Father.
Fathers.
Such a complicated topic in my own life.
I have 2.
No, not like the 1980's sitcom.
My biological dad. His name is John. Boy, I thought he was cool when I was little. The Marlboro Man. He rode a green motorcycle and took my little helmeted self on Sunday rides. Sounds idylic doesn't it?
In a picture postcard sort of way, I'm sure it was.
Like when he'd talk to the neighbors outside. Sliding his can of beer to me when I'd beg for a sip.
The memory has a slightly grainy, greenish hue - like fading white edged photographs from that time.
When I was 4, he left. I remember sitting on the front porch, holding onto the iron railing as he walked down the 4 concrete steps to my left. Carrying a duffle bag. I was crying. I don't remember if he leaned down to kiss me goodbye. I don't remember. I don't think he did. I don't remember.
I was 4. I dont' know exactly why he left. What I pieced together was that he didn't want to be domestic.
Soon after, he lived in a pepto-bismal green apartment building with a 19 year old girl named Kim. My sister and I visited there sometimes. There were lots of half burnt candles and plates of incense.
He had long hair and smoked cigarettes. It was the 70's afterall.
Despite it all, we never stopped seeing him. I credit this to the eternal wisdom of my mother.
Enter Father number 2.
Though he wasn't a father at the time.
His name was John too. A cosmic joke in my little 5 year old universe.
My first memory of him.
We waited with some excited anticipation as my mom's new friend... old friend was coming over.
My little sister and i were playing a game in which you throw plastic rings over a plastic flower. We played in sight of the door. And then he arrived.
Did he carry flowers? I don't know. I dont think so.
He might as well have. He brought much more than flowers to my mom. to us.
They dated. He taught me how to put my napkin on my lap.
expected manners. I remember that.
We called him a neat-nik.
So different than my other beat-nik dad.
They got engaged and the wheels began to turn. A family again.
Though we never stopped seeing my biological dad, and I never (and still haven't) stopped loving him, this was a different kind of dad.
The kind you see on TV.
The kind that is there when you go to sleep and is still there when you wake up again.
That kind.
Then, a twist.
They had dated less than a year. My mom was diagnosed with cancer. 6 months to live, they said.
Would you? she asked.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
We'll have to ask him.
I know.
Will you? They asked.
Defeatedly, yes.
My sister and I were adopted by our second dad.
We moved to Chicago.
Our mom lived for two more years.
Then she died.
Though my birth father lived a short ways away, and we went on drives in his orange and black striped Datson from time to time, this one raised us.
The second John.
He was there in the evening and the morning.
Again.
and Again.
and Again.
and Again.
It wasn't always perfect.
There was an entire year of Swanson TV dinners.
There were 3 Polish housekeepers to help keep our ducks in a row.
There were adolescent screaming matches and being grounded for weeks.
There were disappointments and fears.
But he was there.
After just 3 years in our midst, he had "married" my sister and I. In a way that few marry. With a devotion to forever. with a heart that will not deflate. With a love that is not conditional. With the spirit of love.
In so many ways, this man is my hero. My Dad. My Dad. My Dad.
My first Dad. I love you. My heart often weeps for you. Please find your center and know that you are ok. You gave us the greatest gift in the world when you said that he could adopt us. It does not make you a failure. Find your path and walk it. You have shown me many truths and given me many gifts. I love you.
My Second Dad.
My Dad.
My Dad.
My Dad.
My Dad.
My Father.
My heart explodes with gratitude. You have shown me many truths and given me many gifts. And still do. 35 years later. I love you to depths surprising.
My two dads.
Both have taught me immeasurable things about this life.
Neither perfect.
Opposite ends of the spectrum.
You may want to judge one and honor the other.
Don't.
Just be grateful with me.
Happy Father's Day.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Phil
It would have been his birthday today.
I'm not even sure which one. 60? 58?
I don't know.
His name was Phil.
I used to live in Oak Park Illinois.
An iconic, tree-lined town just west of Chicago.
I walked daily to the train to and from work. 6 blocks exactly.
It became my solace. My meditation.
I passed the homes, built in the 1930's, surrounded by picket fences, flowers, bushes, sidewalks with remnants of yesterdays chalkplay.
Hop Scotch, portraits of stick-figure families, giant daisies dancing in green and pink and yellow.
The seasons were my companions on those daily walks.
The lilacs in bloom in April.
Lush green tree-top canapies over the streets in July.
The piles of autumn oranges and reds rising under undressing limbs in October.
Paths through snow mountains pushed to the sidewalks edge in January.
Grey, angst filled winds howling in March.
They were my companions.
About a year before I moved from Illinois, I noticed a person who stood out among the seasonal changes on my daily walks.
He didn't really fit in in Oak Park.
There was no preppy jacket covering an worn oxford shirt that hung out over softened jeans.
The man was bald.
He wore a grey muscle shirt, sleeves torn off many a year ago.
A chain holding his keys hung from his belt buckle.
A mickey mouse earring waving gaily from his lobe.
An ominous linked chain about his neck.
Worn Chuck Taylors on his feet. Ageless.
A somber quietness about him.
He walked a tiny black dog that looked like the pill verson of my black lab Jack.
I passed this large, odd looking guy and his pill sized dog many times and thought that I'd like to know him.
Why? I have no idea.
He had a shy smile.
After months of soft hello's and me petting the pill sized pooch, I said that we should get together for lunch or dinner or something sometime. It took more months for it to happen. I don't even really remember how.
Eventually it did.
His name was Phil. He was in his late 50's. He was gay. Lost his partner Doug over 10 years ago. Well read. Intelligent. Not well spoken. He stumbled over words. Life made him nervous. Somewhere in a portal to goodness in Oak Park Illinois, we became friends.
He had brought tokens of his travels to Mexico and South America to his 3rd floor Oak Park condo. I helped him choose new countertops. We shared rasberry liquer on the back porch overseen by a Mayan Sun. He showed me how he brushed the pill sized dog's teeth.
Phil didn't sleep well. He had started to get sores on his skin. He didn't want to use the drugs. He scoured health stores for remedies made of royal jelly, herbs. He didn't sleep well.
I moved to Las Vegas. We wrote emails, jokes, stayed in touch. In June, I visited Chicago and saw him as he planted a Hawthorne Tree in his front yard. Adding to the canapy. I said I'd be back in a few months. We'd have Thai or Cuban food when I did. We hugged. Said goodbye with a light, over the shoulder wave.
We'd see eachother then.
The last email I recieved from him was July 5, 2005. Less than a month later.
Then
nothing.
Silence.
I worried.
After 2 weeks I sent a friend to knock. Ring every doorbell in the building. I felt the panic rise. He hadn't been sleeping. He had been hurting. Fearing.
Then someone.
next door.
No, he's not there.
He died.
2 weeks ago.
Just a day after the last email.
He took his life.
The note.
Pain. No sleep. Dementia setting in. Have to go. I'm Sorry. I'm Sorry.
My heart ached. Knowing he made that decision and told no one. Trusted No one.
He had seen Doug die.
He had seen the confusion, the horror, the pain.
Decided to leave before.
A hard decision that I respected.
This man.
A gay, intelligent, loving, hurting man.
A man who loved life and said goodbye to it when it threatened it's end.
A man who taught me about gentleness. Loving through pain. The subtle joys of unexplored places.
A man who wore muscle shirts and mickey mouse earrings in Oak Park.
Today I think of the memories of my daily walks.
Lilacs in bloom in April.
Canapies of lush green tree tops in July.
Piles of autumn red leaves in October.
Mountains of shovelled snow in January.
Piercing winds in March.
Mickey Mouse earrings.
Chains and Chuck Taylors.
Shy smile.
I am so glad I knew him.
Happy Birthday Phil.
I'm not even sure which one. 60? 58?
I don't know.
His name was Phil.
I used to live in Oak Park Illinois.
An iconic, tree-lined town just west of Chicago.
I walked daily to the train to and from work. 6 blocks exactly.
It became my solace. My meditation.
I passed the homes, built in the 1930's, surrounded by picket fences, flowers, bushes, sidewalks with remnants of yesterdays chalkplay.
Hop Scotch, portraits of stick-figure families, giant daisies dancing in green and pink and yellow.
The seasons were my companions on those daily walks.
The lilacs in bloom in April.
Lush green tree-top canapies over the streets in July.
The piles of autumn oranges and reds rising under undressing limbs in October.
Paths through snow mountains pushed to the sidewalks edge in January.
Grey, angst filled winds howling in March.
They were my companions.
About a year before I moved from Illinois, I noticed a person who stood out among the seasonal changes on my daily walks.
He didn't really fit in in Oak Park.
There was no preppy jacket covering an worn oxford shirt that hung out over softened jeans.
The man was bald.
He wore a grey muscle shirt, sleeves torn off many a year ago.
A chain holding his keys hung from his belt buckle.
A mickey mouse earring waving gaily from his lobe.
An ominous linked chain about his neck.
Worn Chuck Taylors on his feet. Ageless.
A somber quietness about him.
He walked a tiny black dog that looked like the pill verson of my black lab Jack.
I passed this large, odd looking guy and his pill sized dog many times and thought that I'd like to know him.
Why? I have no idea.
He had a shy smile.
After months of soft hello's and me petting the pill sized pooch, I said that we should get together for lunch or dinner or something sometime. It took more months for it to happen. I don't even really remember how.
Eventually it did.
His name was Phil. He was in his late 50's. He was gay. Lost his partner Doug over 10 years ago. Well read. Intelligent. Not well spoken. He stumbled over words. Life made him nervous. Somewhere in a portal to goodness in Oak Park Illinois, we became friends.
He had brought tokens of his travels to Mexico and South America to his 3rd floor Oak Park condo. I helped him choose new countertops. We shared rasberry liquer on the back porch overseen by a Mayan Sun. He showed me how he brushed the pill sized dog's teeth.
Phil didn't sleep well. He had started to get sores on his skin. He didn't want to use the drugs. He scoured health stores for remedies made of royal jelly, herbs. He didn't sleep well.
I moved to Las Vegas. We wrote emails, jokes, stayed in touch. In June, I visited Chicago and saw him as he planted a Hawthorne Tree in his front yard. Adding to the canapy. I said I'd be back in a few months. We'd have Thai or Cuban food when I did. We hugged. Said goodbye with a light, over the shoulder wave.
We'd see eachother then.
The last email I recieved from him was July 5, 2005. Less than a month later.
Then
nothing.
Silence.
I worried.
After 2 weeks I sent a friend to knock. Ring every doorbell in the building. I felt the panic rise. He hadn't been sleeping. He had been hurting. Fearing.
Then someone.
next door.
No, he's not there.
He died.
2 weeks ago.
Just a day after the last email.
He took his life.
The note.
Pain. No sleep. Dementia setting in. Have to go. I'm Sorry. I'm Sorry.
My heart ached. Knowing he made that decision and told no one. Trusted No one.
He had seen Doug die.
He had seen the confusion, the horror, the pain.
Decided to leave before.
A hard decision that I respected.
This man.
A gay, intelligent, loving, hurting man.
A man who loved life and said goodbye to it when it threatened it's end.
A man who taught me about gentleness. Loving through pain. The subtle joys of unexplored places.
A man who wore muscle shirts and mickey mouse earrings in Oak Park.
Today I think of the memories of my daily walks.
Lilacs in bloom in April.
Canapies of lush green tree tops in July.
Piles of autumn red leaves in October.
Mountains of shovelled snow in January.
Piercing winds in March.
Mickey Mouse earrings.
Chains and Chuck Taylors.
Shy smile.
I am so glad I knew him.
Happy Birthday Phil.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
All things
All things are used by God for good.
All things.
We Say it. We Preach it. Sing it. Proclaim it. Know it. Exclaim it.
Mean it.
Do we mean it? Can we?
Can you feel your soul recoil it the profundity of what that means?
What IS the meaning?
All things.
All things?!
ALL THINGS.
It is easy to see how many things are used for good.
Dance. Joy. Music. Love. Giving. Accepting.
How does God use hatred for good? How is the denial of a human's essential humanity used for good?
When a human is. made. nothing.
Her hair shorn. Her children taken. Every token of her life. Her shoes. Her clothes. Her family.
HER BREATH.
Her. Him. Him. Him. Her. Her. Him. Her. Him. Him. Her. Her. Unending.
When we move to talk about it. To say, "Of course. It is used for good." My hair stands on end and screams to stop.
But can we. Mustn't we talk about it? Mustn't we consider... And feel... And question... And cry...And act.
Together.
We stay silently content to refuse to remember.
Content to wrap the memories in pain.
Someone else's pain.
Behind doors locked tightly too scary to go behind.
If we don't go there.
If we stop.
If we're still.
Tight.
In our muted voices, our fists clenched, we think.
Someone else will go.
Someone else will reach.
Someone else will remember.
Our eyes and ears tightly sealed as a child singing "lalalalalalalala" so he cannot hear.
Isn't it destined to happen again? Isn't it happening again? It has happened again.
It is happening again.
What could the meaning possibly be?
Maybe the sight of the shoes collected at Auschwitz can shed light.
Piles. Mountains.
Millions of shoes.
Small.
Large.
Heels.
Work Boots.
Elegant.
Old.
Flowered.
Ripped and worn.
Bought for holiday.
Worn for years.
Someone's.
The fabric of them still holding the stories of those who's footsteps they shared.
Shoes worn by Jews. And Gays. And Political Prisoners.
By humans. By you. By me.
The Holocaust showed no favor. Hatred shows no favor. If you were a Jew, you were denied yourself. You were eliminated. It mattered not if a person was rich. or talented. or poor. or brilliant. or slow. or immoral. or holy.
It did not matter. It did not matter.
What good. What good. What good. What good.
That we are one. We are human.
The talented. the brilliant. the slow. the immoral. the holy. We are one.
Remember this. Live this. Claim this. Preach this. Know this.
And maybe.
Just maybe
That is Good.
All things.
We Say it. We Preach it. Sing it. Proclaim it. Know it. Exclaim it.
Mean it.
Do we mean it? Can we?
Can you feel your soul recoil it the profundity of what that means?
What IS the meaning?
All things.
All things?!
ALL THINGS.
It is easy to see how many things are used for good.
Dance. Joy. Music. Love. Giving. Accepting.
How does God use hatred for good? How is the denial of a human's essential humanity used for good?
When a human is. made. nothing.
Her hair shorn. Her children taken. Every token of her life. Her shoes. Her clothes. Her family.
HER BREATH.
Her. Him. Him. Him. Her. Her. Him. Her. Him. Him. Her. Her. Unending.
When we move to talk about it. To say, "Of course. It is used for good." My hair stands on end and screams to stop.
But can we. Mustn't we talk about it? Mustn't we consider... And feel... And question... And cry...And act.
Together.
We stay silently content to refuse to remember.
Content to wrap the memories in pain.
Someone else's pain.
Behind doors locked tightly too scary to go behind.
If we don't go there.
If we stop.
If we're still.
Tight.
In our muted voices, our fists clenched, we think.
Someone else will go.
Someone else will reach.
Someone else will remember.
Our eyes and ears tightly sealed as a child singing "lalalalalalalala" so he cannot hear.
Isn't it destined to happen again? Isn't it happening again? It has happened again.
It is happening again.
What could the meaning possibly be?
Maybe the sight of the shoes collected at Auschwitz can shed light.
Piles. Mountains.
Millions of shoes.
Small.
Large.
Heels.
Work Boots.
Elegant.
Old.
Flowered.
Ripped and worn.
Bought for holiday.
Worn for years.
Someone's.
The fabric of them still holding the stories of those who's footsteps they shared.
Shoes worn by Jews. And Gays. And Political Prisoners.
By humans. By you. By me.
The Holocaust showed no favor. Hatred shows no favor. If you were a Jew, you were denied yourself. You were eliminated. It mattered not if a person was rich. or talented. or poor. or brilliant. or slow. or immoral. or holy.
It did not matter. It did not matter.
What good. What good. What good. What good.
That we are one. We are human.
The talented. the brilliant. the slow. the immoral. the holy. We are one.
Remember this. Live this. Claim this. Preach this. Know this.
And maybe.
Just maybe
That is Good.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Mystery
A very good friend of mine has a little girl that she adopted out of the foster care system. Ellie was 2 weeks old when she came to live with Danielle. She was born into situation as different as humanly possible from the one she was about to move in to.
When Ellie was 3, she awoke crying hysterically one night. Wails of discontent echoed through the midnight stillness. Dani ran to comfort her and found Ellie crying, "zschoooos" "Zschooooooooooos!!", amidst unconsolable sobs.
Juice? Juice?
Waaaaaaaaaah!
Ellie? Do you want juice?
Nooooooo Mommyyyyyyy!
Then what honey? What do you need?
MOMMY!!!! I NEED SHOES! I NEED SHOES NOWWWWWWW!!!!!!!
Well.
If this isn't evidence for nurture over nature, I don't know what is. You may have to know my friend Danielle to know this for sure, but trust me. It is. As I am about to discuss, all women love shoes. But for Danielle, it is a love that transcends. A Holy love.
Honestly though.
What is it about shoes?
It seems to be this mysterious vortex that most certainly punctures through all levels of Time and Space, let alone culture and country. A place where a woman's deepest needs can be surely sated, if not completely met.
Shoes. Even the sound of the word soothes my weary mind.
Shoooooooes.
Ahhhh.
I went to DSW Shoe Warehouse today. It was a lazy, uncommitted Saturday afternoon. Much of the day had slipped away and I wanted to get out.
But where?
Then I felt the pull. Ladies, you KNOW what I mean.
The pull. The pulllllll.
And like Pavlov's Dog, it began. The mental salivation. The wonder of, "What will I find in the cornacopea of footware....?"
It's sandal season.
Beaded flats?
Thongs that fit just perfectly and will make my overworked hoofers squeel with delight?
The oh-so-cool heeled sandals made from the softest leather.... and 40%off?
BE. STILL. MY. HEART.
I was wandering down the first aisle as I found the first pair. Brown Born Sandals. I slipped them on my tired feet. Oh. Oh. Ohhhhhhh.
My first hit.
I realized that I was actually experiencing a high. My heart racing. My mind delighted and eagerly seeking the next find. Is this what a drug addict feels like? I make a further mental note never to try drugs, considering.
The store teamed with women. Really. It was probably about 100:5 as far as the female:male ratio went. Our eyes would meet with recognition, a wry smile of understanding. She has 3 pair, her.... 4. A nod of the head. We understood eachother.
I collected my own 4 pair of delicious, perfect, brown and black sandals and sauntered slowly to the counter. I sighed and metaphorically licked my lips and rubbed my sated shoe belly. All was perfect in the world.
So, my sisters. Here's to the mystery. The secret place, only we (and Carson Kressley and his brothers) can go.
I can't solve all of the worlds ails, and confusion wreaks havoc on our daily lives. I don't know how to meet the needs of everyone, all the time.
But. There is one thing I do know.
Shoes.
Shoes.
Shoes.
Ahhhhhhhh.
When Ellie was 3, she awoke crying hysterically one night. Wails of discontent echoed through the midnight stillness. Dani ran to comfort her and found Ellie crying, "zschoooos" "Zschooooooooooos!!", amidst unconsolable sobs.
Juice? Juice?
Waaaaaaaaaah!
Ellie? Do you want juice?
Nooooooo Mommyyyyyyy!
Then what honey? What do you need?
MOMMY!!!! I NEED SHOES! I NEED SHOES NOWWWWWWW!!!!!!!
Well.
If this isn't evidence for nurture over nature, I don't know what is. You may have to know my friend Danielle to know this for sure, but trust me. It is. As I am about to discuss, all women love shoes. But for Danielle, it is a love that transcends. A Holy love.
Honestly though.
What is it about shoes?
It seems to be this mysterious vortex that most certainly punctures through all levels of Time and Space, let alone culture and country. A place where a woman's deepest needs can be surely sated, if not completely met.
Shoes. Even the sound of the word soothes my weary mind.
Shoooooooes.
Ahhhh.
I went to DSW Shoe Warehouse today. It was a lazy, uncommitted Saturday afternoon. Much of the day had slipped away and I wanted to get out.
But where?
Then I felt the pull. Ladies, you KNOW what I mean.
The pull. The pulllllll.
And like Pavlov's Dog, it began. The mental salivation. The wonder of, "What will I find in the cornacopea of footware....?"
It's sandal season.
Beaded flats?
Thongs that fit just perfectly and will make my overworked hoofers squeel with delight?
The oh-so-cool heeled sandals made from the softest leather.... and 40%off?
BE. STILL. MY. HEART.
I was wandering down the first aisle as I found the first pair. Brown Born Sandals. I slipped them on my tired feet. Oh. Oh. Ohhhhhhh.
My first hit.
I realized that I was actually experiencing a high. My heart racing. My mind delighted and eagerly seeking the next find. Is this what a drug addict feels like? I make a further mental note never to try drugs, considering.
The store teamed with women. Really. It was probably about 100:5 as far as the female:male ratio went. Our eyes would meet with recognition, a wry smile of understanding. She has 3 pair, her.... 4. A nod of the head. We understood eachother.
I collected my own 4 pair of delicious, perfect, brown and black sandals and sauntered slowly to the counter. I sighed and metaphorically licked my lips and rubbed my sated shoe belly. All was perfect in the world.
So, my sisters. Here's to the mystery. The secret place, only we (and Carson Kressley and his brothers) can go.
I can't solve all of the worlds ails, and confusion wreaks havoc on our daily lives. I don't know how to meet the needs of everyone, all the time.
But. There is one thing I do know.
Shoes.
Shoes.
Shoes.
Ahhhhhhhh.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
dive in
every day i swim
inside this pool
its walls the edges of my skin
it's water
the joys
pains
questions
answers
ah ha's
tears
potential
disappointments
desires
hopes
sorrows
love
swimming here is sometimes lonely.
not always.
in fact, the waters nice.
come on in.
inside this pool
its walls the edges of my skin
it's water
the joys
pains
questions
answers
ah ha's
tears
potential
disappointments
desires
hopes
sorrows
love
swimming here is sometimes lonely.
not always.
in fact, the waters nice.
come on in.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Sign This.
eesh.
i'm teaching sign language to 8th graders.
perhaps this was my first mistake.
no, i'm not fluent and i'm learning a step ahead of them.
so~
anyway.
we've learned a bunch of words, and their assignment today was to put together a sentence and say it in sign in front of the class.
Other than the general mayhem, all is going smoothly.
They even enjoy it.
Then, there's this kid.
A bit on the morose, may just go postal at some point, side.
He hadn't gone so i call him up.
He pays attention for about 20 seconds a class period, but he manages to pull this out of his trick bag.
You. Are. Fat.
Lovely. One of those moments as a teacher where you want to screw the possibility of news crews at your door later that night.
The kind of moment when your aspirations toward spiritual maturity just vaporize.But, instead... I said,
Yeah, I know. Great Sentence. (and silently muttered "asshat")
Anyone want to beat up an 8th grader??
i'm teaching sign language to 8th graders.
perhaps this was my first mistake.
no, i'm not fluent and i'm learning a step ahead of them.
so~
anyway.
we've learned a bunch of words, and their assignment today was to put together a sentence and say it in sign in front of the class.
Other than the general mayhem, all is going smoothly.
They even enjoy it.
Then, there's this kid.
A bit on the morose, may just go postal at some point, side.
He hadn't gone so i call him up.
He pays attention for about 20 seconds a class period, but he manages to pull this out of his trick bag.
You. Are. Fat.
Lovely. One of those moments as a teacher where you want to screw the possibility of news crews at your door later that night.
The kind of moment when your aspirations toward spiritual maturity just vaporize.But, instead... I said,
Yeah, I know. Great Sentence. (and silently muttered "asshat")
Anyone want to beat up an 8th grader??
Saturday, May 06, 2006
too cool
you know,
i've (perhaps erroneously) always thought i was rather on the hip side of life. you know, the right clothes, the right attitude, the right look.
not perfect by any stretch, but cute, and definitely in the realm of cool.
then last night i went to the beauty bar in vegas. off strip, seedy part of town, working girls and meth users wandering the street outside.
trendy in an, 'i'm so cool i've actually surpassed thinking actual beauty is beautiful' kind of way. inside, a dj spinning actual LPs. the base and the smoke thick and oppressive.
then...the people.
the kids.
goth rock hair, the 80's decade back in vogue like leg warmers and ripped fish nets have never graced our ill fated fashion sense before.
pat benetar reincarnated in 22 year old girls -- and boys.
crop circles opening up in gyrating crowds to expose break dancing dance-offs.
break dancing back? oh my god.
even mena suvari was there with her 20something, dreads in a knit cap, grungy oversized jeans, bustin a move boyfriend.
i have accepted the truth.
i am not on the hip side of life.
you'd think my walmart koolots would have tipped me off.
i've (perhaps erroneously) always thought i was rather on the hip side of life. you know, the right clothes, the right attitude, the right look.
not perfect by any stretch, but cute, and definitely in the realm of cool.
then last night i went to the beauty bar in vegas. off strip, seedy part of town, working girls and meth users wandering the street outside.
trendy in an, 'i'm so cool i've actually surpassed thinking actual beauty is beautiful' kind of way. inside, a dj spinning actual LPs. the base and the smoke thick and oppressive.
then...the people.
the kids.
goth rock hair, the 80's decade back in vogue like leg warmers and ripped fish nets have never graced our ill fated fashion sense before.
pat benetar reincarnated in 22 year old girls -- and boys.
crop circles opening up in gyrating crowds to expose break dancing dance-offs.
break dancing back? oh my god.
even mena suvari was there with her 20something, dreads in a knit cap, grungy oversized jeans, bustin a move boyfriend.
i have accepted the truth.
i am not on the hip side of life.
you'd think my walmart koolots would have tipped me off.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
How Dare You
Thousands of Children in the Sudan walk 5 miles every night and every morning to sleep in a cage to be safe from LRA rebel soldiers.
I NEED NEW FURNITURE IN MY FAMILY ROOM.
Those children who are abducted are turned into soldiers. forced to kill their siblings. gang raped by their captors.
MY THIGHS ARE FAT.
Religious intolerance and fundamentalism fuels genocide around the world. The entire region of Darfur Africa has been burned, killed, pillaged. The inhabitants forced out to live with no shelter. No care. No food.
I SHOULD HAVE CHOSEN STAINLESS STEEL APPLIANCES.
In the Congo Africa, women are gang raped in front of their children by the rebel forces. Their skin carved. Their bones broken. Their legs tied to trees and their innocence consumed by violent rape.
I CAN'T BEAR TO DRIVE MY JETTA ONE MORE YEAR.
Women in the Middle East are denied the human right of merely being a human. Girls denied the human right of education. Slaughtered in the street for showing the skin of an ankle. Killed for even the illusion of impropriety.
I AM SO SICK OF MY JOB.
Four million people in Pakistan are displaced. No home. Buried alive.
MY COFFEE TABLE IS OLD.
People. Children. Women. Their breath. Their ability to eat. Their ability to learn. Their ability to sleep the night without fear. Them. Them. Them. Them.
I AM BLESSED BEYOND COMPREHENSION.
Their suffering lives in my spirit.
Only self absorbsion blocks my view.
I NEED NEW FURNITURE IN MY FAMILY ROOM.
Those children who are abducted are turned into soldiers. forced to kill their siblings. gang raped by their captors.
MY THIGHS ARE FAT.
Religious intolerance and fundamentalism fuels genocide around the world. The entire region of Darfur Africa has been burned, killed, pillaged. The inhabitants forced out to live with no shelter. No care. No food.
I SHOULD HAVE CHOSEN STAINLESS STEEL APPLIANCES.
In the Congo Africa, women are gang raped in front of their children by the rebel forces. Their skin carved. Their bones broken. Their legs tied to trees and their innocence consumed by violent rape.
I CAN'T BEAR TO DRIVE MY JETTA ONE MORE YEAR.
Women in the Middle East are denied the human right of merely being a human. Girls denied the human right of education. Slaughtered in the street for showing the skin of an ankle. Killed for even the illusion of impropriety.
I AM SO SICK OF MY JOB.
Four million people in Pakistan are displaced. No home. Buried alive.
MY COFFEE TABLE IS OLD.
People. Children. Women. Their breath. Their ability to eat. Their ability to learn. Their ability to sleep the night without fear. Them. Them. Them. Them.
I AM BLESSED BEYOND COMPREHENSION.
Their suffering lives in my spirit.
Only self absorbsion blocks my view.
Monday, April 24, 2006
really?
“I mean, think about it.
Other than the war in Iraq,
the Katrina disaster,the deficit,
the CIA leak,torture,stopping stem cell research,
homeland security,global warmingand undercutting science,
we’ve yet to really feel the negative effects of the Bush administration.”
– Bill Moyers
Other than the war in Iraq,
the Katrina disaster,the deficit,
the CIA leak,torture,stopping stem cell research,
homeland security,global warmingand undercutting science,
we’ve yet to really feel the negative effects of the Bush administration.”
– Bill Moyers
Saturday, April 22, 2006
memories of goodbye
My mom died 29 years ago tonite. I remember that it was late. People were staying at our house because she was so sick. I was on the trundle bed in my sisters room. My dad came in and woke me up to tell me that mom had died. It was about 1:30am in Chicago. I was 10. He put me on his knee on the yellow and green chair that mom had recovered. She loved yellow. I covered my eyes and said, "no no no no no" while shaking my head. I remember that I was thinking that I watch too much television. Weird huh? I really thought that.
Then he woke Carrie. He took us into where she was laying on their bed. She had asked him to bring us in before he body got cold. A request that sounds so forensic, but contained love all the same. I don't remember much from going into that room. She lay where she had slept. Still. Laying. Breathless. Peaceful. My next memory is being back in bed, watching from a dark room out the open door. Movement in a late night house. Muted lights, muted voices. Then, people I didn't know. And a gurney wheeled out. My mom on it. She left our house for the last time.
The next day was 50's day at school. Dad said I didn't have to go to school, but I didn't want to miss it. I rememember getting there like a hazy dream. Like the memory has white clouds around the edges. A weird, uncomfortable smile on my face. Like I had a secret. The whispers began. "her mom died?" "whitney's mom died last night". "nu uh" "yuh huh". Then Mrs. Yost told that indeed, Whitney's mom had died.
Me, in my poodle skirt on 50's day.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Goddess
I wish that I was one of those people who don't have an emotional relationship with food. I don't know how or why it started with me. As a very small child, I have no memories of food, or needing it or wanting it. i really don't have any true memories of food. I think that the shift must have happened when my mom died. At that point, at a very vulnerable developmental period in my life, my most trusting and sacred relationship was taken away from me. It wasn't terribly sudden, but I'm not sure that matters to a 10 year old. So, then began an experience of me feeling like I had to take for myself because Life couldn't and can't be trusted to give to me what I need.
Be the first in line. Have the largest serving. Get more than the other guy. Know something I wasn't supposed to know.
I believe my relationship with food continues to live in that place. Honestly, I don't feel like I really overeat for the most part. But sometimes, I can really feel the emotional tug. Even when Eric and I have dinner, I am aware of which plate has more food. I am quite sure that many, if not most people don't think about this. It's embarrassing to admit. Why is it that if there is cake in the lunchroom at work, I think about how I'll get a piece before it's all gone? These things, combined with what I think must be the slowest metabolism in the Western World, have created a body representing the Goddess of Fertility. Found alluring to ancient cultures.... not so much this one.
I'm 39 and still fighting demons created 29 years ago. Isn't that interesting.
Be the first in line. Have the largest serving. Get more than the other guy. Know something I wasn't supposed to know.
I believe my relationship with food continues to live in that place. Honestly, I don't feel like I really overeat for the most part. But sometimes, I can really feel the emotional tug. Even when Eric and I have dinner, I am aware of which plate has more food. I am quite sure that many, if not most people don't think about this. It's embarrassing to admit. Why is it that if there is cake in the lunchroom at work, I think about how I'll get a piece before it's all gone? These things, combined with what I think must be the slowest metabolism in the Western World, have created a body representing the Goddess of Fertility. Found alluring to ancient cultures.... not so much this one.
I'm 39 and still fighting demons created 29 years ago. Isn't that interesting.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
spring clean
isnt it funny how things that have nothing to do with us become percieved as things that speak directly to our worth? why do we do that to ourselves? let things live where they live. clear our minds of things that we have dragged in there from elsewhere. fill it with love instead.
Friday, April 14, 2006
'Bout time
Lyrics to Pink's Amazing Song: STUPID GIRLS
Stupid girl, stupid girls, stupid girls
Maybe if I act like that, that guy will call me back
What a paparazzi girl, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Go to Fred Segal, you'll find them there
Laughing loud so all the little people stare
Looking for a daddy to pay for the champagne(Drop a name)
What happened to the dreams of a girl president
She's dancing in the video next to 50 Cent
They travel in packs of two or three
With their itsy bitsy doggies and their teeny-weeny tees
Where, oh where, have the smart people gone?
Oh where, oh where could they be?
Maybe if I act like that, that guy will call me back
What a paparazzi girl, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Baby if I act like that, flipping my blonde hair back
Push up my bra like that, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Disease's growing, it's epidemic
I'm scared that there ain't a cure
The world believes it and I'm going crazy
I cannot take any more
I'm so glad that I'll never fit in
That will never be me
Outcasts and girls with ambition
That's what I wanna see
Disasters all around
World despaired
Their only concernWill they **** up my hair
Maybe if I act like that, that guy will call me back
What a paparazzi girl, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Baby if I act like that, flipping my blonde hair back
Push up my bra like that, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Stupid girl, stupid girls, stupid girls
Maybe if I act like that, that guy will call me back
What a paparazzi girl, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Go to Fred Segal, you'll find them there
Laughing loud so all the little people stare
Looking for a daddy to pay for the champagne(Drop a name)
What happened to the dreams of a girl president
She's dancing in the video next to 50 Cent
They travel in packs of two or three
With their itsy bitsy doggies and their teeny-weeny tees
Where, oh where, have the smart people gone?
Oh where, oh where could they be?
Maybe if I act like that, that guy will call me back
What a paparazzi girl, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Baby if I act like that, flipping my blonde hair back
Push up my bra like that, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Disease's growing, it's epidemic
I'm scared that there ain't a cure
The world believes it and I'm going crazy
I cannot take any more
I'm so glad that I'll never fit in
That will never be me
Outcasts and girls with ambition
That's what I wanna see
Disasters all around
World despaired
Their only concernWill they **** up my hair
Maybe if I act like that, that guy will call me back
What a paparazzi girl, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Baby if I act like that, flipping my blonde hair back
Push up my bra like that, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Flam
you're coasting along just certain that life is going to accomodate your every plan and whim and FLAM! no such luck. now. CAN I PRACTICE WHAT I PREACH? that is the real question.
so what if i DON'T start my MSW in the fall? How will I use my year? How will I make it count?
Ideas are swirling. It's an opportunity, not a problem. Right?
so what if i DON'T start my MSW in the fall? How will I use my year? How will I make it count?
Ideas are swirling. It's an opportunity, not a problem. Right?
Monday, April 10, 2006
Cumpleanos
I turned 39 yesterday. Felt calm and somewhat quiet about it. Seems I am beyond the days of weeping when I thought my friends had forgotten to call up a local parade for the event.
And yet, my sweet husband went outside of his own comfort zone to invite a few local friends to surprise me. And surprise me he did :)
My greatest gift yesterday was from a friend. She reminded me to let myself believe that I am loved. That I can loosen my grip on my own need to indulge myself because I fear that no one else will. To know that those who love me will indulge me. Not with gifts or money or chocolate, but with knowing and supporting me. It touched me and moved me. Thank you.
And yet, my sweet husband went outside of his own comfort zone to invite a few local friends to surprise me. And surprise me he did :)
My greatest gift yesterday was from a friend. She reminded me to let myself believe that I am loved. That I can loosen my grip on my own need to indulge myself because I fear that no one else will. To know that those who love me will indulge me. Not with gifts or money or chocolate, but with knowing and supporting me. It touched me and moved me. Thank you.
Ahhhhh
Courageous Woman
Courageous Pink
Spoke. Stupid Girls. Sad girls. Losing selves, gaining boobs, Gucci, size 0.
Anything that causes me to be less than i am, in order that someone else can be more than they are, eats away at the essence of who I am.
Girls.
Who are you? What do you think? What do you like? What do you offer? What are you great at? What challenges you? If you weren't limited by tabloid expectations, who would you be?
We have become oppressors of our sisters. The bar is being silently lowered for us, by us.
The problem has been spoken.
The issue has been seen.
The question has been posed.
We, You, I, They. Responsible for what we know. Listen and Know.
Washing your car in a bikini? Not so sexy.
Beat the local boys at touch football? Debate your butt off without bending to popular opinion? Saying no? VERY SEXY.
Courageous Pink
Spoke. Stupid Girls. Sad girls. Losing selves, gaining boobs, Gucci, size 0.
Anything that causes me to be less than i am, in order that someone else can be more than they are, eats away at the essence of who I am.
Girls.
Who are you? What do you think? What do you like? What do you offer? What are you great at? What challenges you? If you weren't limited by tabloid expectations, who would you be?
We have become oppressors of our sisters. The bar is being silently lowered for us, by us.
The problem has been spoken.
The issue has been seen.
The question has been posed.
We, You, I, They. Responsible for what we know. Listen and Know.
Washing your car in a bikini? Not so sexy.
Beat the local boys at touch football? Debate your butt off without bending to popular opinion? Saying no? VERY SEXY.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
I'm in!
My husband got me an MP3 player and now i'm in the club! He's had one for a long time and loads it religiously. I watched this behavior with admiration and a detached wonder. I've never been the sort who breathes music as many do. I wondered if having an MP3 would really matter much to me. Then, I got Eric Satellite Radio for Christmas. Since the musician's name is displayed on the screen, I've been able to connect the who to the what much more readily. I've even wanted to look for the work of artists who have flitted past my auditory canals.
Knowing an artist + the desire to hear their stuff + the ability to get it easily + MP3 player = fun!!
Math was never my strong suit, but that equation came pretty easily. I'm late to the party I know.... but at least i got here.
Check out Anna Nalick's music.
Knowing an artist + the desire to hear their stuff + the ability to get it easily + MP3 player = fun!!
Math was never my strong suit, but that equation came pretty easily. I'm late to the party I know.... but at least i got here.
Check out Anna Nalick's music.
8th graders are evil
Am I more annoyed at their behavior or at the nagging truth that I was just as bad when I was that age? It's amazing what a completely different frame of reference we look through when we're 14 from when we're over 35. It's amusing, humbling and infuriating all at the same time.
Today I got back from a long weekend in Phoenix visiting the family to find out that several of my classes were HORRID for the sub. Having been a sub, I am sensitive to it, and just mad that I know they can behave like humans if they want to.
Most of them are really fine. It's just the combination of so many of them at the same time that can be overwhelming. It's kind of funny that an hour that can cause me stress for days is barely a blip on the radar screen for them. Nice in a way. Perhaps it should barely be a blip for me too.
Today I got back from a long weekend in Phoenix visiting the family to find out that several of my classes were HORRID for the sub. Having been a sub, I am sensitive to it, and just mad that I know they can behave like humans if they want to.
Most of them are really fine. It's just the combination of so many of them at the same time that can be overwhelming. It's kind of funny that an hour that can cause me stress for days is barely a blip on the radar screen for them. Nice in a way. Perhaps it should barely be a blip for me too.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Barclay
Today I had my 14 year old cat, Barclay, put to sleep. I'm sad. Just days ago he started to act sick. Confused. Lethargic. Not eating or drinking. Yesterday the vet said it's congestive heart failure. He wasn't going to get better. Today, it was painful to see him that way. Laying like a wet noodle on the floor. Crying out. Confused. Refusing to eat or drink. I had to let him go. I didn't wait. I let him go. I'm sad. Hoping there is truth to spirit and wondering if he met my Jack on the other side. That's my hope. My heart feels a little empty and the space on the couch next to me is hollow without him. Thank you Barclay for being a quiet presence in my life for so long. I'll miss you sweet boy.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
husband
gentle
curious
calm
real
hilarious
loving
adventurous
open
accepting
tender
seeking
surprising
comfortable
willing
friend
curious
calm
real
hilarious
loving
adventurous
open
accepting
tender
seeking
surprising
comfortable
willing
friend
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