Creep

Some of you Radiohead fans may have already seen this...but I thought I'd post it anyway. It's creepy (sorry, necessary pun).

P.S.--If you have an oldish computer like I do, it might take a minute to load up.

Because I don't have photos

Two Legs Bad

About a week ago, while driving and listening to the radio, I began to quietly fume as Bush talked about the Iraq war. He fielded questions, maintaining his stay-in-Iraq-because-I-say-so position. He went on about Al-Qaida and the threat they pose and after a few minutes of 'we have to get these guys' talk I realized exactly how long Bush has been trying to connect Iraq and Al-Qaida. I had to stop and shake myself awake to remember that we went to war over the threat of weapons of mass destruction, unseen and unfound weapons of mass destruction. I've heard his silly lines of reasoning so many times that I feel like a character from Animal Farm in that I've almost started to believe that what he says is true. I'm nearly guilty of not being able to remember what the farm was like before the pigs took over, foggy and distant as it is.

Then there are things that cause me to snap to, like an around the world headline found today in the B section on page SIX of the GDT. It reads, "Intel report: Al-Qaida threat is heightened." First line: "Al-Qaida is using its growing strength in Pakistan and Iraq to plot attacks on U.S. soil, heightening the terror threat facing the United States over the next few years..."

And now war supporters say, "Look, see, Al-Qaida...they're a threat." But why are they a threat? How stupid can a person be? How can someone not see this war's role in the mobilization of said groups? I want analysis...the straightforward, no nonsense kind that links the growing strength of terrorist groups to four years of chaos, destruction and violence in Iraq....to our middle finger up, poised and ready to fire, U.S. leader and White House cabinet middle fingers that say....well....they say precisely what a middle finger is supposed to say, the gesture universal.

Last Night at Harbor Loop

On 7/12/07 old folk and young folk and middle-aged folk of Gloucester and thereabouts came out to hear music at Fitz Henry Lane. Featured musicians donating their time and talent: Joe, Leo and Inge and a bunch of other local and semi-local music makers. It was a good time.



For more photos click here.

Summer

Cosmos about to bloom. I can see the tall stems from here.

A man in front of me at Market Basket tells me how to properly unload my cart. There's a right way. And a wrong.

Baby starts screaming, I take her out and a kid offers to walk my cart to the car. "At least you have a car," he says. "Mine got taken when my girlfriend smashed the headlights in with a baseball bat. Someone called the police. It got impounded and sold at auction for $300. I put almost 15 grand into it."

Baby in the car. Asleep. Listening to our leader drone on and side step, not looking any of us in the eyes.

I think about basil from the garden, fresh pesto last night for supper, the way the warmth of toasted pinenuts brings out the sweet, spicy smell of basil, garlic on the tip of my tongue this morning.

Summer makes me take notice, the way the light is long and drawn out, how sounds sit at the tip of the ear, the way sea-salt air is here. And there. And then gone.

Gift

There are things about being a parent that are difficult.

And then there are things that are easy, this afternoon, the kids and their sweetness, wanting to make cards and gifts for Thea who turns one on Friday. Cole drew a gasoline tanker sitting atop a yellow and black road. And Aidan made a card with a baby wearing a birthday crown, cake and presents within reach. Upon completing the card Aidan said, "A card isn't enough. I want to make something for her to play with." "Sketch it out," I said, and a few minutes later she'd created instructions for a wooden baby rattle. With a bell inside so that the baby can hear it ring, arrows pointing here and there so that she and the wood cutter will know what to do, where things should go.

This is a world full of sadness and disappointment and longing. It is also a world full of tenderness and beauty and love. I am glad for myself on days that I am able to see and feel both. My children help me to see.

Everywhere

It is everywhere. In the crevices of the sofa. My hair at night. The stone steps cold, we do a dance together. A jig, of sorts.

Her skin is brown and smooth and clean. Not sandy. But clean.

No lines. Smooth. No lies. But tender.

And beautiful.

The Girls

Familiar Word in My Inbox

Word of the Day for Thursday, June 14, 2007

proselytize \PROS-uh-luh-tyz\, intransitive verb:

1. To induce someone to convert to one's religious faith.
2. To induce someone to join one's institution, cause, or political party.
3. To convert to some religion, system, opinion, or the like.

Jesuit missionaries appeared; the Japanese allowed them to proselytize.
-- Walter LaFeber, The Clash: A History of U.S.-Japan Relations

It has given the world an example of what hard work can do, but in general Japan prefers to focus on its own affairs and let other countries proselytize for democracy, capitalism, communism, or whatever else they believe in.
-- James Fallows, "Containing Japan", The Atlantic, May 1989

He has a message and he wants to proselytize the whole world.
-- William Schneider, "The Republicans in '88", The Atlantic, July 1987

Proselytize is formed from proselyte, "a new convert, especially a convert to some religion or religious sect, or to some particular opinion, system, or party," from Greek proselutos, "a proselyte, a newcomer," from pros, "toward" + elutos, from eluthon, "I came."

New Sofa

Last week we gave away our 100-year-old sofa bed in exchange for a 100-year-old sofa, slightly bigger, longer, perhaps better for taking a nap or sitting three people. The sofa bed had recently been becoming uncomfortable, a small tear beneath the seat cushions had turned into a larger rip almost all the way across that made sitting feel like sinking. And when I learned that the 'new' sofa would be a palatable shade of green and that it would have funky wooden feet, I began plotting the white (if you can call it white) sofa's removal, the stained, threadbare slipcover free to be threadbare and stained in someone else's living room, someone else's attic. An enthusiastic woman from Maine came to take our old couch away; I nearly hugged her.

After a week of sitting on the new sofa in all sorts of configurations, it turns out that it sprongs instead of springs. It is tired beyond tired and this shows, especially when sitting. The outercovering might be nicer than that of the other couch, but the insides, they spring and sprong and rumble and threaten to break free when pressed upon by little feet. And while it's true that taking a whole-body-stretched-out nap is now possible, that's about all the new couch can do--one body stretched out, not moving, not springing or spronging, this type of couch sitting such a rarity in our house that we might as well enshrine it. In plastic.

The going and coming of the couches, along with a school year ending and children growing and the coming and going of people in my life, makes me wistful, thinking about the things that I once had that were slightly flawed but more than acceptable, exchanged for something that might be better. So I am not yet plotting the removal of the new green sofa, mostly because I know that it can't be replaced.

It's Only Time

Happy Medium

Aidan painted this a few days ago. It's one of my favorites.

And I even have all of my eyeballs

In a day or two the birds will be gone. I'll walk to the window as I've done dozens of times during the day for the past 10 days and the nest will be empty. I'll pause, I'll wish they were there, and then I'll go about my day. I'll move the dishes, clean the table, sweep the floor, wash the children, count to three, be stern, be loving, be a mother.

I'll look for something else to watch, to notice and to let go. But I'll miss the birds.

You knew that there would be at least one picture...

....but this will probably be the only one because mother bird nearly pecked my eyeballs out while I was taking this. Though I can't say I blame her.

I'm thinking of naming the babies. I like Percy. Maybe Otto or Otis.

Or maybe I'll see what Aidan and Cole think. I'm guessing that Cole will offer up Ivan or Coco Crisp. And Aidan...probably something like Rose or Princess or Mrs. Bird. She recently named a stuffed lamb Whipped Cream, Whipty for short. So the birds might end up with porn star names, if we're lucky.

Fecal Sac is Fun to Say

Today I am able to count them. Four babies in the nest. FOUR. Four always hungry mouths to feed. Four pooping babies.

While I am watching the father bird feed his beaky children, I catch sight of a fecal sac. Food in. Food out. A tidy white package emerges, one that doesn't end up in the land fill. These robins clearly aren't part of the global waste problem.

If the words fecal sac, in and of themselves do not tell you enough, go here.

A Discovery

Her muted red breast feathers bristle. Angry and cat-like, she's ready to pounce. Chirping loudly, he dive bombs to protect the nest. I casually chat with the neighbor as territorial war cries erupt around us. We watch the birds, she of the occasional buxom breast and he of the tiny black toupee. She carries a wiggly insect in her mouth. He chirps and warns. The pair flits and flies from tree to wire, to stone wall and back again until we've walked away from the sprawling Rhododendron that grows alongside the house.

Once inside I look through the dining room window, follow a bit of white balloon string up from the ground into a small nest resting on the branches mid bush. I watch and wait. When the mother bird flies in with a worm, three, fuzzy, closed-eyed birds stretch their gangly necks, tiny mouths open and waiting. Their mother drops food into each gaping mouth and proceeds to sit on her babies. She nestles, stands up, sits down again, a bit of fuzz peeking out around her side feathers. She does not look comfortable.

She seems to be looking for something. And waiting, if not patiently. The look in her eye, the one eye that I can see, says that it's five o'clock and that he's due home any time. In a few minutes she perks, stands and flies and her partner enters the nest, perches himself at its edge. He feeds the seemingly starving birds. Again they strain and crane to find the food. Again the food is dropped into their persistent, hungry mouths. Again the father bird flies out. Again the mother bird flies in, sits, waits. Sits and waits.

I show Aidan the birds. Then I show Cole the birds. I watch the birds for the better part of an hour. I watch the flying, the chirping, the feeding, the sitting, the perching, the flying, the feeding. The baby birds require constant care. I watch. And I watch. I feel tired. And exhilarated. All at once I feel tired and exhilarated by what I have seen.

Dino Makeover

Isn't it cute?

Dinosaur wrangling by Aidan E.

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.