Jump That Bridge

Picture of the day

2011-03-16T13:22:00.000-07:00

How do you say in french...

2010-03-03T16:49:00.001-08:00

That work is kicking my butt. Plus the bird quilt. Plus trying to draft a letter to fight the 80 foot cell tower that is going in three blocks from our house. Plus starting a new business.

There it is again. Life getting in the way of art. What's that about?

It gets heavy.

2010-02-24T14:10:00.001-08:00

I just read a blog post where someone said “I’m rearranging the corners of my home.” I read it as “I’m reassuring the corners of my home.” I love that idea. Who knows if corners don’t need reassurance. I would guess that they do. It’s a lot of pressure. A place where many angles meet. They bear loads. They define and instruct a room’s shape. Sounds tiring. When I get home tonight I’m going to reassure the corners of my home.

I think I'm going to come back. March first. It's time. A lot has changed. I'll tell you all about it.

Thinking about the wanting

2009-10-09T14:46:00.001-07:00

Did you ever want something so bad, but you just weren’t able to swing it? That’s how I feel about writing, this blog, sewing. Every time I write a post, I feel a little bit renewed. A little bit more like myself. I sit down in the evening and make a few stitches and I feel like I’m doing something. And then the days pass. The full-time-job-in-a-cube days pass. Then night comes with the stories to read, the food to eat, the dishes to do, the dog to walk, the tucking in and the tidying up…

I should take a lesson from my husband. We talked yesterday about how he’s accepted his job right now. To raise the kid. His music is on hold and he’s okay with that. He puts his two hands up, parallel, and says “I can see a trajectory,” then says “I’m probably using that word wrong.” But it’s a good word, a right word. It’s a shot in a direction. Like a flare. A message to the you that you hope to be when the crazy dies down, if the crazy dies down.

There are some times when you need to trust in the future. When you need to relax, and let what is, be, and quit fighting. It can’t be summer and winter at the same time. You can’t get sleep and write and sew and care for all at once. There is a season, turn, turn, turn.

I’m famous for stuffing a suitcase. It’s always seemed a philosophical question to me…when is a suitcase full? Can’t you always fit one more thing? I’m learning the answer. It’s full when you can’t shut it. And then you have to pull something out, do without it for a while. And maybe you won’t have everything that you want, but you’ll have everything that you need, and you’ll be lucky for the having.

In Which I Recount a Dream*

2009-09-25T12:12:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I’m better at things when I go away for awhile and then come back again. So there, away I went. Not purposely. Well, maybe purposely. But purposefully, too.

It’s a strange thing about finding your voice. Part of it, for me, is the struggle of allowing the search. And part of it is the battle to convince yourself that it matters, one way or the other, that you do find it.

I had the most wonderful dream last night. It was a yard sale (so many of my dreams center around yard sales, the wonderful white-elephant world, those everyday portals to the subconscious). I was admiring a rustic, folk art, hewn together set of drawers. The kind of object that draws me in, that could only have been made by its maker, the kind of thing that shouts of history and story and love. It was reasonably priced ($60 dollars) but I couldn’t figure out how to ship it home, (I was on an island…less romantic than it sounds).

Who should appear but my mother. And she appears and I know that not only will she get it for me, but she will figure out how to get it to my home. And then my brother Tim is there, and I know he’s going to help. It was the feeling of being taken care of. It was the feeling of being spared regret, longing, and remorse. It was the deep feeling of comfort.

Strange and wonderful and glorious. I can count on one hand the number of good dreams I’ve had about my mother since she died. In fact, I could count them on the toes of a sloth, if you know what I mean. Good signs, people, good signs.

*Recounting dreams rates second only, on the scale of that-which-bores, to retelling (preferably in an office setting) any skit from Monty Python's Flying Circus. But this is my blog. And I get to write what I want. (See. Look at her go!)

Number One

2009-08-07T15:40:00.000-07:00

So the decision has been made. Not a list, as I’d thought, but an un-list, so to speak. It’s my birthday soon, another opportunity to make a fresh start. To re-evaluate my last re-evaluation. And the decision was so simple, so clear, I’m embarrassed that it took a bestseller to lead me to make it. (A bestseller I read quickly, easily (part of the attraction) and half-concentratingly, and somewhat begrudgingly and judgmentally but there it sits – simply still what it is, what it was before I ever got a hold of it and, incidentally, I was drawn to read it because I watched what she had to say about muses and liked what she had to say about muses.)

So the answer.

Meditation. Quit asking the questions for a while. Shut my brain up for a while. At least twenty minutes a day, in whatever form that takes. Cross-legged and proper-like, on the floor of my tidied up living room or walking the alleys with the dog, taking a break now and then from quieting my mind to command the dog to “drop it” (then quieting my fear of what “it” might be.)Or even in the cube. Or in the car. Or in the moments between the other, more busy moments.

So it wasn’t a list at all. Unless the list was simply one number one. Silence. Because it sounds so dang delicious.

Catch and Release

2009-08-04T14:55:00.000-07:00

I step up to write and I think Ground it in action. I still don’t know what this blog is and that stops me, so many times, from writing anything. And then when I do write it’s the thoughts, all the thoughts, the belly button staring and the hand wringing and I wonder Who wants to read all that?

And I’m not sure of the answer. Not even sure whether the question is relevant. Shouldn’t it be What do I want to say? Shouldn’t that be the question?

I’ve been thinking a lot about art, which I always do, and looking at people I admire, mostly online. They don’t ask, they do. They don’t ponder they move. But then again, there is a place in the world for ponderers. Contemplate. Ruminate. Meditate. Masticate.

What is making art? What is writing, sewing, painting, potting? Is it an expression or a gift? Is it for yourself or for someone else. I know, I know the answer…it’s both. But how can you entertain two intentions at the same time? How can you think I write this for myself and I give it to the world -- without being attached to how the world will treat it? With whether or not it has, you know, real meaning.

All I know is that I feel better when I do….when I complete and release. And the other thing I know is that I always fight the release. Which leads me to think Release. Which leads me to post these thoughts. Whatever they mean.

Big List

2009-07-27T15:54:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking about a big list for August. Or maybe a small list. But a list. And I'll turn 41. It's one of those birthdays that occurs every seven years. Supposedly I have all new tissue. Well, whether or not that's true, lately i've been feeling like I have all new tissue. And that's good enough for me.

Besides, everybody knows that myth creates reality.

My hands are falling asleep...

2009-07-13T16:40:00.001-07:00

Writing when I want to. That’s not what it’s about. It’s about writing when you don’t want to, saying something when you’re just not sure, yet, what you want to say. Not writing feels, sometimes, like sitting on my own hands. Like Addie stubbornly refusing to brush her teeth. Pure willfulness that results in unhappy scuttles. The strange inclination we humans have to do things that aren’t good for us.

I tell myself it’s an issue of time. That I just don’t have the hours in a day. That my day shrinks down from all sides. That in my free moments I am too tired to think. But it’s the thinking of “I’m tired” that makes me most tired of all. And I know that when I do, do, do something that matters to me, something creative, it’s the best kind of rest I can get.

You make bathtime so much fun!

2009-06-25T09:46:00.000-07:00

Started my "Create Big Paintings" class last Friday. Learned enough to paint this bathtub last night! What fun!

Strawberry Picking and Chamomile Harvest

2009-06-23T11:04:00.000-07:00

Yup. We live in Portland. Yup. We pick strawberries!

Off to the jiffy john!

Eating strawberries makes a little girl tired!

And we spent the evening plucking chamomile blossoms off of flowers we found in the alley behind our house...Tea for winter!

When you fall...

2009-06-18T14:28:00.000-07:00

If I’d been any closer, I might’ve heard the sound of your body tumbling, tumbling, ass over teakettle, softness striking cold cement. But instead I was running, running, the six endless feet to catch you when you hit the bottom. The accidents always happen when everything is so good. And things had been so good, you were saying goodbye to your Gretchen, calling out “I love you and I want to take care of you.”

Your head hit the concrete with a muffled thud, not a whack, and I was grateful. Grateful for gravity’s mercy on this one, grateful for each cement step that broke your long fall. You didn’t fall down the steps so much as fall down a step, and then another one, and another one, minutes after your Dad warned you “If you keep doing that, you’re going to fall.” To which you answered, in all of your three year old chutzpah and oblivion, “I want to fall Daddy”.

Right now, as I write this, I’m reminded of another fall down the stairs, a different type of day. Not sunshiney fresh Portland evening but the claustrophobic feeling of the Maryland house at night, the avocado walls, the avocado carpet, the lonesome flicker of the TV. My mom very sick, losing her grasp on the railing, coming barreling down the stairs in a blur of heft and confusion. I was lying on the couch (In fact, I’d had the feeling-known, really-that I should help her up the stairs but I was angry at her, angry at her for having a couple of drinks, most likely angry at her for being in the act of dying, right in front of me, every day.)

But you, fresh you, I could scoop you up, hold your whole body against mine. Smell your sweat and skin as you criedhard, but not worrisome hard, into my shoulder. I’m grateful, right now, that I had the chance to comfort and cuddle, the chance to make this fall right.

Hold that thought

2009-06-12T14:16:00.000-07:00

What I want to write about is the luxury I have, on the weekends, of getting tired of her. Getting frustrated. Of the loving arguments and head butts that prepare her for the complexity of love, the security of forgiveness. Of the time we spend entwined, not playing with toys but playing with each other, making noises, laughing, poking at each other’s faces. The way her eyes communicate such purity of emotion, the joy so joyful, the sadness so dang sad.

I want to write about her vision of the future. “When I get older I’m going to have a kitty and a scooter and I’m going to eat Kimchi.” She’s so brave and definite, there is no doubt, no second guessing, she sees a picture of the world and it will wait for her, this her in the future, this surety and decisiveness, this wonderful sense of order and what will be.

What I want to write about is how brave she is, everyday, navigating this world of constantly shifting meaning, asking “What is a daydream?” and “What’s in the middle of a rock?” That there is nothing missed, no mystery unexplored, and any answer given will suffice.

What I want to write about is how this is the stuff of my life. This is what is smashed between the work and the bills and the dirty, dirty dishes and the piles of wrinkled clean laundry waiting. How each moment I am present I am thinking remember this, hold on to this, and as quickly as that thought is thought all my fears squeeze in through the door and crowd it out.

This is what I want to write.

Still here.

2009-06-04T11:48:00.000-07:00

Here I am. My brain still feels scrambled. I hesitate to write about it, because it’s not a worrisome thing. Not a thing even, more just a confused state. Although not too confused to carry on with the every day, the teeth brushing, the work dwelling, the dish doing and the dog walking. Our strong and beautiful tomato plants still get a daily inspection and talking too, weeds get pulled, clothes get put on and taken off.

But there are these blank feelings. Like there is something amazing hiding or just on its way or smoldering. Like there is a terrific beauty right in front of my eyes, and I just can’t see it. (Which there is. Because there always is.)

I seem to be, lately, in a constant state of plotting, only the goal changes minute by minute, the plan changes with every new thought in my head. It’s like the old days at the library, line after line after line of text passing as you slide the microfiche, looking for that one headline, that one article that you need right now. And the feeling, as I search, is the same. Dizzy, heady, hopeful, impatient, and just a touch sick to my stomach.

It’s not unpleasant. It’s something, you know. It’s something. And that’s what I want. Some sort of change, some sort of corner turned, some sort of chapter put to rest, some new thing started. I can feel it. A culmination. But of what?

What I want right now

2009-05-28T15:13:00.001-07:00

My mind has been mush lately. I have to ask myself, why am I so scared of the truth? And then, why am I so scared of being myself?

I just want to run and run and run. I want to listen to music, nice and loud, so loud that everything but my ears stops working for a while. And maybe it’s just because I grew up in the 80s but I want to stop making sense. I want to make delicious, textured, colorful no sense. So much no sense that all the no sense gets out, on the page, on the floor, on the ground.

I just want to let go. I want to stop being perceived so I have no more influences, no one to be in front of. So I can just be. I’ve always liked talking and listening better in the dark. There is so much more space. I want more space. I want less filters. I want no editor. I want nothing crafted, nothing well thought out, I want forgiveness, I want instinct and strawberries and sand and water. I want to want what I want. Without thinking it is wrong.

because susan asked!

2009-04-03T13:57:00.000-07:00

How did the week go?
Well, I made it the whole week and as to be expected, the last days were much harder than the first. I was climbing the walls by the end of the week, taking slow, roundabout trips to the bathroom, wandering the cube aisles, randomly standing up to peer over cube wall after cube wall to look out a window (that is about 20 feet away) at the gray, gray Portland sky.

I think the bottom line is that those random trips to creative websites make me better at my job. A little bit, in fact, like looking out the window might. Only, since I don’t have any windows I look in to other lives. And those short, brief recharges give my subconscious time to work out ideas, identify problems, get some space. And then I come back to work just a little bit refreshed. And I see things I didn’t see before.

On the flip side, I think I was a little more satisfied, overall, with my life when I wasn’t looking, every day, at these websites. I wasn’t reading tutorials for yet more sewing projects, art projects, baking projects. So my heap of “wish to do” didn’t get any bigger. (Which is good, because it’s already big. Really big.)

I also think that I got a little distance from the-admiration-that-is-so-much-like-envy. (I bet the Dutch have a word for this. Or maybe the Chinese.) I read these blogs and I admire these people (And I don't even know them and that's just plain weird). But I still admire the beauty, the creativity that seems to be in their every day. And then I look at my own life and see yesterday’s dirty dishes on the counter and a stack of mail that needs to be filed and I judge. I’m stepping out of myself and looking in and thinking….really?

But then again. These people are editing their lives. It’s a whole ‘nother monster of blogs who actually write about the ugly stuff. Like the woman who blogged about the three nights it took to let her baby “cry it out”. Her blog helped me through my own “cry it out” adventure. (Well, that and a bottle of wine.) Or, more recently, this guy who wrote about how much it sucks when your kid has a cough. That helped me through Addie’s nasty-ugly virus last week. (Okay. It’s not a blog, really, but you get the idea.)

So I can recognize that I’m buying into a picture of life. The Pottery Barn version of the stay-at-home-artist-mom. But hey, when I’m not busy feeling the difference between me and them, I’m feeling the sameness. And I’m believing that there might be a day that I escape the cube completely. Because you gotta have a picture of the life you want, before you can draw the map to get there.

(Thanks for askin' Susan!)

just to make it clear

2009-03-25T14:10:00.000-07:00

The irony of writing about not reading blogs on my blog does not escape me. Wow. That was two nots in one sentence. I rock.

In which I ramble...

2009-03-23T16:52:00.000-07:00

I guess the question is what will I do with myself when there is nothing to do. I’m taking a rest from other people’s blogs. A week-long rest from reading about other people, with other lives, with things that I want or don’t want, a break from the weird anonymous world of lurking. It’s only been one day, not even, and I’m already climbing the walls, so to speak, of my cube. Drawing bull after bull after bull.

Don’t get me wrong. Absorption is good. It has its time and place. But since I’ve gotten a 9 to 5, I spend quite a bit of daylight looking at blogs. Because they are a quick break. Because they are better for me than a Diet Coke, because I can surf the internet and eat chocolate at the same time.

This is a test for me, a test to see what I’ll do with time, confined time but time nonetheless. (It’s also just a way to differentiate a week. To interject some sort of different-ness to the 9 to 5 routine.) Because blogs are, in some respects, not far from TV. They are a way of feeling like you’re doing just because you are watching someone else do. The question is what will I do when there is nothing to watch.

I read a quote not too long ago; I’m sure on one of my marathon blog wanders. “Never hope more than you work.” I google it now (I’m allowed to google) and find that Rita Mae Brown said it. It’s been ringing in my head since I read it. That’s what I do when I read blogs. I read about people at home, in their art studios, in their sewing rooms, and they’re making things. And I read and I read thinking “I’ll do that…and I’ll do that.” And I don’t. And at the end of the day I’ve hoped more than I worked –albeit not the work I do for money but the work I do simply because I am in this world and taking up space.

The other day RT said we live in a world where if you don’t have a blog you don’t quite exist. He didn’t quite mean it, and I don’t quite believe it, but it is a weird world. Where everyone can have a say. Everyone can have a presence. Anyone can start a conversation.

ice cubes, old style

2009-02-23T13:40:00.000-08:00

We've been trying to phase out the plastic in the house one slow piece at a time. So we'd gotten rid of the plastic ice cube trays which left us buying bags from the Plaid Pantry. So RT went on ebay and found this little vintage cutie.

Who knew that ice cubes could be so good? These homemade, vintage ice cubes are to convenience shop ice cubes what a good maple desk is to an Ikea build-your-own. And RT walks around clinking the cubes in his glass saying "Listen to this. You can't get ice cubes that sound like this these days." And he's right.

To me they sound like my parent's martini hour, like getting iced tea ready for my aunts on the Fourth of July, like a cold glass of water after raking the leaves. I say it's slow food. He says if it was slow food we'd be chipping slivers off a block of ice. I guess you can always go slower.

making dollies

2009-02-19T11:37:00.000-08:00

Ever since I sold Barbies on Ebay, I've been fascinated with doll collectors. I even read a whole book about them with chapters like "Dollification" and "Innocence and Fear". I'll admit I was biased against them, or at least the obsessive collectors, who, after I listed an Ebay auction for Barbie's "Solo In The Spotlight" outfit complete with microphone, would send me detailed questions * about the state of the label (was it fully stitched on?) the shine of the dress (original sparkle?) and the condition of the microphone (mint, unused and from a smoke free home?) I'll brag here and say that I ended that Ebay write-up saying "You'll have your vintage Barbie singing Happy Birthday Mr. President in no time" which I thought (and still think) is hilarious.

What I'm trying to say is that I've always thought of dolls as a bit strange. My mother bought me a new Madame Alexander Doll every Christmas and Birthday and I was made to display them in my room. I never had a feeling for any of them. Never wanted to play with any of them. Maybe that's where my bias originated. But I don't think I'm alone in finding the whole doll thing at best curious and at worst downright creepy.

Well, now I have a little girl. And bless her heart she's turning me on to the coolness of dolls. Especially simple cloth dolls. And of course, with me, if I can make it then I can love it. So I've been having a blast making dolls for Addie and her friends. Here's the latest. Made for our neighbor for her fifth birthday. I downloaded the pattern from here and I've been having a lot of fun with it.

Next stop. Original design mouse doll. Stay tuned!

*Ebay Doll Collector questions are loosely based on my recollections. These quotes are not verbatim and are solely intended to indicate the level of obsession typical of hardcore Barbie collectors.

walk the dog

2009-02-02T13:24:00.000-08:00

I’m thinking about commitment. Probably because I’ve made a serious commitment to my dog. She’s a sweet thing, a little on the needy side, very high energy. Oh, and she licks and licks and licks. I’ve created a rich fictional back story for her, a doggie fairy tale we tell, where she was abandoned by the side of the road and lived for months foraging pieces of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum from underneath piles of leaves along the highway. And then she was scooped up and dropped off at the Humane Society, where she came this close to death. But she was saved at the last minute and hustled off to the New Life Shelter (I know, sounds like a religious rehab joint for dogs) where Rollie and I found her. When the dog shelter employee picked her up (her shelter name was Opal), she promptly peed all over the poor woman. We played with her. We hemmed and hawed until the doggie re-hab people kicked us out. Then we sat in the car for ten minutes, trying to drive away, before we turned around, went inside and signed the papers.

So, I want her life to be better. She just seems so confused. Her feelings are so easily hurt. She’s uncertain. (Or maybe she’s just the victim of an obsessive anthropomorphizing owner?)

I rented the Dog Whisperer and studied two episodes intently. And came to this brilliant conclusion – she needs a good long walk first thing in the morning. So I’ve made a commitment. Every morning for almost two weeks now we are out the door in the dark and off to the park. I do what the Dog Whisperer says, keep her close to me, on a short, short leash, and she hustles by my side, focused and loyal.

And I practice “calm assertiveness”. Which, incidentally, is turning out to be a good lesson all around. Who knew three-year-olds respond to calm assertive as well as dogs? And maybe I can start phasing out my “monkey howler” voice.

The plan is she’ll finally find her place in life. Quit bopping from submissive to assertive, type B to A. That she’ll be able to relax in to her role as follower, that she’ll learn to trust that we’re the uber dogs and we’ll protect her. That’s the upside.

The downside is that now I’m locked in to getting up early every morning to walk the dog. Every morning. ‘Til when? The rest of her life, right? Because if I don’t get up and walk her I have to face those disappointed brown eyes. And who wants that on their conscience all day?

Of course I’m learning from all this. Getting out in the morning is nice. Fresh air. Pinecones. Misplaced seagulls circling overhead. A well exercised dog which means less irritation (and obsessive licking) for the whole family. And I get a tiny bit of exercise and alone time every day. But I can’t help feeling a little bit of the dread that, for me, inevitably comes with commitment. Because long term promises are, ultimately, so hard to keep.

good snow, goodbye

2008-12-31T10:54:00.000-08:00

So I thought it was good, the two weeks of snow. It’s good to have weird, big events in our lives, the kind of things that create befores and afters. Of course many big events, the kind that create a before and after, are terrible. And I don’t mean to overlook that aspects of the snow were terrible – what it cost to the city, the inconvenience, the car accidents, the bitter cold.

But all that aside, there was something to it. To being completely stopped for awhile and being stuck at home. Not thinking about what you need to buy or where you need to go. Not drumming up activity just for activity’s sake. The kid loved it. She’s not a big fan of gear switching these days and so it suited her just fine. Hunkering down on the couch with a pile of books. Glue and paper and paint at the dining room table. And I loved it too. It was restful. And, miraculously, I felt like I had space. A feeling which comes, apparently, from having lots of time and nowhere to go.

Back in my twenties I lived West Virginia for a while and I became friendly with the mailman. His wife was a hard working farm woman and they’d lived in Heaters their whole lives. They worked so hard, all the time, every day, despite the fact that they both must’ve been close to 70. When they’d tell a story it was almost always introduced by the year. And the year was always marked with the big event. “Back the year the barn caught on fire…” or “The year they built the church…”

When you grow up in the suburbs you don’t learn North from South. And when you grow up in the suburbs you don’t learn to tell time by years. It’s a matter of context, orientation. I feel like modern life, city life, whatever you want to call it, lacks context. It lacks places and events that clearly orient us. It lacks a tangible timeline.

So it’s good for a city to have a big snow. Because we’ll remember this year. Our memories of this Christmas will be, I’ll bet, more vivid and specific. Because we had a big weird event that pulled us out of our patterns, pulled us out the blur of days and double yellow lines and faces at the mall. When I think of this Christmas I’ll be oriented, grounded by gingerbread men, wet mittens, a handful of gifts and plenty of space.

what is with this weather?

2008-12-22T13:26:00.000-08:00

We've gotten, who knows, at least a foot of snow here in the last two days. Even by Michigan standards this is a pretty bad storm. We've been loving it...making gingerbread men, home made Christmas tree ornaments, watching the muppet show and generally just kicking back and having fun. They weather folks are calling for more snow so there is no end in sight.....

2008-12-19T09:24:00.000-08:00

I avoid writing about losing my mother. Even as I sit here my mind battles me (“No one wants to hear about this. It’s such a downer.”) My fingers rebel -- reaching for the backspace button every time I get a sentence down. My eyes well up. I keep my neck tight. When I allow it, the grief is close to overwhelming. And now, here I sit, in my cube at work, dabbing my eyes with a tissue, my mind racing to locate a private place to cry place in this huge, over-populated building. (See. This is a downer. And can I say that it is inhumane to have a work place with no safe place to cry!)

But today is her birthday. And year after year I let days like these sail by. Her birthday, the day she died… Anniversaries that mark an absence. Anniversaries that measure time-away.

When my mother died I inherited her sewing machine. And it’s a beauty. A top of the line, for the times, Bernina that lived, most of my childhood, on the floor of the guest room closet, only coming out for a quick mend here and there. In the last twenty years I’ve hauled it from town to town, taught myself to sew on it, manhandled it, misused it, broken countless needles. But, such an excellent machine, it refuses to quit. And now I use it to bust out puppets, dolls, tiny pillows for teddy bear heads. The stuff of childhood. The creations of mothers.

The sewing machine has a little storage area and, ever since I’ve owned it, my mother’s “storks” have been tucked in the top drawer. I dug them out the other night and put them down on the table next to my “storks”. (My storks were snatched up, new and shiny, back in my estate sale shopping days in Michigan. I thought of my mother immediately, grabbed the scissors, and in the next moment felt grateful that I was raised to recognize a quality pair of indispensable scissors when I saw them)

When I saw the two pairs of scissors on the table, side by side I was floored. And, as it always seems to be with death, I was sad in a new way. Her scissors are old. They are fragile, no longer useful. They are rusting away. And, doing the math, I realized my mother would be turning eighty this year.

Most of my life I haven’t really understood the appeal of fairy tales. Or, honestly, the function. They’ve always seemed old fashioned. They seemed indulgent and hokey. If you listen to a professor I worked for at the University of Michigan, they are all Freudian and perverted. But something about my mom's storks seems so fairy-tale-ish to me. I feel like a little girl, frozen in time, desperately clinging to a pair of magical, disappearing scissors.

I've been wrangling with this last paragraph. I had something philosophical (mildly) and distant and melancholy. It was about death and myths and what the living are left with. But the truth here is a simple one. I miss my mom. Despite that fact that I have no idea what it is that I'm missing anymore. I just miss my mom.

carl warner is a tom waits

2008-12-03T21:10:00.000-08:00

Remember when you were in seventh grade and you called the radio station to make a request? Maybe it was "Hotel California" for that babe in your English Class. Maybe it was "Opposites Attract" because Paula Abdul was cute like a little crazy button. Anyways, now when you call a radio station it's called a suggestion. I'm shaking my head right now as I write that. A suggestion. How lame. Team Member. Store Associate. Flight Attendant. Climate Change.

So we've had a request. A dedication. A suggestion. No, no....a contribution. Yeah. A contribution to the tom waits pool. The artist Carl Warner. His art might make your stomach hurt. But there's no denying it. He's a tom waits. Go see. Thanks, Doug!

would someone please come hit me?

2008-12-03T15:01:00.000-08:00

I’m serious. I feel like I need a nice, violent change in outlook. Best case scenario, you’d knock the neurosis out of me and I'd know what it feels like to be secure, to be where I want to be, to feel completely inside of my own mind. Worst case scenario is that my head would hurt and I’d quit whingeing about my existential problems. See, it’s win - win.

Here’s the problem: I’m a victim of the human condition. Or at least my human condition. I turned forty years old on August 16th. And it’s still bothering me. For so many reasons, some that make sense, some that don’t. And underneath it all I know that there is nothing I can do. Short of lying about my age. Which I’ve considered but rejected because I was raised Catholic and I’m a truly shitty liar.

It’s a battle between the material me and my higher self. There are things I want to be able to say about myself. There are achievements I’ve meant to, well, achieve. And I feel that I regularly stand in my own way. But on the other hand I know that life is a gift, that love and kindness are more important than anything. And I know that regret is a waste of energy. And there the argument splinters off into things like risk and courage and truth and gut instincts and(oh stop me! The more I re-read this paragraph the bigger it gets!)

Back in Grad School, I became friends with a tall, bright, and (it seemed like) fearless woman. She was a writer from New York, who stripped there and, during Grad School, stripped at the classier of two seedy clubs in Ypsilanti, MI. She wore stiletto heels in the middle of winter (in Michigan, mind you), she was a brilliant chef and she had a remarkable way of cutting through bullshit judgments – a skill that put me on edge but also thrilled me. Her existence in my life was an affirmation of the I-must-be-cool-if-she’s-my-friend kind.

We were walking to class one cold Michigan night and I was whingeing away about how who I was wasn’t who I thought I could be. That this was not my beautiful life. (Mind you this was years ago. At the wee age, let’s say, of 30)

She told me a story about a high-up professor at the University of Michigan. A Chairman of some or other department. A client of hers at the strip club. She told me that he paid for a lap dance and then, during, complained to her about his life, that he wasn’t where he’d expected to be. That there was more out there. That this was not his beautiful life.

“Everybody feels like that, Kate.” She told me. “It doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve achieved. Everybody feels like that.”

For some reason that story has always stuck with me. I don’t know. Maybe I just need a lap dance.

super steve's a tom waits...

2008-11-25T15:56:00.000-08:00

This guy takes his balloon animals seriously. And they last for weeks. He says it's because he's learned how to handle the ballons gently. And that penguin he's holding, it's brilliant. We see him at random spots in downtown Portland, and he's usually at the Saturday Farmer's Market on the PSU campus. He's Super Steve, he's a balloon artist, and he's a tom waits.

i don't know...

2008-11-21T14:44:00.000-08:00

Okay. I'm at odds. I want to post a picture of the dog pancakes I made for Addie last weekend. I want to talk about the beauty of the simple things. But people all over the country are watching their worlds crash down. I'm especially worried about folks in Michigan .

My father grew up in Oklahoma during the depression. He was born in 1924 and so was a kid when the stock market crashed. All my life he downright refused to talk about his childhood. When I was six he told me he was born at the age 21 and I pondered that. Was he a man-sized baby or a baby-sized man? Could he talk immediately? Did he come out of his mother's stomach wearing a suit and shoes?

Of course I now understand that he meant his life really began at 21. That there were things about his childhood he wanted to escape. He never really talked about what those things were.

There is one thing he told me about his childhood. "When I was growing up I used to eat beans out of a can." He said it as a reprimand one night when I was crying and complaining about some middle class high school injustice -- I wasn't allowed out or, worse, wasn't allowed to drive the car. It was one short sentence but it said a lot. Disgust, regret, anger, sadness, distance-- but those are just guesses. I was left with the feeling that I would never really know what that sentence meant to him. That it was more powerful than I could ever understand. That it deserved respect.

And now, for the first time in my life, I think we could have another great depression. It is completely plausible that thousands and thousands of families could be left with no working parents, no income, and no place to live. And how long has it taken for the economy to tank? A couple of months? How in the hell did this happen?

I have some friends who, from time to time, have explained to me some theories developed by Rudolf Steiner. He had a lot of interesting, curious things to say about the world. Explanations that he believed were revealed to him from the spirit world. I don't know about that. Some of his theories stick with me, albeit probably poorly grasped and half-assedly retained. One is the theory that humans are evolving back toward a higher consciousness. That somewhere along the way we lost our connection with the spirit world. Maybe this financial downturn is a step in our evolution as humans. Maybe we'll finally move away from the "to be a good American you need to spend more" mentality. Maybe people will stop caring who Paris Hilton is dating and why Heff broke up with his girlfriends (I'm not there yet, I want to know…) Maybe this grassroots movement of home crafting, knitting, canning, making musical instruments from household objects, maybe this is gonna hit the mainstream. Maybe life is gonna get simpler.

My dad worked hard his whole life. He socked money away and, when he died, left it for his kids. He’s the reason I don’t have one of those screwy loans. He’s the reason I have a car that works and a good education. He’s the reason I can wake up groggy, but smiling, and make dog pancakes for my kid. He’s the reason I have the leisure to ponder the beauty of simple things.

she's a tom waits

2008-11-18T15:09:00.000-08:00

Okay. So I'm a little bit behind on my promised and much anticipated (thanks for reading, Nealla!) first installment on "Who's a Tom Waits?" I don't know Elsa Mora but her paper cuts blow me away. There is a deep kindness and heart in her postings and her artwork. Dang it. She's rocking the world in her own particular way. Hat's off to that! Check it out...

who's a tom waits?

2008-11-04T15:49:00.000-08:00

When RT and I moved in together (about 8 years ago or so) Rollie’s dog Angie came to live with us. She was a sweet mutt, somewhat wolf-like in appearance. She was an old dog when she came in to my life and I like to think that I put a sparkle back in to her twilight years. We walked our street twice a day, all the way down to the cider mill and back. She got lots of treats and lots of gentle talk.

RT had a game he played with her. It was called “Who’s a fawn?” Basically he’d ask her that, “Who’s a fawn?” while he touched her little gold eyebrows. Then he’d say “You’re a fawn.” You have to imagine his voice – not quite baby talk but tender and sweet with a little bit of goobie-goo thrown in. And you have to imagine her sweet face, happy for the attention but nonplussed. (I love the word nonplussed. An emotional word with a mathematical feel.)

So in honor of Angie, I’m launching the “Who’s a Tom Waits?” portion of my blog. It’s to be asked in the same tone. Sweet. With Goobie-goo.

As for why Tom Waits. Tom Waits has become my symbol of an artist who is an individual, artists who make art that no one else in the world can make. Artists who are fearless (or overcome their fears) to make honest art of true vision. (Not, necessarily, that the vision is truthful – although to me it seems that it usually is – but more in that the vision is true. Narrow and specific. True like a bicycle wheel.)

Really, I don’t need to explain Tom Waits to you. If you don’t know him, just listen and you’ll probably get it. The songs he writes, his voice, his arrangements, they are a particular view of the world. They’ve got intelligence, they’ve got balls and they’ve got heart (heart -- profoundly important.) They are art. They relieve people’s suffering. They impart joy. And they give me hope, for me and for my world.

And so soon I’ll launch my “Who’s a Tom Waits?”

I guess I should also say that I think we’re all Tom Waits’ (Pronounced “Waitses”) We’ve all got our own particular way of looking at the world. We’ve all got the goods inside to translate our world into art (whether it’s a nicely made sandwich, a straight yellow line painted on the highway, or a high falutin’ painting) that can affect other people, affect the world. And life is just the journey we take to find, or maybe a better word is uncover, what has been inside us all along.

How’s that for some goobie goo?

2008-10-27T16:08:00.000-07:00

I can’t bring myself to write a blog entry. I sift through the ideas in my head, I’ve got plenty, but none of them seem good enough, inspiring enough. Or is it just that it seems like too much work and I’m tired? Or is it that I’m predicting defeat. That is, thinking of a first sentence and then, scared of not coming up with a second, just deciding that it’s no use. Or am I just lazy?

It really just came to me. Honesty. Just now as I whinged away. It’s an issue of space. I don’t feel like I have the space in my head. Work is taking up a lot right now…Life in the cube. Toss in some worry. And the life-in-vibrant-colors activity of raising a toddler.

In an ideal world writing -- doing -- wouldn't be dependant on mood, on energy, on my little tiny feelings. I've spent a lot of time fretting over my consistency, or lack there of, of production. Because lack of product can equal lack of value. And lack of value equals waste of time. And waste of time puts me that much farther from what I want. Who I think I am.

So this minute, right now, that cheesy song pops in my mind. "Turn, Turn, Turn." I hated that song as a kid. I don't like the refrain. "Turn, turn, turn." It's sort of spooky. Turn, Turn, Turn. I can say I've been doing a lot of thinking. Turn, turn, turn. So that's something.

in defense of self help books...

2008-10-09T11:26:00.000-07:00

Well, I really should just come out with it. I'm trying to generate money with my mind. Or, to be more specific, my perception of reality. It's a long story, one that can be explained in this book.

I'm a book person, and it's never been a big leap to self-helpy books. Maybe I should be ashamed, embarassed, for having a long list of self-helpy books under my belt. (Saying "self help-y" seems to take the edge off, somehow.) Only one, this one, actually brought me to tears and was banned from the house. (I broke down when thinking I'd never even manage to develop the first habit, let alone the other six...) I've read a bunch of them ranging from a book that encouraged me to view my negative thoughts as gremlins to the ever-eye-roll-eliciting "The Artist's Way". And, you know what? If any one approaches me with a new way of thinking or looking at the world, well, I'll listen to that too. Anyways. There. I've outed myself as an occasional self help book reader.

So I'm trying to generate money with my mind. Not all the time. I'm not sitting around obsessing about it. But I'm putting some energy in to it. About as much energy as it takes to keep my teeth clean.

About a week after I started I recieved a $50.00 check in the mail from someone with whom I have not spoken in, probably 10 years. (It's not a long story, but I won't tell it anyway.) I immediately decided not to cash the check, because it seemed weird. This person was, more or less, paying me for doing something any decent person would've done. But then a friend pointed out that I'd been working on generating money. And to say no to it, once generated, made zero sense. And that made a lot of sense. A tremendous amount of sense.

So started saying yes to a lot of things, recently, that I would usually say no to. Stupid things. Silly things. Like "Want a candy bar?" or "Can I do that for you?" And it's interesting. Because life gets a little easier when you start taking people up on their offers. And then I found out about this website. It's a blog by a woman who is asking for something every day for 365 days. I like that. I like it a lot. I'm gonna ride the offer train for a while. Then I'm gonna start asking.

isn't it just that way

2008-10-07T10:45:00.001-07:00

Doesn't it just make sense that I start a blog, send everyone to it, and then get overwhelmed by work and life and don't have any time to update it? It's that dark shadow that comes after you make a decision, take a risk, step toward something you want. I've seen it so often, it's almost like an old friend. Obstacles. They are a sign that good is just around the corner.

So I wanted to say that. And I wanted to make a quick plug for the butt end of bread. So neglected, so underloved, so....abandoned. Everyone, or just anyone who wants to, should go out of their way to eat the butt end of their bread loaf today. Pick it first. Make it feel special.

eh...pickles....

2008-09-30T11:08:00.000-07:00

RT is obsessed with making pickles these days. Or pickling. He started another batch of pickles last night while I made zucchini bread and Addie "helped". RT says she helps like a cat. Anyways, if it's not pickled pickles it's pickled carrots (these I will eat, and they are good), pickled peppers (for real), and two failed attempts at Kimchi. He googled last night, to try to find the cause of his pickling obsession and his craving for vinegar. He learned that it was a pre-menstrual thing. Very interesting. Oh, he also learned it could be because his body is too alkaline. Which it could be now that he's glutonium free. It also has to do with insulin and sugar....and RT's never liked sweets.

Anyways, the pickles look dang pretty in jars and he's developing a little cult following. I think people befriending me just for a shot at his pickles. Wait. That doesn't sound right...

damnit janet

2008-09-26T15:25:00.000-07:00

Really good art. I'm grateful for it. I'm opinionated about it (although my opinion can be easily swayed by a good argument). It's what makes me happy. It helps me be brave. And so I'm always looking for really great artists, balls-out people, people who see the world differently, people who do what they do because they are the only ones who can do it. People who create without worrying about what's considered good or valuable or worthy.

And I love collaboration. It warms my heart. It makes me smile. It's good stuff.

So I was happy today to stumble across this article on how the Rocky Horror Picture Show turned into a phenomena. It's a fun read and I love the part about the guy who stubbornly put newspaper over his head every filming for three weekends until the idea finally caught on. I like the image of this guy with a paper over his head and his friends making fun of him. And now it's one of the more popular things to do when you see Rocky Horror. There you go. Persistence can pay off.

phobia

2008-09-25T15:40:00.000-07:00

Lots of people dream about losing their teeth. I wouldn't call that a phobia so much as a collective-unconscious-fear-thing.

Well, just to be clear, that's not what I'm talking about here. What I'm talking about is a phobia. Or just a fallacious way of thinking. I don't know. I'm thinking too hard.

Here's the story. One night I parked my car on my friend's farm in Michigan. I left the window down. It was a warm night. Balmy. I had a beer, hung out, then it was time to go home. Well, driving back to my place I became consumed by the idea that a raccoon had climbed in the window, fallen asleep in the back seat, and was, as I drove, just waiting for the right moment to pounce. I kept turning around, searching for the critter in the pitch black, waving my hands around in the air, all the while, bracing myself for the moment he bit.

Crazy, right?

Well, that raccoon has become a little bit of a symbol for me. A symbol of all the stifling things I let myself believe, all the things I let cloud my enjoyment of this long, pleasant ride home we call life.

So here's to getting rid of the non-existant raccoons in the car. (And hats that make you look like a turkey...)

pop up pancakes and last night's beer can

2008-09-22T10:49:00.000-07:00

Well, I was partly inspired to start a blog because I enjoy reading them so much. Blogs like this one or this one are just two that I love. There are a ton more,and I like skipping across them, link to link, like a virtual wandering. Inevitably I end up finding something really good, or interesting, or inspiring. And I always notice the photos are gorgeous – showing art and home in its finest light.

Well, I was jumping around and found this recipe for Pop Up Pancakes here . I made them for the kid that following Saturday along with strawberries and raspberries (that we picked this summer!) I simmered in a little sauce pan with some water and sugar. Dang, they looked pretty, and tasted even better. As a homage to the blogs I love, I show the “blog” photo above… This was a dish I fixed up and took across the street to our neighbor because the kid and I had eaten our fill.

But, because our house is always teetering on this side of chaos, I feel it's important to take a real picture, too. Because life ain’t always as pretty as it is in blogland. (It's a shame about the teletubbie. He was so young.....)

I heart alleys

2008-09-18T14:59:00.001-07:00

We have these amazing alleys in our neighborhood. Well, amazing may be a bit strong but shoot, I get paid to use adjectives Anyways, these alleys are a weird blend of beauty and creepiness...lush, delicious blackberries and, two steps away, a broken bottle and an empty paper bag. Before Addie came I walked them every morning with the dog - rain or sun. It was a way to defragment before the day started, and Rhodie loved it. Then, when Addie was a baby I'd strap her in her snugglie and we'd walk them together. In the early days she'd just blink and stare, but time passed and she began to learn the words of the alley "dandilion, rose, stick, rock".

There is a vulnerability. Occasionally the out of place person walks by, a weird looking guy with a stick or an aimless homeless type looking for returnable bottles. But I love our alley. It’s like the park equivalent of a hole-in-the-wall. The trees have had their share of hard knocks; the weeds just want a little something to drink. And hey, isn’t beauty just a little more beautiful when you have to search for it?

First Post

2008-09-17T09:31:00.000-07:00

Okay. Let's get this over with. Here's my first post. I've been wanting to jump aboard the blog wagon for a while. As a way to capture my thoughts. As a way to document the fun I'm having with RT and Addie. As a way to keep in touch with family far away. And as a way to expel some personal demons. So. Ready or not. Jump that bridge.