picture is Eel in Antarctica, one of the many places the Komodo dragon tries out in his search.

Eel The Komodo Dragon

This story is about one Komodo dragon. He just doesn't know that where he is is where he should be so he goes to different places and tries to find his true home but when he finds out that where he was is his true home he has to fix his life.

Living

2011-01-10T10:00:00.000-08:00

Rumbling thoughts. Trying to remember so that I don't forget.

Horribly sentimental, remembering my babies in the house. Round the table, the center of this house, talking about Howard Blackburn and what makes a hero.

Colored lights on the tree. Elaborate squirrel traps. Butter on steak.

Babies crawling across the floor give way to running children, through the yard, past peonies in full bloom.

Saint Francis in the garden says a prayer for us all.

Bless this family. Bless these people.

It is the people who make the memory.

We forget, sometimes, what we don't want to remember. Sometimes we forget what we want to remember.

But we try to hold on in some small way.

I remember fires in the fireplace and smokey living room, sitting in the sun, tea and coffee. Stone steps.

Halloween and masks and the piano. Knitting in the sitting room, knitting in the living room. Knitting hats. Mittens.

Her hands. His laugh. Our laughter.

Braided rug, in our house now.

Pictures and pictures. Listening with Aidan, assignment for school to retell a story that has been passed down from generation to generation.

The story of Nena with her sister and her German mother in Washington DC in the park and being asked not to speak German. Nena's memory. Nanny's memory and now Aidan's memory, recorded in her Book of Me.

The memories continue as I think. Some flutter in front of me and are lovely and disappear as quickly as I have remembered them. Some linger, like stringed instruments.

There is beauty and sadness in memories. There is something ghostly that comes from knowing that this is my memory and only my memory.

Others have different memories. We try to remember what we want.

Living becomes mixed up with dying.

2011-01-10T09:55:00.000-08:00

Influence

2011-01-10T07:37:00.000-08:00

e.e. cummings poem, followed by ra ra riot lyrics

dying is fine)but Death

?o
baby
i

wouldn't like

Death if Death
were
good:for

when(instead of stopping to think)you

begin to feel of it,dying
's miraculous
why?be

cause dying is

perfectly natural;perfectly
putting
it mildly lively(but

Death

is strictly
scientific
& artificial &

evil & legal)

we thank thee
god
almighty for dying
(forgive us,o life!the sin of Death

Dying is Fine, John Pike, Wesley Miles, e.e. cummings

To settle our thoughts
Never minding what for
nothing of a harm to dread
On my mind
Tell me what belies
Oh Tell me what I could have
Oh
Tell me what for

No more of this living dying
Just scientific analyzing
Forgive us oh life
The sin of

Death oh baby
You know that dying is fine but maybe
I wouldn't like death if death were good
Not even if death were good

Is this it
Maundering about and
All I have is too much time
To understand
One can only love
Life until its ending
Oh
And I can't forget

No more of this living dying
Just scientific analyzing
Forgive us oh life
The sin of

Death oh baby
You know that dying is fine but maybe
I wouldn't like death if death were good
Not even if death were good

The Turkey

2010-11-24T16:58:00.000-08:00

Cole brought this message about the turkey home from school a couple of days ago. He seems a little conflicted about his turkey eating. He loves to eat turkey and he loves turkeys. What to do?

Our conversation:

Me: So you don't think that we should eat turkey on Thanksgiving?
Cole: Do you eat turkey on Thanksgiving?
Me: Sometimes.
Cole: I am only going to eat turkey on Thanksgiving.

The Turkey
by Cole S. Cunningham

The turkey is known on Thanksgiving. I have to state that it really hates it.

The turkey hates everything about the Thanksgiving day. They see one after another being slaughtered all day. Before they know it, they're being slaughtered too.

So please eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Aidan's Red

2010-11-24T16:46:00.001-08:00

I finally found Aidan's red poem. It had been hiding amongst the hundreds of papers that inhabit the house. Someday those papers are going to have their own room.

Red

Red leaves in the fall
from the trees
to the ground, from the
top to the bottom.
Red, deep red deep as blood
flowing through the
heart. Red hearts, apples
in fall, like leaves
falling to the ground
top to bottom in
the fall.

Edge

2010-10-30T14:49:00.000-07:00

Today I follow the small, black fin of a harbor porpoise.

I run. It swims. I run until I am out of breath and the fin is out of sight.

Yellow, the center of a flower, in the leaves and on the wall.

The long of it. And the short of it.

Walk until the edge is out of sight.

Cole's Halloween Poem

2010-10-26T17:41:00.000-07:00

What Happens to a Thing from Halloween In November
by: Cole S. Cunningham

Ghosts groan
candy rots
witches go to China.

Zombies take the day off.
A Jack-O-Lantern is useless.

Now cats are just cats.

Bats go in caves.
Skeletons shatter down to their graves
bones and all.

It's stormy
the moon won't be glowing
like it did on Halloween night.

Halloween's frightened by November.

Halloween masks don't give people a fright
it's November.

No more spiders no more rats.
It's November.

Halloween is over.

2010-09-19T21:53:00.000-07:00

At midnight I hear his voice; she has fallen out of bed and is crying and he is trying to soothe her.

It is confusing for both of them. He's been trying to get home for three hours, ankle deep in swamp, dark as hell.

She's in a strange, cavernous house.

I pick her up, carry her to my room.

I leave him standing in the half-lit hallway of broken promises.

Why wasn't he here? Why do they worry? What to do?

The story is the same.

At 12:24 the baby screams. We are separate and not sleeping, all of us under this roof.

I am here for him. They are here for them. He is here in a dream.

And Malcolm Gladwell is not the golden boy they describe.

A Postcard from Salt Lake City

2010-09-13T12:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I bought the album The Suburbs, Arcade Fire and listened to it in its entirety (two times) while I sewed curtains. Sew. Listen. Sew. Pin. Listen. Remove stitches. Pin. Sew. Listen.

The album got in and got stuck and will not leave. Maybe reading Olson has something to do with its persistence--or memories of childhood or talk of the grid or self-aware lyrics (maybe painfully so) or the prettiness of the song about sprawl that made me want to find out more about this album, folks who live in Montreal now, but wanted to write about growing up in the suburbs of Houston.

In finding out about them I found what's below: The Wilderness Downtown--worth the efforts of installing Google Chrome--especially for people who grew up in the capital of grids, Salt Lake City.

I'm a bit haunted by this song and this video and the opportunity to write a postcard to my younger self as it brings up all sorts of stuff--the house that raised me, the city of salt, the people who have come and gone. It's a bit surreal, watching a memory explode with trees while listening to this band's postcard to and from the suburbs.

My Wilderness Downtown

About Walking

2010-09-09T18:20:00.000-07:00

It is September and I have been walking.

I am taking note because James Cook and Peter Anastas and Charles Olson have got me thinking about walking. In Gloucester.

Do people walk? Do people in Gloucester walk? And why do they walk? And why do I walk?

1. Gloucester has walkers, walkers who make a person stop and think about walking.

a. Richard from Bananas walks. He walks from East Gloucester to Main Street and home again. Almost daily.

b. The man with the sandals from Lincoln Park walks. He walks and he sits and walks and he sits.

c. Aurora used to walk. Aurora used to live in Lincoln Park. I miss Aurora.

d. My backyard neighbor walks. She waves and I smile. I wave and she smiles.

e. The dog walkers walk. Sometimes they collect their shit and sometimes they don't.

f. Ernie walks. He is training his new dog Bogen with the three legs to walk long distances because Ernie walks long distances. With his camera.

g. The Boulevard walkers walk. I do not know their names, but I recognize their faces.

h. Main Street walks. Briskly. With packages. With purpose. With anger. With amusement. Pushing baby carriages. Drag feet style.

I walk because I like the sound of footsteps following footsteps. It is slow some days and I sit. I look people in the eye--if I want to. I notice the flap, flappity of the flags that I wish someone would take down after the holiday.

I count stars, lights, bits of sea glass. I count waves. I count people. Walking.

Some days I think about her and her and him and her. And you. Sometimes.

Tonight it came up about what matters.

I think that Gloucester matters. And walking matters. And people matter.

Tonight I am happy that people matter.

Thea Writes

2010-09-08T16:20:00.000-07:00

Uh. It was a great day. There was just two rains and then there was two sunnies. And then dark.

We played on the park. We went to the gym. We had fun at the park.

I'm done.

The Bash

2010-09-04T16:37:00.000-07:00

Storm

2010-09-03T12:21:00.000-07:00

Last entry, December 21, 2009.

Why does a person write and then not write and then write again?

I'll start somewhere, pick word petals, throw colors to the wind.

Fall in love again with the click of the keys and the beauty that is around me.

I'll begin with a storm. The one that I can feel outside my window.

"No breeze. No currency of leaves," it presses into my spine wide awake with unrest.

The people on the news are unconvincingly frantic, as is their hair. They are too well kept for this coming storm, hairspray and hair dye whispering sweet nothings to Earl.

Earl pays them no attention.

Storm is one of those words, the kind that can get mixed up for another word.

Storm as a noun. Storm as a verb. Storm as finite.

For now. In, get it out, let go.

Mark time between storms until breathing eases, until words swallow little words and little words swallow little letters.

An i. An eye. Your eye. Always.

Summer

2010-09-03T10:04:00.000-07:00

Of Winter Flowers

2009-12-21T14:00:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-16T15:12:00.000-08:00

Apology

2009-09-26T16:38:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-31T17:31:00.000-07:00

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....

2009-06-29T12:03:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-10T18:03:00.000-07:00

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

2009-05-01T08:16:00.000-07:00

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

2009-04-19T16:23:00.001-07:00

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

2009-03-31T06:03:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-03-15T14:59:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-14T17:53:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-11T07:30:00.000-07:00

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

2009-02-14T11:39:00.001-08:00

I can't help myself...

2009-02-06T12:41:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-26T11:53:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-27T21:07:00.000-08:00

God Bless America

2008-11-25T05:35:00.000-08:00

Museum

2008-11-20T09:17:00.000-08:00

In the news.....

2008-11-10T06:34:00.001-08:00

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.

2008-11-09T11:22:00.000-08:00

Blatant Discrimination

My Two Cents on the Passage of Prop 8

2008-11-08T06:27:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-10-24T13:45:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-19T08:43:00.000-07:00

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....

2008-10-12T15:18:00.000-07:00

The next day...

2008-10-03T14:34:00.000-07:00

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.

Summer where did you go?

2008-10-01T06:19:00.000-07:00

What to do with a rainy day...

2008-09-27T17:39:00.000-07:00

There's nothing that beats catching rain in Tupperware. While wearing a diving mask.

Downspouts are overrated. But snorkels aren't.

Especially if you are five and obsessed with water--toilet water, rain water, bath water, hose water, salt water, chlorinated water.

Water.

An addition...

2008-09-25T10:37:00.000-07:00

Looking In...

2008-09-24T09:00:00.001-07:00

Doing Numbers

2008-09-23T15:04:00.000-07:00

The toilet has been clogged for 24 hours.
I have been looking for a job for 49 hours.
The fundamentals of the economy are not strong.
At 1 p.m. three men moved a piano out of the first floor.
At 2 p.m. three men and one woman and one baby girl moved a piano and accessories into the first floor of an 85-year-old house.
At 4 p.m. everyone stared.
At 4:01 p.m. everyone yelled.
At 5:00 p.m. no one cried.
At 6:08 she completed her math homework--the answer is 10.
There is one fruit fly in the bathroom.
There are 32 fruit flies in the kitchen.
At 6:09 the sun is setting.
He's due home later.
The answer is 100.
The answer is nothing.
The answer is extra credit.

Drinking from Aquariums

2008-09-21T07:19:00.000-07:00

I am an American aquarium drinker
I assassin down the avenue
I'm hiding out in the big city blinking
what was I thinking when I let go of you

from I am Trying to Break Your Heart
Wilco

It being the last day of summer...

2008-09-21T07:05:00.000-07:00

I took a lot of photos this summer and haven't done much with them, except let them collect dust in iphoto. In the next few days, or weeks or months, I am going to brush the dust off of some of the photos and post them here.

If anyone knows how do some basic photo layout through blogger, please email. I'm going to be dropping my flickr account soon and will not be using it to upload photos from here on out.

My Addictions

2008-09-08T11:16:00.001-07:00

I am addicted to reading Craig's List--specifically--the job listings. My favorite so far...the person looking for someone to do some "editting"--as if to say in the ad--see--I need an editor. I think that some people are bored at work and post jobs for fun. Some of the listings are outrageously silly and ridiculous.

I am also addicted to reading articles about Sarah Palin. I'm waiting for her to be ready to speak for herself.

Maybe this will happen around the same time that I find a job that I want to apply for on Craig's List. I'm thinking post election.

Just a thought.

For Ernie

2008-09-04T05:40:00.000-07:00

I have lived in Gloucester for the better part of 12 years, my former residence Salt Lake City, Utah, vastly different in terms of landscape, cultural makeup and economic sustainability. When I first arrived I got unusually lost on narrow, winding streets--in a car and on foot. I came to learn that New Englanders are quieter in many ways than the people I'd met in Utah and California and Colorado, but that many are very loyal and that beneath a reserved facade there are stories. I wandered through Dogtown in search of cellar holes and words carved onto rock and ate early evening picnic suppers at the water's edge of Halibut Point. I visited all of Gloucester's beaches--even the hidden ones and rode my bike around the cape and also downtown to go to work at a local coffee shop. When I took a job teaching English at the high school, I continued to learn about the complex fabric of our community--I taught sons and daughters of fisherman, bankers, local business owners, bartenders, developers, truck drivers, commuters. I heard stories about Italy and Portugal and Brazil and Puerto Rico as passed down from the lips of great grandmothers and great grandfathers. I went to my first Fiesta--including opening and closing ceremonies--and was struck by a deep commitment to family and place. The Fort teemed with confetti and celebration and shouts of joy. I felt part of something bigger than myself.

Soon my children were born, three of them. I made an effort to see Gloucester through their eyes and fell in love with the place all over again. I consoled fussy babies with walks along the Boulevard and through the Fort, stopping at the playground when they were old enough to climb. We watched boats come and go, spirited basketball games between locals, fish being hauled onto rocks by fathers and daughters. We played "I spy" the greasy pole and then made a game of finding the small plaque that marks the place where Charles Olson lived and wrote. We noticed the way the light fell on the ice house in late afternoon and we counted wooden pallets. If the tide was out we'd walk home along Pavilion Beach, crossing the Boulevard near the cut and walking along the canal towards the high school. We have made this walk hundreds of times. We have counted hundreds of pallets. We have seen the Fort and the Boulevard and the canal in fog, in ice, in sunshine. And we never tire of it.

Gloucester is a special place and deserves to be treated as such. It deserves to have care and attention paid to it in terms of development. People need to be smart about the way they choose to change Gloucester. The right people need to be consulted--not just the people who will financially benefit most. Residents need to have a say. It seems obvious that a large, corporate hotel and condos would change the nature of the Fort and Gloucester. It seems obvious that there are other ways to go about developing our city. It seems obvious that we ask the following questions (to name a few): What will this bring our city? What will this take away from it? Is there a better way? What is the price? And is it worth it?

Made Me Chuckle

2008-08-29T07:58:00.001-07:00

Looks like someone corrected this as quickly as possible. Maybe even before jobs were lost. But still, it's funny to think about student groups ordering these up en masse and receiving them and writing with them and learning with them and supporting McCain with them. And while I'm not currently feeling very political and/or mean-spirited I must borrow a line from Nelson and say, "Ha, ha."

2008-08-26T07:47:00.000-07:00

Big Day for Sesame

2008-08-26T07:36:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in the mud room/computer room at the computer while the kids watch Sesame Street. First Cole tells me that Jack Black is on. He knows that I like Jack Black. I get up. I walk out to the living room and I watch Jack Black count the sides of a stop sign. "It's an octagon," he says. "Octagon." I laugh. Cole laughs. Aidan laughs. Thea says, "That's Jack," though I think that she might be referring to my brother, her Uncle Jack. Who knows.

I return to the computer. I read. I type. I do stuff. Then I hear that ipod commercial. No, it's not the ipod commercial. It's Feist. And she's singing with Muppets on Sesame Street. I get up again. I watch Feist singing and dancing with Muppets.

I return to the computer to type this up. To tell the internet--if it doesn't already know--that Feist and Jack Black are on Sesame Street today.

To August birthdays...

2008-08-25T07:13:00.000-07:00

Making Sense of It (whatever it is)

2008-08-21T18:15:00.000-07:00

There are days when it all makes sense. Today was one of those days.

Happy Birthday Cole.

Love,

Your Mama

Hummingbird, Wilco

2008-08-19T10:35:00.000-07:00

His goal in life was to be an echo
Riding alone, town after town, toll after toll
A fixed bayonet through the great southwest to forget her

She appears in his dreams
But in his car and in his arms
A dream can mean anything
A cheap sunset on a television set can upset her
But he never could

Remember to remember me
Standing still in your past
Floating fast like a hummingbird

His goal in life was to be an echo
The type of sound that floats around and then back down
Like a feather
But in the deep chrome canyons of the loudest Manhattans
No one could hear him
Or anything

So he slept on a mountain
In a sleeping bag underneath the stars
He would lie awake and count them
And the gray fountain spray of the great Milky Way
Would never let him
Die alone

Remember to remember me
Standing still in your past
Floating fast like a hummingbird

Remember to remember me
Standing still in your past
Floating fast like a hummingbird

A hummingbird
A hummingbird

Seven

2008-08-17T06:38:00.000-07:00

Today is Aidan's 7th birthday and I am over the top sentimental about it. I have been trying to remember myself a few days before she was born, the way I waddled when I was over nine months pregnant, August heat, my parents eating Chinese food with Tad downstairs in the yellow dining room of the new house while I labored upstairs, Oh Brother Where Art Thou on the t.v. for distraction. I have been trying to remember her birth, her face, her cries. I have been trying to remember the person I was before my children were born--the teacher who could not stop talking about teaching, the book freak, a more patient, gentler, kinder me--so I imagine.

Our memories of things often fail us, or help us, depending. We remember what we want to--and this is the best way, sometimes. A bit of sadness wrapped up in sweet fondness makes for nostalgia, the kind that sits on our throats like a cat.

Of course I am very much in love with and proud of my baby girl. So much has happened in seven years that I couldn't possibly write about it here. O.k, yes, I have already written about it here and it is these memories and images that swirl around me and disappear into now.

Big B, little b, what begins with b?

2008-08-11T09:17:00.000-07:00

I've been having vague notions of giving up writing here. Maybe because this blog (with a small b and I can hardly type this word) has fulfilled its purpose. It was useful for venting, raving, keeping track. For a while.

But now what? It's become a bit of a gnat for me. I try to shoo it away or swat it or catch it with a dustbuster--the same way I have been trying to catch houseflies. For the record, I have caught two flies this way. They were at the window screen and unsuspecting. Catching flies midair with a dustbuster is a different kind of occupational feat. Or hazard. Or sideshow (ask the kids).

I like writing. Or, more accurately, I like writing in the way that a lot of people who write love and hate it. But do I like writing here? Anymore?

This is a question that I am trying to answer. I probably won't make a decision one way or the other. I'll probably let go for months-or even a year--and then I'll be back. Like visiting an old friend. And it will feel like time hasn't passed. The blog and I will embrace and kiss on each cheek as people in Quebec City do--and we will go on as before--plodding, plotting. Always plotting. Always plodding. Because that's what people (and web logs) do.

The Rip

2008-07-29T13:41:00.000-07:00

I should listen to my brother more often. Or more quickly. Or something.

Weeks ago he recommended that I check out the new Portishead. I've finally gotten to it.

This song is haunting and speaks to my day.

Embedding disabled--but the link should take you where you want to go.

2008-07-26T19:38:00.000-07:00

There are things that I want to write. But then I don't write them. And then time passes. And then it all seems silly.

Sometimes I make notes to myself in my head. And the notes fly away.

Summer is a little over half over. I am going to try to write soon.

Summary

2008-07-14T20:27:00.000-07:00

I'm back from Utah and what can I say?

Flying in an airplane is inhumane treatment of humans.
High school reunions are weird.
I hate it when people don't give a fuck. Or pay attention. Or make it always about themselves.
If you live in the east then you're "green" according to some.
Green is subjective, having many definitions and interpretations.
I love people....my grandparents and my brother kick ass.
I am happy to be home.

2008-07-03T07:31:00.000-07:00

Pinwheels swirl and spin and rotate, subject to the whims of the wind and the breath and the air.

A toy, a game, a person.

Faces of Fiesta

2008-06-27T09:31:00.000-07:00

Film lives on....

2008-06-25T07:29:00.001-07:00

an open letter to the media

2008-06-24T16:01:00.000-07:00

Dear Media,

You are out of control.

Not Yours Truly,

An annoyed high school teacher (former and future) in Gloucester

Summer

2008-06-23T09:34:00.001-07:00

How I Spent My Summer Vacation by Jane C. (title provided by Joe)

2008-06-19T09:46:00.000-07:00

1. Watching Ernie the cat.
2. Watching Ernie the cat rub his body along the windows.
3. Watching Ernie the cat roll on his back.
4. Watching Thea watch Ernie the cat.
5. Listening to Thea say, "I see Ernie. I see Ernie. I see Ernie," an indefinite number of times.
6. Realizing that Ernie the cat has provided seconds and minutes and hours of free child care and that I should probably offer the cat owners some sort of compensation.
7. Singing.
8. Singing with Cole.
9. Singing "Surf Wax America" with Cole.
10. Finding "Surf Wax America" on youtube.
11. Dancing and singing in the mud/computer room to songs that we like that have been uploaded to youtube--the best semi free entertainment that ever there was.

PS Budweezer is a Weezer tribute band.

Preschool Graduation Wore Them Out

2008-06-12T18:09:00.000-07:00

2008-06-03T13:48:00.001-07:00

Breaking

2008-06-03T13:24:00.000-07:00

I've been watching it for days now. In socks. Pitching cigarettes off of the porch. The sun is out but it doesn't matter. The pain is the same.

The routine is the same. Out in the afternoon, drink, stumble, pass out, smoke, sleep it off. All quietly. She leaves in the morning. She always comes back.

It is mostly the same. But today I think that I see him sobbing. And my heart breaks for him.

2008-05-21T07:14:00.000-07:00

Wilco and Alpacas and My Mother

2008-05-11T17:51:00.000-07:00

Today is Mother's Day. Or Mothers Day. Or Mothers' Day--depending on what kind of a punctuation person you are. So as not to offend punctuation-sensitive readers I will use all three within and throughout this post.

It is Mothers Day. But I am not going to write about mothers or being a mother or my mother or mother earth. Instead I will write about Wilco and Alpacas. If you do not want to read about Wilco or Alpacas, I advise that you click on something such as "next blog" or maybe scroll to the top of the window and click on something to go somewhere that isn't talking about Wilco and Alpacas.

I like Wilco. All five of us went to see them last summer outdoors at The Shelburne Museum near Burlington, Vermont. We then went on to camp at a campground near Lake Champlain where it was possible to hear the tent next to us coughing...but not at all possible to hear the refusing-to-nurse baby screams that exited from our tent. There are sound proof devices for this kind of thing. If you are interested, please Google sound proofing devices for screaming babies in tents and proceed to the nearest website.

The Shelburne Museum is a really beautiful place to see a concert...and it almost wouldn't matter who is playing. Go when the moon is full and the air is warm and it's summer. You probably won't be disappointed. But don't ask me for your money back if you are. I cannot be held responsible for the purchases made as a result of reading this Wilco and Alpaca-laced blog entry.

This is to say that we will again be attending a Wilco summer concert...this time in August at Tanglewood. It is possible to buy two adult lawn tickets for $26 each and to show up with three kids in tow and they'll be let in for free. This is what I would call a cheap date. We'll even be able to sit on the lawn. And we're bringing our pop-up circus tent in case it rains. If you haven't been scared off yet, here is the link to find tickets.

The other thing that I wanted to talk about was my new found love for Alpacas. I always knew that they were cute. But I never knew that they were this cute.

Yes, I've been able to overlook the moss growing into their fur and the green in their teeth which means that it is true love and that the Alpacas and I were meant to be. Don't tell Joe and Renee, but I couldn't help myself and bought a non-breeding male this weekend called "John Wayne". He is going to be living in our back yard.

But before there is worry, again, pictures. How cute are they with their fuzzy-bear features and their long-as-life eyelashes?

I love Alpacas. And Wilco. And maybe even my mother. Yes, definitely my mother.

Happy Mother's, Mothers', Mothers Day to all of you.

Of Roses and Thorns

2008-05-06T14:39:00.000-07:00

From 1988

2008-05-06T08:09:00.000-07:00

The music rocked. The kids were out. And I danced.

Today I'm sore from shaking parts that aren't used to shaking.

Song of the day is this:

Is it you?

2008-05-05T12:05:00.000-07:00

Never mind.

My Letter

2008-05-03T15:57:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday a very nice and helpful man named Keating called to find out whether or not he could be of any service. "Yes!" I said. "You could be of a lot of service. I've been trying for 12 years now to have my name removed from lists such as the one that you've used to call me today. How do I do it?"

An awkward conversation with nervous chuckling, 15 minutes and a home address later I had my answer.

Today I composed the following:

Dear Bishop Keating (I feel like I should call you Brother Keating because this is how people do it),

I was born Jane (no middle name) Sxxxxxt in Salt Lake City, Utah on August 2, 1970.

My parents had me baptized at the capable-of-understanding-right-from-wrong age of 8. The baptism took place at the Stake Center on 13th South in the Foothills--as far as I can remember.

I have not been a practicing LDS (formerly Mormon) person for at least 20 years (probably longer).

I hereby declare my desire to be removed from any and all lists kept by the LDS church. If possible I'd also like my name removed from baptism for the dead records. I was too young and impressionable to know what I was doing when I performed these baptisms. The whole thing scared me. And still does.

Thank you for your willingness to help me with this matter. You are the first person in 12 years to take this request seriously.

Sincerely, Jane

Spring

2008-04-30T14:53:00.000-07:00

I'm posting this while I think about things to write about the FLDS difficulties, the Miley Cyrus non scandal and the Mormon bishop who called me yesterday.

Spring is here, isn't it?

Change

2008-04-14T11:49:00.000-07:00

Driving in Lee's car to pick up the kids and This American Life is on, a young boy talking about how his dad changed and how he sometimes acts more like a kid than an adult. I'm holding on to his words--what's he going to say next because I want to know more about why people change and why they don't and when adults act like kids and when kids act like adults. I listen a few more mintues and I start thinking about Gloucester figure Jon Sarkin because the boy on the radio is describing what it is like to live with someone who has had a stroke. In the next minute I hear Jon's voice talking about the kind of relationship he and his wife used to have--before the stroke. "Closer than most couples," he says.

I listen to every word. About the birthday party and the balloons and the cake and misunderstanding when Jon's lazy and when he isn't. I listen to his wife describe how he talks with his siblings and parents and how there is a piece of the "old Jon" that comes through, how tired he is afterward.

I can't stop listening. And then it's over. Just like that and Ira Glass's voice says that he's recently checked in with the Sarkins and that Curtis is in college and that the girls are teenagers. The program originally aired in 2000. "The family is still together," Glass says.

Later at home I find the program on the computer and listen to it in its entirety. There's an introduction that references the book Nobody's Family is Going to Change by Louise Fitzhugh of Harriet the Spy fame and I start thinking about my Utah family and people and change. I want to have more patience with my family, as 12-year-old Curtis suggests during the program, but then there isn't anything wrong with their brains, mostly. That I know of.

Perhaps it's the "that I know of" piece of it that makes me want to try with them. It's easy to write them off, or be angry or impatient with them. It's much more difficult to find a way in--to say these are my people and I am going to make sense of them the best that I can, despite failures and frustrations. Though it's unlikely that any of us will change much, it's possible for us to have something rather than nothing--this something devoid of hoping that things can change, even a little. Because if I don't expect things to change--at all--and then they do--well I don't have a word for this. Or maybe this should be my definition of hope.

To listen to the program click here.

Sarah and Joey are Dead

2008-04-08T16:32:00.000-07:00

I didn't learn. The unmasked masking tape taper has struck again. This time in the upstairs bathroom--in a mix of funny and sad because this morning I had to flush Sarah and Joey, goldfish bought yesterday, down the toilet. The tape on the toilet seat says better than I could that this is where Cole's beloved pets are buried. Use with caution.

It also says: scene of the crime. This is where my mother flushed and eulogized and waved goodbye as the water swirled. And then she hurried us off to school.

I'm feeling bad about the whole thing for lots of reasons. We were not successful pet owners even for 24 hours. My children and husband are sad about it. And I never had a chance to sing, "Joey I'm not angry anymore" to a fish.

The Apple and the Tree

2008-04-07T12:53:00.000-07:00

Of Cole and Apples and Blue Masking Tape

2008-03-30T12:18:00.000-07:00

I've been shooting and posting a lot because it's March in New England and I don't know what else to do. There are days this week that we should have left the house--but we didn't. It is not surprising then that going-on-five-year-old Cole has taken to wrapping apples in blue masking tape. Here is a transcription of our conversation.

Cole, why did you wrap the apples in tape?

So I wouldn't eat them.

Apparently he had eaten one earlier. After the conversation was over he peeled the tape off of an apple, stuck the tape to his head and took a bite of apple. Then he said, "I was only joking."

There has got to be a place in this world for Cole and blue tape and apples. Suggestions anyone? Anything except the circus. I'm afraid he'd go and that he'd love it and that I'd never see him again. This would make me sadder than the cold winds of March ever could.

The Official Flashing Diamond Barbie Post

2008-03-28T16:30:00.000-07:00

Flashing Diamond Barbie has been living with us for two weeks and this is the first I've seen of her. Did I happen to mention that her ring flashes? It flashes when its underside is pushed--lights-on-top-of-an-ambulance like flashing. Without the siren sound.

Knowing next to nothing about Barbie I decided to Google her. 122 sites wanted to sell me 443 Barbie dolls. My search did, however, turn up diamond girl's official title: Mattel Barbie Bride Doll with Twinkling ring, and more or less, an official description:

"It's the day of Barbie's dream wedding, and you're invited! Help Barbie prepare for her special day with her beautiful and romantic wedding gown and veil. Sheer fabric with a sparkly floral motif adorns her white satin dress...and she has a sheer veil with a pink tiara, too. In one hand she holds her bridal bouquet of pink flowers, and on the other hand -- surprise! -- she wears a pink "diamond" ring that lights up and twinkles! Ages 3 and over. Doll cannot stand alone. Requires three button cell batteries (included)."

Let it be known that I am a parent who is desperately trying to unpack some of the baggage of my childhood so that my kids might not have to carry much of it around with them. For example, Jesus can be just a person--right? And also a Playmobil toy who interacts with pink unicorns in fairy gardens. To my children he does not have to be man of miracles and thorny crowns and crucifixion and resurrection and crying on Sunday. I'm kicking myself for not figuring this out five Christmases ago, though I'll admit to winging it a little when it comes to this parenting gig which is why I'm now going to say a prayer. Dear god please let my children turn out o.k. Thank you. Amen.

And then there's Barbie. Barbie may be just a doll, not the freakshow, cleavage-showing, thin-waisted, big-breasted, anorexic-creating toy of some of my undergraduate women's studies courses. She can live in my house and drive Monster trucks for a living and go naked all day for all I care. We've owned one Barbie until now. And she's lived a relatively peaceful life in a toy basket.

Then along comes flasher girl who might be neat if her ring transformed into a light saber or some other useful thing. I'm a girl who often likes a good gimmick--like shoes with zippered pockets. But a flashing diamond ring? I realize that competition from Bratz is stiff but Mattel, have you lost your mind?

Here's the part where I could rail against the wedding industry establishment. And diamonds. And South Africa. And Mattel. And cheesy wedding gowns that cost too much to be worn once. And froo froo la la.

Here's also the part where I could welcome Wedding Barbie to the house, maybe even throw her a party because right now she's not worth the trouble of doing otherwise. And also because she was given to Aidan by a real, live person who will teach her more about how to be a badass woman--in every way--than a stupid doll will teach her how to be a dumbass.

Here are the before and after glow pictures. For more flashy, glowy fun click here.

Where do babies go?

2008-03-26T13:02:00.000-07:00

Taken in October

Second Coming

2008-03-24T11:03:00.000-07:00

He's risen
I want to say
next morning
Easter
to a boy
talks like he's
lived
a hundred times
yet
door slams
and I break,
a second.

Coming,
I say.
Broken or not.
I'm coming.

Note to Ed Sanders

2008-03-24T10:57:00.000-07:00

Dear Ed,

I don't usually write notes like this I don't usually Ed but I'm writing one now about VF and you and how he said you weren't sweet and I say yes in that moment and later avoid going down over balcony and it ending badly as that Shakespeare play with a balcony and I don't usually think that people are sweet mostly they're assholes until I hear that poem and recognize your hair forgotten at a panel where people disagreed mainly G didn't make much of it that I know how can someone be sweet with a publication called Fuck You is maybe what he thought I think or he's cranky or something or other things yes other things like feeling small or not in agreement to make an argument to make an argument or drama or any of that bullshit I say you might not be sweet I'm not saying you are but in a moment you were something sweet floating back to me in the back of the church or hall I forget where I was when I heard you say what you did if you want to answer this do please though I may not send it for lack of stamp the stamps changing value and lifetime stamps that the PO put out to invest money they make from people who buy forever stamps in bulk is what he told me are not pretty that's it Ed I think that's all I meant I don't expect answers Ed sometimes I do to go on. To go on and on.

Thanks for listening Ed.

Sincerely,

Jane

2008-03-23T14:48:00.000-07:00

While I should have been paying bills

2008-03-21T10:35:00.000-07:00

What ever happened to multitasking?

Piles

2008-03-15T15:14:00.000-07:00

A's rainy day project.

To Be Clear

2008-03-13T18:49:00.000-07:00

I like Frida Kahlo's work. To look at it is to see through the eyes of a woman who spent a lot of time in pain after a near fatal bus accident at age 18, time alone waiting for Diego Rivera to finish his day, time thinking. She was an outspoken woman, lover of men and women and tequila and cigarettes, painter of revealing self-portraits as she saw herself in the mirror attached to the ceiling of her four-poster bed. Yet Diego, muralist for the people, would receive more attention for his art while they were alive.

Frida would leave Mexico, to return. She and Diego would live together. And separately. They would divorce and remarry. After her death she would become an icon with Madonna taking her on and buying her paintings. Julie Taymor would make a movie about the "love story" between the pair. People would watch and admire. There would be parts missing, like the part where the two go from being Trotskyists to Stalinists, how Frida's former lover and Diego's estranged friend Leon Trotsky was assassinated on Stalin's orders blocks from La Casa Azul. There would be people who would wonder how Frida and Diego could have supported Stalin. There would be people who would choose not to be bothered by this fact, it easier this way.

Some people might argue that heroes do not or should not exist. And they might be right. Frida is not my hero. She was a woman who loved and painted and sorrowed. I appreciate her for this.

2008-03-12T22:22:00.000-07:00

Bigger

This Museum Kicks Ass

2008-03-11T17:33:00.000-07:00

The Museo Frida Kahlo located in a suburb of Mexico City is one of the best places that I've been in my 37 almost 38 years of life. I hope that readers who want to know more about Frida and Diego will get there some day.

In fact, when (not if) I win the lottery I will pay your way. This because I want for you to see it. And this because I love you. Yes you.

Leap day diptych minus the hinge

2008-02-29T15:18:00.000-08:00

As Is

2008-02-25T09:24:00.000-08:00

Exhausting
idle
in my driveway
rust enough
to break hearts
across Texas
put her into overdrive
and watch
numbers tick
like dead soldiers
off miles
body bruised as fruit
backseat boneyard--
pizzas
not lovers.

She's got
glove box
maplines
across
the mainland
dollar in my pocket
piece of bubblegum
stuck
to the dash
keeps a door from jiggling
giggling like a drunk
girl singing
Pedal to the Metal, baby.

Speed up
slow down
sputter round
that
corner used
previously
if ever new
once
when a window
crank roller
smooth as piss
got a leak
that grew until
she blew up
in my face
like those windbags
in new cars
and I looked at her
and she said
soft yelling--
it's over.

Teenager Alert

2008-02-19T12:19:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I woke up and Thea was 15. Her attitude--I am too wearing this skirt out of the house. And talk about sassy. She actually said, "Move it" to her father. Followed by, "I need you. Need you. Need you," to me. But once in my arms, there was little I could do to console my 19-month-old baby. "No mama. No."

I need you. But I don't. I need you. But I don't. If this isn't the never ending internal conflict of a teenage girl, I don't know what is.

Also, I think that she's been sneaking to the pub at night, learning how to shake it.

Like I said. 15. She's 15. And I'm in a cloud with what to do about it.

My kids go nutty for the unicorn song. Click here if you'd like to go nutty, too.

At That

2008-02-18T10:46:00.000-08:00

I walk downtown, past the fire rubble for the first time. I see dead and gone Christmas wreaths tied to one part of the fence, a small, plastic wreath in the middle, remains of a marred temple visible against blue sky. It's black and blue and makes me sad.

I take pictures, not with my camera. Proceed, I say. Go like it didn't happen. But it did, I reason with myself. It did happen.

When I arrive at the cafe I am alone. I choose a seat in the back corner and try to read the paper. "People are dying," I think. People are always dying.

I want company so I make a call. We talk. And talk. And argue, maybe. But our arguments don't matter because in the end we agree--about something, if nothing.

It feels right to leave it at that.

Leave. It. At. That.

Bios, Interviews and Stephin Merritt

2008-02-17T19:27:00.000-08:00

Today I met with a friend and we talked a little about bios. Some are silly and read like a resume. Some tell nothing about a person. But some say more than words on a page and give a glimpse into a person. I like those bios. I like to know.

Maybe I prefer interviews. Here are some excerpts from an interview with Stephin Merritt of The Magnetic Fields.

As Hundreds Cheer
The Glum Triumph of The Magnetic Fields
by Rob Tannenbaum
December 1 - 7, 1999

The part of the interview where Merritt says that he relates well to the English.

***

"I have a low voice and a sad facial expression, and I'm not enthusiastic about anything," Merritt explains unenthusiastically, "and I prefer honesty in conversation. That combination drives some people crazy. Almost everyone in California thinks I hate them. I relate well to the English; they understand that I don't hate them." The emotions detailed on 69 Love Songs, he says, include many unknown to him, like—er, such as ecstasy, joy, jealousy, and boredom. All are "emotions I don't actually feel," he says, because his own moods range only "between delight and agonizing depression."

***

The part of the interview where he talks about his upbringing.

***

"I was conceived by barefoot hippies on a houseboat in St. Thomas," he says with the practiced air of someone reciting a fable. An epileptic baby, he was raised by his mother, an English teacher to whom he is still close; he has never met his father, the obscure folksinger Scott Fagan, who recorded for RCA and Atlantic in the late '60s. In the hippie style, mother and son were "sometimes very poor." They lived in 33 houses in his first 23 years, mostly in the Northeast, including a stint in West Berlin when she briefly married an Army officer.

At 14, with a guitar, a synthesizer, and a four-track tape deck, he began recording. He preferred music and reading ("Other than sports, I can't think of anything I don't want to know more about") to socializing, and was regularly threatened with violence in school. To escape bullies—and to dodge mandatory sports—he went to the Cambridge School of Weston, outside Boston, a "leafy prep school for bohemian kids. The people who didn't seem different were looked down upon."

The school had a good music program, where he studied theory, augmented by a Berklee tutor. He was, he hints, a prodigy. "I'm a professional musician because that's what I've had the most success in. I was told I had promise in several other areas: poetry, acting, science." After seeing a TV program on tracking junk mail, he devised multiple spellings of Stephen, his given name, for different aspects of his life: "Stephin" was the musician, and the spelling stuck.

He never had to come out, he says, because "no one thought I was straight." Friends kept telling him he was gay, "and finally I said, I guess you're right." His mom gave him a book called The Gay Mystique, and he followed the author's advice on how to find sex: He went to New York and struck up a conversation about Fassbinder in a West Village bookstore. "But I hadn't read the part about what you're supposed to do," he laughs, "so it wasn't all that satisfying."

His college education was interrupted by a "crippling" bout with a fatigue virus, and he was an itinerant student: some NYU Film School, some art school in Boston, and several years at Harvard Extension School, where he fell one statistics exam short of graduation. He studied film and the history of the built environment, a discipline that applies semiotic theory to highways, suburban planning, and other artifacts of industrial culture.

***

This is the part of the interview where he talks about how The Magnetic Fields came to be. And about writing 69 Love Songs.

***

At first, a female singer fronted the Magnetic Fields, partly because Merritt was opposed in principle to singer-songwriters (Freudians can read a rejection of his father here), partly because he was "a terrible singer, very graceless and out of tune." Since then, he's honed a unique style, delivering his froggish baritone with a lethargic air, as though from a fainting couch. And TMF have expanded to include Gonson, a Harvard College grad now studying with queer theorist Eve Sedgwick at City University while pursuing a Ph.D., plus two of her college mates, Chinese American cellist Sam Davol, a Legal Aid lawyer, and Korean American guitarist John Woo, a graphic designer.

No one, Merritt says, believed he could write 69 good love songs. "It was clear they were humoring me." It took him a full year, "working whenever I was awake. I had no life. I sat around all day writing songs. Which is often what I do all day long, anyway."

One of the grandest of the 69, "A Pretty Girl Is Like . . . ," is a deconstructive answer song to Irving Berlin's "A Pretty Girl Is Like a Melody." Merritt had been reading Ulysses, and considering how writers objectify women in metaphors. In the lyrics ("A pretty girl is like a violent crime/If you do it wrong, you could do time"), he celebrates, mocks, and critiques song similes, adopting "an exaggeratedly sexist, male point of view. It's a lot of baggage for one song," he acknowledges, "but that's part of why it's funny."

He still listens to 69 Love Songs, and reconsiders his choices. For instance, he regrets not assigning "I Don't Want to Get Over You" to another singer. "My voice always says, 'I Don't Want to Get Over You,' " he grumbles. "I could sing 'Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah' and you'd remember it as 'I Don't Want to Get Over You.' "

He doesn't even delight in the record's acclaim, which routinely labels him a genius. "I prefer 'whiz,' " he deadpans. It's not fun to be called a genius by The New York Times? "Well, if it's in The New York Times, it must be true."

It's hard to gauge his sincerity when Merritt says, "I would like to be as successful as God. And as rich." He bristles at indie, but suspects the majors, who aren't leaping to sign him anyway. ("He's not exactly Kid Rock," says one A&R honcho, who considers the indie-rock experiment an expensive failure.) Given his British-identified distance, Merritt's view of himself comes clearest when he lists the people he identifies with.

***

This is the part of the interview where Merritt lists the people he identifies with.

***

First he names avant composer Harry Partch, "for his spunky iconoclasm and insistence on novelty," and Cole Porter, "for being a writer of light verse who has a facility with words—a big showoff." (Both were gay, he notes, "but that's not really why I identify with them.") And he cites Irving Berlin, "for being an artistic hack, but making a show of hackdom."

Next, he mentions the Buddah Records producers Kasenetz-Katz, "for inventing bubblegum pop, and doing everything themselves while pretending to be different people," David Bowie, for hiding within stage personas, and Annie Lennox "for making the subversion of one cliché the entire idea of a song."

Lastly, he names two folk artists: Grandma Prisbrey, a California senior who built "stained-glass windows from the junkyard," leaving behind a full village, now a registered landmark, created wholly from discarded objects; and Henry Darger, a Chicago loner who "had no life," and whose Byzantine writings and watercolors were discovered and celebrated only after he died a pauper.

Together, this motley comprises Stephen Merritt's self-portrait: visionary and crank, genius and charlatan, highbrow and lowdown. Music so encompasses his day, his mind, his identity, that he's become a human medley.

Set List

2008-02-16T10:33:00.000-08:00

The Magnetic Fields
2/15/08
Somerville Theatre

California Girls
I Don't Believe You
All My Little Words
Come Back from San Francisco
Old Fools
Xavier Says
Walking My Gargoyle
Too Drunk to Dream
Till the Bitter End
The Night You Can't Remember
I Thought You Were My Boyfriend
Water Torture

* * * *

Lovers from the Moon
I Wish I Had An Evil Twin
Give Me Back My Dreams
Grand Canyon
Papa Was a Rodeo
Drive On, Driver
Nun's Litany
The Tiny Goat
Smoke and Mirrors
Zombie Boy

* * * *

Three-Way
Take Ecstasy with Me
The Book of Love

Lyrics to "Water Torture"

Lorraine MacLean's strange paintings change the rain-stained Maine terrain. Paint rain, Lorraine./ "Teasing bees is easy," wheezed Louise. "These bees are teased." Tease these, Louise./ Jill's drill skills instill ill will. A shrill trill fills the hills. Drill still, li'l Jill./ Jo-Jo knows the snow slows, no, no Jo-Jo slows the snow. Slow snow, Jo-Jo./ Lulu glues two blue shoes to tutus to lose the blues. Glue, Lulu, glue.