Tuesday, October 16, 2012

I SAY..YOU SAY...LET'S CALL IT OFF


I need an Enigma machine (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enigma_machine)  to encrypt and decrypt messages between him and me.


The Enigma was a machine used in military intelligence during WWII and is thought to have hastened the Allies' victory.  The machine is complicated (to me), and had to be tweaked and elevated in sophistication as time passed.

Using both mechanical and electrical subsystems, a key is pressed completing an electrical circuit and lighting a bulb indicating a different letter than the one that was pressed.  (of course there is some trickery to this, using a mathematical formula and a 1/26 of a rotation and stops and starts and redirects, etc before the bulb lights up, to complicate the decrypting)

Codebreakers then intercept messages, decode them, and pass on this new intelligence. Efforts are thwarted. Victories won. etc.

According to some, the female brain is comprised of a series of lightbulbs and circuits and mysterious key combination triggers. Press "y" , shuffle, stop, start, eek erk, tweek, pop, bling, bang, chooo chooo, wizzzzz wizzzzz, creek, creek, ...."AHA!" as the lightbulb illumates a letter "q" ...I really think we've communicated here.  

The male brain, however, resembles a piece of cement or chunk of wood---no circuits, no button, no bulbs.  The mystery is less in what is said and more in what is not done.  I say "x" i do "y". Any questions?

This whole male brain female brain stuff, I'm not buying it.  It really only comes into play when one party is being an ass, and needs an excuse---the old feigned ignorance is a handy card to throw.  Injuring by ignorance or intentional maliciousness is only relevant in criminal law. In a relationship it seems to be a failure to meet halfway. Let one party do all the work to explain why the action was hurtful and totally lacked self awareness.  repeat til exhaustion.

Secrets are for wars.  cryptic messages to keep the enemy always guessing.  But, I am not military intelligence and I'm tired of this game. 

After frenzied coded messages, the final battle, comes armistice, and comes the cold war.  Now we'll wait in silence, severed.  In time ambiguity will give way to serenity. But I won't be the one explaining what happened, speaking in more riddles. Nah. the war is over here, and i just want to find home.



Monday, October 15, 2012

HOT!

 Yesterday a man named felix floated into the sky on a balloon and jumped off a platform the size of a skateboard from outerspace tumbling down to earth in a white suit, popping a parachute and landing safely, breaking world records. AMAZING! 

Check out this article: "24 Miles, 4 Minutes and 834 M.P.H., All in One Jump"


Incredible footage. My heart leaps in my chest as he steps off the platform.  There's not much more to say than the old proverbial "cojones whey. cojones."

"To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition" samuel johnson said.  But where is home.  outerspace? the layers of atmosphere between outerspace and solid ground? the solid ground? the higher education classroom? the office? the computer screen? in lover's arms? reading bedtime stories to sleepy kids? in a pot of homemade soup? in a prayerful meditation? in a beer buzz? in a photograph of flying kites? in a victorian house? on a sailboat?

I prefer asking questions than providing answers. But even I know the ledge in outerspace, all suited up, is no place to stand too long.  Ledges require leaping or crawling back inside.  Do something. Face the consequences, yes. But do something. Isn't that the message in life, paired with "grow some balls." 

So, this monday, leap! Or crawl back inside. But get off the ledge. And if you step, may all your falls be epic.(and may your hotness be evident to all)

Thursday, October 11, 2012

ROACH BACK

Leif is a fat caterpillar today for his school play.

Leif:  The problem is, mom, that when I say the line "i want fried chicken and jello' i get so hungry.  
Mom: Method acting, son. You are really getting into character.  Just roll with it. Say it like you mean it, cause you mean it.

If he comes to breakfast as a roach, though, I may have to throw an apple at his back. "Wake up, son! Come back to this table when you can act like a boy." And when he comes back acting like a boy, I 'll shout "stop smacking. the table is no place to act like a boy?" the heirarchy of table creatures...roach-->monkey--->boy---->diplomat--->president. (women have a different heirarchy...maybe...ladybug-->kitty cat--->princess--->unemployed diplomat--->vice presidential hopeful)

I am being the "unemployed" at a coffee shop, wearing a wool cap, searching the inter webs for jobs, writing some shitty poems, hacking out a blog entry, reading some self help literature.  Self help to teach me how to over analyze myself and every word that comes out of my mouth and the other person's mouth and draw large expansive conclusions about the world and the inner workings of self and soul and mind and the interconnectedness of the breeze and the trees and my chakras, how to be aware of every noise, sound, thought, word....It's working. It's really working.   I don't need to read self help, I need to get a job. No. I need an eye patch to see less, bind my left leg and add a peg to walk gimpily, get there slower. Dull the senses so to speak.  Awareness is a bad idea. 7 self help books means 7 more miles of distance between you and the nearest person, especially if you don't watch television and have lost all ability to small talk.  Especially if you don't have a job.  I left the house to save my mind. The coffee house owner is handsome and smiles a lot. At least there's that.

"what do you have planned today?" he asks.

"EEERRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...write a blog, overexposing myself making everyone worry about my mental health,  then maybe sabotage my pretty good relationship with a sweet fella by picking apart every word starting with the latin root, ending with my feelings (hey lady--drop blogs not bombs!), mostly and consistently all day no matter what, i'm going to avoid all the laundry and dishes at the house and instead maybe research tiny homes since that makes perfect sense as my boys hit growth spurts requiring 12 ft ceilings and 4 chickens each per supper, also i think i'll research jobs overseas maybe in Costa Rica, since childhood was so idyllic and at any given point we should all misguidedly try miserably to recreate childhood..." smiling knowing my audience "all this while drinking  lots and lots of coffee, and only talk about drinking gin." 

Mostly, just passing the time til my favorite fat caterpillar, in the spotlight of childhood bliss, nails his special lines.












Wednesday, October 10, 2012

OH SORRY

After company, after supper, after chocolate chip dried cherry cookies, after after-supper chores, we put on our shoes and light jackets for a walk. Around the brick lined path, I walk, they ride.  A snow village, I circle on a fixed track, several houses glow, windows open, insides visible.  

From one (the one with the Romney-Ryan poster pasted to the door) faint singing floats through the glass to us rounding in the shadows. I peek. Noone can see me. I stare: fluffy haired ladies in soft sweaters, hold song books, huddle at varied heights around the carpeted room, some sit, some stand, church songs vibrate through their chests, out their wrinkly lips, bounce gently off the couch, whisp up the painted walls, caress the "LIVE LAUGH LOVE" painted sign that surely hangs between the living room and the alcohol-less kitchen, air thick with heavily scented pumpkin spice candle. 

Through a different window a flashing screen life size even from my far vantage point, a man is beheaded, head rolls, hair picking up grass. The bushes outside this house glow with orange lights. The silhouette of a skeleton and vampire wait between the headless man and me. Luke has face planted in the gutter, post-stunt, bike wheel spinning.

Earlier in the day, an old friend I had not seen in six (6) years reconnected with me.  She issued a blanket apology on behalf of christians "we failed you" paired with "how is your faith?" (this begs so many questions. who is "we"...but mostly it calls to mind a now forgotten language i used to know. a vernacular developed in certain circles that gives moral backing to human whims, and then uses human error as an excuse for the infinite chasm between the previously professed divine mandate and the absolute failure of that divine being's interaction in the human condition. a language that does not communicate concepts but simply sounds. or worse, a language that states the exact opposite of what is happening.  at home we play a game "mom, i love spinach. he he. it's opposite day." "mom, i hate you. he he. it's opposite day." "mom, i can't wait to clean the toilet. he he. it's opposite day." )  

wait. huh?

In Malawi, my brother tells me, "i'm sorry" the locals would say as they bumped him, stared, moved in closer, invading his personal space at every moment, "oh sorry" "sorry" "sorry" closer, breathing in his white face, "oh sorry." 

http://www.petergoff.com/watchingU.html  (you can see some of Peter's Malawi projects here)

I laugh every time I hear him say "oh sorry" his eyes sort of rolling, frustration and hilarity rolled into the repetition of such a well-worn phrase. 

Hey, it's okay. NOT. oh sorry. All is well. Just kidding. It's opposite day. oh sorry. WWJD. oh sorry. 



Monday, October 8, 2012

IT'LL COME

hush
doll
hush
pour a lil rum on
it, apples, cheescake
or heartbreak, that'll solve
it like a solvent, dissolving butta', dear
suga', warm your tears with an aromatic blanket
now now baby ain't no news these arms
can't take ain't no comfort i won't bake
ain't no tonic i won't make
to soothe your troubles,
pour a lil rum on it.
hush
doll
hush.

it'll come. it'll come.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

ASK ME

flag pole 
Patriotic mom to children yesterday: "You will watch the first 15 minutes of the presidential debate. I want you to know each candidate's name, and be able to recognize their faces, and the sound of their voice."  

Leif in minute 2 "this is boring."  Mom to self "yep!" Mom to Leif: "hush boy. you only have to sit here 15 minutes. I don't want to hear another word about boring."  

Earlier in the day I attended noon mass in Spanish. This is only my second mass ever.  I have questions, like "why is the singing so very bad?" "why are the fake flowers faded and crumpling to the left?" "why are the real roses dead and drooping almost falling off the stems, but still proudly displayed?" "why can i see a butt crack two pews ahead?" "what time is it?...."

Flash forward to my aunt and uncle's living room, the kids have scattered to more entertaining options, the aunt and uncle occupied with computers and iphones, the debate droning on... I have questions, insert SNL's undecided voter http://www.hulu.com/watch/404175.  (Please watch this if you missed it.) and "what time is it?..."

The day's activities, meant to be some of the more substantial and meaningful ceremonies, feel lacking and pointless as the day winds down.

10:12 p.m., finally everyone is tucked cozily in bed, fans whirring. Last round of goodnights (there are usually 3 or so rounds, depending on things like spontaneous growing pains, throat aches, hunger, thirst, or just extra hugs needed) Ava is asleep. One down.  Two to go.  Reaching to the bunk above "goodnight, Luke. sweet dreams." and a hug, kiss.  Bending to the bunk below, "Goodnight, Leif. Sweet dreams."  Their alarm is set, the window cracked for just a hint of autumn night air.  

As I turn to stumble wearily to my bed, exhausted from the mundane demands of the day, Luke rolls over, "Mom. What's abortion?"  

Stopped in my tracks.  Not just because of the implications of answering this question, and the topics it will introduce (yes! this is exciting. so much to explore.)  But because I live for great questions. That I, Mary, age 33,  am the one to whom he directed the question (and others like it in the past, and others like it from Leif and Ava, and others like it to come) exceeds the not insignificant honor of  law school class rank, academic awards, winning in the courtroom.  

"Great question, Luke. Not tonight, but we will talk about this when we're rested." (I am living the dream. Probably not your dream. But mine.)

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

SNAP INTO A SLIM JIM





"Chips" Chips? Really? Chips?? oh my lord.  Chips! On national radio, midday, I blew my cover completely. Neal Conan's Talk of the Nation last Thursday, September 27, 2012,  discussed the new school lunch federal guidelines that call for healthier food and smaller portions. Stopped at a red light when they delivered the phone number, I decided to dial in. This exact topic had made its way into my home, not as a policy discussion, but in my children's bird-like cries "I'm hungry, mom!"  I hadn't paid too much attention, honestly. I'd simply given them a bigger after school snack, and when that didn't help, sent them to school smuggling snacks.  "Mom, they don't allow snacks. I'll get in trouble." "Luke, you must eat or your brain will shut down.  If they give you grief, I will get medical permission to send these with you."  He had been complaining that he couldn't pay attention the last 1/2 hour before lunch.  (all of us get lightheaded, cranky, and monster-like if we don't eat at regular intervals) "Dear school, my son turns green and starts throwing desks and smashing pencils when he doesn't eat.  In light of this, please allow him to consume this snack.  Thank you."  

Much of my experience the past five years has been a strange combination of studying policy in the books, while living the exact circumstances described as hypothetical case studies.  For example, interning at South Carolina Legal Services, I attend a day long legal education program about public benefits, including day care vouchers, food stamps, medicaid (this supplementing my Poverty Law class, which required a final paper on SNAP benefits.) Upon arriving home that same day, open my own food stamp appointment waiting in the  mail, after picking up my youngest child from unsubsidized day care, an incredible expense which consumed more than half my income.  


Honestly, I have not sent the kids to school with a bag of chips once.  But, when he asked the question, my mind did this: "out of time, brush the teeth, where's your shoes? shove the homework in the bag, have your jacket?, go back and make your bed! snack? you need a snack? ummm errr what's the easiest food imagineable to grab and go? CHIPS! yes that's it! CHIPS!"   So, I answered in a total false claim "CHIPS!" and then I chuckled. Because I lied. Because I blew it. (because a stream of healthy foods celery and peanut butter, homemade granola bars, cheese sticks, go-gurts, veggie sticks came to mind as soon as i delivered the last "sssss" of the word chips) Because all the food experts gathered in his studio collectively cringed, and then nodded silent "yeps. see? that's why america's kids are obese and stupid. idiot moms in arkansas sending chips." 



But, I'm no fool.  Truth be told, I send them to school armed in the fight against hunger with....SLIM JIMS!

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

ON BURNING ART

First, let's define the terms. In my previous blog I mentioned burning art.  "Art" that is burn material in the Goff family is visual art.  And, with a few exceptions that could probably be called "secrets", art burning is to be done by the artist him or herself.  Meaning, I do not burn Peter's art. Peter burns Peter's art. ( I have roasted a mallow or two as an onlooker.) 

The burning is ceremonious, but not motivated by darker tendencies. Rather, it is a ceremony atop a practical reality---art is heavy. art is bulky. oh! and don't forget---much art is "bad" art.  Meaning, it really has no visual value, nor political, sociological, religious, etc.  Sometimes art is just a by-product of a necessary process.  No one is denying that process here. Go! Make art. Bad art. Ugly art. Messy art. Do it. It's necessary to existence.  But, then, don't be afraid to get rid of it, too.  Purging is also necessary.  Especially if you move as much as I have, as much as my siblings have (parents, too.)  Who can haul, who would haul piles of "process" art from one country to the next, from a rural acred yard to a tiny urban apartment, from the east coast to the deep of texas, to arkansas, to seattle, then back again? Folks, it just isn't in the gypsy heart to haul art. 

Or look at children---I just happen to have a few on hand to observe.  Children are prolific artists.  Each child of mine per day creates about 3 or more drawings.  Many of these as assignments in school. My entire home is decorated in kid art---I love it. But for every picture on the wall, probably 327 pictures have been tossed.  This isn't cruel. It is a practical reality.

In the Popol Vuh, the mayan creation story, the creator has a few failed attempts at creating humans.  On his second attempt:

"Here is the new creation,
made of mud and earth.
It doesn't look very good.
It keeps crumbing and softening.
It looks lopsided and twisted.
It only speaks nonsense.
It cannot multiply.
So Heart-of-Sky lets it dissolved away."


Burning art in this sense (as opposed to, say, mass burnings of fine art by militants, which in no way is this blog meant to condone or endorse or even have anything whatsoever to do with at all)is not really violative of any moral code.  Nah. It is indicative of a wanderlust, a need for movement away from stagnation, and the limitless creative energy that begs for more expression.





Monday, October 1, 2012

PRAYER PODS

Prayer Pods by Peter Goff
The background image on my blog is one of my favorite art pieces ever. (note: i keep finding new "favorite pieces ever.")  Designed and created by my brother, he also burned it to non existence.  The Goffs have a thing with burning art, and other things.  Not books, though. Not flags, either.  Not witches.  But art, yes. Transitorily pleasing, art must be purged along with old letters and broken furniture.  I don't know why, exactly. I don't even know that it "must".  It just is. Burned.

The purple pods, mere cardboard before redemption, covered fruit in transit from wherever fruit comes from (the ground? cows? corporations?) to the grocery store into pete's creator hands. No doubt while unwrapping a daydream started playing in his minds eye, as he shoved the cardboardlings into his pockets.

Dangling delicately on string, strips of paper bear written prayers. My name, as in "sister", is etched somewhere among the other silent utterings.  

When it burned, light glowed and flickered into the night, releasing prayers as heat and ash. In the aftermath, I crumpled my face. Crap. This art should still be here, hanging from my ceiling.


Thursday, September 27, 2012

INVISIBLE WOMAN




"Excuse me, pardon me, I need to shift the balls" whispering amusedly, weaving my way through the crowd to stir the cranberry meatballs.  Die your hair brown. Blonde is far too conspicuous. Dress in all black, nondescript. No lipstick. Trade in your lawyer suit and heels, and your laptop, oh and large desk, with the model cased bugatti veyron, and the professionally matted and framed attorney's license and law degree (and also trade in the heart palpitations, sweaty palms, churning stomach, ringing phone, paper pushing, client assuaging, judge bashings...) Carry a tray filled with chicken salad sandwiches into the expansive granite counter topped kitchen, dining, bar, pool table window walled view of resort pool and fire pit, filled with pearly white smiling ladies in belted dresses, heels, men in blazers, large pearl or diamond studded earrings, and display the sandwiches, smile meekly (don't let them see the flash of sparkle delight in my eye.)  We are here to raise large sums of money for a charity. I stand among professionals, my peers, in the shadows. Making appearances only to whisk away an empty wine glass, re-fill the veggie tray, and the chips. 
Early Bird Catering

This is a game I'm playing. (A game as in the proverbial "making lemonade.")The fly on the wall. Listen, watch, make mental notes (all while baking, cooking, and serving some seriously delicious and wonderful arrays of foods---shout out to Early Bird Catering!) on what it means to be a human in the room among humans in the united states, the country of equality. Wondering, is human dignity inherent. Or is human dignity directly derived from one's work. You are human, and more human or less human, depending on your title. Less human--serving veggie dip. More human--serving subpoenas. (unemployed? eh. you may not be human at all.) (independently wealthy? oh! you may be a demi-god.)

"I wanna be a man, mancub
And stroll right into town
And be just like the other men
I'm tired of monkeyin' around!
Oh, oobee doo
I wanna be like you
I wanna walk like you
Talk like you, too
You'll see it's true
An ape like me
Can learn to be human too "

--from the Jungle Book, Louis Prima.


Ever notice how the first line in a bio at the end of an article usually reads "Sally Salinas IS _________", the blank being some sort of title related to work..."George Amos is CEO of such and such" "Andrea Lowes is Marketing Manager of  so and so" "Jerry Saver is a Senior Partner at such and such"....And we need to know this first, so we can weigh the articles veracity against these credentials.  We might read and think "what is he talking about. boring. huh? lame." But if we see he's a high up professional doing something awesome for some company somewhere, we might change our tune. "wow, i'm an idiot. he really does know what he's talking about. he has 47 years of experience hiding funds and firing the lowlies." 

So, at the fundraiser, as "the help" I say for example, "I think Arkansas' vote will be the determining factor in this presidential election." I'm disregarded as a simpleton. But, if I offered the same bit of political genius analysis in my suit, heels, hair swept up to classy perfection, diamonds sparkling...Well, I'd still be every bit a buffoon, only I would probably have enough sway to confuse a few people, make them wonder if I maybe, just maybe, had some inside info they needed to find out. 


Tuesday, September 25, 2012

TO ROMNEY, FROM MARY (the white licensed attorney)

What if i quit tryin'
to work miracles
every day after day 
with outfits, hair, 
meals and rent
for three, plus me.

Im broke. I have prolly
57 damn cents.
No joke.
In days, maybe hours,
my cell will say "no service"
my lights  may go black
my water, be diverted
to a house that
pays their bills.

I have no job, i
cant pay rent. I pay
with credit. future money
bein spent. studyin'
poverty from an office
beats bein another
public benefits recipient.
this shit sends sane women
to the fourth floor 
crazy pit. makes
mamas wish theyd
stayed virgins for time
infinite.

bought our tickets
with nickels and dimes
bought our meals with
formerly Food stamps, updated as
SNAP, to keep up with
the times. a name seeming
more kind.
Supplemental
Nutrition
Assistance
Program
SNAP!

Snap! Goes
The momma. Snap! Snap! Goes
The momma. Snap. Snap. 
Snap! Goes 
the lawya mama.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

ELEVEN




Eleven  is the number of excess. Ten was complete. An article on the 11th anniversary of the 9/11 reports that many of the commemorations this year are scaling back, allowing for a more personal observance, that the country is perhaps experiencing "emotional fatigue." http://www.nytimes.com/2012/09/11/nyregion/this-year-some-towns-are-scaling-back-9-11-memorials.html?hpw.  



Yet,



Eleven is the atomic number of sodium, an essential element for all animals.  Na, not N/A. 



And,



Eleven is the usual cycle from sunspot to sunspot.  Eleven is the number of players on a soccer field, a football field, too.



And,



Kairos
Eleven is the age of my oldest son. He wore a suit this saturday evening, and a tie. He left the car and walked into a crowd of children, dressed equally formally, to attend his first Cotillion, to become a fine young man one day, to learn to shake hands properly, to make eye contact, to dance?



Eleven is crucial. We don't get to skip it.  We don't get to skip steps.  Before, he had funny words for things. popcorn was "likalookalo" and Gammy was "minya".  Soon, he will be the first of my children to outgrow me.  Today, he stands head to my chin, at the cusp of the roar of teens.  A little silent.  



Time rushes at us like a galloping horse. Stand still. Stand still. Wait. Do not close your eyes.  The ground beneath you is trembling. 






Monday, September 10, 2012

THIS YEAR

A real cliffhanger, we are waiting for the sequel, years in the making.  The world ended, in a way, tomorrow 11 years ago.   All the living witnessed it. Horrific acts can leave the observer speechless, at the moment they are happening, and upon remembering. The way I remember it, that day, 9-11, changes every year, moving in and out of feeling, intellectualizing, ignoring, sometimes tearful, wistful, patriotic then hopeful, sometimes nothing more than a "huh? no way."

This year, the kids and I, we, stare at photos of the towers before.  Towers made by, made for, super heros. How could they be so tall? How they shimmer in the sunlight. How they point to heaven. How great, so very great, they are for scaling with sticky hands and a red and blue spandex suit. How very great for jumping from, spraying webs, free falling in a bending arc to be swept back upward toward the neverending american sky. 

Dear babes, "our problems are manmade---therefore, they can be solved by man. And man can be as big as he wants. No problem of human destiny is beyond human beings. Man's reason and spirit have often solved the seemingly unsolvable--and we believe they can do it again." JFK

Luke: I want to ride to school on a hover craft. Mom: Design it, I'll help you build it.




Thursday, September 6, 2012

FOOTBALL

I had all the physical trappings of a football widow star in the making---blonde hair, petite build, blue eyes,baby on the hip. "Mom, I liked it when your hair was long and blonde" "Ava, you weren't even born yet."

Stone cold sober on a Wednesday night, the opening game of the 2012 NFL season, the background roar of the tv, the focused gazes of the players hand across their chests as the anthem rings out, swelling feelings of god and country (wait. what are we fighting for? oh that's right, millions of dollars and lots of photos. we are brave. we are men. faith, family, then football.) the shimmery tights across the muscled up thighs, the incessant twinkling flashes of lights across the crowd, all this and more...has the effect of a firework on a soldier. Hit the deck, run for cover, movE!!...MOVE!!!...MOOOVVVE!!! 

Memories rushing into the forehead like Walter Payton.

A whispered (not shouted. my sons are obsessed with football. the game is on for them.)  proclamation to my aunt "the only way I could watch a football game now is if I was on the couch with my beloved, gazing intently into his eyes, and drinking heavily."

My former husband---I am currently ddeeeeeevorrrrrrced (to be said with a low gutteral dipping tone, a clucking of the neck, a wrinkling of the brow, to further emphasize the ugliness of the word. as opposed to "maaarrried" to be spoken in a soft almost falsetto tone, chin up, eyes bright, neck extended toward the heavens, reaching for the divine masterful planner)----was a highschool football coach, in TEXAS (...yep. that's right. texas where "football is king!")

I was, I've been told, the worst coach's wife on the planet.  I concur.   One month into my new football widow status (a status i maintained for six years straight), age 22, a stay at home mom with an infant aged 4 months, I received a call from a sweet excited stranger, "Hey! We heard you're super creative...(My eyes light up and my minds starts racing to large colorful paints and posters and murals...)...We need some help, (help? I can help. I'd love to help!) ... we need 75 cowbells painted with football players numbers...(smile drops to frown twists to scowl morphs to foul attitude...total and complete and severe and absolute disappointment, followed by disgust.).  I respond "Oh. I see. Well, thank you for considering me. But I don't think that's a project I'd like to take on right now." And with that, a newcomer to the scene, I committed football widow suicide.  

Reincarnated now as an educated, independent, book loving woman who is also a mother, I can only laugh (probably cry too) that the stench of football will color our walls, occupy our fridays, (wednesdays, thursdays, saturdays and sundays, too. oh! and mondays.), and flood our dinner conversations, for many years to come. Bless their little hearts.


Sunday, September 2, 2012

SHORT THINGS




artwork by Leif

LONELY

crawling, a mute snail
left an iridescent trail

when met she'd chime 
her only line
"read between the slimes"

dirty minds saw only slime.


and everyone was ugly and illiterate.









ON LOVE

Bartering

No gold coins.
No paper money.

I give. You receive.
You give. I receive.

To your thank you, 

my pleasure.



MISS MARY

Mis adventures
Mis trust
Mis chief
Mis understood
Mis placed

No.

Misericordia.

Growing pains.
Mis drops off like a tadpole tail.



ALWAYS A TATTOO

Ankles, thighs, shoulders,
necks, hearts, names,
devils, eagles...roses...

If a tattoo is to mark individualism, 
why are they so repetitive? 

More like branded cattle.

Friday, August 31, 2012

SUBURBAN SPIRITUALITY: THINK INSIDE THE BOX

Trivial Pursuit was my specialty. Even if I didn't have a clue, I could sway my team with such confidence we'd use my answer.  (sound like the makings of a lawyer? recipe for a lawyer: take 27 parts b.s., add 42 million parts confidence, plus 2 parts intellect.)

My favorite answer lately, to any question, on any topic, to any audience "I DON'T KNOW."

A rainbow spread across the suburban rooftops just before 8 p.m. last night. We could see the two ends, brightly glowing. Resplendent. Ava dropped from the tree she'd been shaking, dangling, clinging, climbing, hugging, leaves rustling at her quick departure. The boys turned from their moving bundle scuffle of kicking, punching, grabbing, squeezing, cheeks flushed, eyeballs sideways, teeth snaggled. 

We stared. Awed by the glowing splendor.  (Incidentally, I now associate rainbows with chick-fil-a as a sort of entry in my mental thesauras, under antonyms.)

Leif gave god a ride on his bicycle, through suburbia, around 8 p.m. two nights before.  "Mom! MOM! MOOOOMMMMMM!!!! Come look a praying mantis on my bike!" My reluctance overcome by his urgence, I followed his excited voice to the backyard. There, on the handlebars, a green mantis, stared at us, still as silence. (Once, Leif told me "Mom, it's impossible to do nothing."... As he stood perfectly still, not breathing, not blinking, not speaking...heavy outbreath..."See! Did you see that? Even just now I was doing something, standing. see? it's impossible to do nothing.")

We gazed at its compelling serenity.

The African Bushman say the mantis is god incarnate, a divine messenger. "the voice of the infinite in the small." When it appears, it will "show one the way."  (Once, on a tick infested, mosquito buzzing, wild, hardly tamed, acre of yard in the arkansas country side, my friend and I trapped by the pitch black of night at the other end of the property from the house, wondered how to hoof it home. Grabbing my hand, she exclaimed in her unworried home turf confidence "Follow me I know the way!"...we sprang forward, high stepping, gingerly...squealing...immediately crashing into a large brush pile and falling flat on our faces. )

A lady bug landed on my hand, on my suburban stoop, crawled busily across the ridges of my fingerprints, up my arm, doubling back down, to the tip of my pinky and flew away with her crunchy delicate wings.  They say the ladybug will whisper your name in your true love's ear...(note: do not be the aphid. ladybugs devour pesky little aphids to infinite nothingness with quick overwhelming force. sweet little ladies.)



"What will you do next?"...pause, trying to develop a suitable answer..." hmmmm...(this keeps the listener in suspense, waiting for the revelation)...head slightly cocked to the right...I dunno.. (the answer feels new everytime).











Monday, August 27, 2012

REGULAR DOCKET

Courtrooms are for stone face stares. short sentences. legal precedent.objectivity equitable maxims. counsel approaches the bench (the term used for where the judge sits) "your honor before i withdraw from this case i'd like to apologize for the defendant's girlfriend who said some very awful things about you in the hallway just before we came inside. I just wanted to let you know out of respect for our longstanding and meaningful friendship."  

Courtrooms are for donkey heads, rabbit grins, rooster cock walks, circus music, monkey back scratchin'.  coughing. lying. riding an acid trip. not for actually beating your significant other, but for building the tension that will undoubtedly result in a beating, "she earned it." 

Me in the Courtroom
Once an old crumudgeon male attorney interrupted an old female attorney ( whose monologues left listeners swimming the backstroke slowly down a meandering stream, just waiting waiting, swimming, coughing, yawning, scratching, swimming, swimming, til the point, if any ever was made), "shutup" he'd say. repeatedly. every time she began to speak. the hearing unfolded. [ find "objection" insert "shutup". 17 replacements made.]   

Judge, "I know there's some law on that point somewhere. I just don't know what it is."








Curvy stretches of smooth road, on the hillside, from the courthouse to the home, are for driving a bugatti. "Mom, noone in Arkansas has a bugatti. and noone ever will." 


Kitchens floors are for dancing. Dancing is for pulling out every move that you ever learned in any sport you ever tried. Tae kwon do. Boxing-"geez. mom. you look like you're ready to spar someone." Cheerleading tryouts for the team you never made, confirmed by your teensy daughter's observation "mom. you could never be a cheerleader."  rock climbing, add a little jump rope, the robot, salsa lessons, swing dancing. Move every muscle in your body. Channel the spirit of a house cat, leap and land. If your neck isnt sore later, did you miss the 90's?  You have hit peak performance when the once staring in disbelief children, blinking. watching. blinking. have found other more normal activities. 

You have cleared the room-success!  

"to the windows, to the wall, the sweat goes down my balls..."http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gcxLPkUS8_4

Sunday, August 26, 2012

OH BACH, DEBUSSY IS CHANGING ME

Key facts change the story. 

I've taken issue with Debussy, his meandering ways of composing. How anti intellectual of me.  But Bach has been my rock and roll session, inspiring my attitude, style, and language.  It's predictable, yes, but not quite classical-lite Mozart.  Layered and layered with sound and rhythms, countermelodies. Upswings so high I can touch god's fingertips. And it is finished when it ends.  The lingering feelings-satisfaction.  
bach in outerspace

Skyping with my dad today: "I played Bach for you on my recorder (I was taking a college music class) before you were born. I knew only one song. I played it over and over and over and over..."  Dad on a recorder. ha! Same dad who talks of lungs collapsing at a certain altitude. Shit, Mary, i won't die in a nursing home. Find me instead an old man, passed out in the  mountains from climbing too high.

Aha! The meaning of life, with a passing comment suddenly made clear. Had he played  Debussy and maybe different songs every day, I might be an artist, who could float into the clouds without needing a conclusion. I could have run long distances slowly with no need for a pace, a finish line, a prize at the end. I could have enjoyed a relationship effortlessly, let it unfold for its own sake, not needing definition.

"I am a lawyer, it's my rebellion to my artist family," my tag line before this summer, was started by forces outside of me. Rock and roll defined an age group. Gave kids a sense of belonging, even when feeling alone. Bach, you've made me lonely.  Debussy come rescue me.


Give me order. Give me intellectual depth. Give me artistic beauty. I'll get to them in life in that order, unclip the cams, strap em to my belt. Amass, don't abandon. Unless it's wasting too much time. Then, leave the stuck ones behind. 

Climb on. 



Saturday, August 25, 2012

FAIL



Failure is best discussed in retrospect. Some great life lesson learned. Some new direction revealed after falling, falling, falling, groundless to the rock solid bottom.  Take J.K Rowling: 

"Failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy to finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one area where I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realized, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter, and a big idea. And so rock bottom became a solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life."  – J. K. Rowling, Harvard commencement address, 2008

Who wants to say, while it's happening: my legs hurt, like hell, because for years I've been coddled (hardly, but kind of when contrasted to physical labor) in the courtroom, and now I'm assisting a caterer.

Smiling while sucking at waiting tables was my specialty. That was me at 19. Made great tips, though. Forgot every order as soon as I turned away from the table toward the kitchen, to self: was it NO mustard? Or NO mayonnaise? hmmmm. Guess I'll leave off both and add stoby's sauce (a kind of mixture of the two)" 

Smiling, smiling a lot, I presented random compilations remotely resembling what had actually been requested.  Working breakfast, I'd show up before 7, having only a few hours of sleep. At 17, 18, 19, Friday nights are NOT for sleeping. My legs, at the knees, ached by shift's end.

A degree and a child later, I stood all day as a teacher. Spanish teacher in a private school in Houston, TX. Legs ached hard by day's end. (So did my soul, and my bored mind.)

Yesterday, 2 degrees later, 3 children later, a law license later, many years later, many things later (Just later. way LATER)I stood not even all day grating cheese, dicing tomatos, mincing jalapenos, mixing, stirring, tossing...melted a block of butter. grated a block of cheese.  My friend, a budding entrepeneur caterer, prepared for a party. I was her assistant. 

The yin and yang. For years, I've been sitting at a desk,  hunkered back, eyes glazing from computer glow, brain aching from reading, reconstructing, critically analyzing, creating, editing...words and words and words...for years now. Years. Mind achy by day's, week's end. Emotional energy spent.

Once, I saw an educational show that described in great detail, with charts, and graphs, formulas and british accents, how the world would "end" when some stellar body type thing would collide with the earth. There would be no end, really, just a change in shape. The shape of things would change--the oxygen level, the light of the sun, the tilt of the axis, the depth of water. The energy would still exist. I took great comfort in this.
milky way
The Church, Under the Milky Way Tonight  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Q6nKP10j4s

Chopin's The Awakening helps, describes so well the act of changing course:  


"To succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul...Courageous, ma foi! The brave soul. The soul that dares and defies." 

"Be careful; the stairs and the landings are dark; don't stumble." 

"She stood naked in the open air, at the mercy of the sun, the breeze that beat upon her, and the waves that invited her. How strange it seemed to stand naked under the sky! how delicious! She felt like a newborn creature, opening its eyes in a familiar world that it had never known...

she swims out to sea 

"Her arms and legs were growing tired...exhaustion was pressing upon and overpowering her....the shore was far behind her and her strength was gone." 


Feeling ridiculousa bit of physical labor for one day, at age 33, kicked my sorry ass. It is good to gain respect for the bulk of my fellow mankind.  Reminded me of a precious children's story, A Chair For My Mother. A grandmother, a mother, and a daughter are saving up to buy a chair to rest in. They are in a new home. All their belongings had burned in a fire. "My mother works as a waitress in the Blue Tile Diner...Sometimes she's so tired she falls asleep while I count the money into piles..."  













Dreamed last night, I did a round off and flip so high it took me seconds to drop. Nailed the landing.



Mother to Son

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor --
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now --
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

Langston Hughes