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Dia del Dada
Here is a poem about a father for Father’s Day:
My Papa’s Waltz
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself.
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
Theodore Roethke, “My Papa’s Waltz” from Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke. Copyright 1942 by Hearst Magazines, Inc. Reprinted with the permission of Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc.
Here is another one:
My Father’s Diary
BY SHARON OLDS
I get into bed with it, and spring
the scarab legs of its locks. Inside,
the stacked, shy wealth of his print—
he could not write in script, so the pages
are sturdy with the beamwork of printedness,
WENT TO LOOK AT A CAR, DAD
IN A GOOD MOOD AT DINNER, WENT
TO TRY OUT SOME NEW TENNIS RACQUETS,
LUNCH WITH MOM, life of ease—
except when he spun his father’s DeSoto on the
ice, and a young tree whirled up to the
hood, throwing up her arms—until
LOIS. PLAYED TENNIS, WITH LOIS,
LUNCH WITH MOM AND LOIS, LOIS
LIKED THE CAR, DRIVING WITH LOIS,
LONG DRIVE WITH LOIS. And then,
LOIS! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT! SHE IS SO
GOOD, SO SWEET, SO GENEROUS, I HAVE
NEVER, WHAT HAVE I EVER DONE
TO DESERVE SUCH A GIRL? Between the dark
legs of the capitals, moonlight, soft
tines of the printed letter gentled
apart, nectar drawn from serif, the
self of the grown boy pouring
out, the heart’s charge, the fresh
man kneeling in pine-needle weave,
worshipping her. It was my father
good, it was my father grateful,
it was my father dead, who had left me
these small structures of his young brain—
he wanted me to know him, he wanted
someone to know him.
Source: Poetry (July 1998).
And, one more: (If you want to listen to this one, go to this website: http://www.ibiblio.org/ipa/poems/komunyakaa/my_father’s_love_letters.php)
My Father’s Love Letters
Yusef Komunyakaa
On Fridays he’d open a can of Jax
After coming home from the mill,
& ask me to write a letter to my mother
Who sent postcards of desert flowers
Taller than men. He would beg,
Promising to never beat her
Again. Somehow I was happy
She had gone, & sometimes wanted
To slip in a reminder, how Mary Lou
Williams’ “Polka Dots & Moonbeams”
Never made the swelling go down.
His carpenter’s apron always bulged
With old nails, a claw hammer
Looped at his side & extension cords
Coiled around his feet.
Words rolled from under the pressure
Of my ballpoint: Love,
Baby, Honey, Please.
We sat in the quiet brutality
Of voltage meters & pipe threaders,
Lost between sentences . . .
The gleam of a five-pound wedge
On the concrete floor
Pulled a sunset
Through the doorway of his toolshed.
I wondered if she laughed
& held them over a gas burner.
My father could only sign
His name, but he’d look at blueprints
& say how many bricks
Formed each wall. This man,
Who stole roses & hyacinth
For his yard, would stand there
With eyes closed & fists balled,
Laboring over a simple word, almost
Redeemed by what he tried to say.
Not really the usual Father’s Day Fathers, right? You know, the “holidads” that want things like golf clubs or a tie or power tools for their special day.
Really, did that guy ever exist?
Not in my house. My dad’s a lot of things, but not that.
My dad played a game with us called “Hibernating Bears”. It wasn’t as much fun as it sounds. He took us to caves and Indian burial mounds and the dump. He had a short wave radio that he never let us touch, but we could listen to it with him if he was in the room. He gave me a wooden nickel and a real sapphire necklace that was on a real gold chain that Mom said was too delicate for a little girl of my age. He was late to my high school graduation and never remembers the names of any of my friends, except for the ones he thinks are hot. He loves Willie Nelson and Randy Newman and Ofra Haza and midgets. Some of his jokes are terrible, but some are HI-larious with a capital HI. When we were kids, he would leave a little card on the kitchen table with the latest installment of a comic strip he wrote and drew for us. We read it when we ate breakfast, and sometimes it had games we could play or questions to answer.
These days he emails all sorts of stuff. Sometimes he sends things that infuriate me, which is why he does it, evene though I have told him to quit. He sends me lots of cool photography things. He sent me this: http://www.spiegel.de/international/germany/fuck-for-forest-documentary-sees-failure-in-carnal-idealism-a-905486.html and this: 
He also writes about stuff that happens during his day, which I save in a special file. Here is what he said after a recent, brief hospital stay (don’t worry – he’s fine!): “I have heard bad things about Medical City, but this is the 2nd time I have been in their ER. It’s ok, however, they have remarkably unabsorbent toilet paper in their restrooms. Sick people deserve better.” Quite the passionate activist, he is. He has two cats, and one of them sleeps with his paws around Dad’s neck. I don’t think he likes dogs, but he’s nice to mine. When my mom goes out of town, he invites all the ladies he knows over for a fried-chicken-slumber party and he smokes in the house, even though he’s not supposed to.
I could go on and on.
Sometimes we get into huge political arguments or he tells me (for a long time) about an episode of some tv show like Frasier that he’s just discovered. He doesn’t like to spend money on ANYTHING and does absolutely NO exercise. He adores his grandchildren. He knows tons of stuff about tons of stuff, and when he was 15 he left home and moved to another continent and lived in a commune.
Because of my dad, I have a wide variety of interests and sometimes an obsessive nature. I have a broader understanding of many things because he has taught me to seek them out, or has pointed out things that I have missed. He was my first guide to music and the first person I wanted to be proud of me.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Your present is in the mail. Just kidding. I appreciate you, you know, because you are so who you are. I love you. Here are some cigarettes, and some adorable baby animals, and a lady with really big boobies, and a big kiss from me.
MWAH!!!
Three score and four
Today, June 8, 2013, marks the anniversary of the publication of perhaps my favorite book of all time. That book poses many questions to the reader, but if it were to ask me, in the voice of Paul McCartney, “Will you still need me…when I’m sixty-four?” , I’d say “Yes, 1984! You’re as relevant today as you were the day you were born, which, coincidentally, is today!”
A few days ago, President Obama had to explain why an order from the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court (whatever that is) that instructs Verizon to secretly turn over “on an ongoing daily basis” the “telephony metadata” (huh?) of all of its customers is not really an invasion of privacy. http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/closeread/2013/06/the-nsa-verizon-scandal.html Obama wants to “be perfectly clear” that Americans know that nobody is listening to our phone conversations.
Hmm.
I read 1984 for the first time when I was 12 years old in the 7th grade. I had never read anything like it before and it totally blew my mind. I had never imagined that the government could just flat out lie; I thought that the government was made up of people, and, bottom line, people care about each other, and so we all act with each others best interests in mind. The idea that questioning was not just a privilege, but also a duty, was born and nurtured in my adolescent mind, and has been instrumental in forming the adult I am today.
The next time I read the book was my senior year in high school. This time I was amazed by the protagonist, who was given the paradoxical name Winston Smith, an extraordinary/everyman. The courage and integrity he showed because he couldn’t – and wouldn’t- deny his own truth became the blueprint of what a hero is to me. Of course this is the case of many literary heroes- John Proctor, Atticus Finch, Harrison Bergeron, and Guy Montag, to name just a few others from high school English- but Winston, and to a lesser degree Julia, his partner in crime, behaved how I hoped I would behave; nobly, with hope and courage, even if the odds were impossible, even if the end result was failure. I have let myself down in my quest to do what I think is right countless times, and I have succeeded a few times as well.
In college I read the novel again and that time was awestruck by the innovation and metacognitive awareness with which Orwell used language. The politics and power of communication, the beauty of craft, and the importance of nuance are what I am studying now in others’ writing and in my own.
So these three things -cynicism, doing the right thing, and care in speech and the written word- have all reappeared with force and clarity in my mind today, on 1984‘s anniversary and in the wake of yet another growing scandal regarding personal and civil rights. I would hope that everybody would take this opportunity to ask some hard questions as to what is “the right thing”, and to figure out their opinions, and, whether they are pro-increased security in today’s turbulent and volatile times, or for more government accountability and restraint, to find a way to effectively express themselves on this and similar issues.
That’s what I would hope. Not what I would expect, though.
Since America is supposed to be made up of rugged individualists and in recent years we have seen a powerful and vocal uptick in those who are disdainful of government control, you’d think Verizon would have scored points by challenging the order and others like it as a selling point to consumers. “At Verizon, we care about YOU! We’ll NEVER sell out your personal information to anyone or anything – NO MATTER WHAT!” I can hear the reassuring voice-over in the commercial now. But it turns out that in 2007, Verizon and two other groups were awarded enormous contracts with the U.S. government and are more beholden to that big fish client than they are little ole you and me. According to The Daily Beast in this article (http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2013/06/06/why-verizon-is-happy-to-help-obama-and-the-nsa-spy-on-americans.html):
In the post-9/11 world, no company or brand wants to be on the wrong side of national-security policy. And Verizon, like others in big defense and technology, is in bed with the government, including the security apparatus. They are a big customer. Verizon, of course, is a major government contractor. Back in 2007, Verizon, along with AT&T and what was then Quest, “were awarded the government’s largest telecommunications contract ever, a 10-year deal worth up to $48 billion to supply various telecom needs of dozens of federal agencies,” as USA Today reported. “The contract covers voice, video and data services and technologies for as many as 135 agencies operating in 190 countries. Several major departments, including Homeland Security and Treasury, have already signed up.”
Then of course, we probably wouldn’t care that much if Verizon did go to the mat for us. I think we just assume that everybody has our number and is listening to our conversations anyway. After all, we all know about GPS and Google Earth and cell phone towers and cameras and drones, so I think we’re all pretty comfortable with the idea that if someone knows where to look, we’re pretty much out there, are naked and stuff, for everyone to see.
And even if one does care about privacy and rights, what can be done about really protecting them? If I quit Verizon (Ha! Take that! You just lost my business! Good day, sir!), where can I go? Is AT&T better? Sprint? I doubt it. I didn’t expect this, though: after The Guardian broke the news of the wire-tapping, Verizon’s stock went up.That’s right, the company’s value increased when it was caught in bed with Uncle Sam. It’s like we see questionable business practices and say, “Yum, yum, gimme some! I must have a piece of that sweet, wholesome pie! Delicious and nutritious!”
In fact every day, millions of Americans give up for free the very personal sort of information you wouldn’t want anyone to know to everyone. They post embarrassing pictures on facebook or instagram. They upload videos of themselves doing illegal, immoral or superdumbass things on youtube. They tell you where they’re going to be and when, and when they get there, they check in, so you know they have arrived (“I’m checking in from the toilet at the McDonald’s on Hwy 260! Don’t you touch the McFlurry and the McFatSack I left on the table next to the keys to my brand new tan and blue Ford 150 and my adorable toddler, Kim Carol Ann!”). They write obscene racist comments on other people’s posts or write whole blogs about their innermost feelings about absolutely everything, regardless of how inappropriate or job threatening those feelings may be. Yeah. Some people do some of those things. So why should we care if the government is watching?
There is almost always complacence and compliance in the brutality and totalitarianism of the great dystopias in literature. There has to be a climate of acceptance and a willingness to go along with a new regime, from Lowry’s The Giver , to Golding’s Lord of the Flies, to Shteyngart’s Super Sad True Love Story.* Perhaps the people get behind an idea that seems good, but then goes way bad. Like Nazism – Hitler was democratically elected into power, you know, to restore national pride and reduce a crushing economic depression. Maybe people sign on out of of fear, like fear of terrorism. That’s fear of acts designed to cause fear. That makes sense, because fear is scary.
Which brings me back to Winston. He was always scared. At first, all he could do was muster up the courage to think, after years of conditioning, “I don’t believe them. Something is wrong. And even if they tell me I’m crazy, and even if I believe I may be crazy, I am right.”
It took him years to act on this idea, and when he did, he was caught and tortured and re-educated and forced to deny his faith, which is a belief in something that is so strong that reason is rejected. In the end, he lost.
But at least he cared.
Happy Birthday, 1984. Thanks for making me care, George.
*You still haven’t read it, right? Why won’t you? It’s so good!
Also: Happy, happy birthday McAdams! You’ve come a long way, and I look forward to seeing where you will go next! I love you!
AND! Happy birthday to Renaissaance Man, Mikey the C! I’ll see you tonight!
Me and Julio, down by different schoolyards
Hey! It’s me! Been awhile, right? Miss me? I missed you, too! The thing is, not all that much has been going on since we last had the chitity chat; I didn’t want to bore you with the everyday blahblahblah that is my life. Then I remembered that to YOU, it’s not blahdittyblah; YOU love lifestyles of the rich and famous! So let’s see…what have I been doing?
Hmmm. A lot of the usual stuff: singing Britney Spears songs (Britty-ditties) to my dog*. Judging people. Gardening. Trying to figure out why if I am wearing a convertible bra, the view doesn’t get any better when I take my top off. Things like that.
I also finished my last class in grad school, and am about to start another. I did well last semester, which is kind of surprising because I’ve never been a great student, on account of school is boring and I already know everything, but I enjoyed my class, and I met a lot of cool people that I hope to be friends with for a long time to come. We had our last class at a sailing club. We sat at long tables on a dock at the lake and talked about poetry over wine and cheese as the sun slowly sank. Yup. I did that! It was so cool and novel that I decided to be a different person for the evening and referred to myself as Lady Vanity Persimmon-Jones, Esquiress. She sounds snotty, but she’s got an infectious laugh and makes you feel like you’re the only one in the room. You’d love her, and I loved being her. I am going to add her to my alter egos, Doo Doo Brown and The Baby, even though I know they won’t get along.
My next class promises to suck the hoon, whatever that is.
I also managed to finish out the year in my not-so-new job without getting fired, so that’s good.
It’s totally different than my last gig; for one thing, the school is really wealthy. The campus is all green and lush, with fruit trees and a big organic garden with water features and lily pads. There are hummingbirds and stepping stones across a little stream that runs the length of the campus. There is an outdoor amphitheater for plays or songs or poetry reading, and the office buildings and rooms are all glassed in, with picture windows throughout, in order to look with wonder at the splendor that is our school.
Ok, that picture is from Monet’s garden at Giverny, not really my school. My penchant for hyperbole is once again muted by my unswerving dedication to truth in all areas. But I digress…
At my old school, teachers were treated like the poop on your shoes from a loose-boweled raccoon. http://www.heraldtribune.com/article/20090214/ARTICLE/902140306 They still are.
At my new school, if something comes up, my colleagues, even the principal, will cover my classes. If you leave the building to get something from your car or go to lunch, nobody cares; they trust you’ll be back when you need to be. The other day, a lady from the office said she had to move my car, so I gave her my keys. In the afternoon I noticed instantly that something about my auto was different; it was gleaming in the sun, having been freshly washed and vacuumed. There was a recyclable, reusable cup in the cup holder with a Starbucks card and a note thanking me for being such a valued member of our school team this year.
At my old school, one day this tall, football player with an ankle bracelet confronted an assistant principal for “getting in my fucking face.” He pushed the AP into the lockers and said, “catch me if you can, cocksucker!” as he ran out the front doors. The next day he was back in freshman World Geography, asleep on a desk, the scared-looking rabbity teacher tiptoeing around him, so as not to wake him up.
At my new school, a fifth grader told a classmate to “shut up, stupid”, and was suspended until his parents could prove he had enrolled in anger management therapy.
Needless to say, I like my new school a lot.
Still and all, I really miss my old students. I loved them, even though they were under-educated, unsophisticated, and chronically “low performing”. Throughout the year, I’ve kept in touch, on and off, with some of them; Sergio called me in tears when Abel got killed; Babraham texted to tell me that maybe he should have considered college instead of becoming a full time bar back; Oscar came by to show me his new baby and introduce me to his new girlfriend; Lily sent me an invitation to her graduation from UT-Austin; Karla wants to go to lunch; Gabi invited me to her kid’s second birthday; Nam rang up my groceries at the store; I saw Humberto and Ramiro at a gas station downtown – they have decided they are going to become dee-jays and work all the quinceneras in town.
And then, last week, Julio texted me to tell me he got a three on the writing portion of his state standardized test. “Missss!” he wrote, “I got the highest score! It was so high and I was so high! I looove Americaaaaa!” I told him congratulations, and that I didn’t understand why he couldn’t have gotten just as high if he was still in Mexico, and we wrote back and forth, talking about this and that, until midnight, when I told him I had to go to bed. “Oh, miss! Don be so oooold! The night just startin!”
Julio’s a gangster. He came by himself from Mexico; his mom saved up all the money she had to send him here, because things were really bad at home. He told me one time about how sad he was that he couldn’t be there when his grandfather died. “He was a good man, miss. Whenever he had food, he would give me some. He would always make room on the bed for me so I didn’t have to sleep on the floor. I loved him.”
He’s really smart, but he makes bad choices. He is a sophomore this year, but he is at least 19. He was a boxer in Mexico and gets into fights here, which he always wins, but always gets in trouble for. He has been smoking weed since he was eight. He’s a great writer. His stuff is FILLED with grammar errors and misspelled words, but his ideas and their tone – they blow me away. He says he doesn’t like his teachers because “it juss getting worst. Teachers jus dont care mis, i be telling them if you want a kid to change you need to touch his hurt and listen to him, not juss bitch at him every time he wrong… am I rite, misss?” I think he meant ‘touch his heart’, but it works with either word.
I asked him what he wrote about that got him such a high score. Usually the prompts on those standardized test are vague and insipid; “Write about a time you took a trip” or “Write about an important lesson”. I think this time it was “Write about something you did for a friend.” Julio wrote about something that had happened when he was still in Mexico, when he was about ten. He had told me this story a couple of years ago, in broken English and Spanish, when I was his teacher.
His constant companion then was a little brown dog that had showed up in the alley one day, and had just stayed. Julio loved that little dog. They went to the dump and got aluminum to sell for food or candy, or stole copper wire and piping for extra cash. One time the found a dead snake on the highway and took it home for the meat. On Saturdays he took the dog to the park and they played all day. He said that when he was with the dog he “forgot about all my problems. I wasn’t even hungry when we were playing!”
One day his dog got bitten by another dog, and became infected. Julio was furious. He got another guy to shoot the dog that bit his. He said, “I thought I did that for my friend. I had that guy kill that dog for my dog, because he was sick. But then I learned that I didn’t kill the dog for my friend; I did it for me, so I would feel better. It was only later, when my dog was dying that I did something for him, for a good friend. He was suffering too much… it was a good essay, Miss. Really dramatic, if you read it. I know those fuckers who graded it weren’t expecting me to just pull out a baseball bat and kill my only friend on a sunny Saturday, our favorite day of the week!”
Julio was really proud of himself for writing so well, and so was I, and I was honored that he thought about me when he got his good score. I love him, and I think about him often. I like the kids at my new school, too, but it’s not really the same.
Anyway, summer break is almost here and I am happy and looking forward to the future, whatever it is. I’m planning some exciting stuff, so prepare yourself!
Happy End of School to Denichiwa and McAdams!
Congratulations to JR, David and Ben on the birth of Baby Joel! Congratulations to Emmy and Eric and Baby Peri!
This post is brought to you thanks to Dennis and KB, who told me it was HIGH TIME to get off my lazy ass and write a new one!
* Baby, baby, you’re doggin’ me/then again, what else would ya be/doin’ to me?/ YOU ARE A FUZZY DOG!
Face it, bitches-Britney’s back!
BONUS!!!! The only people who read this blog are people who love me. It’s not always that way. Check this out: http://www.27bslash6.com/foggot.html. Also, I’m lucky that people send me stuff like this to remind me about how lucky I am. Thanks chm chm!
Luck
On April 16th, I got off work early and went to the park. The day was bright and clear, and as I walked, I found myself singing this song called “Sailor Song”, by Regina Spektor, just because I was happy and it’s big fun to walk and sing. Anyway, I got to the park, and there was hardly anybody there, which is rare, so I let Atticus off his leash and he frolicked and charged me like a bull and got to chase a squirrel. Then I saw these ducks in the public pool 
and I thought, “Well isn’t that handy, you lucky duckwads!” Right by a gutter, I found a crumpled up five dollar bill, and then I saw the first robin’s egg of the season. 
It was a day of great good fortune.
The next day, a bunch of people were at a race, watching their friends and family perform feats of mental and physical fortitude with pride and excitement, cheering them on to the finish, and some asshole tries to the blow them up. Then West, Texas, Home of the colache at The Czech Inn blew up. Then George Bush, who was responsible for a lot of people who either blew things up or got blown up got a library dedicated to him.
That’s the thing about luck. It’s so chaotically random. It can be serendipitous and satisfying, or heartbreakingly cruel.
I used to be really into luck, but lately I’ve been thinking it’s a real bitch.
“Could Have”, by Wislawa Szymborska
It could have happened.
It had to happen.
It happened earlier. Later.
Nearer. Farther off.
It happened, but not to you.You were saved because you were the first.
You were saved because you were the last.
Alone. With others.
On the right. The left.
Because it was raining. Because of the shade.
Because the day was sunny.You were in luck — there was a forest.
You were in luck — there were no trees.
You were in luck — a rake, a hook, a beam, a brake,
A jamb, a turn, a quarter-inch, an instant . . .So you’re here? Still dizzy from
another dodge, close shave, reprieve?
One hole in the net and you slipped through?
I couldn’t be more shocked or
speechless.
Listen,
how your heart pounds inside me.
If I ever get a fish, I’m going to name it Marianne. OHHHH! MARIANNE’S A FISH! MARIANNE’S A FISH!
Bonus poem – NOTE- This one is, to papraphrase the words of David St. Hubbins, of the famous band Spinal Tap, “too much fucking perspective!”
The Terrorist, He Watches
By Wislawa Szymborska
The bomb will go off in the bar at one twenty p.m.
Now it’s only one sixteen p.m.
Some will still have time to get in,
Some to get out.
The terrorist has already crossed to the other side of the street.
The distance protects him from any danger,
And what a sight for sore eyes:
A woman in a yellow jacket, she goes in.
A man in dark glasses, he comes out.
Guys in jeans, they are talking.
One seventeen and four seconds.
That shorter guy’s really got it made, and gets on a scooter,
And that taller one, he goes in.
One seventeen and forty seconds.
That girl there, she’s got a green ribbon in her hair.
Too bad that bus just cut her off.
One eighteen p.m.
The girl’s not there any more.
Was she dumb enough to go in, or wasn’t she?
That we’ll see when they carry them out.
One nineteen p.m.
No one seems to be going in.
Instead a fat baldy’s coming out.
Like he’s looking for something in his pockets and
at one nineteen and fifty seconds
he goes back for those lousy gloves of his.
It’s one twenty p.m.
The time, how it drags.
Should be any moment now.
Not yet.
Yes, this is it.
The bomb, it goes off.
These poems come from her View With a Grain of Sand, byWislawa Szymborska, translated from Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1996)
One Such Munch
Here is one such munch:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXOn-6-b0cY
I know I’ve already posted this, but really – never not funny.
Waiting for the Muse
I’m gearing up to write a long post about my latest fixation. Soon, I will do that, but not exactly yet. First I have to drag my feet a little, have some ADD-distraction episodes, decide that as I get older, I am getting stupider (stupider, but not dumber – I still talk as much as I ever did, I just don’t make as much sense), walk around the house aimlessly for awhile, and then, finally, I will sit down to write, at which time I will decide that I have nothing important to say, and that it’s not nice to bore my three dedicated readers. I try to put off today what I can probably put off tomorrow. That’s the way I roll.
Here is a fantastic story about a guy who also has problems writing. It’s really good. Short, too. You should read it. Thanks to CHM CHM for turning me on to it. http://smokelong.com/flash/danielriordan39q.asp
I do know about coming up with bad ideas. Here is something I wrote a long time ago called “The Unlikely Muse”.
The Unlikely Muse has no sense of personal space. He barges in when I’m in the shower or on the toilet. When I am trying to pay attention to something smart people care about, like a lecture on the Mayan Popul Vuh or physics, the unlikely muse jumps on my lap, which is not as adorable as it sounds since he is morbidly obese and sweaty, and breathes beery, burpy breath in my face, which fogs my glasses in sea foam green.
“Don’t listen to that shit!” he croaks. “Write about a guy who wears two pairs of socks every day! You know, a top pair and then undersocks! Yeah! And make him from Finland! Now that’s gonna be a great story!”
The Unlikely Muse crawls into bed with me, though I’ve told him politely and repeatedly that we are just friends. He sticks his slobbery tongue in my ear and his hand up my shirt while I sleep, drooling on my neck and poisoning my dreams. That’s how I saw Danny DeVito naked on a tractor, playing with his chest hair, and, shall we say, “eager to do some plowing.” It’s an image that may haunt me forever.
Sometimes he (the Unlikely Muse, not Danny DeVito) has conversations with things I shove into the furthest recesses of my subconscious, calling them forth, coaxing them out, then dancing the lambada under a strobe light with them. The ‘forbidden dance’ with ghosts, with things I obsessively put off, grinding his pelvis into my secret, hidden fears, dipping my character flaws so their hair sweeps the ground, a red rose between his yellow teeth – It’s hard to ignore stuff like that. The muse likes to dance all night and he has no sense of rhythm.
He farts words and vomits phrases. He never bathes and the scent of him lingers after he’s gone. He leaves rings in my coffee cups, dog poop on my shoes, and he won’t let me exercise. I’ll bet I’ve gained 20 pounds from all the cheese he shoves down my throat. He says, “Pull my finger! C’mon! It’s Sexy!” and “You know, people actually love to be offended, Fucktard!” and “The way to impress strangers is to make them think you think you are better than them!” and “Why don’t you write a long piece about ME that goes on and on and never gets anywhere!”
Shit! He did it again! The Unlikely Muse is one super sneaky stealth-Ninja. I never know when he’s coming, but I always know where he’s been.
Eww.
Signs of Spring
Poor other parts of the country! This winter must seem never-ending to you! Don’t give up…Spring is just around the corner! In my part of the world, little leaf fists are uncurling, buds are kissing the air, grass is greening, and people are smiling when they pass each other in the street. Here are some pictures to help you snow-suffocated, coat-bound Northerners (and Midwesterners, and East Coasters) keep the dream alive.
Also, here’s rust and a wall. Enjoy.
I Fell Down and Landed Smackdab in the Seventies!
Me, when I lived in Black and White Panels. Still had to bathe.
http://www.funnyjunk.com/search/?q=morning+shower&s=weight&o=desc&search-target=all
Yesterday I had to be at work from 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. I know, I know. Just that is enough to make you want to send me a small gift. It’s very hard for me to “have to” do anything, and when the obligation begins when it is still dark and cold outside and I’m sleepy and cranky and have to bathe, and when said duty stretches past my late afternoon nap and happy hour, well, frankly, I’m just a wreck. I had parent-teacher-student conferences, which means I had to be nice, patient, knowledgeable and concerned all the doo-dah day, and I couldn’t cuss or pick my nose, not even a little.
Because I’m all about making a good impression, I decided to wear my super cool gray heels. Comfortable and functional, they are also lovely, and allow me to tower over most second and third graders, so I felt they would provide me with a little visual cred and superiority. I’m all about superiority.
Well, somehow I made it through the day and fought rush hour traffic to arrive home again, home again, jiggity jig, happy as could be at the prospect of dinner and warmth, catching up on my emails, my thoughts turning all fluffy pillows and clean blankets, and finishing my George Saunders book, which I’ve been putting off, because it’s so good I don’t want it to end. So excited was I at the joy of cocooning that I missed a step, twisted my ankle and fell down, hard, purse, homework and lunch bag flying, on the cold, unforgiving cement. Tragedy!*
*This is to be sung like the Bee Gees did in their 1979 hit single by the same name. Please make a note of this for future reference.
It hurt. I immediately felt I was going to throw up, and, as I fell compelled to do in such situations, tore off most of my clothes to stave off the puking.
So there I was, half naked and mewling on the pavement, bleeding from one leg and unable to stand on the other. Atticus spotted me, and, helpful companion that he is, jumped up on my shoulders, hit my chin with his steel encased dog head, drooled in my hair, gave me a big, dog-tongued wet willie, whined and pranced to let me know he was ready to start our evening walk, and then farted and ran away, leaving me in a cloud of stink that managed to scorch my retinas, even through the flood of my tears.
Woe, woe, woe, woe!**
**This is to be sung like Paul McCartney in the 1973 hit single, “My Love.” Please make a note of this for future reference.
Poor, poor me. Really, small gifts do make me feel better.
Sometimes when you sprain your ankle really badly, you instantly grow black man hair on your leg. It’s medical. Look it up.
I know I’ll be ok. Actually, this happens to me pretty often, because I have silly little bird bones and my ankle is the size of an ant’s knee, so it’s weak and I twist it a lot. It’s just that this month has been a rough one for women like me. You know, the kind of women who put a high value being independent and self-reliant, and who learn about life from TV sitcoms.
Like Ann Romano. She was a newly divorced mother in the 70’s who decided to reform and transform her life by taking back her maiden name, living honestly and openly, and trying to be a role model for her two teenaged daughters. She shucked her bra, made new friends, and even got to the point where she felt ready and willing to try romantic love again. In the 70’s, many women were striking out on their own, and it took bravery and conviction, because giving up on marriage and attempting to juggle the three ringed circus of work, family and personal fulfillment was a new paradigm. Ann Romano’s very presence told these women that they were not alone, that the idea of what was normal and acceptable in society was changing, and that, with love, courage and humor, they could one day sing proudly and with confidence, “I will survive.”***
*** You know the drill. Sing it like Gloria Gaynor, circa 1979. 
Ann Romano is fictional. She was the mom in a sitcom called “One Day At A Time” that was, in my opinion, pretty lame even in its heyday. But I still watched. Growing up in an apartment with a mom who worked full time, with siblings who grew increasingly estranged as they tried to fit into their little kid or adolescent environments with little parental guidance, learning from and leaning on their similarly confused friends, is kind of a hallmark of my generation.
Rhoda Morgenstern is fictional also, and her sitcom wasn’t the greatest either, but she was awesome. She was a working girl from the beginning, first as a window dresser, then as a costume designer and finally a photographer. She was first cast as a brash, quirky best friend to Mary, a shy Midwesterner, but she stole the show and got her own series. She was exotic, in her way; dark, turbaned, Jewish, and single, mostly because she wouldn’t settle or lose herself in someone else. She was a great foil to the bloodless WASPy blondes that were ubiquitous in American media at the time. She was down to earth and self-assured. She talked with her hands. She had a nasal voice that rang out loudly, even when the moment was quiet. Rhoda was hot-blooded and cool at the same time. 
She always had that great sense of self and self-reliance, even after she got married, and then, even after she got divorced.
On March 1, 2013, Bonnie Franklin, the lady who played Ann Romano, died. Yesterday I heard that Valerie Harper, the woman who played Rhoda Morgenstern, has been diagnosed with brain cancer and only has 3-6 months to live.
Today, fifty years after Betty Friedan published The Feminine Mystique, we celebrate International Women’s Day.
I suppose it is strange that some of my role models are TV women who were created by men for a mass audience of weary people that wanted their reality delivered with a laugh track. Still these characters are an undeniable piece of who I am, and the place and time from which I come. Seeing the women who played them age and lose their independence, and realizing that, for many, they are, at most, an semi-interesting footnote on the evening news or Entertainment Tonight, is, I have to admit, sad for me. It hits close to home. Things like this remind me that we all get older, and one day, even if we really meant something to someone, or if we cared and tried to promote change or goodness, one day we will be forgotten. It’s like drawing a line in the sand; that line means something, stands for something, but it will be swallowed by the ocean as surely as the person who drew it, perhaps the only one who knew what it meant, will be swallowed by time. That’s just how it goes with sand and lines and time.
So today is a cold, gray day, and I’m sitting with my ankle propped up on two pillows, alternating hot and cold compresses, thinking about inevitability and the unknown, of the loss of control and the way change crashes in, whether we want it to or not, and who we are and what we will leave behind, and if anybody will care about it anyway, and how these thoughts are so cliched and sad sack. Still and all, that’s what I’m thinking.
That, and if I should have Atticus put down due to excessive, intolerable flatulence. It really is disgusting.
Of course, I’ll never do it. I love him, and besides, everyone needs someone to notice when they fall and to make a big deal out of your every day not much, like a twisted ankle or just the fact that you made it home. In the end, I guess it doesn’t matter so much what we leave, it matters what we live.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m25B_BtEdr0
Happy Birthday to David (3/11), the lovely Jen (3/18), E.D. ( I always get it wrong, but I know it’s a-comin’! Is it tomorrow?) and making her debut 3/13, the baby Peri!
Coming soon! Look for it!
Pictures of Lily and a Confession
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been 21 days since my last confession, days which have been marked by an alarming dearth of transgression. What I’m trying to say is, there ain’t been no glory this side of the hole.Just not too much going on. For awhile, I was productive as hell, but you know, you burn out on that. I did well on my new action plan for life, which I read on a bumper sticker and adopted as my own – “Say Yes More Often Than You Say No!” – but that fell by the wayside when I realized that I was saying yes to all kinds of things, and never actually doing them. Just as water always flows downstream, I always manage to find my inner lazy and pool up in it until I start to drown. Then I see a new bumper sticker and all is possible again, on account of I found a way and saw the light on the back of a Chevy Tahoe, and this time, things are really going to be different.
Despite the foot and a half of snow that dumped from a sky so gray it squeezed the sun like an overprotective mother at the beach shamelessly attacks a zit on the bent back of her skinny white nerd son, signs of Spring are showing themselves in my cozy country home off the highway. My mom told me that in France, the Lily of the Valley is the first flower that blooms after a cold winter, so it is a harbinger of the season of rebirth. Wikipedia told me that in Christian lore, the flower sprang up from Mary’s tears as she wept for her son on the cross. Personally, I like the spring thing better, but there is a connection to Christ’s second coming and the plant; indeed, it appears that the sweet little lily has a strange effect on all men, Savior or not. It seems that an aromatic chemical in the lily, the bourgonal, used commonly in perfumes, causes human sperm to swim super fast, and even acts as a sort of spermatazoan GPS down the Fallopian Tube Highway to the Ovum Exit. It is the only scent known to science that males have a greater sensitivity to than females. I knew that men were not more sensitive to the odiferous agent in their own farts, but this is a revelation! Second coming, men? Sniff this why don’tcha? That’ll put an early spring in your step! Look at them sperm FLY! Oh yeah, one other thing: Lillies of the Valley are highly toxic, so ladies, no matter how desperate you may be to become impregnated, please don’t try to grow them in your hoo-hoo. That would be wrong in so many ways that I can’t believe you even thought of it.
Speaking of women who are desperate to be impregnated, my neighbor isn’t one of them, on account of she is due to give birth any day now. The baby is going to be named Peri. A long time ago, I was writing a novel, and it had a main character named Peri. She was a teacher. I like to stretch my imagination with my characters. Here is a chapter from that great American masterpiece, which has the working title Another Thing I Will Never Finish, or Adventures of a MiIe Wide and an Inch Deep:
Writing Project #8: “What’s In A Name?”
Due date: Friday, February 5th
DIRECTIONS – Choose a character who has a meaningful name from one of the stories we have read. Explain the name, its relevance, symbolism, appropriateness, and how it is used effectively in the story. Pay special attention to rhetorical and sound devices, such as alliteration, assonance, consonance, rhyme, irony, oxymoron, pun, connotation, nuance and allusion. Example:
Long ago, before I was me
My father lived beneath the dark black sea.
The water was deep, but had no soul
For hours Daddy stared out the porthole.
On a submarine that smelled of men
Oil and iron and ammunition
Papa stared and wondered when
He would ever see the sun again
And the water would crush as sure as bricks
And the darkness would play all kinds of tricks
And the only sounds that filled his ears
Were radar beeps and the pulse of his fear
So he waited his time and wandered the deck
And longed for a breeze, a wind on his neck
The taste of a peach, or the brush of a kiss
The thrill of a peek, the coming of bliss.
He got off that ship as fast as he could
Moved back into the old neighborhood
He married a girl, the very first one
And traded the sea, once and for all, for a son.
But the boy was a girl, not a he, but a she
That little child turned out to be me.
He named me after what gave him the most hope
He named me after the Periscope.
Hmm. It’s official. I am reduced to making myself the star of my own writing assignment. Pathetic. I wanted to write about the movie I saw last night, “Elephant”, but I wore myself out worrying if ‘ammunition’ is a close enough rhyme to ‘men’, and I still have to do laundry and wash my hair. And put off grading the Animal Farm essays again. Stupid essays. Going to eat sushi tomorrow night with Lia. Maybe after that I’ll grade. Or watch Letterman. Is it Winter Break yet?
I know this Peri is exactly what her mother and father want, and I wish her a lifetime full of hope and possibility.
Anyway, what are the odds? I wrote that years before I met my fantastic neighbors, years before they conceived the little lady we are all eagerly awaiting, years before they told me of their idea for a name. Coincidence?
Probably.
Confession: I wrote this post instead of grading, cleaning the house, walking the dog or doing my homework. Again. The post could have waited. It has waited for almost a month. Then again, so has grading, cleaning the house, walking the dog, or doing my homework. Gotta start somewhere!
BONUS: Read The Tenth of December by George Saunders. It is fantastic. That is your assignment. Next time, there will be a quiz. But don’t expect me to grade it. I simply don’t have the time.