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.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9JDzlhW3XTM 

"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. 

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.