poetic introduction

McBeth.

His name was Michael, but the Oxford locals called him Hattie Kismet.
He spoke knowledgably; secure that his previous occupations (both as a Bang & Olufsen theater designer and that fun congressional speechwriting volunteer work) would make for interesting stories around the counter at the diner and,
One day, a larger better Him.

He was lean,
A streamlined efficiency home furnishings expert by trade,
An outdoorsman by bliss
Who found his greatest relaxation and joy
either looking out over a pole off the side of a boat
or on top of five please-God, let-them-be-solid inches of ice.

His soul was as clear and wide as a Montana trout stream,
Swiftly fluidly winding from Upper to Lower
Easy working for the sure-footed
A delighted glimpse of rainbows darting just below his surface

Like varities of winged creatures,
His love knew the migratory pathways, flying intercessory miles
between the cold Midwest and the California coast,
touching hearts with the woman he adored,

That beautiful school teacher, his beloved
The dear one who understood the articulate nature of his song,
recognized it immediately, even if he wasn't a Top-40 tune.

He reckoned that not every song was meant to suit each person
He smiled with the mischievousness of a catchy tune
And was excited about the possibilities -
Like turning his 'fuck-they-can-reach-me-everywhere-EVERYwhere!' phone
OFF
for an hour
twice weekly
And, despite possible concern that he wouldn't have time to complete writing worth presenting, he anticipated improving his writerly confidence.

He was a strong young white spruce
riding blind on the back of a flatbed
still growing, still protected by the burlap,
unconcerned about where he may be headed or planted
Confident that the life he was being led toward would be
A playground
without age or height restrictions.

pre-dawn skies, 4:45am, Hornby

McBeth.

melted blueberry crisp bubbling
at the edge of the treeline
waking on the flat
sandstone shoreline

beneath tall carmelized-trunked Arbutus,
wherein the tufts of the highest
freshest, greenest-smelling leaves
sit two raucous eagles hawr-hawring
at the hilarity of their mutual baldness.

examining me over the bleary red edge of my sleeping sack stares a saucer-eyed seal,
bobble-headed curiosity,
standing in dark amusing contrast to the raspberry sorbet layer of
fluffy energy-gathering clouds now hovering above the trees

I recall lying awake in the darkness last night,
me and the dying batteries of my flashlight
Hoping to outlast that hopeless feeling that accompanied my temporary blindness.

now, with the savory course of
eggy over-easiness
served full-up and bright with a short order cook's slapping bell DING
I'd welcome quiet
stillness
sleep.

no resolve

McBeth.

I'd like to think that I'm the singularly original nobody-does-it-better girl but the truth is Orionoir came up with a far better, far quicker response to the new year than anything I'd attempted. Yeah, okay so it might be the chundering effects of his chemotherapy which led him to pre-plan his blogging (and really, you gots to give the kudos to the boy if he's that full of foresight that he'd plan his blogging in advance for the time he'd be offline during his chemical flogging, but I digress...) Hang on -- he's a guy! *ding* So maybe I'll continue carrying this ridiculous belief that I'm the pseudo "IT" girl for a while longer. Just a little while. Not long at all, really. Mostly I'm hoping his barf-o-matic ride will be a short one.

Alrighty, here is my meme:

* I resolve not to hesitate when I'm unsure. This should cover menu choices, buying books based solely on the titles, and all matters of dressing myself.

Last year's thinking: "Gosh, should I wear the underwear today?" The new and constantly improving 2005 thought process: "Underwear? HA! And for that matter what's the deal with pants? Who needs 'em?"

* I resolve not to paint my cats in 2005. Simply because I CAN mess with them does not mean I SHOULD mess with them.

* I resolve not to be a square mother in aught-five. I'll get tight with my baby's shizzle, be da bomb maw, best love in the 'hood. The only trouble I may encounter with this one is that - well - my baby's shizzle may not wantza du get tight, y'all. I may have to conceal my supa-mothah status under a veil of boring white middle-aged woman.

* I resolve not to replace all the light bulbs with the super-compact energy efficient numbers. This is a two-parter, really. The energy efficient compacts give off shit light (hey, y'all ever heard of non-yellow, non-oranged light you freaktastic bulb designers? So what if you concocted the cutesy swirl design - don't bother knocking until you have a swirly energy efficient bulb by which I can read... then we'll talk).

What direction have I to travel toward if not for the blessing of my energy inefficient heel dragging? It's a slippery slope, you see... first she goes all energy efficient bulbs, next thing ya know she's moved her house right straight off the grid, eating self-raised ostrich and making quilts using dryer lint from the solar-powered dryer out back. I'm not prepared to be such a progressive citizen. Not before 2010, at any rate, and that's why it really is just best that I put the kai-bosh on the total replacement of my old Reveal blue light light bulbs.

* I resolve not to eat less than heavenly food. I will delight in soft bries, mousse torte, homemade mushroom soup and the occasional bag of Cheetos (if a nibble on a cheese toe will put me one stop closer to the celestial joy of a saturated salivating taste bud).

* I resolve not to travel far without my new thesaurus. I mean, uh, my fresh modern original au courant lexiconography, a veritable glossarist collection of words.

* I resolve not to receive a gift until I am fully prepared to write a thank you note in return. While her methodology may have left something to be desired, my mother's force-feedings on good manners gruel DID teach me how to properly behave; responding appropriately seems like one of those things I can pay my time and attention to.

* I resolve not to be quite the usual passive-aggressive tool I want to be when I get mad (frustrated, tired, bored...).

* I resolve not to leave all those Teleflora vases empty this year. Vase usage stats are not available (read: I have no bloody idea how many of them are currently stored in the hard-to-reach high cabinets, nor how they manage to reproduce adorable bud vases at those astonishing rates). Okay, so for the sake of choosing a number: one. I can surely keep ONE vase filled with a fabulous floriculture fixing.

* I resolve not to purchase any books authored by Dr. Phil McGraw, even though I generally espouse his theories on child-rearing and family cohesiveness. How's that workin' for me? Gr-rrr-rrreat.

* I resolve not to forget how much I get out of the following magazines (the winners names will be announced in no particular order. If your name is called please come forward to the podium to receive your award): Rolling Stone, Wired, PC World, Reason, Bon Appetit, National Geographic (your moon spread was dee-lish). You each bring me joy and I want you to know how much I appreciate you

* I resolve not to panic.
(I'm such a liar. Of course I'll panic, it's what I do. But maybe during my panic moments 'oh yeah, I resolved not to do this' will make the moments shorter, or fewer and further between.)

* I resolve not to pass on presented opportunities to be loved. Furthermore, I resolve not to neglect making opportunities to give love out. The particular commodity is self-replenishing and is always always always available both to give away and to get back. It just makes sense.

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