Domestic Still Life

Monkey

To see the set click here.

Saturday Morning Phone Call

"Is this Jane?"

"Yes. I can't hear you. I'll call you back on the other phone."

"O.k."

Dial. Music through the phone on his end. The music is intelligible. But he's kind of unintelligible.

We talk. About lots of things, death being one of them.

There are a lot of things I could say but I try to change the subject. To music.

I tell him about 69 Love Songs. He already owns it.

He mentions David Byrne, Massive Attack, a few others. He has 300 CDs. His life's worth, he says.

"My crappy t.v., my CD collection, a few other things."

"I'll be pissed," I say. "I'll be pissed if 300 CDs show up at my door. And you're not with them."

What am I supposed to say to him? What is there really to say that hasn't already been said?"

I'm cynical about this now, years of trying to be a saviour and years of it not working. This is the best our relationship has been. And we both know it.

He keeps calling. He keeps living. Barely.

I've decided that it doesn't hurt to keep saying, "I love you." It can't hurt.

I'll say it as many times as I need to. I'll say it and mean it. I'll say it if he's here. And I'll say it if he's not.

Cole

Cole and I have had a rough go of it lately. Crying, both of us. Yelling, both of us. Frustration, both of us. Finally smiling, both of us. Tomorrow is his first day of four-year-old preschool.

The crying and yelling and frustration are all well and good. But I want to remember the smiling. I love this boy. Love. This. Boy.

Here's the Thing (working title)

I have a fancy, new camera and I want to do something with it, though I could do what I want to do without a fancy, new camera. I'm writing what I want to do here because if I don't write it here I won't follow through. Also, I might need a swift boot to the ass if I start whining and acting like I can't finish what I'm about to start. The following is inspired by School House Rock, especially "Three is a Magic Number," the paper crane project, flickr's 365 days, Amanda's letter writing and 69 Love Songs, The Magnetic Fields.

Take at least one photo every day for 365 days.
Post one photo every day to flickr.
For 52 Fridays, print one photo, 4x6, taken during the week.
Choose one person--family, friend, or random--and write a note to this person.
Must be a handwritten note and person must not be expecting the note or picture.
For 52 Saturdays, mail note and picture.
If people want to write a return note they can, but there must be no expectation that they do so.
Cost of project not to exceed $35. Envelopes, notepaper, 52 stamps, 52 prints.
Punishment if I don't finish this project: A hairshirt.

Purpose:

To circulate handwritten mail.
To find cool stamps (I have a thing for stamps).
To make myself finish something that I've started, something long.
To surprise people by sending them unexpected, handwritten mail.
To write to people I want to write to, but for whatever reason, don't.
To make something. Call it art, if you want. Or, call it something else.


Don't forget about the boot in the butt, if I need it. If you know someone who would like a note, please send along their address, but don't forget not to tell them that they'll be receiving a note. Thank you. stewingham@hotmail.com

Relentless

Yesterday I came home to a voice mail message.

"Hi Jane. This is the sister missionaries. We were calling to see if there would be a good time that we could come and see you, um, or give you any kind of service if you need any help around the house or anything. We'd love to come and help you out and to meet you. We'd love to hear back from you.

Our number is xxx-xxx-xxxx.

Do hope you are enjoying this nice warm day (laugh). We hope to hear back from "ya." Have a good day and everyone else. Bye."

I do not feel mean enough tonight to list all of the inappropriate services that could be rendered by the sister missionaries. Two of them. But as I've been going through my day I've been listening to these lyrics by The Magnetic Fields, not to be confused with the Air Supply lyrics of the same title.

Kiss Me Like You Mean It

"He is my lord, He is my saviour and He rewards my good behavior
My secret soul, I know He's seen it He says, come here baby and
kiss me like you mean it He calls me baby, says kiss me like you mean it
He is my life and my salvation He's always right, He's always patient
I pinch myself It's like I'm dreaming it... He is my love, He's always been it..."

The sister missionaries make me think of this song, or vice versa. But I'm afraid to tell them.

Stephin Merritt says, "Of course it's not a gospel song, really, or if it's a gospel song it's--well, I guess it's blasphemy either way. It's more about a B & D relationship."

Either way, what these girls are doing to me, it's relentless and soon, when they call, I'm going to quote Stephin Merritt, the "rabid militant atheist."

Soon girls, very soon.

Think Rattlebrained

This morning I'm up early reading junk e-mail, trying to find the right place to buy my Viagra. How can a person not be intrigued by the following subject line:

"it use turban?"

So I keep reading.

"was so refute decorative pullulate"

I look up the definition of pullulate. It's a verb.

To put forth sprouts or buds; germinate.
To breed rapidly or abundantly.
To teem; swarm: a lagoon that pullulated with tropical fish.

I look up the definition for decorative.

serving or tending to decorate.
Fine Arts. serving only to decorate, in contrast to providing a meaningful experience.

"decorative pullulate"

the abundant breeding of unmeaningful artistic experience?

"Was so refute decorative pullulate"

That's good, right?

But my favorite part is the ending,

"think rattlebrained," it says.

I like that. I'm going to use it as much as possible.

One woman's junk is another woman's treasure.

keeping calm

Dreams

All of us in bed by ten. An early night with the boy to come in first. A bad dream. Then she wakes sneezing, enough to need a sip of Benadryl and a box of tissues. It is after I've moved the boy back to his bed and she's settled that I have the dream. I am wearing yellow rubber gloves, the ones my mother used to wear while cleaning the toilet or the sink. There's a picture on the package of a woman looking pretty and wearing the gloves. I am in our aqua-tiled bathroom and I am not cleaning. I am looking for a shower curtain, a brown and black and white and green one that I bought at the outlets when we pulled the tile. It has been replaced by a white, vinyl shower curtain and I am frantic. I tear at the white curtain with the yellow gloves, but nothing, until I wake him with a cry, the muffled scream that comes through in my dream. "I had a bad dream," I say, and he wants to know what about. I am embarrassed to say that it's about yellow gloves and a white shower curtain. I'm embarrassed that this is what makes a bad dream for me.

I go back to sleep by three and the baby's up at five. Her fever is gone and she eats a banana. There is peace in the early morning darkness. I hear the train against its tracks and I think about dreams, how we can't stop them or change them. I think about what your dreams must be like as you remember things or fear things or want things, as you remember who you've known and what you've lost.

Bedbug Sleep Tight

I get a phone call this morning, one I've been anticipating for three months.

"Calling to tell you and the kids that I love you," he says. "And to follow up on the birthday call. I'm not very good at follow up, but I'm here now."

"I'm glad that you're here now," I say.

Apparently I am the last person to know anything because HE has to tell ME about the bedbugs, summoned between early a.m. film job and late p.m. wait job to fetch ice and move furniture. The headline might read:

Wanted guest brings unwanted guests.

As if she needs another thing to fret about, my sister a single mother of three. The retelling of the story is funny; my brother spins a yarn complete with drama, humour, love, strange things encased in plastic and a high speed chase in her Toyota Rav, blasting "Highway to Hell" along the quiet streets of Salt Lake City, self motivational tape ejected for ACDC, a little sanity.

His stories always come back around to them. How we've changed, how they might have changed, how we might have changed them, when to give up, when to accept, and when to move on.

"She's our sister," he says. "We love her."

"Of course we do," I say. "But what is there to do?"

"I've go an album for you," I say. "Nebraska."

"And I've got one for you," he says. "Hail to the Thief."

We pause briefly, resume talk.

"No! there isn't litigation. Yes, my landlord is crazy. No, you shouldn't worry. Yes, I have a place to live."

"Can you let me know that you're around? More often? A text message--anytime--one word--hello. Because I love you."

"O.K., fine," he says.

And it is fine. This phone call is fine. He's fine. She's fine. They're fine. It's all fine. The Book says that it will be fine, and it will be. It will all be fine.

Finally, it is all fine.

"Sleeping Lessons"

After another sleepless night with their faces and his insomnia I'm back to being sort of o.k. with how answerless and messy this life can be.

But first a BIG thank you to those who replied to yesterday's post. Another thank you to those who distracted me with humour, and such. And another to those who did both.

Today I'm working on answering Cole's question that goes like this:

Mommy, how do YOU get money if YOU don't have a job?

I raise eyebrows. Then furrow. And furrow.

You don't think I have a job?? What do you think I do all day? I ask--while sweeping the floor.

But he's already run off leaving me to furrow and fume and raise eyebrows and sweep by myself. I've since been writing a list of all things a mother does and it turns out that there's not nearly enough space here to list everything. It turns out, also, that maybe a mother should get paid SOMETHING directly and deliberately if only to keep small children from asking questions such as these.

Perhaps my soon-to-be new toy will set things right. It's one that'll enable me to take off my mother hat and try on another, if only temporarily. And it could help me to earn some cold, hard, green cash if I wanted and needed it to. Curious yet?

I'm eagerly anticipating its arrival.

Another Day, Another Bus Stop

To the very small number of people who read this blog, I could really use some advice. I sometimes try to be funny here, but today I'm going to lay it pretty thick. And I'll take whatever you've got to give. There's stewingham@hotmail.com, that other address, the phone and my face.

It's been a full night of internal dialogue. It goes something like this:

Does it help to know that he's there?
Yes, kind of. I want to know who's near the kids.
But in a way it's creepy. Watching his house. Waiting for a sign.
But isn't it creepier if I don't know, if I go to another stop and don't know.
Isn't it creepier not to know?
And then there's the matter of public lynching.
Is it wrong to want to get the guy?
Is it wrong to silently question his parents, ask what went wrong, as they drive past the bus stop, on their way to work?
What's with Dad wanting to tell everyone?
He's got three daughters.
I get that.
He lives next to a convicted pedophile and he has three daughters.
I have two daughters and a son.
None are safe.
But I can't live in fear.
I can't live my life in fear.
But it happened to him. A friend of the family came for dinner.
And it happened to her. But who was it?
It can happen.
It might happen.
I can't live in fear.
Is this why some choose not to have children?
The fear.
The wondering.
Always.
I can't live in fear.
I can't keep them safe.
I love them.
I can't live in fear.

Bus Stop Chitchat

Today at 7:30 a.m. I walked three children to the bus stop to put one of them on the bus. I met a dad of three daughters. After about 10 seconds of chitchat, names, ages of children, etc, he told me about the level three sex offender who lives a few doors down from the stop.

"I want to get him out of here," he said. "He lives by a playground, a ball field, a bus stop. I think it's against the law. Lives with his parents, works out of town, so he's gone a lot. People like his parents."

"Oh."

Silence. Silence.

More chitchat. Schools. Bus routes. Chit. Chat.

But the whole time I'm thinking Little Children. It's Little Children. This is Little Children.

I think about my children. I spend the rest of the day thinking about children. And what it means to keep them safe.

Praise ye the Lord!

I caught the baby singing "Hallelujah" this morning at breakfast.

How is this so?

A) The baby's channeling Inge B.

B) I found god.

C) God found me.

D) I'm in love with a green ogre.

E) I'm in love with Leonard C.

F) It's one of AC's favorite words.

F) It's the first day of school.

G) All of the above.

Piano

If yesterday was a bad day, then today is a good one. I am no longer seeing red.

I walked into town in the sunshine and the air and sat for coffee, outside, in the air reading what Fanny Howe wrote about Edith Stein ("Immanence" from The Wedding Dress: Meditations on Word and Life). I lost myself a hundred times over. I'm nearly a convert.

I walked to the Fort. And looked for signs with which to catch the King.

I walked to the Boulevard. I looked at people. Until I saw a woman, small and thin and grey. She reminded me of Aurora, the sweet woman who walked our street and loved our children.

I haven't seen Aurora in months; it's been that long.

I got to thinking about JC and Looney Tunes and the piano. You know, the piano; the 'effing' piano (this is a child-friendly website). "The one that could drop on you at ANY second."

Yes, that one.

Life is beautifully fleeting. Or fleetingly beautiful.

Pirate Baby

Two Part Story

I.

It's a story about Turtle Wax,

half-used container

kicking around the garage as a kid.

Protagonist: suds mitt made of sheep's wool.

Antagonist: microfiber mitt, bright orange.

It's over before it's started, cell phone ringing

in Target.

Then a planned escape

via bath rugs, No. 2 pencils, and shoes.

II.

I am the person standing

in place of the person who is standing.

She inhales words,

and exhales,

brown tub ring

around the fine porcelain tub

that is us.

Cole turns four

"How does it feel to be four?'

"It feels kind of fourish, you know?"



Over the weekend, Cole thought it fun to purposely crash into the bushes on his bike. This photo was taken before we saw a black bear standing on its hind legs shaking a nearby apple tree for fruit.

Sunlight on a Building

I want to write about Hopper while it's still fresh. All of it. Driving around town for parking. Pizza in the cafeteria. The crowds. A tap on his shoulder. Audiophiles. The Gloucester room. The strange proportions of the woman in "Office at Night." "Eyeless people." The neat handwriting in his notebooks, his wife's descriptions. A film conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Hopper. And Jo, the face that launched a thousand ships. Later, finding A at the crowded bar and shaking it as Willie played. Getting EM to dance and Tad and the others.

At the beginning of the exhibit having not seen enough of Hopper's work, I could not describe myself as a fan. At the end of the exhibit, after seeing a large collection of his work, I will not describe myself as fan.

I appreciate Hopper's capabilities and I like some things about some of his work. I like his clean, simple lines--his use of light and color, and that he painted ordinary scenes in unordinary ways, sometimes from the bottom up or top down, sparse and austere. I like that he painted at a time of day when the light is long, that his favorite thing to paint was sunlight on a building and that he described his work with few words, allowing critics and historians and everyone else to interpret it or not interpret it however.

Some argue that Hopper was trying to make a statement about modern city life, isolation, solitude, ordinariness, and lack of privacy. But I'm not convinced that he was *trying* to make a statement about anything. I envision a deliberate, probably grumpy, somewhat anal man with an interest in outdated architecture and a longing for some unreachable something or someone, perhaps my own invention of this person getting in the way of the art. He painted what he wanted to paint and when he felt he had exhausted a place and himself, he moved somewhere else and painted that.

By the end of the exhibit, I felt emotionally vacant and withdrawn. There's something about the combination of unrealistic color and light with the realistic depiction of empty American landscape that made me feel sad beyond description, the fullness and richness and vibrancy of life sucked out of me in an hour's time so that what was left is life without life, no reason to exist beyond sunlight on a building.

Little Things

People have come and gone. And nobody fought. Or cried. Unless they were aged six or under. There is something to be said for this, I think.

We spent a semi-respectable week in one another's company, cooling ourselves in the waters of Good Harbor beach and eating fresh (as opposed to Utah caught) seafood at Lobsta Land. Saturday the women went to see The Belle of Amherst in which Lindsay Crouse plays a convincing Emily, at least as far as the poetry is concerned. We sat and ate around our long, dining room table, even told a couple of stories while cleaning up. We're a family of storytellers.

If stories could be rated, and sometimes they must be, the best goes out to my mum on the way to the Manchester airport, stuck in traffic, both of us wondering aloud if they'd make their flight. She talked at length about a dinner date she and my dad had with a couple who is in the process of buying my mom and dad's condo. During dinner my dad offered up opinions about his favorite restaurant and voila, another dinner date was born.

I try to imagine all of them eating together. A tall, white and conservatively dressed man (in the way that suits are conservative) with his partner, a small, black transsexual, appropriately attired, my sixtyish, white parents, conservatively dressed in a way that reflects their commitment to their Mormon values--no plunging necklines, sleeves covering shoulders and upper arms, and sensible shoes.

"What do you talk about?" I ask wishing that I could borrow an invisibility cloak and join them for dinner.

"Music and art," she says. "I made C a cd with some of my favorite music. He loves it." "They want to do things with us," she says. "Go to concerts, and dinner."

She even tells me a little about a passport problem due to confusion surrounding C's photo and surgery, this from a woman who leaves the room during discussions or readings of Everyone Poops by Taro Gomi because of the uncomfortable way this subject and many subjects make her feel.

"That's great," I say. And I mean it.

My parents have changed. A little bit and a little bit at a time. Person by person. Place by place. And thing by thing. Little, itty, bitty, bit of change. At a time.

Police Note Grief

To live here means to read obituaries and police notes. They tell a story. 23. Died unexpectedly. Wanted to be a cop. Worked as a security officer at a pharmaceutical company. I remember him sweetly, his love of music.

Died unexpectedly at 23 doesn't always mean drug overdose. It could mean died of heartbreak. Died of loneliness. Died of too much of something. Or too little. Just died, nothing attached.

Which kind of grief is the worst? Is it the kind that makes its way into police notes weeks after a son is found dead?

Which kind is the worst?

From this mother to that mother, I am sorry. More sorry than I am able to tell you.

Flowers for You, or Algernon

What do you say? You.

Drop me a line.

Or a poem even.

If it keeps, in my hand

or my pocket.

Like a bank note flower

on a 'bak yard' grave

Let's just say.

I'm yours.

git

Perhaps I'm slow to learn this word. It makes me laugh. It makes me laugh.

From dictionary.com....

git

noun
a person who is deemed to be despicable or contemptible; "only a rotter would do that"; "kill the rat"; "throw the bum out"; "you cowardly little pukes!"; "the British call a contemptible person a 'git'"

Forecast--snow

A life might be made of assessments. A series of. Then lumps and clumps and bumps. Then reassessments. Reclumps and relumps. When a person learns that something does not work, so a person reworks, until the thing is something different. No one has to suffer. No one has to cry. But someone might suffer. Someone might cry.

Sometimes the new way sneaks in. At night. Or even day. It is subtle. And a person hardly knows that anything is different, but for the old way, when reencountered, as obnoxious as an obnoxious drunk.

There is a period, maybe brief, of remembering. An engagement, of sorts. And then a disengagement. Not a breaking up or a breaking of, but a no. A loud no. A stop whispering no. Not meant to be hurtful. But meant to say I'm finished. I'm finished with this. Not you, but this. People can't be constructed, built to please, but boundaries can be. So I've drawn lines, in the snow, where I need them. Not out of anger. But out of love. For them. And for you.

stop

Is there no redemption? No justice?

Big questions for a Wednesday night.

I'm hoping that Radiohead has the answers.

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.

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.

Happy LoVe Day

A tiny bit frustrated

Anyone know how to do some basic formatting--tabs, spaces--in Blogger?

Forecast

Bar Poem

I'm composing a poem
for Mike County
about this bar
that used to sell
hot nuts
cuz my knitting's tangled
and tea lights make
a better story
with forgotten George's lighter
and the lilty-voiced guy asking,
"Whatchya writing?"
and later if
my marriage is happy
or if I'll pump and dump.

Amanda off being badkarmadized
by rhymes with Terminator
after DK plays
The Magnificent Seven
and we dance
like we've still got it
the woman in the blue beret
still does
until fat bottomed guy gets up
and vomits music
sends us running
to the back door, not smoking
til it's over.

But I'm not crying cuz
3's a magic number
and the first set
wasn't "schlock" and
there's a bass player, a kid,
his badge I think says, "kill the hippies"
But we don't talk to him.
Yet.

Turns out there's a guy
wants a baby but not the woman
to go with
so we walk.
In snow, talking about
glass sailboats and lace shawls,
husbands and babies
Monday out
to say that
all's not dead
when snow falls over Gloucester.

Lost and Found

Feeling Linky

I've been feeling linky lately. Saw and heard this over at boingboing.

Hoping some day for a combined Simpsons/Glass Prism thingy with "The Raven." I see a singing Bart, some family backup, and velvet jackets and Beatle-like coiffures all around.

Hobo's Blog and Ernie's Show

Hobo Elephant, uh, I mean Greg C has a blog. I like it. So far I'm partial to the Globe piece on Nan Goldin. It nearly broke my heart. As did Greg's kind words about Ernie Morin's work.

Speaking of, if you missed the city hall debut of At the Crossroads, Ernie's slideshow depicting the people, places, and t-shirts of Gloucester, you have another chance to see it. It'll be running on Saturday, January 27th at the Cape Ann Hysterical Museum at 3 p.m. I hear that the president of the CAHM will be in attendance and that this is a good time for you to encourage him to buy art for the museum. You know, work that you'd like to see there. Maybe made by local artists and such. More specifically, Ernie's work. I hear the prez is terribly mean but if you mention the names Aidan, Cole and/or Thea, he softens a bit. He also might be open to producing commemorative EM coffee mugs with "Love Slave" or "Ben's Bitch" scrawled upon them. In any case, I urge sweet talking of the sort that you are comfortable with to get your points across and get some new, new work, some new, old work, some attitude and some sass into Gloucester's museum.

I leave you with this photo of a partially costumed Hobo Elephant amidst miniature golf and flags and unsuspecting little girl.

Celebrating the return of the light

Back in December Cole made a "tower crane" solstice candle. I made a stripeded one.

It's getting lighter out. It is.

What I Meant

"The book came from somewhere deep within me and all my experience came together in it: mother's discontent, my own training in Gestalt and Freudian psychology, the fellowship I felt guilty about giving up, the stint as a reporter which taught me how to follow clues to the hidden economic underside of reality, my exodus to the suburbs and all the hours with other mothers shopping at supermarkets, taking the children swimming, coffee klatches. Even the years of writing for women's magazines when it was unquestioned gospel that women could identify with nothing beyond the home--not politics, not art, not science, not events large or small, war or peace, in the United States or the world, unless it could be approached through female experience as a wife or mother or translated into domestic detail! I could no longer write within that framework. The book I was now writing challenged the very definition of that universe--what I chose to call the feminine mystique. Giving it a name, I knew that it was not the only possible universe for women at all but an unnatural confining of our energies and vision."

Betty Friedan, 1973

As I sat thinking into my computer the other night, names like Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Betty Friedan, Kate Chopin and Edna Pontellier, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Adrienne Rich, Jean Rhys and Bertha Mason Rochester, Virginia Woolf, even Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath came to mind. I've read these women, I've taught the literature of these women, I've claimed to understand these women. But I haven't understood these women--until now, age 36 and three children in.

This understanding versus a peripheral understanding has come with experience, the experience of being a woman, a wife, a mother. This leading to an understanding of subtleties, the yellow in The Yellow Wallpaper, the mystique of The Feminine Mystique.

In identifying with the struggles of some of these women, then, I'm paying homage. A tribute to any woman teetering on the edge. The Ednas. The Virginias. The wives. The mothers. The ones who make it, and the ones who don't. I intend to be one of the ones who makes it. To go skinny dipping occasionally when the air is hot and the moon is right. But to make it. Into the water and back out again. Into the water and back again.

To Understand

I hear snoring through the monitor. A good thing.

Sick children. Rooms switched. Life anew here in the Cunningham household.

Not one for resolutions, but here's one that I think I can stick to: Get out more.

I understand the delirium of 50s housewives. I understand the valium, why women walked into water with or without stones in their pockets. I understand. At 8:39 p.m. on a Monday evening, I understand.

I understand.

A's Question

Last night as Aidan was lying in bed, nearly asleep she asked, "Why do the days keep going and going?" Not in an 'I am dissatisfied with my life' kind of way, but more an 'I keep going to sleep and waking up' kind of way.

Inferring also, will they ever stop? Or when will they stop for me?

I'm having a little trouble with this one, aside from the everyone dies bit we discussed. Any takers? Send non Armageddon answers to stewingham@hotmail.com

A Collection of Results

Some results from this survey.

FONDEST MEMORIES AND/OR BIGGEST CHALLENGES:

Christmas

Molestation when I was 13--Drugs--Focus

Getting our Christmas tree and going to Disneyland

Consistently being charitable and resisting temptation

Our cabin

Trying to help my children who are struggling with serious problems . . . Staying focused on one thing at a time and not taking on too much . . .

Understanding that individual thought and freedom are as important as tolerance

Graduate school...

Marrying my wife

Trying to love and understand my in-laws and have them understand and love me in return

Playing with Legos

Mental illness and a constant feeling of inadequacy about everything. Lack of ability to focus and accomplish my goals.

Bringing my wife through the veil on our wedding day

Being married

When my family went to our ranch for spring break...We returned the next year but... we never had the same experience again.

Being a good parent

Summers spent at the beach

Law School

PROUDEST MOMENTS AND/OR BIGGEST FAILURES:

Becoming a parent, barn raising

Not having met and married my wife sooner

When I received the Sterling Scholar for dance

...not making the basketball team freshman year in high school. My brother played on the varsity team

Getting married to my husband

I remember trying out for the Elizabeth R. Hayes scholarship...I thought I did well, but as they were calling out names for dancers to go on to the 2nd round, my name was never called...

Singing "The Rose" at a high school assembly...Also, I was very proud when I completed my mission and gave my talk in church. I was proud not of my success nearly so much as the fact that I was so happy through most of it!

Wiping out during powder 8 contest at Alta

My marriage to my wife and the births of my children and grandchildren

My marriage

This summer in Hungary, when my daughter said her first word, “Baba”, which means dad in Farsi.

As a parent, not seeing big issues in my children’s lives in time to help alleviate future challenges, not being perceptive enough about what they needed . . . On a less serious note, not making songleader at the University of Utah the first year I tried out...

Nailing focus on a tough camera shot—standing up for marginalized people—questioning authority

While working, I made a big mistake involving signatures and affidavits. Need I say more? I guess hitting my face on the diving board and lying to a cop are up there on the list too.

When I graduated college, when I married my wife, when I returned from my mission, when I finished that 15-mile race. It’s more of a combination of positive experiences than a major moment.

Not achieving the levels of excellence I know I could have achieved with a little more effort and determination

When the Sigma Chi Fraternity sponsored me as a candidate for Homecoming Queen

All of my girlfriends. Rehab. AA. Trying to conform.

"Brother John, how are you, why are you sleeping?"

At 4:00 a.m I agreed to complete this. Brother John, here's to solidarity and subversiveness. And I hope to post your answers here, if you'll let me.

Childhood ambition - to marry rich

Fondest memory - riding my red Schwinn ten speed with my best friend Liz who also had a red Schwinn ten speed

Favorite soundtrack - I mostly don't like soundtracks

Favorite music - It changes constantly, but this is what I've been listening to a lot in the last year: Johnny Cash, The Pogues, The Magnetic Fields, Beck, Wilco, The Beatles, Elliott Smith, Yo La Tengo, David Gray, Radiohead, The Clash, Belle and Sebastian, The Velvet Underground, Iron & Wine, Neil Young, Billie Holiday, Thelonius Monk, Madonna, Woody Guthrie, fiddle player Martin Hayes

Favorite retreat - I like to get out to a good bar. Good bars sometimes have good music. Good bars offer a good time, most of the time. Good bars tolerate a lot, but not everything. Good bars can be walked to. Good bars don't take themselves too seriously. Good bars let people be.

The person who has impacted your life the most: It's a toss up between Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Margaret Sanger. My life would be altogether different without the fights of either of these women--one for suffrage and one for birth control. I also wouldn't be here if it weren't for my mother and father. And, without Tad, my life would be something else entirely, three children different.

Proudest moment: leaving the church of my upbringing and accepting that I can love my parents and disagree with them

Biggest challenge: leaving the church of my upbringing and accepting that I can love my parents and disagree with them. Also, knowing when enough is enough.

Describe the perfect day: I don't believe in perfect days. Perhaps I believe in perfect moments like I believe in love. There's a lot of sadness in the world. Then, there are a lot of people making themselves sad in the process of trying to be perfect or make perfection.

First job: that I got paid minimum wage for: Red's Frozen Yogurt and Ice Cream as a blender of candy, nuts, and fruits with frozen things

Biggest failure: failure to keep my house as clean as some people think it should be

Favorite movie: currently it's Donnie Darko for the classroom love/fear scene

Strongest trait: I'm opinionated. I can also be intuitive.

Favorite book: It changes frequently, but for now it's One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Talent(s) others say you have: People say that I'm creative. People say that I take good pictures. Someone once said that I'm a "great shootist." I liked that. It made me laugh.

Country of ancestor's origin: I'm a Euromutt, I think.

Favorite ancestor: I admire the women who came before I did. They had a lot to contend with. I wish that I could be more specific here, but I don't know them well enough.

Favorite scripture:

508

I'm ceded--I've stopped being Theirs--
The name They dropped upon my face
With water, in the country church
Is finished using, now,
And They can put it with my Dolls
My childhood, and the string of spools,
I've finished threading--too--

Baptized, before, without choice,
But this time, consciously, of Grace--
Unto supremest name--
Called to my Full--The Crescent dropped--
Existence's whole Arc, filled up,
With one small Diadem.

My second Rank--too small the first--
Crowned--Crowing--on my Father's breast--
A half unconscious Queen--
But this time--Adequate--Erect,
With Will to choose, or to reject,
And I choose, just a Crown--

--Emily Dickinson

Something that inspires you: moments of clarity--this could be sitting atop a toilet or atop a mountain, things of beauty and functionality, and the fierce love that I feel for my children

Something that fills me with dread: trying to answer most of these questions without hurting anyone. Or, thinking that I can answer them without hurting anyone.

Herein lies the Problem

Someone in my family sent this questionnaire for me to complete before Christmas. I'm not going to name names; I'm not harboring any anger or malice at the moment. However, this survey illustrates well the disconnect that I feel when it comes to my family. Do I answer it? Or don't I? Do I answer it truthfully? Or don't I? What will happen if I do? What will happen if I don't? It's a loaded gun here. And I'm not sure that I'm willing to fire. Though I might have an awfully good time writing about some of these. Dibs on the person who suggested that I send a naked picture of myself to the bishop (see below) asking that "this body be removed from the lists" to help me complete it.

Name___________________________________ Date________________


Childhood ambition______________________________________________

Fondest memory________________________________________________

Favorite soundtrack______________________________________________

Favorite music__________________________________________________

Favorite retreat_________________________________________________

The person who has impacted your life most__________________________

Proudest moment_______________________________________________

Biggest challenge_______________________________________________

Describe the perfect day__________________________________________

First job_______________________________________________________

Biggest failure__________________________________________________

Favorite movie__________________________________________________

Strongest trait__________________________________________________

Favorite book__________________________________________________

Talent(s) others say you have______________________________________

Country of ancestor’s origin_______________________________________

Favorite ancestor_______________________________________________

Favorite scripture______________________________________________

Something that inspires you_______________________________________

Have a Wonderful Day

Hello.

Hello. Is this the Cunningham residence?

Yes. (in the tone I use when I'm about to be sold something by someone and like this: a yeee (lean on the e) s (enunciated)

This is Sister Peterson from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. We are offering you something special. We'll send you a copy of our Ensign Magazine for free. Are you interested?

How did you get my number?

Aren't you a member?

If I were ever a member, I'm not anymore and could you please remove my name from any lists that you have?

Are you saying that you don't want the free magazine that I'm offering you?

I don't want to be rude, but people need to stop calling me. I don't want to receive these calls anymore. How do I remove my name?

Well.... (pause, pause). (Very helpful, very nice tone). There is an LDS church in your area. You could find the church and call the bishop.

Call the bishop?

Yes. Call the bishop.

(chuckle, chuckle) O.k then. Goodbye. (tone: As soon as I get off of the phone I'll look through the phonebook until I find a number for my local Mormon church. If I can't find a number I'll call information. I might have to make a few phone calls and talk with a few people about why I want my name removed. Then when I do find the bishop, the MAN who oversees my ward (geographical grouping of people), and if I make it this far without giving up, I'll talk with him about exactly why I don't want my name on any list anymore...but while I'm doing this I'll decide that Mormon people are so nice and that I miss hypocrisy and Jell-O and bad metaphors and God so much that I'll forget why I was calling in the first place and I'll return to the flock in time to have a Merry Christmas).

Goodbye. And have a wonderful day.

Who cares?

I usually shop at Market Basket in Danvers on Thursdays--while Cole is at preschool and Aidan is at school. I shop there because it is much cheaper than Shaw's. I drive out of town to a store where I negotiate narrow aisles filled with too much stuff. Every week. Or every other week. I get road rage and I want to ram into people with my cart because Market Basket is a busy place. I wait in line with the other people waiting in line, a collective sigh of resignation, a sigh that says, "You don't get something for nothing." But still I go. To save a dime. Actually, to save a lot of dimes.

Today I shopped at Shaw's. The store in the town where I live, the town where I spend most of my awake and asleep hours. I spent $137, much more than I usually spend for the same items at Market Basket. I bought bread and milk and eggs and butter and chicken and an Amaryllis growing kit and three chocolate peanut butter santas--3 for $1. I bought a few other things, my splurge buy a couple of packages of on-sale diapers, the kind I like best. But nothing really out of the ordinary.

I was in and out in about an hour. Today I bought time. I bought time to hold my baby, make silly-ass Christmas cards that only a crazy person would make. I bought time to sit at my computer and rant into it. I bought time to be out of my car and in my house, maybe knitting. I bought time to write about my time here--and either forget about this or write a letter about it to someone who cares.

Little She

"Spring will never be fall," says Aidan

One day flowers were dropping
from the sky
Spring is here
Spring will never be
Fall

Fuzz

In a funk. Of sorts. The fuzzy-headed kind where coffee doesn't help, but maybe crack would.

I want to read the Jane Jacobs book, but I'm tired.
I want to take photos, but I'm tired.
I want to talk to people, but I'm tired.
I want to write about my conversation with Ernie, but I'm tired.

Instead I play romper room and make playdough and playdough snakes with eyes and mouths that eat entire cities, trash trucks and all. We roll the trucks through to make tracks. Tracks and tracks.

Instead I sit with my daughter and read. Listen to her form letters. Invent words that might be right. She reads a line, "During the war," from a book that she chose from the school library, adaptation of Sleep Hollow. Earlier she asked what "Sysco" spelled as we sat in George's eating, talking. Wondering how to explain conglomerate.

Tonight we have a date to read The Snow Queen from a book given me by my grandmother. This afternoon we have a conference, the parent teacher kind.

Children arrive. Then they go. Then they come again and leave trails of books upstairs so that I know who has been there. Goodnight Moon. And another copy of Goodnight Moon. Runaway Bunny. The Mitten. Snowy Day. And another copy of Snowy Day in organized fashion, on the blue rug. This makes me laugh and I leave the books there because I want to be reminded, reminded of the people I love and that young is not forever.

A lot can change in a year

For Laura

Rummaging through a drawer full of junk I found a hand-colored card made by Laura when the kids were in the three's class. Valentine's Day. Coming across it unexpectedly made me miss her in a way that I couldn't if I'd known her better. An incomplete miss, but a miss nonetheless. And exacerbated by a sighting of the ex, this morning, in front of Scroo Cooking. The boys at St. Mel's now, him driving and dropping, but hard to shake the memory of her pajama-wearing drops and pickups at preschool. Hard to shake the memory of her disgust with her ex.

Thinking about the day that I went to her house, the way she covered Lisa with a blanket, brought her a warm mug of tea. We talked about the coldness of the bathroom floor in the morning, an old house, insulation stuffed by her to improve a situation. I think about what I might have said or done if I'd known that she was dying. I hope nothing much differently because people need to be able to get out from under the weight of death, to feel that they can be, without being too much.

About a month after she died I drove by her house, a forlorn looking assortment of toys and stuff in front. I don't know what I thought I'd see. Kids playing. Friends stopping by. Laura.

The point is that I think about her, more than I think about a lot of people. I think about what's gone, and I think about what's still here. Her clothes, being photographed to sell on ebay. Her house, empty, but not entirely. Her boys. Her essence. It's her essence that interests me. The surreal way that a person stays in the world, even after they are gone. Why some people matter more than others. How to keep. And how to let go.

Riding

The past isn't supposed to matter too much. So I've been told and read.

Be present.

Mindless, I mean mindful.

Seems, though, that it hobo rides the rails. Past mingles with present mingles with future in cocktail-party fashion.

A face becomes more than a face. A joke, a cosmic dig.

I'm riding then spinning. Hurtling, then hurling. Fast forward memory.

Forward and for word.