Once in my adolescent angst I got into a heated argument with my mother. I wasn't sure I was right, but I knew I could win. My father stepped in and told me to stop arguing. Neither mother nor I could resist discovering who would win so we started up again. To my surprise, my father took up the argument and gradually backed me up to the door which he opened and graciously pushed me through. "You may re-enter my house when you are willing to respect your mother and obey me." Then he gently shut the door and walked away. I have terrific parents so it didn't take me long to return contrite. Dad beamed and welcomed me in, then took me to my anxious mother and said "Now, kiss and make up."
I've been reflecting on that moment recently. I'm on the outs with church. I had an ugly disagreement with the one I was attending and as I cannot be reconciled with them I've been making the rounds of the rest. I am greatly discouraged. Everywhere I go I find the church filled with meaningless kitsch. Brand name Bible studies, the "right" music, programs and pamphlets galore, all of it is depressingly empty of meaning. It amounts to either window dressing or the spiritual version of masturbation. Only occasionally do I catch a glimpse of the real thing, but even in those churches much is done for a show of spirituality instead of simply waiting for the real thing.
The best church I've spent time in during this journey had a leaky roof. Leaks happen. Repairs are needed. They began a fundraising campaign complete with sanctuary decor, color brochures, comic books and church-shaped piggy banks. Every member was challenged with their responsibility for this practical need. There's nothing surprising about that, we are responsible for the material needs of the church. What did surprise me was the complete amnesia the church experienced concerning our dependance on God. Granted, this was a giant church filled with wealthy people, several of whom could have solved the problem with a single check, but even then the church must depend on God. I did not hear a single prayer requesting God's provision. No sermon I heard included an injunction to pray for the needed funds. None of the printed materials encouraged us to ask God to meet the need, though the comic book did make a reference to the pastor's super powers. The only place you could find the words "In God we trust" was on the money in the piggy banks. All the faith in that church was cosmetic, when faced with a real need the treasury was empty.
The church is symbolized as a woman in the Bible. To me, the picture implies comfort and nurture. We come to church expecting comfort and nurture, healing for the scrapes and bruises of life. Instead of finding a woman to comfort us, more and more there is only a heterosexual transvestite with all the wrong parts and only one thing on his mind. I won't go home to that. I won't kitsch and make up.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
Editing
Editing has been both the delight and the bane of my existance. I adore editing. The college I attended had terrible food. (You went there too?) I used to earn free meals off campus in exchange for editing papers. I could almost guarantee at least a letter grade bump after I edited a paper. The problem has been, that writing requires "shitty rough drafts" (Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird--great book) and I can't resist polishing up the muck. This has meant that not much gets put on the page. I have so many manuscripts that are languishing because I can't stop editing the first few pages. I keep revising the entire structure every other paragraph.
This blog has become my secret weapon against my inner editor. I have given myself permission to edit away here on the blog. I nip. I tuck. I trifle. But the manuscripts for my other projects are off limits. Suddenly, I have huge amounts of unedited material, just piling up and demanding folders. I'm not even bothering with actually doing much editing over here. I'm just writing and writing and writing and writing and well, you get the idea. If I'd known it was this simple I'd have finished something big a long time ago. Live and learn.
This blog has become my secret weapon against my inner editor. I have given myself permission to edit away here on the blog. I nip. I tuck. I trifle. But the manuscripts for my other projects are off limits. Suddenly, I have huge amounts of unedited material, just piling up and demanding folders. I'm not even bothering with actually doing much editing over here. I'm just writing and writing and writing and writing and well, you get the idea. If I'd known it was this simple I'd have finished something big a long time ago. Live and learn.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Double Minded
A Woman's Touch
reach for the moon
let it bleed through your fingers
leaving only the stain of ambition
Ambition
A book of verse before the hearse
To comfort mankind, I leave behind
reach for the moon
let it bleed through your fingers
leaving only the stain of ambition
Ambition
A book of verse before the hearse
To comfort mankind, I leave behind
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Romeo and Harriet
This is an excerpt from a longer manuscript that I'm experimenting with reshaping into a short story. Like everything else on this blog it's being edited.
To mother, the prospect of committing suicide in front of a large audience was quite glamorous, but I like breathing. To me acting meant long hours of rote memorization all for the priveledge of standing on stage forgeting it all. Mother, however, knew I was destined for the stage, and as an involved parent felt duty bound to suggest that instead of study Romeo and Juliet we act Romeo and Juliet. She didn't even begin to realize what a chamber of horrors she'd created for me until I offered to really kill myself instead of acting. Even then the play must go on because, of course, she had sets being constructed and costumes being designed and she was trying to convince the civic theatre to host us for free.
At most I wanted to be prop mistress, but my mother's ambitions and vigorous support precluded such a backstage post. My audition was so bad that it created a terrible difficulty for my English teacher. He solved this problem by assigning us all two roles, the first one we were to be prepared to fill the day of the production, the other we were to understudy. He said it was so that we'd be engaged with more of the text, but everyone knew it was so that Jean could be Juliet and mother could save her dignity.
Preparing for two roles that two other people were preparing for meant I didn't have to be there at all if I could work up a fortuitous illness. To that end I "studied" my lines in the damp and sought out runny noses to keep me company. I did manage to learn my lines, for though I didn't share Shakespeare's love of the stage I delighted in his keen eye for life. The true love and crazy foolishness it inspired absorbed me in spite of myself.
Matt was Romeo, of course. I'm sure an understudy was dutifully chosen, but everyone forgot about that immediately. Whatever Matt did, he did. There was no thought of him shirking and no disease could have been enough to stop him from adding another great accomplishment to his incipient resume. Of all the boys I knew he was the last one I'd have chosen to be Romeo, and yet he played the role so well I found myself forgetting who he was. I shouldn't have been surprised, nothing Matt did was second rate.
With the compromise of my not quite being Juliet and not quite not being Juliet my mother's courage had returned and she was in her element, organizing parent volunteers, coaching student actors, and overseeing the endless details she created for herself. Though we both knew I was hoping for malaria, she coached me for Juliet and kept blindly encouraging me that I was really the better actress. She felt justice had been denied, but justice had prevailed. Jean's luminous glow had all the boys panting after her, and she loved the stage.
Have I mentioned I didn't? It was strange, my mother would have given up a lot of things to shine center stage while all I wanted was to be in the back overseeing the details. Quietly we began to appreciate each other's misery and to be kind to each other.
Despite my best efforts and several ugly mosquito bites, malaria did not set in. I was doomed, but at least I had only the priest's part to play. My mother was genuinely disappointed for me. She was sure I was the best Juliet and it hurt her not to show me off. I have to say that while center stage is not a place to be envied during rehearsal, the night of the performance is another reality entirely. With all the sets in place and the lights adjusted and the costumes fitted, I secretly regretted my brown cowl and the runny nose that was all I'd manage to contract.
Matt and Jean were in their glory. As eighth grade productions go, this was a masterpiece. The mayor, Matt's dad, suggested we reprise key scenes at the town's annual festival, and so, the play went on. Perhaps escaping Juliet so easily lulled me into a false sense of complacency or perhaps, I'd discovered a latent lust for center stage, but I gave up my efforts to contract a serious disease. I began to enjoy the play and the language and the excitement. Mother's involvement had indeed addicted me to the Immortal Bard. I was exploring his work and growing rapidly as a result. Whatever the reason, I failed to notice the tell-tale signs of illness in my friend and when the call came that Jean was unable to perform there was no need for me to fake symptoms.
"You'll be fine." my mother assured me her eyes glazed with visions of my glory and success. "I did the same thing right before the Pageant of Learning." The Pageant of Learning had been my mother's shining moment. She had been chosen to embody wisdom in a production for, what else, the town festival.
Feverish, I tried to remember my new lines. I reviewed the scenes and then my true doom announced itself to me. I was going to have to kiss Matt Mason on stage in front of the entire town. Not really, Mr. Clause, our teacher, had taught us stage kissing, which lessons I had dutifully watched, but refused to participate in. The role of the priest had suited me well in that regard. A holy panic produced fresh evidence of my unfittness for the stage, but with mother, the show went on.
We arrived excessively early to be certain I was properly rouged and corsetted. Mr. Clause ran me through my lines. Mercifully he decided to skip "the scene" in return for my promise to do my best. He was crushed by the loss of Jean and certain nothing could damage the production further. I had no idea he was so wise.
The play itself is largely a blur in my memory, raw panic, a dizzying swirl of color and faces, and then it all comes shockingly clear. We were on the stage. I was doing a decent job, and then he just did it. He just started saying the wrong lines. He started doing THE SCENE. He knew we weren't doing THE SCENE. What was he doing? What was I going to do? I started saying the lines. He kept going. I kept going and then, then he kissed me. No stage kiss, he kissed me! Right on the mouth. I was shocked. I slapped him and stormed off the stage to tremendous applause. My picture made the cover of the Chronicle. Mother wasn't very pleased, but my father bought several copies. I decided I needed to contract tuberculosis.
To mother, the prospect of committing suicide in front of a large audience was quite glamorous, but I like breathing. To me acting meant long hours of rote memorization all for the priveledge of standing on stage forgeting it all. Mother, however, knew I was destined for the stage, and as an involved parent felt duty bound to suggest that instead of study Romeo and Juliet we act Romeo and Juliet. She didn't even begin to realize what a chamber of horrors she'd created for me until I offered to really kill myself instead of acting. Even then the play must go on because, of course, she had sets being constructed and costumes being designed and she was trying to convince the civic theatre to host us for free.
At most I wanted to be prop mistress, but my mother's ambitions and vigorous support precluded such a backstage post. My audition was so bad that it created a terrible difficulty for my English teacher. He solved this problem by assigning us all two roles, the first one we were to be prepared to fill the day of the production, the other we were to understudy. He said it was so that we'd be engaged with more of the text, but everyone knew it was so that Jean could be Juliet and mother could save her dignity.
Preparing for two roles that two other people were preparing for meant I didn't have to be there at all if I could work up a fortuitous illness. To that end I "studied" my lines in the damp and sought out runny noses to keep me company. I did manage to learn my lines, for though I didn't share Shakespeare's love of the stage I delighted in his keen eye for life. The true love and crazy foolishness it inspired absorbed me in spite of myself.
Matt was Romeo, of course. I'm sure an understudy was dutifully chosen, but everyone forgot about that immediately. Whatever Matt did, he did. There was no thought of him shirking and no disease could have been enough to stop him from adding another great accomplishment to his incipient resume. Of all the boys I knew he was the last one I'd have chosen to be Romeo, and yet he played the role so well I found myself forgetting who he was. I shouldn't have been surprised, nothing Matt did was second rate.
With the compromise of my not quite being Juliet and not quite not being Juliet my mother's courage had returned and she was in her element, organizing parent volunteers, coaching student actors, and overseeing the endless details she created for herself. Though we both knew I was hoping for malaria, she coached me for Juliet and kept blindly encouraging me that I was really the better actress. She felt justice had been denied, but justice had prevailed. Jean's luminous glow had all the boys panting after her, and she loved the stage.
Have I mentioned I didn't? It was strange, my mother would have given up a lot of things to shine center stage while all I wanted was to be in the back overseeing the details. Quietly we began to appreciate each other's misery and to be kind to each other.
Despite my best efforts and several ugly mosquito bites, malaria did not set in. I was doomed, but at least I had only the priest's part to play. My mother was genuinely disappointed for me. She was sure I was the best Juliet and it hurt her not to show me off. I have to say that while center stage is not a place to be envied during rehearsal, the night of the performance is another reality entirely. With all the sets in place and the lights adjusted and the costumes fitted, I secretly regretted my brown cowl and the runny nose that was all I'd manage to contract.
Matt and Jean were in their glory. As eighth grade productions go, this was a masterpiece. The mayor, Matt's dad, suggested we reprise key scenes at the town's annual festival, and so, the play went on. Perhaps escaping Juliet so easily lulled me into a false sense of complacency or perhaps, I'd discovered a latent lust for center stage, but I gave up my efforts to contract a serious disease. I began to enjoy the play and the language and the excitement. Mother's involvement had indeed addicted me to the Immortal Bard. I was exploring his work and growing rapidly as a result. Whatever the reason, I failed to notice the tell-tale signs of illness in my friend and when the call came that Jean was unable to perform there was no need for me to fake symptoms.
"You'll be fine." my mother assured me her eyes glazed with visions of my glory and success. "I did the same thing right before the Pageant of Learning." The Pageant of Learning had been my mother's shining moment. She had been chosen to embody wisdom in a production for, what else, the town festival.
Feverish, I tried to remember my new lines. I reviewed the scenes and then my true doom announced itself to me. I was going to have to kiss Matt Mason on stage in front of the entire town. Not really, Mr. Clause, our teacher, had taught us stage kissing, which lessons I had dutifully watched, but refused to participate in. The role of the priest had suited me well in that regard. A holy panic produced fresh evidence of my unfittness for the stage, but with mother, the show went on.
We arrived excessively early to be certain I was properly rouged and corsetted. Mr. Clause ran me through my lines. Mercifully he decided to skip "the scene" in return for my promise to do my best. He was crushed by the loss of Jean and certain nothing could damage the production further. I had no idea he was so wise.
The play itself is largely a blur in my memory, raw panic, a dizzying swirl of color and faces, and then it all comes shockingly clear. We were on the stage. I was doing a decent job, and then he just did it. He just started saying the wrong lines. He started doing THE SCENE. He knew we weren't doing THE SCENE. What was he doing? What was I going to do? I started saying the lines. He kept going. I kept going and then, then he kissed me. No stage kiss, he kissed me! Right on the mouth. I was shocked. I slapped him and stormed off the stage to tremendous applause. My picture made the cover of the Chronicle. Mother wasn't very pleased, but my father bought several copies. I decided I needed to contract tuberculosis.
Friday, January 13, 2006
taking a spin through my life
CD's are telling. What you listen to says a lot about who you are. So, what's playing? It depends on where you are in the house. Here in my office I'm listening to Songs from the Neighborhood. I've always felt Mr. Roger's songs were special, but the new settings done by current artists proves me right. The treadmill is in here too, and I need the reminder that it's me he likes, not the clothes I wear. In the classroom, we are alternating between Leonard Bernstein's version of Peter and the Wolf and a dreadful ditty that promises to help us all memorize a timeline of American History. Upstairs on the family CD changer we have the variety pack. First, there is a Dean Martin's greatest hits I bought to celebrate the anniversary of our engagement. I only wanted Volare because it was playing when my husband took a knee, but I've grown attached to it's breezy love songs. Next up is a James Galway CD featuring Pachbel's Canon. Something about this disk is very helpful to my cognitive process, as his fingers flitter through the music my minds flitters through the day and puts everything back in order. Jarring my consciousness with a strong reminder that there are five little people whose whereabouts need to be a little higher priority is Elmopalooza. The kids and I hold mini dance-a-thons in the living room to that one. The soundtrack for Sister Act 2 made the cut when I realized I was watching the movie over and over just for the choir. The CD saves me from having to watch it anymore. I have been delivered! Halleujah! Finally, a collection of Bach's greatest hits provides background music when I just don't feel like thinking about anything. Travel with me out to the van and I've got the sound track to The Fellowship of the Ring. I like to think that it gives my journey to the market an epic quality. That's my spin, what's playing at your house?
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Expecting?
May I offer some advice to expectant mothers? As a veteran of five pregnancies I've found that buying a pair of comfortable pajamas for the day after the birth is a mood booster. Often people will counsel you to stay in your hospital gown, but I find that getting dressed, even if it's pajamas, is empowering. You look like yourself, not a patient but a person with personality and style. You feel a little friendly one-upsmanship on the poor schlubs still looking lost in their badly fastened gowns. You look better in all those "just had a baby" photos. Most of all you are ready to make a good impression on your newest client. These special pj's will be one of the earliest memories of you this baby has, and since you'll most likely be living in pj's for at least a week or two it will be a strong memory. I still have all my post-partum pj's and they make me smile. Buy a size or two larger than you wore pre-pregnancy. I'm sure you've heard the bad news by now, but the day after you still look pregnant. You lose a couple months, but you are definitely not back to normal. You could use maternity pajamas, but that idea is depressing. I buy whatever looks cute with either an elastic waist or a drawstring. Have a great birth!
Zanu's Circus
This is an easy reader book. If you have a child nearby, give it a test run for me. If you'd leave a comment it would help me determine if this is a weed or a flower. Thanks.
Zanu grew up in the circus. His father was the ringmaster. His mother walked the tight rope. Zanu loved the circus. He loved feeding the animals in the morning. He loved helping the clowns dress up. He loved bringing his mother lunch. He even loved taking down the big tent.
Zanu knew how to do everything at the circus. He tamed the lion. He flew with the acrobats. He was a very silly clown.
The circus was struggling. People didn't come any more. Zanu's father said, "We will have to be a family circus. We will have to do it all ourselves. Everyone else will have to find a new job."
Zanu was sad. He liked the clowns. He did not want to be a clown. Zanu liked the lion tamer. He did not want to be a lion tamer. Zanu wanted to save the circus, not become the circus.
Everyone was sad. Tomorrow was the last show for everyone but Zanu's family. Everyone went to sleep. Everyone but Zanu.
Zanu made new signs. Zanu took down the big tent. Zanu moved the rings. Zanu had a plan.
"Wake up!" he said to the performers. "We have a new circus. We will be a teaching circus. We will teach children how to perform. We will make them part of the show. Everyone will come to see them."
The performers were surprised. Zanu's family was surprised. They looked at Zanu's signs. They liked Zanu's signs. They listened to Zanu's plans. They liked Zanu's plans. "We will do it!" they said.
Everyone came to Zanu's circus. They learned how to walk the tight rope. They learned how to tame the poodle dog. They learned how to be clowns. Then they starred in the show. Everyone was a success. Everyone was happy. Zanu saved the circus.
The End.
Zanu grew up in the circus. His father was the ringmaster. His mother walked the tight rope. Zanu loved the circus. He loved feeding the animals in the morning. He loved helping the clowns dress up. He loved bringing his mother lunch. He even loved taking down the big tent.
Zanu knew how to do everything at the circus. He tamed the lion. He flew with the acrobats. He was a very silly clown.
The circus was struggling. People didn't come any more. Zanu's father said, "We will have to be a family circus. We will have to do it all ourselves. Everyone else will have to find a new job."
Zanu was sad. He liked the clowns. He did not want to be a clown. Zanu liked the lion tamer. He did not want to be a lion tamer. Zanu wanted to save the circus, not become the circus.
Everyone was sad. Tomorrow was the last show for everyone but Zanu's family. Everyone went to sleep. Everyone but Zanu.
Zanu made new signs. Zanu took down the big tent. Zanu moved the rings. Zanu had a plan.
"Wake up!" he said to the performers. "We have a new circus. We will be a teaching circus. We will teach children how to perform. We will make them part of the show. Everyone will come to see them."
The performers were surprised. Zanu's family was surprised. They looked at Zanu's signs. They liked Zanu's signs. They listened to Zanu's plans. They liked Zanu's plans. "We will do it!" they said.
Everyone came to Zanu's circus. They learned how to walk the tight rope. They learned how to tame the poodle dog. They learned how to be clowns. Then they starred in the show. Everyone was a success. Everyone was happy. Zanu saved the circus.
The End.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Navel Gazing
Born wailing, innocence sundered
Joys lost, wisdom gained
Weeping we enter new worlds
Regret is the scar of survival
Embrace it and return to innocence
Joys lost, wisdom gained
Weeping we enter new worlds
Regret is the scar of survival
Embrace it and return to innocence
In Praise of the Public Library
When our fifth baby arrived moving became imperative, but finding a new home was challenging. Our needs plugged into the real estate search engine produced twelve listings. The variety of communities where those homes were located was stunning. There was no cluster effect, we saw homes in every part of our city and it's suburbs. The search for a home broadened from a search for a certain number of bedrooms and square footage into a search for a place where we could belong. Some communities offered terrific parks, others excellent shopping, the best were awash with natural beauty, beautifully managed, but I fell in love with our community when I saw--the library.
Bold as the starship Enterprise it dominates the main street of the village. Modern retro architecture gives it a twentieth century timelessness, and the interior has the coziness of Barnes and Noble without the unpleasant commercial aftertaste. The children have their own wing with a huge selection of books, media and even expensive educational toys to borrow. There are plenty of community meeting rooms, and a large computer lab--not counting the separate children's lab. The DVD collection is pretty up-to-date, but not in a top 40 way. Some of the titles are the kind only an elitist snob could love. My personal favorite feature is the resale book room which relieves my guilt over bad book acquisitions both when I donate and when I purchase. The librarians have noticed I'm a groupie, and their pity embarrasses me. I'm not alone though, some Saturday mornings there's a line of people waiting to get in.
Benjamin Franklin isn't one of my heroes, but I have to admit the guy had some great ideas. The American lending library was his best. To share books is to share ideas. To have a common reading room is to have a common mind. Certainly, it is a crowded and contentious mind, but still, the ideas are all there, co-existing under one roof. The Public Library fosters the unity and the brilliance that together have made us great. America is not a nation bound together by blood, but rather by ideas. A community that values those ideas, will value its library.
Bold as the starship Enterprise it dominates the main street of the village. Modern retro architecture gives it a twentieth century timelessness, and the interior has the coziness of Barnes and Noble without the unpleasant commercial aftertaste. The children have their own wing with a huge selection of books, media and even expensive educational toys to borrow. There are plenty of community meeting rooms, and a large computer lab--not counting the separate children's lab. The DVD collection is pretty up-to-date, but not in a top 40 way. Some of the titles are the kind only an elitist snob could love. My personal favorite feature is the resale book room which relieves my guilt over bad book acquisitions both when I donate and when I purchase. The librarians have noticed I'm a groupie, and their pity embarrasses me. I'm not alone though, some Saturday mornings there's a line of people waiting to get in.
Benjamin Franklin isn't one of my heroes, but I have to admit the guy had some great ideas. The American lending library was his best. To share books is to share ideas. To have a common reading room is to have a common mind. Certainly, it is a crowded and contentious mind, but still, the ideas are all there, co-existing under one roof. The Public Library fosters the unity and the brilliance that together have made us great. America is not a nation bound together by blood, but rather by ideas. A community that values those ideas, will value its library.
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