baubles

McBeth.

She was occasionally driven to distraction by materials both soft and shiny.

she's dear but my, what a mixed bag

McBeth.

The insomniac, fretting over the airline trip her unaccompanied child will be taking to far-flung frightening places in less than two hours' time, decides the night is not meant for restfulness but in stead takes comfort in the queasy feeling slung low in her gut.

She's remembering the particular sense of dis-ease, rediscovering her Holiday Moment.

morning thought

McBeth.

I have ocean sounds in my ear this morning
ebb twisting itself over flow...
with the image of you above me
in front of me
behind me rocking,
looking at all of me, quaking

sweating, discovering,
robustly starting,
sharing,
claiming, continuing,
given to wanting
giving in to being wanted.

I could watch the reflection
being uncovered
flesh thrusting into flesh
in the mirror again
and again

and I hear the ocean in you

end of the line

McBeth.

There was a time, and it wasn't so long ago, that I could be very quiet. I kept most of my thoughts to myself, I stepped outside of critical conversation, I ducked. Afraid, I suppose. I'm not certain what my fear was about though. I remember my very young years in school, lining up to walk sing-file to the gymnasium or the lunchroom or on the occasional field trip.

Most of my teachers kept order in the classroom by using the "You're Special!" laminated name tags on a weekly chart, giving multiple children opportunities to shine by getting to be the leader of tasks. I have a feeling Pat Purcell (the nose-picker and otherwise most twitchy kid in the class) was a special special person so he frequently showed up as leader of one category or another, but otherwise my teachers used some arbitrary system to pick line-leader, milk passer-outer, office go-fer, chair pusher-iner.

What seems odd to me - now - is that I felt most comfortable at the end of the single-file line. It seems curious to me that even in my earliest years I was certain that I would be an incapable chair pusher-iner, resolutely accepting that Renee Bailey (the know-it-all) or Christine (the pretty girl, even when she was minus a tooth or two) or for chrissake even Danny and David Shirley (the dressed-alike twins who mugged like identical apes for class pictures) would be deserving of laminated placard tasks.

Given the benefit of hindsight I think it makes perfect sense - both in terms of plot and character development. What I can't understand is how a teacher - how a string of teachers - didn't recognize that kid at the back of the line as much by what she wasn't saying than by what she WAS saying. There's a part of me who like to talk with those teachers know what I do now. I attended Mrs. Carlson's funeral when I was in first grade - if the kindergarten teacher left that early. chances are slim that many more of them are still living and, aside from everything else, I'm not so sure HOW I'd begin finding that trail of educators now. But I do fantasize what a meeting might be like...

The fantasy begins with them each being individually delighted that I've looked them up because they've been thinking about me over all these years. I then show them a picture of my child, proudly cluck about what a fantastic kid he is, what an affable bright sweet man he is becoming. Then I tell them that he's a quiet one, my son ... in fact, so NOT troublesome, so kind and gentle he is that I've had discussions with HIS teachers, pleading with them to please encourage him, please pay attention to him - please SEE him. And I would segue from what I have done as a parent for my no-fuss son into asking what my parents asked them to do for me during those semi-annual parent/teacher conferences.

Part of their response would come as truth and fact -
"Oh, well we agreed that your skill were more advanced than those of your ape-faced, nose-picking peers. And that you definitely had a streak of Something Special so we accelerated your learning to keep up with your advanced skills by sending you to older children's' classes."

Part of their response is left for my own flight of finding- and making-peace-with-myself fancy -
"Your parents stopped in regularly, you know. Yes! They both wanted to know about your grades, of course, and the asked me to clarify what I meant by 'Is a joy to have in class'. But the truly telling reflection of your parents' affection for you was the unusual questions they asked me, such as 'Is she happy? Does she talk to you about her interests? Can you tell when she's not? How do you help her through those times? Does she have friends? How can WE help her to feel loved and Most Important? Should we encourage her to invite schoolmates over to our home?'".

Usually by this time in the fantasy conversation I begin to feel beleaguered by the amount of shit I'm slinging and call it quits somewhere in the list of 'help us help her' questions. I have a quiet moment within the still-running fantasy though - truly a magical moment where, if it was a made-for-TV movie, a blue glowing light would appear just above my head, where the music would turn tender, maybe a lone acoustical guitar perched out on a veranda at sunset in the Blue Ridge Mountains ... I have a tired but thankful posture. I say to my former instructor "I never knew they cared so much about me. And what's more, I never realized that you all saw me so clearly, even in my youngest years. I was so silly to have doubted any of you, even for a moment. I'm flabbergast at the ridiculous amount of time I've whittled away simply fussing over my doubts. Thank you. Thank you SO much for paying attention to the little quiet nice girl at the end of the single-file line."

In the fantasy I embrace my childhood teachers warmly as though we are the dearest of friends, inviting them to spend a week at my country cabin as soon as they can make time in their schedules for quiet and good wine and cheeses.

I then ask them each to bring their favorite hat along on our together-vacation so I can photograph them wearing it.

you gotta do whatcha gotta do

Two bucks is two beeping bucks.

I've tried sleeping ... several times already, and have been to the grocery store and back already. Don't really want to take my knock-me-on-my-ass meds because they -well, because that's exactly what they do and I don't much like it. So here I am. blah dee blah.

So I'll play the stream of consciousness game and maybe that'll either bore me enough or wear me out such that I will go to sleep. Yes? Yes.

I had all my shit piled on the little conveyor belt at Mega-Store, waited waited waited for the checkout person to appear (he didn't). After enough time had passed that I had a good hunch s/he wasn't paying attention or wasn't nearby I started an aisle-by-aisle check to find a human. Lemme tellya, at this time of day (or night, I suppose, would be the more accurate term) there are only 4 people working the entire store. I found the guy, asked if he could check me out or if tonight was my lucky night and I was getting the goods for free. He laughed, apologized, followed me up front.

Scanned everything through and I was nearly all done. Then, the last 3 items were chicken (one not on sale, 2 ON sale w/$1 off in-store discount stickers on 'em). He scanned them, bagged them, tried to scan the coupons. BEEP. The register didn't like the coupon. He tried the other coupon sticker. BEEP. No go. Scan the first again. BEEP. Gosh, if it didn't work the first time, what makes him think that the computer is going to have a change of heart part-way through this process and suddenly love that bar code? Scan the second again, apparently following same train of thought as #1 ... BEEP. No. Scan. BEEP. NO. Poor guy, it isn't his fault.

Meanwhile, a line of alcohol-perfumed folk have lined up behind me, each with a couple of items each. I apologize to them for whatever the hang-up might be but the hell if I'm leaving that store without the $2 discount - these days it matters and where do we all have to be rushing off to so quickly anyway? They're all good-humored about the holdup, chattering between themselves about how there are eight different versions of Spanish so you can't just assume that when a person says they speak Spanish that it'll be some kind of 'universal' Spanish. Yes, the drunks in the middle of the night DO have important matters to resolve, and this is clearly one of them. BEEP.

Checkout guy is still waving coupons to and fro, hoping for something to change, some magic to happen. BEEP BEEP BEEP. He laughs nervously, explaining that he'll have to call the manager (one of the other three nighttime employees manning that behemoth of a warehouse neighborhood market). 'Not a problem, I've got until dawn', I purred back.

Up comes the manager, to wave coupons and press buttons. BEEP. whap. BEEP BEEP. whap. Seems the computer doesn't like my coupons because the chicken was already on sale and the computer doesn't think I should also be getting $1 off for two of the packages. I refuse to beg but I also refuse to leave without that goddamned $2 off my receipt because now... this is register war -just me and it- with only a pierced-nosed geek-looking student-aged manager standing between us.
And I intend to win. BEEP.

whap. clicketyclackclick. BEEP. thump. BEEP. click click.
.... silence. Silence? SILENCE!

He's done it! We are victorious over the computerized cash register and we have triumphed! I get a twitch, and the sudden urge to high-five the manager, the clerk and the other customers. Nobody else seems quite so excited as I am, but fuck em if they can't smile over a true $2 savings.



ok, sleepy and bored with myself (see? I said it'd work and voila!) so I'm really going to give this sleep thaang another shot. Thanks for being such a nice audience. Tip your wait staff generously ... I'll be here all week.

If wishes were snoglobe confetti

McBeth.

I prefer to take very broad, very liberal strokes at my wish list list-making.

It's not a simple thing to say the thing I want. I may be laughed at. I may be completely ignored. I may receive the size small instead of the large, I may get the thing that clearly indicates that someone was not listening to me (BIG personal peeve)... so I don't make the lists and try to talk about personally significant matters as infrequently as I can get away with, which really isn't all that difficult if you can manage to get a person to talk about their stuff because lord knows we all got lots of personal crap to sort through - anyone given an opening, an audience and silence will generally take it and run.

Try it. See if I'm wrong.

It's all relative

How rich are you? >> I'm loaded. It's official. I'm the 692,212,161 richest person on earth!

Come, rest a while.

McBeth.

I've been thinking about being in relationship with others: how and why we make the choices we do, how we deal (or don'€™t) with the consequences, what the next steps can be (which may or may not have any bearing on what actually happens).

I was on the floor of the lower-level room where my son tucks himself away for TV watching, computering, and other miscellaneous things mothers should not be required to keep close track of (this one doesn'€™t, at any rate). We were hanging out, watching a George Carlin video, laughing (possibly slightly more than gives positive indication of an overtly healthy mind). As we giggled and guffawed and high-fived Curious George, I poked around at the contents of items on the bottom of the bookshelf my father made for me in 1986, created after I was forcibly ejected from my parent'€™s home for the ultimate offense of loving a person deemed evil ~ sinful ~ un-loveworthy. I didn'€™t simply date him and love him, no. I continued to date and love him after my mother made her opinions and, in due time, her forbiddance frighteningly, screamingly clear. The cost of that decision - not to mention a few choices later on -€“ was energizing but ultimately fiercely destructive (for me, for him, for my sense of family) on a number of levels.

While gently using my hand as a dust bulldozer to shove layers of months-long inattentive housekeeping to the side, I uncovered an envelope mailed to me by that fellow I'™d dated back in the day. The envelope was postmarked 10 July 2000 and had affixed to it the ho-hum flag-and-a-building 33-cent postage stamp. Enclosed along with his letter was a page ripped from a J.C. Penney catalog. A lovely plus-sized blonde woman model in a periwinkle blue two-pieced outfit was slung comfortably upright in a white hammock, a pair of white slings to her left side. Her expression says "hey, I'€™m cute. Would you like to swing in my hammock with me?"€™; she'™s very appealing to me and a downright cutie. She's the gal who I'd imagine visits nursing homes on weekends, just because; who buys the extra groceries to place a few in the food pantry donation bin. On the picture he'€™d written '€˜Beth --->'™, assigning me to her characteristics. Funny ... we do sorta look the tiniest bit alike if you squint. Anyway.

The letter, written in loopy scrolling blue ballpoint pen read:
"€œDear Beth,
Hi. Ever think about going total blonde. You're much more beautiful than the JCP Modle, but you get the idea.
I understand you tried to contact me, and I'€™m puzzled as to why since you don'€™t want to be friends. Or is it from the bracelet you gave me? (I still have it), 'œThat'€™s what friends are for.'. I guess I just don'€™t understand.

You should see my new Apt. WOW! Its basicly sound proof; which I was not aware of till I went out in the hall; but it'™s a one bedroom loft Apt. with a sky light and cathedral ceiling; it has two floors since it'€™s a loft. And I love it.

Right now I'€™m still psychologicly ill and taking no calls, just writing, and I'€™m staying at my parents till I feel safe enough to go back to the Apt. without delusions. I'€™ve done some Art and a lot of Poetry since I last saw you. Its really a shame I'€™m not able to share it.

If I talk with you, will you once again burn the bridges of friendship? You hurt me, I don'™t know why -€“ If it was about the kiss, I just wanted to.

One time long ago, I asked you if I could kiss you and you said 'no, because I shouldn'™t have to be asked.' This time you kissed me, and I kissed the way I do. That'€™s it. Lisa is pregnut again. Her due date is Dec 25. And Laura will be 3, Jan 2.

Anyway I'€™d better close, take care and write me if you need to, but think about what I said.

Love Almost Always
M---"€œ



I can'€™t recall now if I responded to this letter when I ha€™d first received it. I know we talked, but I cannot recall the details of which conversation happened when. I also feel consecratedly, intensely grief-laden that I am not required to follow the basic rules of proper netiquette and common decency by asking him if I could have his permission to reprint his words here. And that is because he's dead. He was young, in his late 30s, and he'€™s fucking dead now.

I think of M--- a great deal, especially when I am struggling and want someone to just hug me, or when I'€™m insecure and want to be reached out to by another person. When I see super-excellent cloud shapes I think of him. His heart was so big, so hurtable, occasionally hittable, filled with anger and an unsteady mix of '€˜don'€™t push me'€™ and '˜please push me. Harder'€™.

I cut him off. Completely. I extricated myself from relationship with him long after we broke off our relationship, including the engagement I never had the opportunity to announce, save for meetings with the ring designer in Des Moines to create an unique wedding band from a bracelet of gold and diamonds I found several years prior. But that'€™s another story for another time, that bracelet. After our breakup turned to friendship and then friendship turned to an indefinable something else we danced back and forth around; I made clumsy attempts to reconnect with him at a level I could bear but it never seemed to be what he wanted from me: it never seemed to be enough. He wanted me back; he wanted our relationship back. He wanted me to accept his apologies. He wanted to make up. He wanted to not be crazy anymore. He wanted me, a loved person who understood the scariness of occasional mind-losing, to hold hands when he was frightened.

I cannot take staring into the puckered superficial face of decisions I made toward the end of his life. I believe it is an unwise move to live the next section(s) of my life in an unexamined happy lala-world state, but the guilt I continue to bear feels so soggy, so heavy. It's like tasting a mouth-watering dessert ... a little is so good ~ too much is sickening. Yeah, the examination process of my personal accountability and my continuing grief is a little like that.

Today I'€™m so sorry. I hope there is a spiritual part of him hovering close by because I'€™d like to think that by my whispering these admissions now he can find a way to forgive me. I'€™m not sure what I would say if he was still alive, but I'm certain it would be a hell of a lot more than I did back when I knew everything; before he offed himself, centuries before George Carlin help me forget for an afternoon.

a twisted idea

McBeth.

...if you don't like the way your growth is turning out, consider changing your direction.

Flexibility

McBeth.

"But this is uncomfortable!" her student complained.

"Ahh, my dear you're trying too hard."
"The trick", the instructor continued, "is to become flexible enough with your daily practice here such that you will learn to bend without breaking".

Bare it and share it

McBeth.

After time had passed, she eventually decided to leave her heart on the outside.

She thought it might help others to have a visual representation of how much of the tender green she had lost but more importantly, how much she still had to offer.

It also was reported to have had a positive effect on her ability to withstand the wind and weather.

Medieval warriors in the data entry age

McBeth.

There was a time when knights slew the dragons, when damsels and lords fervently practiced each stroke in the 'courtly love' primer, when time plod slowly.

Now the dragon has risen up, taking the pointed sword into his wild webbed wing, jousting in a contest against no one for the prize of nothing.

Touche~

Dona Nobis Pacem

McBeth.

I have returned from a very spoiling, overindulgently delightful visit with a dear friend. She is so good to me and ranks high among the things I have worked, without hard work, to preserve as necessary and good in my life.

We spent part of an afternoon in the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C. but I don't consider that particular visit a tourist gig. The emotional component of bigness, vastness, tinyness, frail and humbleness ... I don't tend to get centered from tourist stops: I do here.

AFK for a few days

McBeth.

Shiver me timbers, don't you chickadees worry - speaking of birds and berries and little animals that make themselves terribly difficult to photograph... of the three (meaning wrens, chickadees and sparrows, okay add yellow finches and one other sweet fat little bird for which I have no official name yet) the chickadee is by far the most nervous of the bunch. Flit flit flit. Nervous little critters, they are. Maybe they feel a keen connection to the mourning dove, who are now officially shootable for that ginormous shrimp-sized portion of meat they provide. Mourning doves are some of my mother's favorite birds and by proxy, mine. They don't provide much of a hunting challenge. Quit shooting them, let's just stop shall we?

Anyway, I'm heading to D.C. for a mini-vacation-that-isn't-truly-a-vacation from this very strange and interesting life of mine for a few days of indulgent attention paid by a close friend. I am insisting on National Cathedral time. Other than that? I could give a shit where we go or what we do. I like her, I like spending time together and we invariably get into mischief together. That's what spending time should be about.

I'm turning 38 on Friday.
Who'd have thought I'd live to see it?

There's something worth pondering over a few quiet moments at a memorial exhibit.

Be kind to one another and miss me just a little.

Sorry Everybody

McBeth.

I've been laughing and weeping (mostly weeping) while finding the most elementally important connection between myself, my fellow Americans, and the fellowship of humans really trying - HARD - to make purposefully peaceful loving caring decisions. Like not voting for Bush last week.

We didn't do enough.

Some of our ballots were either ranked less important or were not counted.

The implications of what seemed like teeny choices I did or didn't make? I am beginning to better understand the implications of my choices... they were huge. They were global.

I don't think anyone can lead a balanced life if she is only giving of herself or if he steals his energy from one important 'emotional' bank to feed another (i.e. never see the family in order to rabblerouse). But I can try to do differently in the coming months, and years until the next election.

Allow yourself to be open to forgiveness. And never hesitate to cop to your own fuckups, especially to the people who could most (along with you) benefit from your confession.

Absolution comes with a price, but it needn't be an act you disavow in favor of your fear.

Sorry Everybody

Hard Times Come Again No More

McBeth.

Let us pause in life's pleasures to count its many tears
While we all sop sorrow with the poor:
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears
Oh! Hard times, come again no more

'Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard times, hard times, come again no more:
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;
Oh! Hard times, come again no more.

While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay
There are frail forms fainting at the door:
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say
Oh!! Hard times, come again no more.

'Tis a sigh that is wafted across teh troubled wave,
'Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore,
'Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave.
Oh! Hard times, come again no more.

-Stephen C. Foster

A Relationship, in one act

Blight
uptight
polite
Height?
BITE!
~fight~
Smite
_fright_

flight

-->tight<--
contrite
might
night
light
bright

Quite.

'So Bob, do you like your job?'

McBeth.

"Vocation does not come from willfulness. It comes from listening. I must listen to my life and try to understand what it is truly about - or my life will never represent anything real in the world, no matter how earnest my intentions."

-Parker Palmer, excerpted from 'Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation

McBeth.

Antisthenes says that in a certain faraway land the cold is so intense that words freeze as soon as they are uttered, and after some time then thaw and become audible, so that words spoken in winter go unheard until the next summer. ~Plutarch, Moralia

Visions

McBeth.

I cannot find graciousness in my heart today. I can't breathe either.

My president, the man who appears to be the person who will continue to be in charge of my country for another four years, was willing to throw me - ME - on top of the fire as a sacrifice to appease the fears of immovable right wingers everywhere. That is unforgiveable.

I've been burned and have sustained severe nerve damage. I'm worried. I'm sick. I want my own self-contolled morphine IV drip because it appears that Nurse Bush certainly isn't going to be offering me pain relief.

new points of light

The sparkle of possibility

I woke this morning with a highly unusual thought. Even for me. Especially for me.
The first idea that came into my mind after my eyes sleepily opened was this:

This is a great day for a revolution.

How often do I consider my days as such opportunities? Not often. But I wonder how I might be different in my own life if I did try to think of revolutionary changes I might help to make happen, even something so small as taking the initiative to say something kind to the people I can least tolerate. Revolutions come in mysterious packages, after all.

Another "wheelie" memorable point to my activities today will be that today - election day - is the day I had to figure out what to do about the thumb-sized hole in the rear passenger side of my car. I just paid for a new spiffy set of good tires earlier this year and wouldn't you know it, last night I managed to poke an impressive hole through the wall of one of them. Piss. Oh well, it's just a wheel.

For all that is good and just in the universe, I hope my revolutionary vote, and the votes of all disenfranchised, unhappy, unimpressed, lied-to, bitter, ready for something new U.S. citizens will be properly counted, that our collective revolution will speak to the rest of the world (who has every right to doubt and dismiss us as a collective collateral mess), that we can begin to have hope of new possibilities.

-isms abounding

I’ve been participating in a nine-week workshop on anti-racism, the main goals of which are:

• Work with other white European Americans to take responsibility for challenging racism and white privilege
• Respect the leadership of people of color in the community
• Work to end all oppression
• Practice and model respectful and accountable behavior in all our anti-racist work, especially in our families and circles of influence

The workshop sessions have included weekly readings, critical questions, individual, small and large group participatory exercises; videos, guest speakers and volunteer experiences as a part of the learning process.
Hard stuff, and worthwhile.

For my volunteer experience I chose the MEP (Money – Education – Prisons) Taskforce. Project Reentry, a MEP project, assists returned prisoners who are reentering the community who find themselves blocked from meaningful employment by lack of training, lack of experience or prejudice. There is a disproportionate number of persons of color in the penal system (Madison, embarrassingly, has the highest percentage in the entire UNITED STATES) and, according to MEP board member and professor Pamela Oliver’s website, within the first 21 months of release 50% of blacks and 37% of whites return to prison in Wisconsin. Yikes.

Project Reentry assists returning prisoners in developing their resumes and connects the returning prisoner with a developed list of available jobs. Project Reentry also calls each employer to ensure that they will hire felons, which doesn’t eliminate the personal accountability of the returning prisoner but it does help to reduce the number of added/unnecessary hassles for the person (who is likely already filled to capacity with dread, fear, anger, and mistrust). The anticipated outcomes of Project Reentry, according to an informational pamphlet, include “reduction of recidivism, lower numbers of people in both the Dane County Jail and the Wisconsin Prison System, and a healthier community where people are employed, sheltered and fed”.

My MEP work this week was to take the Job Services bulletin (20 pages with approx. seven job postings per page), call each telephone number listed and ask if each employer was willing to work with ex-offenders. Given that I was calling on the final afternoon of an unseasonably warm week as well as the Friday before Halloween when everyone seems to have an itch in their undies to bust outta work early, it was not exactly surprising that I had little success reaching many live people actually doing work at work.

One of the places at which I was able to reach a real live person – a company I hesitate to specifically name – was a transportation company (*two-syllable word that begins with the past tense of ‘lay’ and ends with the work that lawyers practice). The gentleman I spoke with had a brusque, purposefully harried tone to his voice once I identified myself and my purpose for calling. When I asked the gentleman if his organization was willing to work with returned prisoners his response was direct: “Oh, no no, we can’t be hiring felons. We transport children and other sensitive and at-risk populations”. I thanked him for the information and his time, and put the receiver back onto the telephone base. Then I flipped through some of the materials I’d been given until I hit on what I’d been looking for: ‘EMPLOYMENT RESTRICTIONS FOR EX-OFFENDERS’.

First of all, there are federal laws and there are state laws. Not all state laws are alike, but all state-led restrictions must comply with federal rules.

Some day when I’m really up for a rousing good time, I’ll try to list all the Federal no-no’s. There is a bunch. Specifically in Wisconsin an ex-felon maybe be denied, revoked or refused renewal of license for: private investigator, security guard, private detective, security alarm installer, and their liquor license (if convicted of certain drug-related offenses). Additionally there’s something called the Wisconsin Caregiver Law that identifies specific offenses that affect caregiver eligibility. But there’s also a provision for rehabilitation review of these offenders. (All that stuff can be found here).

So really, the gentleman who was having his horizontal corncob moment really was conducting business illegally: ex-felons who have not been convicted of crimes against life and bodily security or crimes against children have EVERY SINGLE RIGHT to apply for jobs, even at transportation companies who work with children and other ‘sensitive’ populations.

I can understand the reticence of an employer to take what probably feels like an impossible leap of faith with a potential new employee. The thing is, they’re making the same leap with me, or with my law-abiding brother, or with my law-abiding neighbor as they’re making with someone who has been released from prison after a felony conviction (because let’s face it, we have a whole lotta shit that qualifies for felony arrest/trial/conviction anymore). What this employer is doing is wrong. It’s illegal.

At one point I’d turned around in my chair to ask for clarification from one of the MEP staffers. I told her about my telephone exchange and asked her if she could clarify the law and if the guy had legal backing to say ‘no’. She handled it coolly, shrugging her shoulders and saying only "Yep. Some people are going to respond that way. All you can do is move on to the next one".

I can only imagine the levels of frustration and anger returned prisoners must feel upon their release. They have a community who has alienated and fears them, a dismal job prospective and few housing options without solid job leads. My coworker, an ex-offender herself, demonstrated the calm so many other returned prisoners probably lack. Calm they desperately could use - the calm I suspect the rest of us have had the great privilege to never have been concerned about.

Imagine that.

Kissing Courage

McBeth.

"To me there is no greater act of courage than being the one who kisses first"
-Janine Garofalo

Amen, Janine. What bravery must swell in the heart of one who is enamored with another, bravery enough to overcome the nagging possibility of abject undeniable failure? In Western heterosexual culture the "Kisser" role has generally been assigned to the fellas. Where would we be without our fairytales of shining knights fighting valiantly for the hand of the fair maiden?

We'd be nowhere, that's where we'd be. We would have nothing on which to base girlish dreams, nor (for those of us who find fairytales offensive and demeaning) would we have anything to shove away from in disgust. Thanks, guys. I mean that sincerely - thank you. You may sometimes be purposeful pigs and you may not be fluent in clitorese, and you may occasionally be all the wrong kinds of inappropriate at the oh-so-very-wrong times, and you may also forget to shut up and just hug her when she is sure her ankles have sprouted an extra fat layer and three dark hairs have simultaneously relocated from her eyebrows to set up shop on her chin, but you certainly have your wooing work cut out for you. For that, you have my admiration and support.

I have recently come to have a far greater, far more uncomfortably close understanding of what you have been dealing with for centuries and all I can say is pucker up sweeties because I've got something juicy for you.

But first, let's talk for a moment. I mean, we don't know one another very well so maybe if we exchange pleasantries first we won't feel so awkward when I finally settle on that moment... that moment when I tentatively -but casually- extend my arm around you, when I press my freshly Burt's Bees-ed pout softly to your lips.

I've recently reentered the dating world after a long contented hiatus. Yes, I know, the same thought crosses my mind... What on earth was I thinking? I'm no slinking sex kitten. I got no game. I can't dance. Though my last partner and I split nearly two years ago I haven't felt deep urgent compulsions to leap tall buildings or swim oceans to impress anyone. Not one urge, which may speak more to a possible lackadaisical laziness on my part than anything else, but still, I think being urge-less says something.

What I have been feeling is lonesome. I've been missing the grown-up silliness of adults sharing 10 year olds' humor, the conversation and glasses of convivial jocundity poured by someone else especially for me. I've missed having someone search for and delightedly discover one of my secret sweet spots. I've missed curling up together. I've missed sharing details of my day. I've missed counting on someone. I've missed knowing I'm being counted on so I had better step my ass up to the plate because the show is ON, buster. I've missed teasing and teasing taken too far. I've missed hurt feelings, fighting and make-up sex. I want all of that! I want another adult who is mystified by me; I want to know one other person trusts me especially. I want to have a Certain Other Someone who thinks I am remarkable, who may be slightly alarmed but who is nevertheless willing to play my favorite bedroom games. I want someone special who I can come to trust with my ugliest secrets, someone who will trust me to share their ugliest secrets.

How about you pour me a glass of whatever it is that you have there in yours and we talk? Because darlin', you've undoubtedly been shot down more times than you have digits on which to count the failures and I need your counsel now. How do you DO this thing over and over? You're a walking talking miracle, that's what you are. Whiskey? Sure, I'll take five fingers and a dribble.

Now let me tell you, there's someone I kissed; or nearly kissed, or soon will kiss. I will, I will! I've only begun to understand the other side of this predatory hunt. You see, I've been prey. I liked being prey. Well, I didn't LIKE being prey - being on the receiving end has a tendency to leave one seeing the reflection of a promising but bloody porterhouse in the mirror, but there are definite advantages to laying back in defenseless repose, feigning disinterest, begging for gentle mercies. Prey relies on a different set of tactics to complete a successful hunt.

Now here I am, sitting here with you, three fingers to the wind with two to the air, telling YOU what the chase is like from the aggressor's perspective. Now ain't that something? Haw!

Now this one, she's something. Really something. You probably already know this, but the cherishable ones, I think, are the ones who don't think they are. Hidden gems. It's not my job to make someone see their worth, but I sure can see it if it's there, and when it is there - oh my yes. The eyes, the smile - oh my yes. Now I'm beginning to understand what it is that you must be seeing in beatific winsome glances. I kissed her, you know. It was just a soft kiss on her cheek, but I meant six years worth of please let me catch up in that kiss. I called her while driving home, to tell her that I intended not to aim for her cheek the next time. She laughed and blushed across the telephone lines and though I was mystified how I possibly could find the courage within myself to follow through, I think about her eyes, her smile - oh my yes. So I am learning what you also have had to learn, that I can aim with delightful accuracy the next time.

Pluto square Pluto: Which category?

My Pluto must be woofing up one helluva storm. I noticed an email on a local listserv yesterday, someone who had moved from NYC to a small sleepy community nearby was asking for suggestions on where she could go to get moving helpers for an impending move to the Mad City. She mentioned she was a writer (my thinking: could be good, something possibly in common/could be bad - tons of books) and something about her plea spoke to me. I emailed a response, offering the services of McB & Son Moving Co. (I think our motto could be "We're not professionals but we grunt like the ones on TV") and asking for details. She called me this morning. Life happens this way. I should not be surprised that it does - that it has and continues to - but I am and it does.

While making arrangements on the telephone today, we got to talking about sun signs. She asked me about my moon. I had the internal smartass response ready, begging to snark 'I gotcha moon right heah', but all things thought need not be all words spoken, and we continued talking about astrology. She pointed me to Astro to get a very specific-to-me personal read based on my birth date, time, and location. Here's a portion of my 'forecast':

1 October 2004 until 21 November 2004: This is a period of general regeneration, which may not be entirely pleasant. Most of us are attached to the past whether or not it is good for us. And this influence will root out precisely those elements of the past that are not good for you, even those aspects that you have forgotten about. Problems that you may have lost track of entirely but which are still working unconsciously in your life may reappear and become active now, usually but not always to your detriment.

This influence is associated with forces for change that are inherent within the hidden depths of things. Therefore you should not blame the unpleasant changes that occur now on circumstances or persons in your environment. Look within yourself to see how the groundwork for the present is laid in the past.

Many things may be destroyed at this time, and the destruction will be ruthless if you defend them with rigidity. The action of this influence upon unyielding entities is particularly harsh. Therefore you should simply allow the things of the past to fade and allow the future to be born on their ruins. If you can do this, the potential for positive change is very great.

This influence may also increase your concern about the creative and regenerative processes within the universe and cause you to become interested in the occult. However, certain aspects of the occult, such as magic, are best avoided during this time, because the energies involved will be difficult to control now. Although your conscious mind may be in control at first, you are likely to find that entirely unconscious forces within you have taken over and are running you completely. This can have disastrous consequences.

You may also get into severe power struggles with people who are trying to prevent the changes in your life or who are trying to expedite changes that you are resisting. Look very carefully to ascertain which category they are in.

The Inner Rigidity in me has to warn you: If you're the bully who plans to get in my way these next few days, I'd step aside if I was you.

There are just a few more days left in this section of the reading and I'll likely post the next piece (which I haven't read - that's like cheating by skipping chapters in a book to get to the next bodice-ripping scene just because the inane commentary about what Miss Maisie served up for dinner seems so ho-hum blah. IF they didn't have dinner they'd die and there'd be NO bodice-ripping scene at all so DEAL WITH THE DINNER and the best part will come eventually!) What was I talking about anyway?? Oh, yes. Life changes. Whether or not you believe in astral phenonema, if you are a close friend who knows some of my revealed inner workings of late, you might find this Oct/Nov reading for me eerie. Chilling even. (I don't know, DO you?) It's not like I knew what it was going to say ahead of time, not like I planned to mindfully leap into some new stuff and make some of the changes I've decided to make knowing, even subconsciously, that some report said 'blahblahblah, you will be doing this you mindless drone' and so I did it. I did it, THEN read about it. oooooOOOooooo

You're not doing anything particularly important right now (oh come on, you know you're not) - go over to Astro and enter you details. They don't ask you to register, they don't even ask your last name or address, isn't that kind of them? I'm really interested in knowing if your findings are as creepyaccurate as mine seem to be.

Oh yes, after you've pondered yourself into a corner, come back here and let me know what you've discovered? Let's quietly puzzle it out together.

sing your heart out

Think karaoke. Yeah, got the picture in your mind's eye? Fun, hunh. Good singing, slightly erratic singing, goofball singing, costumed singing, practiced or unpracticed, comletely unprofessional fun. Even the worst of us can be a karaoke star.

Now, lets ramp it up, baby. You know you want to. Instead of a music track as your backup, throw out the tape player and add a band. A professional live band. A bunch of music nuts playing for the delight of whatever can happen when they're backing up unpracticed unprofessional karaoke singers.

And there you have it: Gomeroke.

As the single (slightly nervous) Gomeroke virgin in the new group of pals I was hanging out with, I responded to 'are you gonna get up and sing?' with various versions of 'no, haha', 'um, I don't think so', and 'helllllno'. How ridiculous that I permitted my self-consciousness to be allowed out for the evening with me.

I haven't been out socially in ages; the reasons are numerous, tangled and perhaps slightly ridiculous but it means that once I do go out I feel myself let it out. Alllllll out, even with new friends who I hope to impress. I say 'fuck inhibition, this is great!' and let life happen. There's no way one can just sit there during a group sing-along to 'Ruby Tuesday'. It's impossible or your money back.

L. brought us all bobbing bat headbands in honor of spooktastic Halloween. A smattering o' caribou feathers, two long spiralled metallic pipe cleaners protruding up on either side, with sparkleball-bellied bats hovering above, glittery wings flashing and catching the lights. I brought some glow in the dark necklaces to share, extras from my overexcited expenditures at the party store, when J. wanted a couple of rave-ish toys for himself and a couple of friends for a school dance. (me: you can't just get ONE each, lets buy sixteen!)

I brought shower curtain rings, but try as I may, I couldn't think of any sensible public decorating ideas for the curtain rings (though I did consider a few potentially interesting naughty uses). They were actually an extra set I'd had at home that I'd brought along for K. who just recently moved into a specTACular new apartment - fab-fab-fabulous but missing the shower curtain. The truth is, one day I may find myself with the opportunity to use K's whirlpoolish deep-dish bathtub (why? I'm not sure but it could happen) and well, a bathtub needs a curtain, right?, and a curtain needs rings, right?, and that's just the way it is so quit asking me these questions already - don't you have something to be reading?

Among his other stellar performances, P. did a head-banging rendition of 'The Devil Went Down to Georgia' - complete with a violin solo done by the band guy standing behind P. (band guy reaching his arms around P's shoulders, placing the chinrest on P's left shoulder and the both of them getting violinfunkadelic. L., or rather her alter-ego Heidi Ho, captured Grace Slick with adept sneering growl.

A fella from the State Journal was there (though I'm not sure why), happily snapping away. My attention was paid in measure of drool and covetous thoughts... great digital camera, expansive lenses and multiple flash setup. Wish I could have seen the camera details better but I didn't want to be unseemly and follow the poor guy around asking dumb 'whassat? what does it do? how does this work?' questions. It made more sense to me at the time to compliment his nice haircut and leave it at that. Now? I'm not exactly sure what I was thinking, but I guess the compliment worked because I did not tackle him for his equipment nor was I asked to leave.

When I returned home last night I immediately sat down to look through the song list, writing down preferences, speculating which of them I'd forget the fewest amount of words if I was to lose my place on the lyrics sheet.

Because next time? I'll sing.

Cosmic Cups (subtitle: 'and lordy, do they overfloweth')

McBeth.

Breasts are meant to be adored.

If there's a chance one or the other of yours aren't (but you wish they were), tassle them.

~or~
Flash them.
Treat them.
Serve yourself dinner on them.
Draw pictures on them.
Comfort them.
Encourage them.
Glue-stick bows onto them.
Draw smiley faces on them.
Read stories to them.
Play with them.
Nurture them.
Write poems in their honor.
Name them something fabulous.
Take a picture of them.
Dress them up.
Dress them down. Way down.
Talk seductively to them.
Kiss them for luck.
Temporarily tattoo them.
Permanantly tattoo them.
Pinch them.
Pierce them.
Make 5 minutes of your day for them.
Figure out their good touch/bad touch.

Whatever you do, never ever underestimate the power and zest of a breast.

The Amazing Item: Crotch Detail

McBeth.

If there's one thing I've always wanted to say, it's this:

Oh yeah? Oh YEAH?? Well YOU can just kiss my sequinned sweet spot!

Three Stooges (or, how to make two, two TWO photo hits in one)

McBeth.

Welcome to my bed. From left to right: Fidget, Artemis, Puppy.

For the second installment of 'name your photo', I snapped the first thing I saw when I woke this morning as Pippa had requested (and the specific subject matter was due to a specific reason - I had been pinned into position while sleeping, without knowing, when these three crept into my bed and established their nighttime dominion between my knees. Now I'm flexible and all, but this 'three cats 'tween two knees' thing is sorta pushing even my best extendability).

Happily, I've also realized that Bakerina's suggestion that I snap 'Someone, human or animal, in sleep' also worked as an apt descriptor for this photo. Well, mostly. Nearly. Two-thirds of the subject matter was sleeping (I was whispering curses at Fidget, the awake one, for sticking a claw into my belly (When I woke I'd tried to sl-l-o-o-owly inch myself out of my own damn bed so as not to disturb THEM, and I get a claw in the belly for it. Something doesn't add up there).

red on red (or: der no der, rorrim ni gnidear fi)

McBeth.

The signs are there and clear: cuddling creatures boring their way under the covers during sleeptime, poking wet noses toward one extra layer of warmth. Ladybeetles layering themselves optimistically on building siding (and doors, and windows, and ...) with the slim to nil chance that SHE will be the one who makes it inside for the cold months. More children wearing outwear not for fashions' sake but for actual wind-breaking capabilities. My green fuzzy cap has come out of its biannual retirement.

People, perhaps unwittingly, have a sense of the impending big sleep coming upon us. Mattresses and box springs by the score are making their way to dumpsters and curbsides all over the city. I can only assume that newer and better are replacing them. Comfortable hibernation materials are a necessity of winter, yes.

After a day of sunshine such as was given us today, I feel regret that winter is breathing down our collective necks. I'm not ready. I don't want it! I want at least five months more of crunching leaves and the smell of burn piles (perimeter of the city only, please. I'm a fantasizer but I can obey that stupid law), University football games and the strange fruitbasket upset that attends ... no, I'm not just quite ready for winter.

Sand and Water

McBeth.

All alone, I didn't like the feeling
All alone, I sat and cried
All alone, I had to find some meaning
In the center of the pain I felt inside

All alone, I came into the world
All alone, I will someday die
Solid stone is just sand and water, baby
Sand and water, and a million years gone by

I will see you in the light of a thousand suns
I will hear you in the sound of the waves
I will know you when I come, as we all will come,
Through the doors, beyond the grave

All alone, I heal this heart of sorrow
All alone, I raise this child
Flesh and bone, he's just
Bursting towards tomorrow
And his laughter fills my world, and wears your smile

All alone, I came into the world
All alone, I will someday die
Solid stone is just sand and water, baby
Sand and water, and a million years gone by
-Beth Nielsen Chapman
(to hear realstream, follow this link: http://bethnielsenchapman.com/?inc=albums&alb_id=348#2807)

dats the fact

when you wish upon a star...

McBeth.

...makes no difference who you are
anything your heart desires will come to you

Sometimes wishing is enough. A wish can be a powerful tool to guide and point a person toward some ultimate place of being.

There is a bumper sticker I came to hate - and then, to slowly deeply appreciate - after the end of my most recent romantic relationship.

The sticker read: "Hope is a good companion but a poor guide."

There is a personal accountability missing in wishes and dreams. Wishes don't generally include thoughts like 'I wish I would work my ass off to create a successful business (or relationship or outcome)'. Wishes usually come in the I Dream of Jeanie form where some empowered Other Being blinks, wiggles a nose and makes it so.

I'm a usefully lazy person. I do lots of creative things with my nonmoving time. I have pages full of wishes and hopes and dreams. I am more and more aware of the unlikeliness of any of those coming to fruition unless I do my own blinking, wiggling my own nose, making my own wishes so.

I'm an excellent blamer. As many pages of dream lists, I have pages full of excuses, reasons why some particular thing just didn't couldn't hasn't worked. Boo hoo for me. My life is so hard so sad so complicated too tiring. I'm the High Priestess of Rationalization. (Try me sometime. I dare you.)

I get what I expect in the end, and if I continue to make excuses, if I continue to pardon my own choices I'll be right where I'm sitting in another 20 years. I don't plan to let that happen. But scared? You bet. Afraid of risking? Hell yeah.

What do you wish for?

They grow up so fast

McBeth.

A family of knives once lived on the pleasant side of town. Mother knife had her child's tip corked at a very early age, as all the other mothers had done with their own offspring, to keep the wee lad safe. After all , the world was rife with fearsom dangers: pointy toothpicks ready at a second's notice to plunge into an eye; rusty nails coated with disease begging to implant themselves into the freshest barest foot. Mother knife couldn't bear the idea that her child, unaware of his own potential, may inadvertently bring harm to himself.

One evening, after dinner had been cleared from the table and the boy had been given his sink bath, Mother attended to his bedtime needs, lovingly wrapping him into his sheath.

While she dried him the boy looked up into his mother's eyes, studying their shine. He did love her so -- She was greater to him than Venus rising from that goofy shell. Nobody was as luminescent, as brilliant, as sharp-witted as his mother. And nobody loved him as much as she did.

"Momma, can I ask you something?"

"Yes, of course", his mother replied as she adjusted the last tie on the bow she'd wrapped around his waist.

"Um.. well, first you have to promise to not get mad."

Mother knife laughed warmly, "of course I won't be mad darling, you can ask me ANYTHING".

"Well, um, all..", he stammered and fidgeted. "All my friends are starting to make fun of me. They're calling me baby-slingblade. But I'm NOT a baby! So ummm, what I want to know is umm ... can I get my cork removed?"

Sleepover Party

McBeth.

They begged and begged. They wheedled.

Finally, finally - their parents caved.

That Friday night the knives slept overnight at their friend Winey's place. The little ones bunked up together for security (even though they told the bigger blades they weren't scared).

Of course, there were a few problems. That pampered primadonna Pamela Chef brought her own sheath, just to remind the rest how much better she was than any of them. They all stayed up far too late watching a fabulous slasher film, leaving them feeling rusty and worn the next morning.

But they really did have a fabulous time.

Sharp Gals

McBeth.

Even knife girls go in pairs to check their makeup.

And sometimes they'll share their secrets with one another out of earshot of the boys.

Edgy

McBeth.

Pippa had suggested a photo of cutlery. You ask, I deliver.

After giving it a few days' worth of brainstorming I had good clean fun playing with knives and I'll add a few of the picture results as I go.

Thanks for the idea, Pippa. I'm simmering a few ideas wrt how I want to try to snap the next few subjects. Stay tuned.

Gentlewomen, start your SAD lights

McBeth.

I think it's safe to say you're a real Wisconsinite when you confidently drive with car windows and sunroof open on October nights. The cool weather isn't the least bit affecting if one wears her warm woolen cap and she turns the heater just slightly up past 'low'.

I was lucky enough to find a local gentleman selling his few-year-old SAD light recently. He'd placed the ad online back in August, heard from a smattering of interested takers but nobody did that final (and somewhat important) 'show up and pay for it' step. I came across the ad a few weeks back. Thinking I was far too late and far more than a dollar short, I emailed the gent anyway figuring 'hell, the worst that'll happen is that I'll get an email from a fellow down in the dumps person emanating some charming Eeoreyish 'ooOOhhhhwell, the light's gone, the same thing that happens to all the good ones, they just up n'leave you, sigh'.

Turns out the fellow was a former coworker. Though the term is used loosely we both were paid by the same employer. I have to wonder if it wasn't just the workplace. ooOOhhhwelllll.

He told me the lamp never seemed to help him a whole lot, so I asked why he'd kept it for so long. Turned out his cat loved the thing and he felt good about making his cat happy so the light stayed. For the cat.

I think that's a story about a therapy modality having positive results despite the formal application of close-minded rules.

So I am the new owner of a used and alternately-effective SAD light. YAY. Yay? ahem. YAY!

This might sound stupid but uh, this is one damn bright light. I've been sitting in front of it for 1/2 hr. to 45 mins. the past two days. I believe it's too early to start peeking for signs of change after so short a time, but I sure the hell need to turn up a few other lights after I turn the SAD light off or I can't see ANYTHING after the room returns to its former darkness.

So as the autumn skies begin to drift us into sleepy winter snowflakey hibernation, my SAD light and I will be keeping one another company here at the desk.

Your task: Think --> Respond

Think of three photos you would like to see me try to capture.
Tell me your ideas.

Then. And then. then.

Watch and wait.

Sheriff, Judge and Jury

The judge adjusted her pigtails while the jury remains hopelessly deadlocked between the bustier and the chainsaw accessorization.

Tonight's bla-- uhm, credit goes directly to Bakerina in gladness for these past 20 minutes during which I have not accomplished the anticipated evening dish-doing or paper shredding. Nothing else happened either, which could be either a cosmic coincidence or (more likely) a testament to the power of mindfully ignoring what can be put off when one cannot bear to figure out what is supposed to come next.

My alter-ego image shall appear in the coming days, unless someone permits the jury to call it hung and they all disburse for lunch. Then? Alter-ego better run like a scaredy cat cuz that thar is the sound of trouble a'brewin.

Sunday, Bloody Sunday

McBeth.

With my faulty gynocological system it is never clear what is going to happen or when it is going to happen. My family herstory has left all my female siblings (and perhaps some of the long-dead women too) with a colorful variety of 'IT'S NOT WORKING' symptoms, growths and scares.

After three weeks of waiting and wondering, the gears started up. Like a lumbering behemoth just woke from a dead sleep the system attempts to reestablish itself, taking me along for the ride.

Yesterday I bled through handfuls of tampons, sanitary pads, two sets of underwear and two pairs of pants. Before bedtime I resignedly cleaned up the last surprise attack. Left my shirt on and stepped into the shower ~ essentially to hose down my lower half with the hope that I could be clean and dry for a few sleeping hours. Ha! I woke to another bloody mess ... sheets, pjs, underwear ... right though everything, again.

This amazing capability, this natural world gift I've been given to grow and bear children is, hmm, how to say it... it's overkill. Really. It has served me well and it's been greatly appreciated but right now I wouldn't mind having also been given a switch to flip at the time I was done bearing my live young to turn the bloodworks off at will.

It was because I was curious about exactly what shedule my body thinks it should be on that I went through old calendars and archives, searching for the few, the proud, the actual cycles.

Lesse... In 2000 there was January (noted as 'overdue'), November (the last week), December (started the first week, just having finished the Nov. cycle).

I haven't found complete 2001 information so those details remain sketchy, but onward and upward to 2002: June (I bled for a full month), July (my notes indicated PMS symptoms but no flow). That's about it for that year.

Then 2003 rolled around: February, May, June (at the time I made a note I'd been bleeding for three weeks), September (noted as a superflow making it impossible to leave the house). Aah, what a year.

And then we rang in New Year's Day 2004: January (emotionally whacked, no bleeding at the time I made notes), July, and here we are in October (yep, definitely another gusher).

Next step is to take this information I've gathered, go back to the doc (again), explain that I want thus-and-so tests run, see what happens.

My body is not unlike my vehicle - if I'm hearing a rattle or hum when I'm driving my car I have the full attention of my mechanic when I drive Scarletta up onto the lift and say 'it's not working'. I think I should be able to get the same service on my body from the body fix-it folks.

Can't bring myself to make that appointment just yet. Maybe after waking up and checking to see if I have a renewed source of income transferred to my bank account. Maybe then.

It's not so black and white

McBeth.

Last year I began noticing significant changes in my skin, the texture and sensitivity of my casing, and the obvious wrinkles that seem to be so comfortably settling in whereever they feel like settling in.

This past year I have been attitudinally strident about permitting gravity and age to claim me. I can't wrap my head around these subtle alterations in what I have always assumed was me. It is upsetting. It is me - I am me - changing before my own eyes but the action is not of me, it is all about me.

I will be 39 next month and, while I have never been partial to Big Year Markers (puhleeze, got better things to do with my idleness like .. um, well like OTHER stuff), this one is not going to slip by unnoticed, not by me.

Upon reflection ...

McBeth.

It was while crying over spilt grounds (not milk like those simple-minded sissies) grounds, no, a whole different spilt mess altogether, that Bob Marley came to me as an audiocast vision.

Bob squatted to my right, wrapping my shoulders with his long arms, humming something I couldn't hear. My own baleful sobs were preventing me from hearing what he was singing to me but he continued humming, holding me, rocking me, gently pulling me into his left side.



'YOU'RE A GODDAMNED MAKE-BELIEVE NON- HALLUCINATORY MOTHERFUCKING HALLUCINATED EXPERIENCE! GO AWAY! FUCK OFF!', I rasped at him. He hummed back. Few things are more annoying than telling someone to leave you alone and have the venom sucked off, cast aside, ignored. Few things are as difficult... as kind a gesture to receive, for with the venom acknowledged all you're left with is what really was there to begin with, the stuff hiding underneath, the stuff buried to prevent revelation.



I mopped my face between swipes at the floor, the walls, the appliances. Stupid stupid stupid. But... but... but... how could I possibly have foreseen the garbage can trajectories? And that moment of question - the millisecond I had a counter-stupid doubt - that's when Three Little Birds fluttered in. That's what Bob was humming to me in the background, and only when my own noise quieted I could hear Bob, I could hear what he was trying to tell me in his reassurance, in his relaxed embrace.



Every little thing is gonna be alright

Time Flies

McBeth.

... and soon enough the snowflakes will flutter down, being wished on by small and not so small children alike.

The smell and feel of autumn is settling down upon my part of the universe, changing the colors of leaves, browning the marigolds, slowly freezing the bees to an arthritic crawl.

Nighttime brings an honest to goodness chill that playing kids ignore just as long as they can until, eventually, their mothers bring them light jackets, feeding arms into sleeves, zipping sweaty busy bodies into an extra layer of I Love You.

Empty or Preparing

McBeth.

It occurred to me this morning that I need to do some thinking about what feels like emptiness.

I aimlessly scratched non-itches as I sleepily walked into the kitchen to do what I do every time it is breakfast time. At breakfast time I clean out yesterday's grinds from inside the press pot, I load in two fresh measures of coffee grounds, I fill the electric kettle with fresh water and set that to boil. I poke around in the pantry or the refrigerator to decide what food item I will eat. Once I pick that thing, whatever it is, I prepare it (toast it or add milk or scramble mix cut bake it) while the coffee making runs tandem over there.

The schedule has been bungled recently and I am angry and frightened about that. The refrigerator is nearly empty, the pantry filled with rice - and pastas covering about every bendability need: elbows, corkscrews, straight thin spaghetti, it's all there. The local food pantry seems to have a lot of rice and pasta, and while I'm grateful that they're willing to share it with me, I'm not quite sure how many consecutive days of rice and pasta I'll be facing until I can sing praises to the boring bland chicken breasts I hadn't even realized I'd taken for granted until they didn't exist in the fridge anymore.

The coffee doesn't exist either. How can that be possible? NO COFFEE?? It's wrong, it's ridiculous and unjust and wrong wrong wrong.

I caught myself shrieking at one of the Stooges (poor puppy, she only wanted a quick cheek rub and an ear scratch), frustrated with the situation and even more frustrated with me. How the fuck did I get here? Two years ago I was working full-time, single parenting, owning this house and being a regular person like every other regular person. These days I feel very regularly breakable, receiving government benefits while I am unemployed. I'm far from a shrinking violet, but I have to think longer and harder about the choices I make before they can get made. I am not who I was. But I suppose that's true of each of us.

What I did wonder was how I could take this crappy cruddy noxious alone-on-an-island desperation, spin it just right and somehow make it less crappy cruddy noxious alone-on-an-island desperate. And as I moved a Tupperware container of rice from fridge to microwave I had to laugh at how pathetic my worries must seem like to someone facing bigger uglier shit. The empty fridge? Perfect. I have been putting off cleaning that muthah off for MONTHS because, well, fill in the blank with any number of ridiculous reasons that all meandered their way back to my own sheer laziness. I was too busy, I was too tired. There were too many things in there and it would have been a hassle to unshelve it all just to swipe a steaming dishcloth across. Who is really looking at the crumbs and sticky spots anyway?

Coffee? Hmm... okay. There really isn't a way to talk myself out of the joy of a good cup of coffee, just no way that's gonna happen. But - but wait! There are pouches of green tea (yum, minty even!) that I've been ignoring since last spring's last big tea buying bonanza. Today can be a most excellent green tea party. It will be fine.

Rice and pasta, pasta and rice. Sick.To.Pieces.Of.Rice. I can't help it, that's just the way it is. But it is also true that J, who refused to eat cinnamon/sugared rice the last time (a year? two years ago?) that I made it for us, is now finding it a treat. His big growing self is easily capable of sucking down 2/3 an 18 oz. box of cereal in one sitting but one sturdy bowl of rice sprinkled with a little sugar and cinnamon has his belly warm, full, and ready to power the rest of him for a few hours. What isn't good about that?

Perhaps my difficulty in accepting the situation where I find myself is my reluctance to give up my preconceived notions of who I am or what I am supposed to be based on the pattern of who and what I have been before now. Maybe I am not as empty as I think I am; maybe I'm just in the preparatory stages of readying for refill.

For Sale

for sale by owner
Originally uploaded by McBeth.

Going ... going ... gone.

Just like that.

You think I'm kidding?

The Giving In To of Peer Pressure

The only stupid question is the one that isn't asked.

The most frightening time for anyone is the first- .

Yeah, okay, I get it. Try it. DO something. I'm there. It wasn't without a good stubborn fight, but I'm there. And there is here so here we are and there ya go.

Day One.
The bread is baking downstairs, sending up wafts of mouth-watering memory-jarring goodness. It will be a good olive oil and basil loaf if all works the intended way, if I measured it correctly. And, I suppose, if that veiled threat on the yeast jar was serious or just having a go at me when it demanded that I 'use this within four months or you can kiss your happy dreams of great homemade bread goodbye'.

Please, little loaf of liquids mixed hastily ... pastily ... make of yourself something good.

childhood comforts

childhood comforts
Originally uploaded by McBeth.

Before the world went crazy, there was a small girl whose favorite things in the universe (besides her parents and her sister) were the special stoplight dress and the Baby Tenderlove that Santa brought her the previous December for being such a good girl.

ticklish tiger belly

ticklish tiger belly
Originally uploaded by McBeth.

It might not be the best idea to cozy up to a fully grown Bengal, but if there's something between you (trust? six-inch-thick safety glass? a wink?) it is a remarkable moment