California Fever

Farm magic.

Andrea issued a photography prompt yesterday (and hinted that she might put up photo prompts on Mondays).  The first was to photograph someone through a glass of water.  I read her post yesterday, but when I went to take a picture this morning, I forgot the part about the water. Oh, well.  This isn't a very good photo since I only captured part of the side of my face--I just like the repeating basil plant.  And besides, 'rules' are just there to be broken, right?  ;)

Another 'rule' I broke yesterday was when I suddenly on a whim felt like doing one of the assignments at Miranda July's Learning to Love You More site.  The first one that caught my eye was #63 - Make an Encouraging Banner.  Here's mine.  And, no, it's not a noun--rather a creative cultivation prompt to remind me to get out of my head.  I think I was supposed to keep the construction paper in big blocks...but I didn't feel like it.  Maybe it sounds lofty to think I can possibly "farm magic."  One of the definitions of magic in my dictionary is "a mysterious and enchanting quality."  That's all I'm seeking in life--all I ever have:  simply the desire to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary (define it as you will).

I was sorry to hear of the passing of two iconic men.  Bill Walsh, who for a decade was the head coach of the San Francisco 49ers, died yesterday.  Whether or not you follow football (and I don't anymore), it's hard to overstate how those of us who are native Northern Californians and were 49er fans of a certain era feel about Bill Walsh.  A good friend of my brother's owns 4 Super Bowl rings thanks to Bill Walsh.  Walsh was a football genius and seemed like a classy guy.

Tom Snyder was a touchstone of my high school years.  When his "Tomorrow" show began airing in '73 (when I was a senior), I quickly became hooked.  I'd take a shower during the "Tonight Show" and then sit in front of the wall heater in our living room, drying my very long hair, while watching "Tomorrow" (long after my Dad and little brother had gone to bed.  No wonder I had such a hard time waking up for school.)  Johnny Carson was for your parents; Snyder was hip.  It would probably be surprising to long-time readers here (since some of you leave comments about how I seem to you to be some sort of do-gooder crusader, and I mean that in a nice way) that there are few things in life that matter more to me than biting wit.  (I know what you're thinking:  Then why don't I exhibit some of mine here?  I think I've had a few too many experiences where I felt like my wit was misconstrued when I tried to convey it in writing.)  Snyder was sarcastic and acerbic and I adored him.  It wasn't until decades later that it suddenly hit me that he looks a lot like my Dad (who was also damn sarcastically funny in his time).  Snyder had a very recognizable laugh and he did his show without a studio audience.  He'd often utter funny asides to crew members and you could often hear them laughing off-camera.  He was cutting edge for his time and in my opinion, never got the respect he deserved for it.  He was only 71.

Jeffrey was eating a mango at lunch yesterday and when he was finished, he looked at the pit and asked, "I wonder if you can grow a plant from one of these..."  So I found this.  It says you can, by planting the seed that's inside the pit.

I'm off to the laundromat this morning, and then we're going to have some fun this afternoon.  Tomorrow morning I return to job-land.  Because my work year is based on a school calendar, there are certain times of the year that are busier for me.  August is super-busy for me and I'm craving something that will keep me sane during the busy-ness.  I'm thinking posting a poem a day in August might do the trick--I think that might be a good practice for me.  If I do, they'll be over on Moojo Cafe.

in the kitchen

"in the kitchen" i read
and i groaned right out loud
it's my least favorite room
where i've never felt proud

i hate to cook i hate to
prep i guess baking's okay
but it's not high on my list
of what makes my own day

then i read that beautiful post
at lori-lyn's dream life
and felt a surge of emotions
feelings of trauma and strife

because i don't carry warm
memories of kitchens inside
i carry the scars of fighting and
lies and a deep need to hide

my childhood kitchen bore the
scar of a knife given flight
by the fury of a spouse who felt
someone had taken her light

when i think of that kitchen i
think of fighting and screaming
of a small girl turning inward
of it haunting her dreaming

the same shade of yellow is
on my kitchen counters now
the room called to me loudly
if you live here i'll show you how

how to heal that part of you that's
still damaged by what you saw
the screams that made you clench
the words that made you raw

i'll show you how to see
that experience in a new light
how to reframe the memories
how to let the hurt take flight

you'll make your own memories
and this kitchen will be a gift
you'll put that pain in a yellow bubble
give it a kiss and let it drift

2006...A Look Back

5 things redux

The lovely Jennifer Warwick at The New Charm School has tagged me for the "5 Things You Should Know About Me" meme.  I'm sure I've done this meme before (more than once?)  As I told Jennifer, with all the crap I've posted here, I'm not sure I even have five things left to tell. 

1.  I have a bit of OCD.  I will sometimes go back and check that doors are locked or an iron is turned off several times.  Even while yelling at myself in my head that I'VE ALREADY CHECKED IT and know that it's (locked, off, whatever).

2.  When I was a kid, our family didn't take vacations, so imagine the thrill I felt when my Dad would say on a Sunday afternoon, "Let's go for a drive."  We lived in a small town (it was even smaller then), so it's not like we were going to see anything we hadn't already seen a thousand times.  We'd almost always end up driving along the beach, and one of my favorite parts of that drive was driving out to Pt. St. George. It's the northernmost point on the California coast, and it can get incredibly windy out there.  When we were kids, my Dad never let us get out of the car on those drives.  So I'd sometimes get drowsy sitting in the backseat of our 1964 Ford Fairlane Sports Coup (ours was white) with the sun beating in--forgetting that if we'd stepped outside, the wind would have nearly blown us over.  J and I have some photos of us looking windblown on a sunny day there.  It really is a spectacular spot.  There's a parking lot at the end of the road and a wide trail down to the beach.  You can stand on the California coast and look across at the Oregon one.  Kind of like here, except my stepsister's house is in Smith River, north of Pt. St. George:  

Remember that night in '97 when Comet Hale-Bopp appeared in the sky on the same night as a lunar eclipse?  We lived in Portland then and happened to be visiting my folks.  My parents didn't want to go, but we drove out to Pt. St. George and joined a lot of other folks in the parking lot there.  We didn't have a telescope, but a nearby family offered to share theirs.  It was a great place to experience the sky that night.  There's a building at the point out there.  I don't know what it is now (for awhile a doctor had his office there), but when I was young, it housed apartments.  The English teacher my (teacher) Dad dated when I was a sophomore lived out there.  I adored the English teacher.  She was very nice to me, and she had a little red MG convertible that she'd let me drive (with my permit...and with her).  I thought she was the bomb, and the fact that she lived at Pt. St. George solidified that in my mind.  (I was crushed when my father refused to marry her and she moved back to the East Coast.)  See this photo?  When I was a kid, wooden telephone poles lined that section of road, and as we'd pass each one in the Ford Fairlane, I'd clench my thigh really hard as we got right next to each pole.  It was some sort of freaky isometrics game I'd play.  I think there was counting involved, too.  See, told ya...OCD.  The lighthouse off the coast of Pt. St. George is a pretty incredible place.  Just look at it and think about what it took to build it several miles offshore.  When I was young, the thought of even being out there would make me quake with fear, which wasn't helped by the fact that you could never see it except on the absolutely clearest days.  It became this sort of spooky, imaginary place lost in the fog.  As you'll see on that site, several years ago some people started giving helicopter tours out there.  And if you're ever in the area, and feel so inspired, check it out.  Although it's the kind of thing that when we're home for a visit, we sit at dinner and laugh about the crazy stuff tourists will do, "Can you IMAGINE?!  Going out to the lighthouse in a HELICOPTER?!"  (See windblown above.)  But, you know, I'm sure it's cool.  ;)  The most exciting news is that when I went to that site today, I saw that the lighthouse is going to be immortalized on a 2007 postage stamp!  Now that's cool.  But, people, this is not the Pt. St. George lighthouse--it's Battery Point Lighthouse.  I oughta know--I grew up not far from it.  Battery Point Lighthouse was once immortalized in a Tim McGraw video.  (Hey, we take our fame where we can get it.)  (And can I just say that #2 came to mind only because of the weird thigh isometrics a la OCD...see what happens?)

3. Speaking of Flickr (having linked to it in the last item), this is embarrassing (and sad news for any of you who have me as a Flickr contact) but I can go months without even remembering that I have a Flickr account.  And then when I remember, I feel like an idiot...like, jeez, I could have been posting photos all along.

4. I hate French toast that's not cooked in the middle.

5. When I was a kid visiting my cousins, they'd often get ice cream after dinner.  It was usually Neapolitan.  They'd take their spoons and stir it up their ice cream until it looked like a weirdly-colored soup.  It almost makes me gag just thinking about it.  I, of course (being Miss OCD), would eat mine all neat and nice, keeping each flavor within its stripe boundaries.  But I don't think I've ever had Neapolitan since--I can't eat it without thinking about that gagging ice cream soup.

Day 23

I missed doing a separate post yesterday.  I added a second part to the Day 21 post [and if you'd like to send well wishes to a seriously injured 5-year-old girl, please leave your comment there], and then the rest of my day and evening was spent with Ciara.  It's her birthday weekend with us (she turned 9 on the 11th), so I picked her up yesterday afternoon and then we hit Wal-Mart to shop for a pattern and fabric for her sewing date.  As you can imagine, it was very patient, slow-going on the sewing since I had to explain every little detail, but she seemed to enjoy it.  Auntie's back was aching by the time we finished the top last night, since I let her do most of the stitching while I bent over her chair and helped guide the fabric.  But, success!  We'll tackle the elastic-waist pants today.  There was also pumpkin pie (her fave) and whipped cream, and she got to sleep in the sleigh bed with me (which she loves).  J had a gig in Oakland and he told her he'd crash on the couch when he got home, much to her delight.  I'm trying to sneak in a post while they're both still asleep.

The Sunday Scribblings prompt is hero.  I'm a bit tired at the moment and trying to type quietly, so this will probably be crap.  It will most certainly be unedited. 

I honestly don't recall having any heroes when I was very young.  I think I turned all of that sort of energy toward my over-sized stuffed animals.  I imbued them with a sort of magic, with the power to heal me.  I do remember being enamored of the housewife characters on 60's black-and-white CBS soaps which I watched religiously in the 4th grade during a long home-alone convalescence.  I used to try to imagine what my life might be like if I had one of those--not a housewife, but a stay-at-home mom.  Although even then, I realized that most of my friends did have them.

Around 10 or so I think I began to be more aware of popular culture, to the point where even into my thirties (My thirties, people!) I literally could not understand why anyone would choose any profession outside of show business.  I can't believe I'm admitting that.  I thought if someone ended up in a career (because surely they must have ended up being something--they wouldn't have done something outside of show business if they'd had the choice, right?!) that it was only because they didn't have what it took to be an actor, dancer, singer, director, musician, comedian, talk show host, producer, writer, choreographer, model (I considered the fashion business part of show business), etc.  And really, how sad for them.  How unfulfilled their poor, sad lives must be.  (I may have just added a layer to your understanding of why I stopped drinking at 35.)

I think I can safely, and humiliatingly, say that until I was 35, current events, world affairs, humanitarianism, any remote sort of compassion for a fellow human being, volunteer work, the desire to make a difference, all of it...well, let's just say that I'm not sure I was aware that anything like that even existed.  I'm not the dullest tool in the shed, but my world view could not have been more insular.  Know who my biggest hero was in my teens and 20's?  Lauren Hutton.  Now I happen to still think she rocks it big time, but that was my dream--to have a somehow glamorous life that would finance a lifestyle of exotic travel.  (Well, okay, maybe not as exotic as Lauren's, that ol' snake wrangler.)  I was fueled most of my life by a desire to escape--into a fantasy world, into a world outside my own existence, into other countries and hemispheres.  It was all about getting OUT.  It didn't matter where I was, I wanted to be somewhere else.  And it can really piss a gal off when no matter where you go, that feeling travels with you.

And if real life held no appeal, I suppose it's no wonder that all of my s/heroes were fantasy people--either characters in films or TV (Ann Marie was much more real to me on "That Girl" than Marlo Thomas was as an actress...not to mention the whole side delusion where I began to fantasize lopping off my last name and using my first and middle names for 'the stage'...Marilyn Marie...yeah, that's catchy), the actors who played them, or the world's first supermodel.  (And Janice Dickinson better back off of that claim.) 

Yet, oddly, I was drawn in a big way to feminism.  I wasn't completely delusional.  And when I think back to some of the things I was involved with in the early to mid-70's, it sort of boggles my mind.  I was inspired by people like Jane Fonda (what, you thought it would be someone other than an actress?)  Even though I didn't really understand Jane's politics at the time, I understood enough to know that she was doing things that were causing the establishment to chafe--showing up in North Vietnam, producing a film about the nuclear power industry, hooking up with Tom Hayden.  I should have known that once she got into the whole workout thing it would be a downhill slope--surely breast implants and a marriage to Ted Turner were inevitable after that.  Now she does stuff like show up at press conferences with her lap dog...in her lap.  But, hell, she's in her 70's and she's paid her dues--I'll cut her some slack.

So maybe now you can see the irony over the fact that I seem to have somehow accidentally created a blog persona that some of you think is sometimes kind or compassionate or cares about others.  (Even Jeffrey thinks my blog persona reads that way, and he knows me at my worst!)  Sometimes I read your incredibly sweet comments and are sure you've posted them to the wrong blog.  All I know is this:  If you ask me today who my s/heroes are, you'd get a very different answer than you would have a couple of decades ago.  It would probably be a very long and obvious list.  But in addition to the obvious s/heroes many of us share, I would say that ultimately what truly inspires me is a life well lived.  The kind of life that creates the kind of obituary that's inspiring in itself.  It could mean speaking your truth, standing up for what you believe in, manifesting your creativity, helping others, being the best parent you can be, traveling the world, exhibiting kindness and compassion in your daily life, focusing on humanitarian efforts, striving for excellence in your chosen field--however you define a life well lived.  If you're in daily pursuit of that, then you're a s/hero to me.

(And yes, I know there's no 37th page prompt to this post, but I'm pooped and typing it on the sly.)

Home

Today's 37 Days Challenge post will have to come later, since it took the alarm to wake me this morning and I'm once again running late.  (As J was turning off the alarm, I kept thinking, "That's okay--those are just the bells for the dancing tourists..." or some such nonsense.  I was convinced it had no bearing on me.)   

Speaking of tourists and travelers, my dear pal Pam has her next podcast up at Nerd's Eye View, and it includes an essay written by me.  The theme was home--as in, there's no place like it.  I wrote my piece early last Saturday morning, and since I didn't have our audio set-up hooked up and tweaked, I asked Pam if she'd mind reading my story herself.  She agreed, and did a fabulous job.  (You know someone gets you when they can read your words with the inflections you'd give them yourself.)  As indicated in her post, you can subscribe to her podcast's feed in iTunes.  Pam does a great job of putting her podcasts together. 

Take note:  She's soliciting audio files (or written essays) for her next podcast.  The theme will be:  "Quit Shouting at Me!" (open to your interpretation).  The deadline for submissions is November 24th.

Hope you'll take a listen. 

skin

they tell us sloughing
is good for the skin
that we'll glow if we strip
away the dead cells if
we shed the old layers
to make way for the
new but are they dead
really? those old cells?
what if what we're
washing down the drain
is sense memory and
heart strings what if
what i sent swirling
through the pipes this
morning was the way
i used to move my hips
on the dance floor or
the feel of your finger
tracing my shoulder
blades or the stiffness
of the grass in the
backyard when I'd run
my fingers across it
what if i've sloughed
off the memories of the
sand between my toes
as i walked 'my' beach
every day in the tropics
losing those memories
would make me cry but
maybe that's the toll we
pay to enter new life
i've always wanted to
slip on new identities like
a change of clothes and
if i were to cocoon
myself in all of my
old memories i suppose
my career as a quick-change
artist would most likely
be over

morning poem #4

like dorothy in kansas
the trees howled with
cleansing shedding
branches and twigs and
leaves look out! a tree's
falling quick! help the
kids felled by asthma the
smoke from the fires
lighting their fears as
flames licked the fields
the season's messenger
yelled fall's here! and he's
gonna clean house up in
here

i stood at the curb with
my back to the pines
ssshh do you hear it? the
sound of healing not fear
we need to shake out the
dead limits to make way
for new growth to have
our roots tested to see
how firmly we're planted
in our beliefs sometimes
it's best to allow ourselves
to be toppled to rise to the
sky in unpredictable
ways

************************

We had a windstorm yesterday that ignited several fires in our county and neighboring ones.  A tree fell in the school parking lot and at one point while I held down the fort solo--one coworker isolated in the detention room supervising in-house suspension, the others in the parking lot trying to determine which cars were in danger--I had the walkie in one hand as I furiously flipped through the staff binder with the other trying to match license plates and still answer the phones.  We managed to get the imperiled staff cars moved, but the tree crushed a Volvo parked on the street that belonged to someone in the neighborhood.  Suddenly a student arrived in the office to say a student had collapsed in a classroom.  (The kid has asthma and when it kicked in with a fierceness, she began to hyperventilate.  She was okay.)  It was that kind of day.  I was glad when my workday was over.  So imagine my surprise when J arrived to pick me up and casually said, "V. called me for a gig...tonight."  "Where is it?"  "In the City.  Wanna go?"  That's usually code for:  Please come with me.  Sure, baby.  Heading to a tapas bar in North Beach had certainly not been on my agenda.  But, hey, North Beach!  One of my favorite neighborhoods in the world!  So like a little kid who plays house, I peeled off my work clothes after an early dinner and played nap for a short while.  We left town as the sun sat on the horizon, and it finally hit me how much shorter the days have gotten.  The gig was fun--calypso and Latin and even some funk.  There were three percussionists (one of whom doubled on saxes) plus J on drums.  It was a night for rhythm, to be sure.  At the break I suggested we grab a coffee (we were going to have a long drive home, after all).  Our old pal, the bass player, and the keyboard player we'd just met joined us.  I took the guys to Caffe Trieste on the corner; none of them had ever been.  I explained a bit about its history, and as we crossed to the cafe, I pointed to the Catholic church on the next corner where I spent many a Thursday night in the basement laughing my ass off at drunken insanity.  (Did you know alcoholism is funnier than shit sometimes?  It is.)  We had world-class cappuccinos and I wondered why every coffee house can't make such a perfect cap.  As we headed back to the club, I thought of my old pal Bill who first went to those Thursday night meetings with me.  We'd been introduced by a mutual friend--an old, old musician pal, whose name came up last night because he's also friends with the bass player.  I thought of Bill and how sad it still makes me to think that he's no longer gracing the earth with his brilliance and wit.  I tried hard to save him, realizing even as I saw him slipping farther and farther away that there was no way that I could.  I cried for days when he died, repeatedly calling his answering machine just to hear that deep smoker's voice one more time.  Somehow I imagine he's found solace...up in that stock exchange in the sky, where he's probably trading heavenly futures and cracking up the angels.

*******************************

My entry for today's Favorite Things Saturday is POETRY.  Between Poetry Thursday and Christina's September challenge, I've found a new form of expression.  It's something I would have never in a million years considered writing.  I don't even know if what I'm throwing down here 'qualifies' as poetry...all I know is that I'm enjoying doing it.

morning poem #3

for decades the
nightmares came
full of terror and
flight and adrenaline
and fear i was
constantly trying to
get away from what
i didn't know just
that i couldn't let
it catch me or else
i'd what? i don't
know die i guess
in recent years the
threat level has
been downgraded to
yellow the terror
and trauma replaced
by anxiety and
drama by frustration
and anger and
mishaps and missed
connections still nightly
i don my cloak and
my basket as i head
off into the woods
wondering if the big
bad wolf will ever take
a mental health day

fortune cookie

Today's prompt at Sunday Scribblings is "fortune cookie."  I knew instantly what I had to share in response to that prompt, no matter how embarrassing it might be.  I'm sure I've mentioned here on more than one occasion that it's sort of a hobby of mine to think up goofy ideas.  I have lists of ideas that I've never pursued or acted on in any way.

Twelve years ago, I was homeless, unemployed and basically cruising up and down the West Coast in my old Monte Carlo, a few possessions in the trunk.  I'd been doing that for years--with the occasional work interlude thrown in for good measure--but my life was about to change.  I just didn't know it yet.  At one point I found myself in L.A.--Malibu to be exact, having been given the use of a friend's cabin on a swanky property for a few days.  After that respite, I parked the Monte Carlo in long-term parking at LAX and caught a flight to Phoenix.  My mother was living in Scottsdale at the time.  I planned to stay a week, but ended up staying a month.  Mom was working a 'normal' job then.  For 2-1/2 years she was secretary to the City Council member from District 8, Cody Williams.  (He's now President of The Greater Phoenix Black Chamber of Commerce.)

Here's the twist--she was living in a senior mobile home park.  At 60, she was, I suppose, technically a senior, but she's a very vibrant person and the park was anything but.  Her roommate owned the mobile home.  I can't remember how they'd met, but I think they'd known each other before becoming roommates.  Her roommate was, like Mom, into all sorts of airy-fairy stuff; she'd written a book.  (I have a copy sitting on the shelf right now.) 

My mother would head off to her job in her huge, old navy blue car that she'd dubbed "The Blue Uterus."  (A friend had given it to her.  It had tinted windows.  It was like driving around in a Munstermobile.)  Carol would head off to...well, I don't know where she'd go when she was gone, since she was mostly writing then.  She had a typewriter on her desk in her bedroom.  She told me to feel free to use it when she was out.  I was in a major "What the hell am I doing with my life?" phase, so there was much pondering going on.  One day when I was in the mobile home alone--in the senior mobile home park--I decided to take Carol up on her offer.  I sat down at the typewriter at her desk which faced the window.  I looked out at all the non-activity happening in the mobile home park (mix extreme heat with old people and you're lucky if you ever see a human outside) and challenged myself to come up with 101 ideas.  I was not going to get up from that desk until I'd brainstormed 101 ideas.  It didn't matter if they were good or crap--I just had to get to 101.  When I pull out that list now (yes, I still have it), the first idea is "Cosmic Cookies." 

My idea was for a line of fortune cookies, and I have three pages of typed fortunes that I brainstormed for them.  Most of the fortunes are crap, but there are few that don't strike me as too horribly awful.  At least not any more awful than the fortunes that are usually found in cookies.  Samples of some of the less-hideous ones:

An attitude of gratitude will lead to plenitude.

Respect is a birthright.  Once we begin to make our own decisions, it becomes an earned privilege.

The quickest way to get a chain reaction is to lie.

Children are the fruit of life--handle them tenderly and savor their sweetness.

Our brains are like computers; our thoughts are the software.  Program accordingly.

Praying only in times of crisis is the quickest way to become an atheist.

A lack of humility can quickly lead to humiliation.

Integrity can't be bought, but it can be sold.

Leave an impression without stepping on anyone.

Pain is your heart's way of telling you that your ego is blocking its view.

If you feel like you're going backwards, think of it as a running start.

Jumping for joy is good exercise.

In times of stress, focus on less.

Life is a picnic and doubts are the ants.

Fear is just near-sighted love.

The fortunes I'd write now, in a different chapter of my life, would likely be much different.  But I wanted to share some of those original fortunes to pay homage to that past version of my self.  The one who felt so lost that autumn of '94...not knowing that in a few short months she'd be head over heels in love with the love of her life.

Have a fortune you'd like to share?  Feel free to leave it in the comments.  May the cosmic always appear in your cookies.