lavenderose

I thought that I might dream today...

Wednesday, April 28, 2004

I really should be studying for the final I am supposed to be taking in thirty minutes, but it is a final for an education class and education is an art and a craft, not a skill that can be acquired, and since I possess this art already I don't think that studying will do much good.

So instead, I will sit here and indulge myself with some writing. How about a poem?

The Earth's Movement

Snot never felt so good as it did this morning when you kissed me seven times
to wake me up, your eager morning eyes were shining
and you were playing peek-a-boo, rolling in the covers.

You, Issac, like my only rising sun, you are sometimes all I see
when I haven't slept well
when I am tempted to dwell in personal misery,
all of life's mystery.

I had three dreams last night, little one.
In the first, a letter was delivered.
In the second, you and I were dancing in the snow.
In the third, I read the letter, and it told me that
love is the only magic.

And now you need to be dressed and fed,
so I take myself out of bed,
I stop worrying inside my head
and put shoes on you instead.

You have been the greatest blessing
to a woman who can't decide between a sandal or a shoe,
a woman who lives in other worlds more than she inhabits
the earth.

I've learned about the earth's movements, my dear,
you've brought this education to me--
how the earth continues spinning
and mouths continue eating
how this woman is but a small figure on a larger map
protected, sheltered
by her love and by yours.


Bike Riding

What is the world to you, little one?
What do you see, peeking out of your yellow plastic helmet, the one with
the ladybugs on it,
the helmet that falls over your head and jostles you to sleep?
Your alien resemblance in this piece of modern plastic with its apertures
humors me most deeply.

You, my little squeeze, are getting skinny and tall.
A blueberry-muncher, a diaper avoider,
a horse-lover, a miniature cowboy.

I ride with you under canopies of green.
You go "ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh" over the bumps and rumps,
touching your nose and saying "noh!"
Holding on to your ears as though they are priceless,
convinced of your uniqueness.

Your fingers explore everything. Nostrils,
eyes, bellies, sticks and stones and
sandy socks. Your open mouth is
an excited squeal.

I will remember how we rode, you and I,
in the early summertime,
under the trees, when you were still behind me,
attached to my bike, my back, myself.

You are getting skinny.

Monday, April 26, 2004

The Bluegrass Festival at Sertoma Youth Ranch...


I have never seen so many RV's in my life. Monica, Brian, Allan, and I were the only people under sixty at the entire event. A few scraggly, dirty, rambunctious eleven-year olds were running around the camp on Sunday, but they don't count. A couple of young looking bearded guys with a dog and leather motoring hats arrived on Saturday but we were there first. The bands played on a stage under an open pavilion. Behind the stage, a wall was painted red and strategic white lines were painted over the red to resemble a giant old-fashioned barn door. I was ready for a ho-down under the tin roof of the pavilion, but all of the dancing space was occupied by hundreds of motely fold-out chairs, with names like "Derrion" and "W.Zortehiemer" puff-painted on their backs. The gang and I were chair theifs--like mockingbirds, we would sit in these retiree's unoccupied nests until they returned. They never minded anyways--everyone was so nice. Lots of people wore blue T-shirts that said "IT AIN"T BLUEGRASS IF IT DON"T HAVE A BANJO."
If I looked good in T-shirts I would have bought one. (I hate T-shirts).

Despite some tragic personal events that required Allan to drive me back to Gainesville on Saturday afternoon (one word--Baby'sdaddy) I had a great time.

The highlight of the event was Friday night when we loaded up on coke and whiskey and then went off looking for a jam session. They were everywhere. Monica and I brought our guitars, but we didn't play them. Monica was shy and kept hers in her softshell case across her back--I carried mine in my hands but just sat there with it, hugging it on my lap. Brian and Allan were afraid that they couldn't hang but before they knew it they were picking away on their mandolins. We didn't know it until afterwards, but they were playing with internationally renowned bluegrass superstars.

Then some old jerry-garcia looking man asked me " can you play that thang or do you just set thar and hold it? " and I told him I was just beginning and he said "hell, it don't matter" and before I knew what was happening I was sitting on a stool humoring him with my dorky bluegrass version of the house of the rising sun. Even more amazingly, I was actually singing too. And then someone picked up a string-bass and then another bearded man named "Herb" picked up his guitar and then Allan on the mandolin joined in and a banjo joined in and a crowd formed around to listen. And a nice old man named Jack was standing next to me and stomping his foot to the rythm and exclaiming "Damn! Look at that girl pick! Yeehaw!" Then Herb pulled a silver flask of whiskey out of his pocket and urged me to try some and I did and it was good and smooth. Jack had a swig too and we were all laughing.

Anyways, I never imagined in a million years that this would happen but I guess I deserve it because I have been practicing. Jack helped me out by calling out the chords for me and they gave me some advice on holding a pick better and we went around the circle starting songs and jamming out for about twenty minutes or so--it felt like forever-- and then it was my turn to lead a song and I didn't remember any more and so it all kind of ended. But it was awesome. And now I can say that I too, played with charismatic banjo legend Bobby Chris.

I decided that I really like bluegrass, it's pretty simple to do bluegrass guitar. Even better, all the songs are spiritual and soul-felt and fun to sing. I didn't even feel bad about missing church on Sunday--a lot of the songs were about God and forgiveness and love.

So what do I think about Bluegrass? I highly recommend it. Go check out the group called "Swinging Bridges." That's MY banjo player there on the cover. Yeah, that's right, I know him.




Thursday, April 22, 2004

In Response to Inspiration and the Work of Being an Artist....


My friend, who is a really great writer and a word snob, has written an inspiring response to my growing apathy towards English as a profession. It is called "The Importance of English in a Technical Society." Check it out at her site, Stellarpurpledaisy.

Also, if I have any readers lurking about that I don't know yet, email me and let me know who you are! Readers whom I do know, please feel free to drop me a line as well. Email me!

I'm going camping this weekend at a bluegrass festival, so I won't be posting again until Monday. Let the good times roll.

Wednesday, April 21, 2004

Inspiration and the Work of Being an Artist...

I work in short bursts of inspiration. Sometimes I feel I am nothing more than a sponge waiting for the Muse to enter me, to take control and direct my short bursts of genius. I chase the Muse, attempting to catch its attention. I wave my hands wildly, shouting, "Hey Muse, over here! Come visit me for a while! I'll buy you dinner!"

I was walking on campus today trying to justify why I am a Liberal Arts major at one of the top universities in the country. I felt like an imposter, as though I should not be here walking among the palm trees and hundred-year-old buildings and the "academics." Academians are physists and chemical engineers, botanists and doctors and dentists and veterinarians, graphic designers and computer programmers, archeologists and anthropologists and linguists and political scientists. They come to the university to learn a trade, a specific curriculum in a special field. I have come here to study English. I already know English, and so does everybody else-- so it leaves me feeling rather unsatisfied and doubtful that I have accomplished anything at all during my four year enrollment as a student of the English department.

Chemical engineers and scientists know chemical science AND they know how to read and write and speak. I am nothing special. There is no authority in the fact that I am an English major. It offers me nothing truly different or unique. I feel like I know nothing more useful than the average literate American.

Nobody will hire me because I am an English major. I didn't even study the useful aspects of English, such as grammar or editing. I studied literature and writing and rhetoric. And then, I didn't specialize in a field of literature. I am not a specialist in Medeival Literature or British Literature or Early American Literature, nor am I a top-notch Deconstructionist or specialist in literary theory. I am simply a person who has achieved only a simple understanding of a subject which I and every other literate person knew to begin with, before I ever came to college.

I am only slightly depressed about this. Somehow, somewhere, I feel like what I am doing is important. I feel this way because my heart tells me that this is what I am supposed to do. If this is what I am supposed to do, then maybe it will all make sense some day, but try telling that to an unemployable 23 year-old.

Our teachers spout all this cheap talk to us about how understanding literature is a powerful tool to understanding humanity and how understanding literature will help us develop tools to analyze our present culture and how understanding literature will develop us into demi-gods who know the elusive "truth" of the world. Well, that only makes me feel pompous and idiotic. Who am I to claim to know the "truth" of the world, and who even gives a damn if I do? Knowing the "truth" will not help me to solve the world's problems, it will not help me get elected U.S. President, it will not even get me a job as a secretary in a small company typing a balding sweaty man's dictation and memos.

It might get me a job as a teacher, but even this is not looking exciting as I face the hell of writing lesson plans actually objectifying what it is that I believe is important to teach people--because they make you do that, objectify everything. I prefer to live in an unobjectified world.

The truth is, I am still very confused about what I believe, and if I even believe that what I believe is important. The task of writing down and objectifying what I believe is daunting and formidable. I want to sit down and do it, but I don't even know where to begin. I have this haunting feeling, though, that if I don't do this I will continue to live in a muddy world of swirling half-developed ideas and false-starts. There is so much to believe... so many crooks and ninnies to explore, to give life to, to animate.

I'm losing faith in the power of literature as a tool to discovering "the truth." Who the hell knows what the truth is, and who even cares? I don't want to be a haughty English professor who thinks I have more of a grip on the world because I study literature. Actually, I think these people have LESS of a grip on the world since they live in their offices and analyze imaginary people in imaginary lives. As the daily concerns of living my life overwhelm the faculties of my brain, the idea of attempting to find the elusive truth of the world becomes less serious, more mocking, and rather silly. Who cares? My view of the world has become rather flippant indeed.

The sad fact is that the study of Literature comes around to the study of Philosophy, and I got a D in the only philosophy class that I ever took. I was completely overwhelmed and confused. NONE of it made sense to me. We read Barthes and Plato and Locke and I was lost in a sea of 17th century odd spellings and weird words. The concepts were obscure and abstract and my brain really couldn't wrap itself completely around them.

Have you ever tried to have a discussion with a Philosophy major? They are just as lost as us English majors. They have no idea what they are really talking about, or else they are just repeating what someone else said, and mangling it up pretty badly in the process. Who can ever attempt to know the "truth?" It's so impossible, why should we even bother? This has been the struggle of humanity for all time--we seem to think there is just one "thing" out there, floating in the ephemeral, and if we can just get our hands on it we can answer every riddle, solve every problem, unite the world in peace. English and Philosophy majors are wasting their lives trying to figure out an unanswerable riddle.

I don't think the truth exists. The only truth I know is that while my attempt to discover this truth is admirable, it has been mostly a waste. I have been to the bounds of the human mind on a guided tour thanks to UF and I have returned, and all that I am able to say is "don't worry about it, there's not too much to see. It's too dark. Return to your normal lives."

Ah, but it is the mystery that intrigues us.

Anyways, while I am trying to discover what it is that I believe, and while I go finish some schoolwork, I will be certain of one thing--writing is a skill, an art, and a beauty. Studying english is pointless unless you write, kind if like studying paintings verse actually painting them.

And there IS truth in literature when it teaches us about what it means to be human and how to be better humans. Art, and writing, is a reflection of morality. Whether creating visions of morality is important or not is another question for another day. Perhaps it is the most important question of our day.

I just don't know how I'm going to teach literature if I'm not allowed to preach to my students about morality, if I have to be objective. In all honesty, I see my position as a teacher more as a position of a preacher, which is probably a horrible thing to say if I want to work in the secular public school system. Oh well.
______________
On a happy note, I talked to Dr. New about doing an independent study with him over summer on Milton, and he said that would be viable. He then added that he was very impressed with my answers in class, that they were always very intelligent and that he could always count on me to answer the tougher questions he put forth. I was pleased that he noticed.





Monday, April 19, 2004

My Weekend in 100 Words...

Baby shower for Meggin. Slyvia has pretty curtains, made cheescake in paper flowers, so pretty. Yvonne is the french grandmother--many promises to visit her again. Art Festival with Dre and Matt. At 7pm, Symphony Orchestra downtown on the lawn, the Hairstons, Issac likes to eat cigarette butts. Issac to bed on time, Shakespeare paper written and a few plays read, drink lots of coffee, up till 2 am. Cranky in the morning, house a wreck. Long nap. Clipped roses, blew up plastic whale pool and almost passed out. Attempted bike seat assembly results in cursing. Allan teaches me how to use tools, saves the day. He eats blueberry for his labor. Issac looks adorably hillarious in huge yellow helmet, my tiny alien creature.

Thursday, April 15, 2004

I Miss Even Your Drool...

It is odd that I do not remember how Alley Cat first came into our household. All I recall is that he arrived when I was young enough to think naming him after a brand of cat food conferred to him the greatest dignity.

In a house with a strong tradition against naming animals, it is a surprise that his name ever stuck at all. For generations the cats in my family have been nothing more significant than barn cats and have been named one of three generic names: Tom (if male), Cat (insert appropriate color), or Kitty. I can still see the lines of my mother’s mouth growing tight and the grip on her hand-purse growing stronger when, at the grocery store, I would insist she purchase Alley-Cat brand cat food instead of the plain brown bags of Publix brand or Winn-Dixie.

The special cat food brought a keen shine to Alley Cat’s fur, which was as soft and silky smooth as a rabbit’s. The only nuisance in petting him was that his hairs would come off in your hand and float around the room in little flurries of fluff. Because of this I bought him a blue plastic hairbrush. One hundred strokes before bedtime became our routine.

As I stroked him, his long whiskers and broad cheekbones vibrated with the strength of his ardent purr, and beads of drool often pooled up under his chin and dripped into my lap. His eyes and his head rolled back in deluxe pleasure, high exaltation, or pure luxury. He was always thankful for attention. He was like an old man who loves little girls: sweet, loving, smiling, appreciative and lonely. Were Alley Cat human, I’m sure he would have had me sitting in his lap. Instead, he consented to sit in mine. He was always as close to me as I permitted.

Not since Alley Cat have I received so much joy in petting a feline. The sheer amount of joy and love he received from my laying-of-hands on his fur was evident in the size of the drool puddle he left on the floor—a puddle that left my hands feeling magically powerful and strong.

Alley Cat’s under-footedness only occasionally caused confusion. On cold winter mornings before I threw off the covers, over the noise of percolating coffee, I could hear my Dad stumbling over Alley Cat as he went about making breakfast. I knew then that Alley Cat was rubbing against my Dad’s feet. My Dad’s grumbles and swears at the cat soon disappeared and when I arrived from the hall Alley Cat would be purring in my Dad’s arms. Holding Alley Cat was irresistible. Eventually he could win anyone over.

Alley Cat himself turned out to be an excellent father. When Alley Cat was approaching his middle years an opportunity came to our family in the form of an orange kitten that allowed his paternal nature to blossom. We baptized the new tabby “Tigger.” A spunky spitfire, we rescued her from certain death in the tangles of a fishing net left in an abandoned garage. We submitted ourselves to countless scratches and also to the oily black dirt on the floor to draw her out. For this she has never seemed appropriately thankful.

“Alley Cat will be jealous and miserable,” was my Mother’s principal attempt to discourage Tigger’s homecoming. But home she came, and through the grace of Alley Cat’s gregarious nature she was received whole-heartedly. He groomed her without cease, with long strokes of his course pink tongue, and was not deterred from his task even when she swatted at his face. He patiently permitted her to have her kittenish tendencies—when he ate from his food dish and she attacked his tail, he seemed to sigh “kittens will be kittens,” and continue about his business with minimal perturbation. He watched her adoringly while she ate. He shared his own food dish with her.

Alley Cat spent most of his time ushering Tigger into adulthood. Though Tigger has always maintained a sense of wildness and has never been completely tamed, her heart was soft toward her doting father. He cleaned behind her ears, followed her and protected her on walks, fought off snakes before she stumbled on them, taught her how to wrestle and fight, saw that she gained mastery in the art of hunting, and chided her when she stayed out too late at night by biting her neck. Each evening they shared a ritual in which Alley Cat bathed Tigger with his tongue while she held absolutely still. Then, in return, she gave him two or three cursory licks. I admit I grew jealous of their relationship. After all, I was the one who used to give and receive such affections. Tigger seemed to meet my eye with a look that said, “see, I am a princess, and even my father knows this.”

The mild Florida winters set in and passed and Alley Cat and Tigger groomed each other and kept company. One winter Alley Cat grew thin and then he altogether disappeared. I think he politely wandered to the woods to pass away alone—to keep death and our bereavement distanced. We have never found a body or bones. Occasionally I will still remember the peace of sitting in front of a warm window in the yellow sunlight, ten years old, rocking in a chair with that soft cat on my lap and nothing else in the world to consider.

This morning, when I came down the stairs, Tigger was meowing to be fed. She swatted at me and stuck a claw into my leg. She treats me as though she were mistress and I her misbehaving servant. She demands to be pet when it appeals to her, but if I am to pick her up and set her in my lap on my own accord she bites my thumbs and grabs my wrists with her claws. Outdoors she meows to be let in, and once inside the house she meows to be let out. After Alley Cat left us, I tried to convince Tigger into becoming my sleeping companion. I would bring her to my bed and feed her kitty treats; she would nibble the treats and then leave. After repeating this experiment multiple times with similar results I gave up. I soon learned that I was not missing very much—she jumped onto my bed one night and lied right on top of my feet. I felt rather guilty when I kicked her off of the bed.

Tigger is an enigma. She has grown fat and her stomach is soft and droopy, but she once was lithe and wiry. She has a small frame, a short tail, and a miniature face with slanted green eyes, but she walks as though she is as large and fierce as a panther. Her small teeth are sharp and she is quick to snap if displeased. Her coat is course and her outer hairs do not fall out—intriguingly, under her coarser orange outer-coat is a thick layer of downy white fuzz. Her white chest consists only of this fuzzy matter and is the softest part of her fur. She will not let me touch it. She is a beautiful queen. I would hold her more often, but I don’t like to be bitten. She is the type of cat that you cannot seduce—she must come to you. When she does sit on a lap she uses it as a sharpening instrument, repetitiously kneading left paw and right paw into your leg.

For fifteen years has Tigger dragged birds and mice and moles to my doorstep. For fifteen years she has followed me on walks, balancing the length of the board fence that borders the driveway to my house. For fifteen years has she puzzled me with two very distinct modus operandi: one childlike, seeking affection and petting, that crawls into my lap and falls into a deep sleep—the other, wild and unpredictable, with a sinister and errant claw that draws blood regularly. I have learned when to draw close to Tigger and when to keep a distance—mainly from trial and error. If she scratches once during the day, she will strike again.

If Alley Cat was a welcoming and nurturing father, Tigger has not progressed beyond a spoiled and self-centered adolescent. Before Alley Cat’s death, we welcomed another addition to the family. Natasha was a lean black kitten who earned her name due to her resemblance to the conniving Russian woman of the Borris and Natasha duo from The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. Alley Cat welcomed Natasha as he had Tigger—adopting her as his own daughter—and Tigger could not accept this. She threw temper tantrums in the form of hideous groaning meows, developed odd habits such as refusing to come off of the furniture (she also refused to allow Natasha on the furniture), and was openly nasty to the poor kitten in the form of hisses and evil glances. Alley Cat plodded along at his even pace loving both girls equally. Tigger gave him the silent treatment. Alley Cat just seemed to sigh and say “teenagers will be teenagers.” He did not take it personally, which infuriated Tigger. After Alley Cat died, we were forced to give Natasha away due to Tiggers continual abuse.

Four nights ago, on Thursday, Tigger woke me at 3:37 in the morning in her usual way. The first phase of this process consists of persistent meowing, which I routinely ignore. This is my first mistake. If ignored, she goes to the window and rattles the blinds by climbing and jumping on them. It makes an awful racket but I am an accomplished sleeper and simply put the pillow over my head. The pillow-move was developed to avert the third stage of her design—climbing on top of my head, and sometimes lying on it. The physiology of the human facial structure includes several painful pressure points, most of which Tigger manages to find with acute accuracy when standing on my cheekbones. If applying pressure to my facial-cranial cavities or attempting to suffocate me with her furry stomach does not rouse me, she is forced to revert to phase four and pee on my bed.

Tigger is frequently an annoyance to me. As I am walking out the door with my baby son on my hip and a diaper bag slung over my arm and my purse on my shoulder and my backpack on my back and coffee and appointment book and banana and green sippy-cup and keys in hand, Tigger bolts into the house and hides. She is too old to stay in all day—I refuse to clean a litter-box, so I must laboriously set everything down and find her. I am late to work. I can’t count on both hands the number of times during a single day that she runs under my feet and trips me, causing me to spill something or inviting near death on the staircase.

I keep her for sentimental reasons and because I have had her for so long. One might hear me talk about these animals and conclude that I am a “cat-person,” but I would not classify myself as such. I much prefer the intelligence of dogs. My family has encountered several cats in passing, but only these two, Tigger and Alley Cat, have aroused in me a loyal concern and curiosity. Alley Cat was the first, his “daughter” the next, and after these I do not know if there will be another.

I suppose that after Tigger passes I will miss Alley Cat the most. Tigger is a loving pain in a more hectic world. Yet I am thankful foe the memories these two small animals have left me. If I never have another cat again, I will remember these two with fondness and it will be enough. Ah, the days were long, the evenings cool, the scratches painful and insulting; the lap was warm, the purring strong, and the drool prolific.

Tuesday, April 13, 2004

The Sky is Falling...Literally

A portentous morning. As I was walking to class, three branches fell out of trees just feet in front of my path. It is very windy and rainy and wet outside and when I was dressing this morning I felt like wearing nothing but dark black wool. I don't have any black wool, but I did wear black. I couldn't find my umbrella...

It's kind of funny when you wake up two hours before your 8:30 class and you are still late. I bet my teacher thinks I'm just another lazy student rolling out of bed at 8:15. I just wink at him when I come in the back of the room, late, because he's frowning at me and I'm thinking "I was up before you were." Considering the way I've been feeling lately, I consider myself lucky to make it to class at all, even though it is disappointing to go through all the effort of getting out of the house just to sit in class for only twenty minutes. At least I made it in time for the quiz.

Issac update: temper tantrums are on the rise. I don't know what I'm going to do today--I've no idea how to tell a toddler that he can't play outside in the rain. Maybe I ought to buy some yellow macintoshes and galoshes for both of us and we can go on long walks in it and splash in the puddles and smell the wet earth and make mud-pies. But back to the temper tantrums. I find it hilarious that the only person he misbehaves for is me. Why is that? Why do other people besides the ones we love the most get the privilige of our best manners and most kind selves?

This morning, after piling kiss upon kiss on his sleepy mother, Issac was in a wonderful mood and I told him to go pick out a book thinking that this would buy me about 15 more seconds of precious eye-closing avoidance of the world. Of course he was very excited about this and it only took him about 5 seconds. He brought Polar Bear, Polar Bear, What do you Hear? which is his new favorite book. I roused myself into a sitting position and turned on the lamp and then reached down to lift his smiling little body onto the bed, at which point he threw the book at me and then continued by projecting himself violently backwards on the ground followed by even more violent kicking and screaming.

"Okay Issac, you don't have to get on the bed if you don't want to."

"waaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!"

"What's the matter?"

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

I reach down to lift him up anyways. He slaps my hands away and screams even louder, as though I've hurt him somehow. So I pull my hands back into my lap, and amazingly enough, this is even more upsetting to him. Tears are squirting out of his malicious mommy-hating eyes. If there was a court and judge and jury, certainly I would be found guilty of some crime. He is turning red and his kicking scoots him across the rug until he hits his head on the dresser.

"Do you want to read a book?"

"WAAAAA! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

I try talking to him in cave-man talk, like the newest book written by some doctor says to do.

"Issac mad. Issac no feel good. Ouchy Ouchy. Issac angry. Issac no like something. Issac no like mama."

He stops to look at me for second, a little puzzled, and then kicks his screaming into third gear. I think at this point he is crying because he has suddenly realized that I am going to utterly embarass him later on in his life. I give up and let him cry while I get dressed, telling myself that it actually doesn't hurt my ears, convincing myself that it is possibly hillarious.

Yesterday at Marcy's house he did the same thing for 45 minutes. At Easter dinner I had to get up and leave the table because he was screaming and throwing things.

Yet when I leave him with a babysitter, he is a perfect angel-doll. He cries when I leave sometimes, but never for more than 30 seconds or so. He is all smiles and laughs and tickles and giggles for everyone else .

It's funny how we meet our manipulative capabilities at an early age. It must be some sort of experiment or game--"I wonder what mommy will do if I just lay down and start screaming and being as obnoxious as possible? Maybe she will give me candy or do a funny goofy dance and song for me. I don't care what she does, really. I'm bored and this sounds like a lot of fun." It's his new favorite game.

Well, the song and dance stops here kid. Mom's not a number in Issac's stage show any longer. We can still do songs and dances together, but you're not running this ring and I don't work for free. We're re-working this contract, you see? Say ya do, kid, or their's gonna be trouble. Here's my lawyer. He'll tell you where to sign. And while you're at it, guys, work out a clause about potty-training.




Monday, April 12, 2004

The Devil's in the Details...

Let me contrive to tell all my readers what a dork I am by telling you how I came to school tonight absolutely convinced that I had a test at 8:30 pm. It was written on the front of my folder in blue ink: TEST 3, MONDAY, 8:30 PM, NPB 1001. I spent this Easter weekend slouched over my desk wondering what kind of immoral teacher assigns a test the day after Easter. Only after I went to the physics building and did not see masses of students frantically flipping through their notebooks I realized something was awry. I went back to my car to check the time of the test and noticed underneath the bold informative print of my own hand a little scribble that said "April 19," a little squeak of a message, a sickly looking cipher. I could have kicked myself. The sad (or funny) thing is that I did the same thing last semester in the SAME ROOM, but instead of being early I was an hour too late. I was less than 60 minutes away from an A in physics last semester.

I've never been a detail person. I have a planner, but it always stared at me reminding me of things to do and people to call and lessons to learn and I wanted desperately to throw it in the trash can or out of my car window when I am driving, and so now it rests in the pocket of my car's passenger door, untouched for the past two months. I was afraid of what I might do to it--funny how a brown leather binding can look so menacing, seem so alive. The odd thing is, when I follow my planner and enter things into it and make sure I do A, B, C, and D in that order, my life seems so much easier. Time has been spent wisely. I feel complete. In my bath at the end of the night, I pat myself on the back and take a deep smiling breath as I know I have pleased the insatiable demands of my daybook. I am happy because the planner is happy. I have made the appropriate ritualistic sacrifices and it will not eat me or send down a flood. All things are compartmentalized. God is in his heaven and all is right with the world--at first.

Everything is going well until the planner starts sneaking in essential tasks A, B, C, D, E, F, and G . It's just a few more errands, no big deal. But the planner is hungry. It wants more. The next thing I know, I am in a frenzy trying to complete the entire English alphabet. I become impatient, like my planner, secretly cursing the woman in front of me at Wal-Mart whose debit-card won't work, yelling at Quinn because he is so utterly slow, a sloth in a sack race. I will traffic to clear and people to talk faster. My brain becomes a mess of demonic should'ves and could'ves swirling around in a frothy sea of panic. "I could've driven the other way and saved two whole minutes!" "Hey Stupid, you should've done task H after you did task W, you would have saved half an hour!"

At night, after completing the entire alphabet and five or six counting numbers, I fall alseep in my bath and wake up in cold water. I am not willing to live my life that way, falling asleep only to have alphabetic nightmares of numbers and letters eating me alive, pulling at my skin, stretching me tight across the belly of a drum and pounding as they dance around a fire chanting at me "She must, she must, she must increase or bust."

Yet I always take things to the opposite extreme. Since I went on strike, the disorder has been getting to me. Sure, it has been relaxing lying on the couch, picking wildflowers, singing happy songs in the car on the way to school, completely IGNORING my little planner. But the garbage hasn't gone to the dump in a few weeks and it's really growing into a worrisome mess, I still need to mail about ten letters including a traffic ticket and some bills, I need to balance my checkbook before I run out of money, and the laundry sea is overtaking the islands of living space that Issac and I have eked out of the chaos in the bedroom. I applied late for financial aid and have no real clue when some of my asssignments are due. I haven't collected payment from my boss and I haven't began planning for fall registration.

What is scary is that this doesn't really worry me too much. I've always made it by like this, like a car on ice slipping and spinning into its destination. I know I'll get there eventually. I just wish I could get there well manicured with my planner by my side. I wish I could arrive at the little town called Perfect. I wish me and my planner could be friends, pals, bride and bridegroom.

Maybe the problem is with the planner, not me. Maybe the planner needs to learn that it is not the master of my life, that it is more like a trusted friend. Maybe it needs to stop expecting so much.

I want to accomplish things in my life. I want to be the best at something. I want people to offer me an amazing salary and beg me to work for them. I want to have things to put on my resume--"what makes YOU special, Ms. Ferguson?" I'm sure they won't care about how I had a bloody battle with my little brown planner and came out victorious. They are compatriots of the planner. Revolters like me are dangerous. The rebellion might spread. Before you know it, there will be three-day week-ends and extra holidays, two months of vacation time and children playing in the office.

Sometimes I want so badly to be an automaton, an accomplisher, a producer, a top out-put. The outlets I put my energy into seem to help none but myself and my closest friends and family--it is not marketable. It does not sell. It cannot go on my resume--"has risen to the top of her field. Best friend, daughter, mother, sister in the Southeast region 2003. Voted family member of the year 1999-2004." But these are the things that are important to me.

I'm not saying that these things are not extremely important to other people too. I'm just saying that I'm finding myself stuck in the lovely position where I have not had to deal with these real-world things yet. I don't have to worry about too many bills to pay. I don't have to work a 40 hour week to survive. In so many ways, my days are free to myself. And I've chosen to do things for myself. And nobody else is ever going to care about that. And sometimes it makes me feel like a total bum and loser, and my little planner laughs at me and tells me "ha ha ha! You will never know what it takes to be successful and support yourself if you continue to be so lazy!" To which I respond, "Shut up. Everything will work out fine. I can be 'lazy' if I want to." I'm okay with giving just what it takes to the world to stay alive and clean and well-fed. I am the kind of person who needs a lot of personal time. Call it lazy, call it genius, call it what you will.

I call it sanity.



Friday, April 09, 2004

Mystery...


Mystery, what are you? A covert
sensibility, a whisp, a barely-knowing
intoxicating thrill. You are the aspect
of lovers, entwined in one another's faults and glories.
You are in their eyes, their arms.
It is you they long for most, after years have promised
answers, a senseless vulnerability--What happens next?
Even you yourself are unsure
penning over your dark desk delicate endings.
Fortune is your lover, but you are master over that wench.
She rubs your feet with oil, whispers soft names into your ear,
licks your lobes and tickles imagination,
an utter distraction to your office.
Still you are a womanizer-- a Tom for
those naive girls who shed their robes, decloak
to scorn the night and dance naked in the day.
You scoff at their glee.
You would have the day darken into night,
everyone retreat to colder climes
where knowledge is forbidden and wonder punished.
Mystery is the Master!
Mystery, I make love to your darkness!

Thursday, April 08, 2004

The Rivers of Hell...


I have emerged from the underworld of hell, and I am alive to tell the story. Hell is nothing like we think it is--the only burning flame of fire is the fever that licks an infant brow. Hell is full of poop and diahrea, spilling out the backs of diapers, stinking, stenching, retchid, abundant rivers of poop. Volcanoes of vomit. There is no time to sit down or rest your feet. Days and nights are spent slaving in the hot, steamy laundry room, transferring endless piles of laundry from one machine into another. As a particularly cruel joke, you are forced to endure the shrill shrieking cries of your spawn who has been transformed into a miniature gargoyle creature, enraged for hours by something as simple as your refusal to let him eat the cat food. Your beautiful angel becomes a demonic creature only a mother could love. You are <> this close to losing it. You wonder what bond of love has you standing up to your elbows in a flood of bodily fluids rocking and hushing a kicking child into a state of calm. The power of love is great.

When Issac was sick these past few days, he took an extreme attachment to his sippy cup. Now he takes it with him everywhere. It has become an appendage, like Captain Hook's silver hand. At least the boy has enough sense to rehydrate himself.

When Issac was sick these past few days, I thought I was going to go crazy. I felt so bad for him--you can't explain to him that it's going to go away soon, that it's important for him to rest, that he needs to eat this rice and this bland oatmeal in order to get better, that milk is not good for his tummy, that he should just relax and watch this movie with mommy. He wanted to go outside and play in the sun and sweat out all his energy and health. He wanted to kick and scream and cry for 45 minutes when I decided that the cat food bowl officially goes out of his reach forever. He had a similar reaction when I decided that cheerios are for eating and not for taking out of the bag handful by handful to create a cheerio castle in his toybox. He had a fit for about thirty minutes when I couldn't tell that he wanted his sippy cup to be all the way full, not just 3/4 full. He went on an eating strike. He had fits about his shoes being on, then fits about them being off. He wanted to be held someplace in between "up" and "down." He wanted to play someplace between "outdoors" and "indoors." In short, his temper tantrums increased by about 50% and he had toxic sopping wet diapers every twenty minutes in addition to this. He wouldn't give me kisses. It was hard. I have seen things you would never believe.

I'm not looking forward to next time.

Tuesday, April 06, 2004

Softball

I went to Leo's for lunch the other day with Marcy. When I leaned over and said "Hey Charlie, can we get some more salad plates?," to CharLES, who HATES to be called CharLIE, it was kind of funny because it took me a second to figure out why he was giving me such a mean look. I was blameless--I was in Marcy mode--her husband is named Charlie. Once I figured it out I forgave Charles and I think he forgave me.

Then he asked me if I wanted to be on the Softball team this year. Yes. Of course I do.

What do I not love about Softball? About nerve-racking suspense as every one stares at you, just you, with the heavy metal bat and knees over the dusty plate? With your elbow tilted just up at that perfect most comfortable angle? With your hands touching each other just right? Staring the pitcher down as you remember how Ty Cobb said batting is a breeze if you can just scare the pitcher? "Clink"-- contact. Running, racing, watching, judging, sliding, cheering, stealing, scoring. Delicious red clay rings around your socks when you take off your shoes. Leather. Freshly cut green soft grass in the outfield. Dusky lights. Dugout banter. Pats on the back. High fives.

I was especially flattered because it is a Leonardo's team and I don't even work there anymore, which means they still love me even though I was fired for not showing up for a shift. And I will get a new team shirt.


So, in honor of softball, here is a spontaneous little poem:

I. Now

Clink. the sun is going down
and I am on my way to first (I always barely make it)
its like my life, a constant race, just ahead by a toe or behind by a foot.
someone else's mistake, an error, can send me home
to start all over again batting fifth.
I'm not afraid of you
big fat pitcher.

II. Ten

when I was in little league the boys always walked me
never sent me a good one, a hard one
I think I would have cried, I was such a weany
they didn't want to make me cry
I always half-played and sometimes faked sick
so I could just watch the team.
Coach Vern asked me why I always looked so mad
did I think it was cute or something? and I was embarassed because I thought so
and practiced looking that way.
I had a crush on his son.
Dad called me snake-hips and I hated my grey pants
but everyonceinawhile I would lean out over the plate
and hit it between the shortstop and third and get an RBI
or a sacrifice
and that is how baseball was for me: a sacrifice.
I'd rather be reading. I wished I was in ballet.
I did perouettes in center field and was too tall and akward and skinny
for baseball, big plays, ballet, or boys.

Baseball was free and we wore orange jerseys; the Orioles.
I certainly felt like a bird.
I liked helping in the concession stands the most, with jeremy,
I haven't seen him in years I wonder what he's like now. he liked to read too
but we never talked about it.
ketchup and mustard and pickles will always be delicious
whenever I eat a hotdog I will be eleven again and think of jeremy
and our dusty dirty dinky diamond in the middle of a yellow sweaty pasture behind the fire station
and how I used to be afraid to hit the ball.


------------------
This isn't part of the poem because I don't like it very much and it doesn't seem to fit and the ending sucks, but I included it anyways since I just sat here and wrote it. For your reading pleasure, if you care about the sucky way that my softball career ended.

III. Sixteen

Fear is an indulgence that went away
I'm not exactly sure when
I decided to kick it, run it over, stomp on it, call it "out"
I was mad when I didn't make it on varsity softball. I was too good for JV
all those whiny girls afraid to catch the ball. I think that was the beginning, when I was angry
that fear started its retreat.
Softballs are bigger and easy--there is nothing hard about it
nothing hard about staring down a girl and imagining wacking the ball right into her stomach
nothing complicated about being tough
nothing frightening about being the tallest, skinniest, weirdest, quietest
if it is who you are
but I still only half-played. It just wasn't too much fun, singing silly songs about a
rooster on a fence
and how we want a rally and hey number whatever
JV softball was a failure too. I was afraid of the coach,
a small lesbian dyke who was so mean and tough in little league, the star, the champion, trophy-winner
the ball was afraid of her , she played with all boys too,
in highschool she was on the varsity baseball team.
I hated her when she talked over my head like I wasn't there
when she told me I need a better throwing arm--softballs are stupid--not at all like tiny compact baseballs
and you have to throw them like a sissy straight over your head
I threw sidearm. I was mad because I was still afraid. I was mad because I wasn't good enough.
Sometimes she would compliment me and it would make me even angrier.
I played first base one game and it was horrible. I hate first base.
I didn't play the next season.



Monday, April 05, 2004

Garden Poem

A delicious curiosity, that the snow pea is
sweeter than the sweet,
and these vines that have lain limp all season,
in defiance of growth, rubbery mocking artifices, an afterthought,
too pale and yellow for health, in need of a better guide, have sprung waist-high--
overtaken their designed stakes to look for better props,
developed hardy white buds--
a species of refusal through and through.

A pea, a piece, an afterthought
indestructable, yet singularly delicate
how delicacy is decadent,
how the pea has no time for this,
how seeming is more than seems,
a sturdy structure, a healthy thing.

A single pea, a piece, a part
a touch, a flavor of creation's art.
I pile them high into my cart, not much begrudging their meagre start
though in all honesty, it still bothers me
an afterthought contains so much prosperity.