Somebody's Baby

Yesterday in the car on the way to school Cole said, "Mommy, I want to be in the army when I get bigger." In zero to 60 I went exorcist spinning like and erupted into what was possibly one of my worst parenting moments. Ever. Fire-spitting, she-bear emerged to protect my baby, the one I envisioned taking a bullet or a bomb while fighting in a war, a war that I couldn't or wouldn't or shouldn't believe in. I started driving to Canada, right then. Forget school. Must get to Canada. Must. Save. My. Baby.

Though I could tell the Internet about the age inappropriate things that I said to my almost four year old, I'm choosing instead to tell about why an innocent statement from a little boy who doesn't know much about guns and armies and wars unleashed such sadness and fury. It was in this instant that I reacted to over four years of war in Iraq, to my own quiet escalation during this four years, to almost daily reports of the rising death toll, to a president's irresponsible actions. It was in this instant that I realized how many people have lost people they love as a result of this war.

And for what? I know that it's not simple. That war, when to fight and when to not, is not simple. I believe that war, at times, is necessary. But I am astounded by the extreme arrogance and naiveté and obstinance of our leader. I'm angry. And filled with an indescribable sadness for the mothers and fathers who have lost their babies to this war.

But for the Blood

There is an irreconcilable difference between what I watched and what I lived. Between what I watch and what I live. Perhaps this is the problem. Or the answer. The one that comes through the phone line. Or through the tone dead e-mail. Or her voice when she asks, but doesn't ask. The earnestness in his voice, but not the desire to know that what is can't be.

In four hours I must have heard something along the lines of "family is everything" enough times to believe that this is so. This religion, my religion says that family is everything. Into the pores, oozing out, family. Family. "Families can be together forever. Through heavenly Father's plan. I always want to be with my own family. And the lord has shown me how I can. The lord has shown me how I can."

I've been passed along another message, a different one. And it says that families aren't everything, or maybe only sometimes. Perhaps I should write a song about it. Or at least a sentence fragment. Something that says there are other things that are important, more important. Like appearances. And papers. And books. And hair. And skin. And denial. And who. And where. And how much.

He is out in the world. And I am out in the world. And they are out in the world. And there is pain. The pain of knowing that this is how it is. And this is how it will be. There will always be family. In birth and in death we will be. Not together. But apart but for the blood. The blood isn't separate. And it will never be.

A couple o' links

This is one of the coolest alphabet books I've seen in a long while. Click on flickr slideshow to see text.

This is also worth taking a look at--especially if you're someone who often finds yourself talking about poop.

Special

Because I often write about things Mormon here. And because Mitt's running for president. And just because.............I thought I'd mention the PBS Frontline special about the Mormons to air on April 30th and May 1st at 9 p.m. on WGBH (that's channel 2 in Gloucester).

It looks to be informative. Enjoy ye it. If ye can.

I'll be taping it for future viewing pleasure as missing a Monday night date with the bar to watch it seems, well, sacrilegious. So if you'd like to attend a screening complete with popcorn and chocolate and whiskey and knitting, let me know.

sweet baby girl

Period Dress

Tired and Sad

I'm starting to feel like I shouldn't be living in this country, that I don't belong. It's taken me a while to feel this way, being the Mormon-raised optimist that I am, I mean, used to be.

The VT massacre has me sad and scared. And sad and scared. Gun ownership/acquisition laws are slow to change, if at all. I read somewhere today that the NRA spent 400,000 a day for more than one day, if not hundreds of days, to try to prevent Kerry from winning the presidency. I don't believe everything I read, and this may not be an accurate statistic, but the NRA is powerful and it is able to spend money lobbying its positions and--bottom line--guns are getting into the hands of those who shouldn't have them, too many of THOSE who shouldn't have them. And Columbine. And Simon's Rock. And the Amish School. And other school shootings. Something's broken. Something's wrong.

You know it's broken when the swimming teacher is shocked that your three year old has never seen a squirt gun. That he doesn't know what to do with it. You know it's broken when kids spend more time indoors or in completely supervised situations than out riding bicycles with friends, or playing with a group of kids where kids watch each other's backs and learn how to be kids and be in the world without a thousand adults constantly reminding them what to do. And not do.

People are scared for their kids. I get that. I'm scared for my kids. But where can a kid go and be a kid? Maybe Lanesville.

I don't agree with the President's approach to the war in Iraq, or lack of approach, to this war. And I don't agree with the Supreme Court's recent decision about abortion. I live in a city that can't properly fund its schools due to an inane state aid formula and special education mandates that require cities to provide, provide, provide without funding, funding, funding. Then there's proposition 2 1/2 and rising health care costs and energy costs for the city--let alone the rest of the uninsured country. It doesn't make any sense.

But here I am. I'm here because I love Gloucester and a lot of the people in it. Because my children can be with their grandparents, people my kids love dearly. And I want to keep caring. I do. I want to go to the 'Up with Children' state rally and talk to the legislators as the city councilman I saw in the coffee shop suggested. I want to do the things that I'm supposed to do, as a concerned parent and citizen. And all of that.

But I'm losing motivation. The people in power and the money that puts the people in power, they're more powerful than I am. I think. I feel insignificant--and I'm tired of feeling this way. I'm tired of feeling like my views don't matter. Basically, I'm just tired. Tired and sad.

Is anyone else creeped out by him, or is it just me?

Cole found this guy in a box of Cheerios. Well, o.k., it was strategic, buying the box with the Spidey in it. And yes he's a water toy. He can spray water out of those holes.

Update

Cole's response:

"I love my name you know."

Four o'clock, or close enough

I think that someone invented digital cameras so that mothers who were about to 'lose it' with their children could take photos instead of losing it. Or in addition to losing it.

We have a little tagger in this house. He's three and obviously thinks highly of his place in the universe. Enough so that he wrote his name with orange crayon in as many places as possible before he was discovered. Places like the window ledge in his parent's bedroom. All of the walls in the upstairs hallway. A mirror. The wall. Another wall. And even another wall. The back of a rocking chair. A window. The side of a bureau. And on an original drawing of a bay-brested warbler (sorry Greg!).

I'm going to clean it up--if it can be cleaned. But first I'm going to document it. And then I'm going to tell him that I love him even when I'm angry with him. And then I'm going to have a bottle, I mean a shot, of whiskey.

This post is about music and friends

One of the most revealing conversations a person can have with another person is the one about music; music then, music now, music once, and music forever. One of my favorite versions of this conversation is the one where I make a verbal list of shows that I've spent money on, money earned by pressing frozen cow patties through a machine with an auger to make nearly edible desserts for people living in the ice cream capital of the world. With this money I was able to splurge on shows at the outdoor venue formerly known as Parkwest, the hippest place to be on a summer night for the 18 and under crowd. It's here that I heard an aging and aged Bob Dylan though I'm pretty sure that I heard Boy George and Tears for Fears in some building somewhere. I also spent money--fresh, green money--to hear Howard Jones and a year later, with my longhaired boyfriend Dave, Scorpions (the 'the' has been removed, thank you to the nonfan Tad) on the tour of their lives. Chicago, only once, pulled at my tender pubescent heartstrings and I rocked out at a Def Leppard show where I nearly got my ass kicked for looking too 'pristine' while belting out the words to "Pour Some Sugar On Me," recently called the greatest strip club song of all time by Bill Simmons. Though I now wince at the sound of Jimmy Buffett, it was at the Salt Palace that I understood and loved the irony that was a bunch of Mormons singing, "Why don't we get drunk and screw?"

And then there was General Public, a band that will some day get its own post, or at least its own paragraph. I wanted to sleep with Dave Wakeling. What more can I say but a little tenderness, please, and it's true that my brother for at least three weeks had me going when he told me that he could get back stage passes to a GP show that never came to be. In high school I listened to, mostly through the loudspeakers of the high school gym and the stereos of a few pimply, wanna-see-my-stereo hormonal boys, the likes of Boston, Rush, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, ACDC, the Eagles, Jethro Tull, The Doors, The Stones and so on.

From what I can tell, I led a sheltered childhood, musically speaking. At a young age my parents introduced me to Neil Diamond, The Mormon Tabernacle Choir (sometimes referred to as MoTab), Beethoven and Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam, not The Vaselines version. I later remember listening to Yanni 'makes me yawn' as well as selections from my mother's collection of hit musicals. Turns out my dad had a thing for Judy Collins, so I learned to play "Send in the Clowns" on the piano, along with the themes to Hill Street Blues and Arthur. On a good day I could be heard practicing "Longer Than" followed by "She's Always a Woman" followed by Bach and Rachmaninoff. I played Christmas tunes and hymns and "The Entertainer." I played a new agey tune at a church service that sent a high school friend off for two years of missionary work; I made people cry. I played and listened and listened and played. I think that I might have taken up violin as an escape, from this, the thing that people called music.

Looking back on it I thank the good lord above, or below, that my taste in music has changed. It's not that I don't or can't appreciate the music or the musicians of my past. I do. I do. I do. But I didn't marry them. I didn't take them in sickness or in health, til death do us part. I took them once. And now I've left some of them. I've left them behind with a lot of stuff, stuff that needs to be left behind.

Call me unfaithful if you will, but I'm not true to any band, anymore. And a fancy music degree or fingers that masturbate along the neck of a guitar or an exquisitely formed fuck face or a 10-week stay at the top of the charts or perfectly pitched octaves or stellar reviews in mainstream music mags can't buy my love. Or respect. Nor do I think that music is 'good' because a musician is 'technically' good. There's music that I like that isn't technically good and there's music that I like that is technically good and there's music that I like because I like what I like. I don't have a formal education when it comes to these things, only the education described above, but it doesn't really matter because in the end what matters it that on some level, the music has got it for me, or for you, or for anyone. The music's got to have that thing that says people are vulnerable, that they're born and that they die, alone. The thing that says people create beautiful things. And that they make and do shit. The thing that says people are tough and build fortresses around themselves. Or that they get hurt but they can still love. That people come and go. Wake up. Together and alone. That they laugh. They love. They hate. They suffer.

Maybe we listen to the same music, but don't hear the same thing. Maybe we listen to different music and hear different things. Maybe my good isn't your good isn't anyone's good. Maybe good isn't good except when it's good. Maybe it's the music that matters, and not the why. Maybe it's the person who matters, and not the why. And maybe this is how it should be, between friends.

"Ineluctable Modality of the Visible"

She's 88 today and I'm thinking about her. Thinking about her being alive this long. The things that she has seen. The things. The things that she knows.

Some people don't know things. They think that they know. And they have papers to prove it. But they don't know.

Angels know. The angels in America know because they see. Before any of us have eyes. Like the eyes in a dream. Like the dreaming waking dream that I had last night. Waiting for the baby to wake and thinking my way through sleep. Waking up and not knowing if I said it, or dreamt it, or dreamt that I said it.

And it's not because of the drink. Only one drink, last night, from the guy who wouldn't spill it. No story. Not like Dedalus. Dedalus has a story. He scrawls and writes. He writes his story for no one to read. But no one isn't nobody.

I am finally reading Fanny Howe. Selected Poems. And she's kicking my ass, in a good way. After a particularly restless wrestle, I awoke with this in my head.


Think
I'm in love
with the poems
or is it lust?
certainly
we'll meet
and secret talk
of god
afterwhich
I'll pick words
from my teeth
like lettuce
apostrophes
a lumpy mess
of my throat.

Later, they'll turn
on me
the poems
I mean
grown tired of
my careful attention
to their every
word.

I'll pray
for a return
to before
alone
and preying
always praying
any way
but
any
way
that I can love
them
loving me.

The Long Way Home

I'm a Buffy fan. Not a rabid Buffy fan, ya know, eat, drink, watch, read, post, make out with photo of Joss Whedon, rinse, repeat. But the kind who has watched every, single bloody episode at least once. The kind who searches out other Buffy fans, if not lazily, and talks about hot vampires and cool chicks over a cup of coffee, high school cafeteria lunch, or a piece of Thanksgiving pie expertly crafted by none other than Donnie who taught a college course devoted to the genre, clips from Buffy gracing, gracefully, the screens of his classroom.

I don't own the music, but I'd enjoy a copy of 'Once More, with Feeling' if someone burned it for me.

Having set forth that I'm not a rabid fan, it is with rabid-fan-like enthusiasm that I tell the internet how happy I am that season eight, as envisioned by JW, is here in comic book form. Buffy lives on. And on and on and on. There are slayers. And clones of slayers. Evil comic book universe characters that I think I'll love to hate. And there's something so seductive about it all. It's an escape that seems to exist even after I've shut the book, somehow unlike pushing the switch on a television. I find myself thinking about little details like hovering feet and a woman's face. I can go back to the book, with ease, flip to a page, call a friend. Wonder aloud, wonder to myself, this universe a salve, if briefly, for cold March winds and desires to drive, fly, run to warmer weathers.

Family Portrait

If I Should Fall From Grace with God

It seems lucky that on my walk to the bar last night I encountered two darkly clad men, Mormon missionaries doing what Mormon missionaries do at nearly 9 o'clock in a bar-filled town such as Gloucester. It seems, also, that they recognized me from a previous encounter, the one a few weeks ago during which they came to my house and after trying to save me asked if there was anything that they could do. "Like, you know, some manual labor." "I'll show you womanual labor," I said as I pulled them, neckties wrapped round my breasts, into my devilish lair. Well maybe it didn't go exactly like this, but I'm not a tell all kind of girl, so use imagination accordingly, or sparingly, or however.

It's not that I wished to fall from grace with God. People often ask me when and how and why it happened. And though I've looked for a defining moment, there isn't one. Instead, a thousand little moments of question and doubt and wondering add up to choosing not to belong to this religion, its lifestyle, its language, the near equivalent of severing a limb, phantom pains lasting a lifetime as the brain reminds the body of what used to be. As I grow less and less fluent in their language, I hear my voice trying to say it how they want to hear it. But the words don't come this way anymore. And there is awkward silence or nervousness at the other end.

Recently and a little ironically my brother tried to convince me to repair the rift that may or may not exist between my parents, my siblings, and me. "They're trying," he said. And I don't doubt that they are. They're always trying. In ways that I can no longer pretend to understand. I don't understand because I'm not trying not to fall. I am at the bottom looking up. It has taken years, the falling. And for me, this falling, the only way out. I want them to understand that it is my fall that has saved me.

from If I Should Fall From Grace with God
Shane MacGowan/Stiff Music Ltd

If I should fall from grace with god
Where no doctor can relieve me
If I'm buried 'neath the sod
But the angels won't receive me

Let me go boys
Let me go boys
Let me go down in the mud
Where the rivers all run dry

More than a Feeling

I have some fond memories of the band called Boston. For one, smooching (yes smooching) this kid Alan in the back of his parents' station wagon while "More than a Feeling" rumbled through the tape deck and out of the speakers and onto my mohair sweater. Then later, slow, but not dirty, dancing to "Amanda" in the stinky, sweaty high school gym after a few too many clandestinely consumed wine coolers of the citrus variety.

I also have a few recent memories of this band, replace tape deck with CD player, replace Alan's back seat with KT's back seat, sandwiched between two child restraint devices while the real life Amanda listened from the front seat and KT played DJ, loud the only way to listen to Boston. There may not have been kissing involved, but that night, sitting in my driveway, speakers rumbling, doors locked to prevent the escape of the passengers, I could feel the love. Love for a band. Love for a time gone by. Love for a feeling. And I get it. I get why the band's official website was taken down and replaced with the statement: "We just lost the nicest guy in rock 'n' roll." I get why fans everywhere are sad. It's a loss. And it's sad.

A's photos of our housebound afternoon

In

Temperature reads cold and windy and I'm wearing orange to make things warm. Seems there isn't an alternative. Two sick kids, one sleeping and not sick. Been in the house for two days without leaving. Think that's called housebound in some parts. Aidan and I entertain ourselves with mirrors and sunflowers and crayons and light. Lucky for the light, if you can call it luck. Lucky for love, if you can call it love. March brings emptiness, usually, and sickness. When the lion creeps in, quick and quiet like, I try to fill up. With baking and telephone, with Margaret Atwood in interview form, the way I like her, a baby to breast, loud words through the walls. Chocolate. I fill and fill. I feel until I'm full, emptiness growing smaller, a receding eye, a waning moon, a single pin prick.

Vacation

Lately I've been thinking. About motherhood and what it means to be a mother. This week, in particular, I have been acutely aware of my motherness and the motherness, or not-so-motherness of those around me. On Tuesday I took my children to the MFA in Boston where a woman offered to hold my tray as we waited in the cafeteria line with a hundred other people waiting in line to pay for their food. The woman told me that she'd "been there" and understood. I didn't hesitate a bit with "yes" when she offered. Then the cashier, who may or may not have had kids, left her post to carry my very full tray over to the empty table waiting for me, empty because a nice man who had been sitting alone at the small table saw my stroller, my three children and me; instead of avoiding eye contact, he offered a place for us to land. And then today a woman at the library with two children of her own helped clean up Aidan's spilled popcorn because I had a babe in arms. By four o'clock, looking for things to do with three children and in need of a few groceries, I poorly planned a late afternoon shopping trip to Trader Joe's. Two days full of understanding of motherness and then one woman at the friendly, happy, good karma store threw up her arms in disgruntlement as my two children, not able to fit in the baby and grocery-filled cart, looked, with their EYES, at a display. Couldn't I puuhhleaze move my children so that she and her shopping cart could get through? "It's busy in here," I said gruffly as I waved along my children who were NOT pissing in a plant, kicking, screaming, or telling the woman to go fuck herself.

I tell these stories because I want to remind myself that some people make things such as mothering easier and then some make things harder. This is obvious, yes, but I need to say it. Some understand that sometimes mothers need help and understanding, or at least a cup of coffee or a pint of beer or a night out. In a culture that tells us in a gazillion ways that mothers can't get it right, sometimes it's nice to feel the love instead of the hate. This week I've felt both, but mostly I want to remember the love.