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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.)

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!

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.

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.

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.