The Green Clover

2008-06-07T19:39:00.001-07:00

A Recent Conversation

A couple of nights ago, I spent a good amount of time in my friend, Jack's recording studio recording the voiceovers, sound effects, songs, etc. for my play. Everyone had a good time - although, we were all pretty grossed out when Steve was in the sound booth ranting about nipples (because he was perfect)... Creepy... Worse when Trix slapped me on the knee and said, "Why are you cringing? You wrote this!" I think I am a little crazy that way...
The night wore on, and it just ended up being me and Jack. I had done a photo shoot earlier that day for the calendar (fussy art director - not model) and was pretty wiped out. Around 1AM he got a call from some friends and we agreed to meet them at a nearby bar for one drink... It was pretty loud and crowded for a Wednesday night, but maybe I am just old fashioned... And kinda cheesy... but maybe I am a snob for dive bars...
ANYWAY, a friend of his friends started talking to me. I was so exhausted that it kind of blew over me at the time, but when I woke up the next morning I couldn't stop thinking about it. And then it just seemed to get funnier as the day wore on - it was almost positively serendipitous to what I was writing. Here's the conversation:

Random Drunk Dude - So, you've been working in the studio? You must be a singer?
Me - No, I can't carry a tune.
RDD-What instrument do you play?
Me- None.
RDD (as he taps the top of my hat and winks) Oh, you've got to be a performer then. You must get by on your smile and good looks.
Me- No.
RDD (getting really confused now) - What were you doing in the studio then?
Me - I was working on voiceovers and sound effects for my play.
RDD (interest peaked again) Oh! Really? You're an actress then?!? Wow! Now I get it!
Me - No.
RDD (uber confused now) - Well, what are you then?
Me - I wrote the play. I was just overseeing everything, making sure everything was perfect.
RDD - You wrote it?
Me - Yes.
RDD - (stumped has nothing else to say) Oh, uh... okay... (interest lost - and then decides to do a small dance to show me his moves)

Yup, just about one of the funniest, lamest conversations I have had in awhile.... But perfect! People never cease to amaze me.

2008-05-29T11:18:00.001-07:00

Yay - Money in the Garter is on the calendar! Mark it on yours!

Had another rehearsal last night - it went great. Now moving into blocking, props, costumes, etc. Next week a few of us go into my friend's studio to record voiceovers, sound effects, etc. I am so excited I can hardly stand it, but a little scared (okay, a lot scared)....

Everyone has great thoughts, ideas and suggestions... It's thrilling to have the input.

It was a little shocking to discover that I could pretty much dress the entire cast with outfits from my own wardrobe (FYI, that are kept in the lower drawer - costumes really, not for normal every day wear - a dream of mine is to one day have a whole closet full of costumes, wigs, accessories, etc.). It's funny, pulling out those clothes is a reminder how on some level derby life is a "costume" - a form of entertainment we dress up for. And like most forms of entertainment, comes with a background of hard work, discipline, and very unglamorous dedications.

I swear, it's hard to meet people for the first time "derbyfied." - No, I don't normally dress like this... No, a derby event is the only time you will see my name on my ass/back/chest...

I was talking to an OC girl about the time when I was nine and went to the carnival. For my birthday, my mom bought me a blue and white baseball jersey. On the front was an iron-on of a chipmunk scaling a large ice-cream cone, on the back was my name in large letters. I soon discovered it was not the shirt to wear to the carnival. Carnies pouring out from every corner calling my name, screaming at me to come over to their booth, try their game; go on their ride... I was horrified. I never wore the shirt again, and since then have had a mild aversion to having my name displayed - it created a kind of familiarity that I didn't like.... Figures, I would end up in roller derby and embracing the joys of iron-on letters...

Okay, I am going all over the place with this.... Back to work! Less than four weeks away.

Woo-Hoo!!!

2008-05-11T19:41:00.000-07:00

My copies of Bark Magazine came a few days ago with my essay “Evolution” in it. From submission to publication it took about a year and a half. Not too crazy about the lay-out and they didn’t use the bio I sent them (instead clipping info from my query, which is kind of sterile and not in the least bit exciting), but I am thrilled nevertheless.

The original essay I wrote was 17-pages (or 23, I can’t remember. I lost the original in My Great Computer Crash of October 2007). One day, while I was standing in line at Whole Foods, I saw a cover story on William Wegmann, and picked up the magazine. I immediately decided to do something I had never done before – trim down something specifically to gear it toward a magazine. I got the essay down to 6 pages from 17 (or 23, but who’s counting). It was quite a learning experience. For anyone who is a writer I strongly suggest it.
I have a tendency to be longwinded in my correspondence. Fast brain and fast fingers – sometimes I can’t control the two. Many of my emails end up being novellas… Anyway, I am still mourning the loss of some of the material I cut out – but overall I feel it’s much cleaner and more appropriate for the magazine. So, some of my family oddities were left out, and the true demise of some of the animals, and some of the unfortunate events that occur when you have farm animals, (one was poisoned by the neighbors, and another had to be put down because he was running in a pack and killing other animals: chicken, ducks, sheep). But I also didn’t get to say how one of our ducks (Luke Skywalker) was in love with one of our dogs (Fritz). And how J.D. used to bite all of my dates. And how we used to dress up Gretchen (who was entirely cut from the article) in aviator goggles and a cape whenever we went to the town dump, and how she’d stand in the back of the truck on the garbage with her front paws on the cab and her cape blowing in the wind… And I completely cut out other animals (this was about ALL of our animals). How our cow, Showboat thought she was a sheep, and used to get loose, eat all of our neighbors roses, and then wander into their living room and go to sleep (in the summer, in the country, you keep your doors open). Or Tri-State, the rooster, my dad’s co-workers gave to him in an empty KFC bucket after a weekend of fishing and my dad complaining that they ate all the damn chicken. Tri-State couldn’t be left alone and would pace back and forth on our kitchen counters “talking” to us non-stop until mom couldn’t take it anymore and had to take him out to the garage to be with my dad. And how, after any period of time of Tri-State being alone he’d rush up to nuzzle at our legs. Or how I raised my pet lamb, Macarthur from a bottle and he lived in our utility room, wore a collar, and did tricks. Or how my mom liked to take out the seats in our custom-colored turquoise Dodge van, so we could take our pony, Shadow for rides into town (he’d rest his head on mom’s shoulder as she drove) so he could “see the sights.” The list goes on… but perhaps those are better left told in another personal essay… I’d like to write more, and hopefully one day will…. At least “Evolution” is a start.
So, yeah... you can pick up a copy of Bark Magazine from May 15 to July 15 at Barnes and Noble, Borders and Whole Foods. There is actually an interesting article about a dog and cheetah that live together in the Cincinnati Zoo (dying to tell Ibeatya about this) and a great one about The Prison Pet Partnership Program in my home state.
Thanks! For those who read it, I hope you enjoy it.
*******************************************
I wrote this post Friday night before I went to bed. I didn’t have time to post it… I wanted to scan in the cover, and I had practice in the morning, and had to get ready for Fete Fatale the next night.

When I finished writing it, I climbed in my bed and continued flipping through Bark Magazine. There was an article called Rites of Passage by a PhD, who recommended spending some time with the body of your dog after he/she died. That it was important for you, and your other animals, to have closure. She wrote about letting her dead dog lay on the living room floor for the night to ease the bridge of saying good-bye… I found the notion somewhat disturbing. I have always had a hard time dealing with death, and especially with dead bodies. I went to sleep thinking about it… Never did I imagine that less than 24 hours later, 30 minutes before I was to leave for Fete Fatale that I would be in an emergency veterinarian room with one hand stroking my dog, Dita’s head, and the other on her chest, as I felt it rise and expand until the last breath went out of her body….

Dita is a dog I have with my ex, Michael. We split a year and half ago, but shared custody of her and our weimaraner, Wiggy. When I met Michael, Wiggy was six-months old. We got Dita together a year and half later.

Michael had his heart set on getting a Harlequin Great Dane, so we scanned the paper until we found an ad for Great Danes. It didn’t say what kind they were. Michael called the number, and the mother of the couple selling them answered. Michael asked her if they were Harlequins, and she said she didn’t know what that meant. He said it meant that they were black and white. “Oh sure,” she responded, “they are black and white.” We then set a time out to drive out to MS to see them. When we got there, I took one look into the back of the truck and knew they weren’t Harlequins, they were actually Bostons. My heart dropped because I knew Michael specifically wanted a Harlequin and can be very stubborn when he sets his mind to something. But Michael instantly fussed over them. They had brought four puppies: two girls and two boys, even though we said we wanted a girl. Michael was immediately drawn to Dita, the largest of them all, whom like the rest of them was mostly all black with a few white splotches. “What’s this one like?” he asked, picking her up. “Oh, she’s nice,” the lady replied, “but she sure is feisty.” Michael and I both laughed. There was nothing feisty about this sweet puppy cuddled in his arms. And we continued laughing about the whole drive home with Dita in my lap.

We quickly discovered there was everything feisty about this sweet puppy. Dita attached herself to Wiggy with a rapid pace. At the time, we lived in The Bywater and had a back room with a couch, and a dog door leading out to our large fenced-in yard. Whenever we left, we’d shut them in the back. Dita used the couch to not only lounge in and shove Wiggy off of, but to also perform and perfect her “happy dances,” which were spontaneous acts of gleefully wriggling, rolling, and jumping around whenever the mood struck.

Dita’s first Barkus was when Michael was out of town. It was drizzling and I didn’t want to go. Michael argued over the phone how upset Wiggy would be to miss it. Okay, I would take him. But Michael said I couldn’t take Wiggy without taking Dita. Fine. Okay. I took Dita’s pink tutu costume, which I had purchased a couple of weeks before and slipped it on her; it was already snug (she was gaining four pounds a week). Then I slapped my blue Adidas windbreaker on Wiggy, instead of his costume, and headed out. This was before the enormous success of Barkus when only a couple hundred dogs participated and we met at Good Friends. On the way over, we walked through some sketchy neighborhoods where questionable youths commented, “Hey, I like your dog’s jacket.” Great, I thought, I am going to be mugged because of what my dog is wearing. In the end, since it started to rain, I had to end up carrying Dita since she refused to get her paws wet. She weighed about 40 lbs at this point. Eventually, I ran into a friend who helped. She was carried throughout her inaugural Barkus… Luckily, it wasn’t the same after that and she walked the rest of her Barkus’ dressed as a nun, jester and even a cowgirl (as one of The Village People).

Dita was lazy. Lazy, lazy, lazy. And while day or night, or one minute or hours, Wiggy would always get up and greet us at the door whenever we came in. Dita couldn’t be bothered, she was lying on her bed (or Wiggy’s) and although she was happy to see you, you had to understand she had her priorities.

Dita and Wiggy had many adventures. They drove cross county and stayed in many of the National Parks (and were snuck into many of the Motel 6s). They spent a summer on the water in the Northwest. They went to Florida at least twice a year, to lay in the hot sun and be fed treat after treat by their grandparents. They made countless trip to Colorado and frolicked in the snow and hiked in the mountains. In fact, it was in Colorado where they first learned to swim up at a mountain lake. Wiggy, who never quite got the hang of it, and was humiliated when everyone laughed at him for trying to walk on water, got out and refused to go back in, where Dita not only jumped in, but took the rope on the intertube. Michael was sitting in and pulled him around the lake… Wiggy and Dita both did a pretty god job of seeing the sights.

When Michael and I split it was mutually agreed that he would take both the dogs. Dita could not be separated from Wiggy. The few times she had, she went into absolute hysterics. When we took Wiggy to the vet, Dita had to come. When I had to take Wiggy in solo for a pre-check up for an operation, Dita lay by the front door of our house and howled miserably, refusing to move. Michael kept calling me when I was at the vet’s saying how upset she was. I told this to vet who said it was normal, but when I held the phone away from my ear and she heard the anguished moaning, she gave me a surprised look and wrote Dita a prescription for tranquilizers. The next day, when Wiggy went into his surgery, instead of having a 165 lb traumatized dog waiting at home for him, we had a stoned, 165 lb traumatized dog who refused to leave the front door and shit all over our mail… The second Wiggy came back, she rushed over to him, kissing and licking him non-stop. Then a few minutes later she kicked him out of his own bed and took a nap…

Wiggy and Dita still visited, and whenever Michael went out of town they stayed with me. After a year of missing having a dog, even though a part of me felt like it was cheating, I picked up an adorable puppy I christened Fannie that I met at the SPCA kitten adoption drive that BERG was helping out with. The first thing I did before I even took her home was drive her to meet her brother and sister. Fannie adored them! Wiggy and Dita, now in their senior years, tolerated her. When she wasn't jumping all over them, she was showering them all with affection. They would lie on their beds patiently as Fannie would lie in between the two of them and roll back and forth to randomly kiss or chew on their faces.

Dita and Wiggy had been over a few days before, and I kept having to scold Fannie for jumping up on the furniture in an attempt to be the same height as Dita so she could kiss her on her face. I had agreed to watch Wiggy and Dita for seven weeks this summer while Michael was teaching in Germany, and I knew this was just a preview for the entertaining hell I would soon be experiencing.

I had just stepped out of the shower and had 30 minutes before Chess was coming to pick me up to go to Fete Fatale. I had planned on arriving an hour and half before the event to help Asian. Chess had called and offered me a ride, and when I said thanks, but I was going in early to help, she paused and said, “Cool, Dude. I’ll go in early too and we can all hang out together and help.” When I answered the phone, at first I couldn’t understand what Michael was saying because he was so upset. I finally pieced it together as best I could. Dita was sick. She couldn’t move. He couldn’t move her in the truck by himself and needed my help.

I called Asian and Chess in tears and told them I wouldn’t make it, and by that time, Michael called to tell me that the neighbor helped him get Dita in the truck and he was on his way to get me. When I climbed in the back of the truck, Dita lifted her head to greet me and plopped it back down, never to lift it up again. Her breathing was heavy and labored and her abdomen was swollen to three times its normal size. I sat in the back with them, consoling Dita as best as I could while Michael raced to the emergency vet. When we got there, the staff came out and carried Dita in. I stayed in the truck with Wiggy trying to comfort him as he anxiously barked and whined. A short while later, Michael came out, barely able to retain his composure, and said Dita was suffering from advanced bloat – her stomach had twisted up – a lethal condition typical common in large breeds. The doctors could perform a surgery, but it was highly doubtful with her age and condition (we also found out that she had cancer) that she would even survive the surgery. Furthermore, it was no guarantee, and practically a sure thing that within a week it would return and be even more painful.

Michael carried Wiggy into the room with Dita, who was laid out on the examining table, still unable to move. He picked him up and held him close to Dita so they could see each other. The doctors gave us time alone with her while we sobbed, stroked her, said our goodbyes, and told her how much we loved her. When the time came, Michael was stroking her face and kissing her, I was petting her head and resting my hand on her chest, and Wiggy was by our side….

I don’t know how Wiggy is going to handle all of this. It’s hard because I have been preparing myself for Wiggy’s death this last year. Twelve years old and riddled with tumors, his back legs frequently give out on him and he’s unable to use them… but his spirit and heart is still strong. I don’t know how he will ultimately take all of this, and I don’t know how this will affect his already declining health. But like the article had stated, like us, he too had a chance to say goodbye to our Dita. And I did something I thought I could never do, and that was knowingly watch the life go out of a living creature… Especially a creature as unique and special as our dog, Dita.

And I don’t know why I am writing all this. And I am sure if I end up posting it, I won’t know why I did that either. Perhaps it’s because I have always felt more comfortable expressing anger, love, and happiness than I have heartbreak. And my heart is broken… Perhaps this is my chance to learn something… I don’t know just yet. But what I do know was that my life was better for sharing it with Dita, and that I will miss her always.

This is from a profile I wrote on Dita years ago, and posted on Michael’s website based on the Playboy Centerfold Interviews…

Full Name: Dita Louise
Nicknames: Boobanubus, Miss Sweet Spot, Boobakins, Little Girl, Buttercup
Best Friend: Wiggy
Birthdate: November 29th; Sagittarius
Breed: Great Dane
Favorite Foods: Cheese, hamburger, anything that Wiggy is eating
Turn Ons: Swimming, butt rubies, extra soft beds, getting brushed, cubby holes, road trips, the park, sleeping in, and getting dressed up for Barkus.
Turn Offs: Baths, rain, diet food, flying, being told she’s fat, dogs behind fences, leashes, getting her toenails clipped, and cats.
Talents: Able to squeeze herself into small spaces, the ability to look guilt-free regardless of the evidence against her.
Ambitions: To be served breakfast in bed for the rest of her life.
Favorite Quote: Let them eat cake!

Dita giving her friend, Molly a kiss at Barkus

Wiggy & Dita

2008-02-09T10:14:00.000-08:00

My Anthology

I love short story anthologies. Love them. I think it goes back to my school days when we received our new reader every year filled with stories. I always managed to read it within a few days, and typically a teacher would let me “teach” one or two of the stories every year.
There is nothing more annoying to me than reading a short story collection by a writer where every story is told in the same tone, tense, style, etc – just disguised as a different experience. I like writers who can mix it up. With that said, my last few short stories have been in third person – a kind of detached, “know it all” voice. Odd, since first person is my true love.
The two major anthologies I have been working through the last couple of years are: “An Introduction to Fiction” edited by X.J. Kennedy (almost done with this one) and “The Harper Anthology of Fiction” edited by Sylvan Barnet. I also read literary magazines, other anthologies, short story collections, but those two have been on my nightstand the last couple of years.
Anyway, it has always been a dream of mine that when I become an established writer, someone will ask me to edit an anthology. Most anthologies I know have the usual selection (some which are on my list, but damn are they good). I keep these written down in my journal and keep adding to them. So, just in case my journal gets lost one day, here’s my list:

“Rich” Ellen Gilchrist
“The Story of an Hour” Kate Chopin
“The Lottery” Shirley Jackson
“Sunday in the Park” Bel Kaufman
“Revelation” Flannery O’Connor
“A&P” John Updike
“Everyday Use” Alice Walker
“The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World” Gabriel Garcia Marquez
“The Necklace” Guy de Maupassant
“Battle Royal” Ralph Ellison
“Everything That Rises Must Converge” Flannery O’Connor
“The Story of the Bad Little Boy” Mark Twain
“The Story of the Good Little Boy” Mark Twain
“The Mysterious Stranger” Mark Twain
“An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” Ambrose Bierce
“Her Second Career” Ayn Rand
“Good Country People” Flannery O’Connor
“What You Pawn I Will Redeem” Sherman Alexie
“Mr. Green” Robert Olen Butler
“Just Like Dogs” Dylan Thomas
“Eurotrash” Irvine Welsh
“The Fifty-Dollar Bill” Donald Hall
“He” Katherine Ann Porter
“The Bet” Anton Chekhov
“A Visit of Charity” Eudora Welty
“Expelled” John Cheever
“The Appointment in Samara” W. Somerset Maughan
“To Build a Fire” Jack London
“Harrison Bergeron” Kurt Vonnegut, Jr
“A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings” Gabriel Garcia Marquez
“The Dozen Kisses” C.M. Decarmin
“The Waltz” Dorothy Parker
“You Were Perfectly Fine” Dorothy Parker
“The Veldt” Ray Bradbury
“The Monkey Look” F.X. Toole
“A Hunger Artist” Franz Kafka
“The Greatest Man in the World” James Thurber
“Who’s Irish” Gish Jen
“Gryphon” Charles Boxter
“Volunteers are Shining Stars” Curtis Sittenfeld

I know this list will keep on growing… as I remember forgotten, and discover new ones.

2007-10-16T12:22:00.000-07:00

2007-09-15T16:00:00.001-07:00

THE JOY OF STEALING

I just woke up from a dream about an artist friend of mine. I was listening to him – being wowed by his metaphors and woke up and realizied they were actually mine. But what do they mean?

If you’re any kind of artist, you can’t help but be a bit of a thief. Music, painting, writing… It doesn’t matter; you can’t be good unless you shoplift your surroundings. You immortalize the way someone laughs when they are self-conscious; abduct their drawl, swipe a moment of time that belongs to someone else. Take a third-party narrative and make it a first-person memoir. It’s almost an obsession, and often times I find myself more fixated on actually sewing adjectives and phrases together in my head about a person or event, then really being in the moment.
I’ve gotten into trouble for this.
I have a story coming out this month that I wrote based on an incident my friend told me about a misplaced condom and a broken beer bottle. The character isn’t her (neither are some of the events), but it was her tidbit that inspired the whole piece. It was a fraction of her life that gave birth to my tale.
When she read the story, she immediately said, “This isn’t me. I never said that. I never did that. I’m not THAT promiscuous.” That is what “based on” means… Ultimately, she was okay with it and liked the story, but it is still theft. Except it’s like stealing the buttons off of a blouse instead of the whole shirt.
Right now I am grappling with a fantastic story a friend told me – of course, the vignette can not make up a whole story by itself (they almost never do) – it would serve for some kind of base or jumping off point. Damn, it’s a good one…. I’ve scribbled it down in my journal and we will see. It’s there with my latest entries: What my friend’s mom called Maxi Pads…. What a friend ate for breakfast every morning growing up in Latin America… Contradictions about a boy… and this new ditty.

The two greatest qualities any artist has are observation and interpretation. Being cognizant of your surroundings – watchful – and then giving your own translation. This doesn’t necessarily mean one will be successful at their attempt, but it’s the root for any great project. You might get lucky flying blind once in awhile, but dumb luck only gets you so far. Hence the phrase, “One Hit Wonder…” Not to say anyone who has more than one hit is a true artist --- that’s a whole ‘nother topic – mostly a reflection on our society.

And once again, sliding off of this moral platform… best stopping theorizing about it, and actually do it (or attempt it).
Off to work on my play rewrites and novel… and shake off this newest afternoon dream.

2007-09-04T17:16:00.000-07:00

A PRICEY PAIR OF PANTIES
My experience with formal dances is limited.

Freshman year -went to the Tolo (Northwest version of Sadie Hawkins) in a horrifyingly scratchy and periwinkle dress. My date was Jim, the first boy I ever kissed, and the first boy I ever made cry (at another dance, but that an informal one after the football game so it doesn’t count).

Sophomore year - went to an all-girls, boarding school where prom was limited to upperclassmen, so I crashed it with a friend and was eventually kicked out by the nuns. It was next to impossible to hide, dance, eat potato chips and blend in. The dance was held in the TV room where our anorexic typing teacher worked out daily to Jane Fonda. Even she took up a lot of space.

My junior year- back at boarding school, had a date to the prom (local blond heartthrob) but only five other girls did, so it was cancelled due to the junior and senior’s class lack of ability to get a guy in a suit (even with the promise of poorly lit groping).

Senior year went to a new public school (Tolo again) and instead of asking the big jock (who was insanely muscular and reeked of cologne), like everyone wanted me to, I asked an old friend. No pressure; we danced, had a good time and went picture time occurred, I laid him out in my lap and dangled grapes over him.

My senior year, I also ended up going to college at night and graduating early from high school. When my parents suggested I get a job to help cushion the cost of my schooling in Wales, I announced, at the age of seventeen, I was temporarily moving to New York and would be back in four months…. “Uh, we were thinking more a long the lines of Dairy Queen,” my mom said… So I missed my senior prom. And with the exception of seeing “Pretty in Pink,” (sometimes I have nightmares about Molly Ringwald screaming, “What about prom, Blaine?!?”) I am naïve in terms of proper prom experiences. No corsages, stinky tuxes and strapless bras that didn’t fit. On the even brighter side, less photographic evidence of bad hairstyles.

I wouldn’t change the choices I made, but still there is something wanting about missing your school cafeteria being transformed into “Heaven on Earth” with simply balloons and crepe paper. There is this disjointed bonding that I don’t have with other people.

With this little experience, it was my first dance my freshman year that stood out – for many reasons. And it wasn’t because of the boy.

Jim was sweet and a little goofy, but wrote me these horribly boring, incredibly long notes detailing every minute of his existence. Every Monday morning I would open my locker to find a 20-page note stuffed inside. “I just got in from working in the yard with my dad for 47 minutes. I thought of you the whole time… For lunch I had pizza and watched 20 minutes of a Laverne & Shirley rerun. Wish you could be here.” While other girls swooned, I always dreaded getting those notes in 9x12 envelopes.

But, unbeknownst to me, my first dance taught me an important lesson. And it wasn’t sexual politics (interestingly there is a pattern from all the dances I did attend – or did not- I had to ask the boy). And it wasn’t how to sneak in alcohol. And it wasn’t how to avoid getting pounded on my senior girls (call their bluff and they will back off). It was the art of achieving the bubble-math mentality in the middle of a stinking swamp. After spending a ludicrous amount of money on a Jessica Mcclintock dress that I DID NOT want (I looked liked an antebellum prostitute with extremely poor taste) my mom took me to a specialty shop. She decided that since I suddenly had the urge to dress up, I might as go all the way and get a pair of gloves. While my mom stood in line and commiserated with the sales lady on how fast they grow up… I walked through the aisles, somehow ending up in the lingerie section. My mom caught me fingering a pair of gorgeous silk, soft gray, lacy underwear. “Let’s buy them,” she said, impulsively grabbing them. My mouth dropped open. I would have been less shocked if my mother (who was the volunteer accountant at our church) suggested that I steal them. “But they are eleven dollars!” I couldn’t even phantom spending money on a piece of underwear that cost the same amount as our entire family eating at McDonalds. My mom, who literally darned our socks and sewed patches in our pants, just smiled and walked to the counter, “We won’t tell your father.”

All night, it wasn’t my first formal dress, or the first boy I kissed, or the elbow-length gloves that made me feel secretly empowered - it was the knowledge of the price tag of my underwear.

Finally, the urge was too much for me and in a moment of weakness (and perhaps intimacy) I leaned over to Jim and said, “I have a secret.” He asked what, and after mustering my courage up (for this WAS bravado underwear) I told him, “I am wearing eleven-dollar underwear.” Of course, telling any teenage boy the cost of your undergarments is bound to illicit a different response. While I expected him to be awed by my sophistication, he became hell bent on seeing them – and I don’t think it was for just witnessing what eleven-dollar underwear looked like. I spent the rest of the night fighting him off. And no… he never saw them.

For years, the underwear stayed in my drawer and many times I would choose torn up old ones, or bathing suit bottoms over my eleven-dollar pair. The only times my fancy undies came out was if I went to the ballet, or a nice restaurant, or it was my birthday. But as I became older and working for myself, these “special” times became farther and farther apart. While, I always found a way to have fun, it was never the traditional “expensive fun.” It was more the poor, non-traditional, bordering-on-jail fun. Soon I found my eleven-dollar underwear fit just as well under an old pair of jeans, then they did under a silky gown. It was a sad moment when they too became so tattered that I could no longer wear them. But at least I wore them. I least I worked, had sex, rode a bike, cleaned the house, read a book in them. They got used, and it didn’t diminish their power. If you spend your life waiting for special occasions, you spend your life, well… waiting. Life is not a series of formal dances, something I always should have known.

I am reminded of that fabulous Dorothy Parker quote, “Take care of the luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves.” There is something so vital about treating yourself, about finding a balance between responsibility and spontaneity. It’s almost spiritual: occasionally ordering the fancy wine, buying the satin bustier, ordering two appetizers. In general, those things have never been important to me, but it’s fun to splurge and sometimes in times of trauma and distress, it becomes crucial. With everything that has been going on lately, I crave release more than ever. It’s the only way to make those life chores bearable and deal with those circumstances that you just can’t avoid (no matter how hard you protect yourself). Seeking out the luxuries, whether it is buying a new window for the house, expensive dinner with friends, a piece of art, or that lovely pair of silk drawers… is the only way I know to avoid being ground up by the grind.

A few years ago, my friend and I were reminiscing over our summers at camp. I was shocked to realize how perfectly my very bra purchase summed me up. I was twelve and I didn’t want to get one. I wanted to remain a tomboy forever, but after being teased in math class once for not wearing one, I finally relented. I picked out a plain white cotton bra and a silk, leopard-print bra. And my mom bought me both without saying a word.

But of course in typical style, I let my best friend borrow my leopard bra at camp (even though it didn’t fit her – too small) for the daily price of a box of licorice and a soft serve ice cream cone. My practical side (or sweet tooth, however you want to spin it) still existed.

It’s a testament that even surrounded by such luxuries, a leopard never changes its spots, whether it be white cotton, silk, or lace.

2007-08-26T21:18:00.000-07:00

I love, love, love Kurt Vonnegut. We recently did a Rollergirls' Favorite Things Basket and I wanted to submit a book. I wrestled between "Slaughterhouse-Five" and "Animal Farm". In the end, I chose Orwell. So, I thought I would give a shout out to Vonnegut.
Odd, usually not my style... but I adored him. I remember not discovering him until I was 19 - and bemoaning the fact that I waited so long. Had I missed out?
When I lived in NY, I applied to the Eugene Lang College for Social Research. The man giving my interview (a mature 26) was shocked that I had never read Vonnegut. He gave me Slaughterhouse-Five... and then asked me out.
But since I chose Orwell for the basket... Here is some Vonnegut. He will be missed.
Here are some nuggets. I wanted to choose 3 or 5 (love those odd numbers) but I couldn't help myself.

2007-08-02T21:01:00.000-07:00

This is what I like to do when I clean my house or take road trips (neither I have done lately – very apparent to those who have been over to my house recently), play Dr. Seuss cds. I have two, and they contain such classics as Horton Hatches an Egg (my favorite), The Lorax, Cat in the Hat, Green Eggs and Ham and Yertle the Turtle (missing The Sneetches, another one of my favorites – “Now, the Star-Belly Sneetches had bellies with stars. The Plain-Belly Sneetches had none upon thars”). The stories are read by an amazing group of actors: Walter Matthau, John Cleese, Dustin Hoffman, Kelsey Grammer, David Hyde Pierce, among others.

Ah…. I have always been a sucker for a nice voice. When I say always, I mean it has always been there – I just never really realized it until recently. Poetry and presentation. A bad poem can be disguised by a masterful voice. A good poem can be destroyed by an atrocious voice. There is nothing more sublime than a good piece of work being read by a worthy voice. I can’t really define the type of voice I like – accent doesn’t matter, deepness doesn’t automatically strike – just something that can make me lull away. I love being read to (but must admit I kind of suck at reading out loud). It’s something I rarely get. Lovely words, words, words – what could be better?

Whenever I have problems with the children’s story I am writing (which is done entirely in rhyme) I take out Horton Hatches and Egg and read out loud for a few minutes. The rhythm… the pacing… the genius. I’ve spent hours breaking Seuss’s poetry down word by word – and despite the deconstruction, there is still something so magical about it. It’s easy – and isn’t that what true genius is – making something look easy?

And Dr. Seuss was the master. I wonder what he sounded like…

2007-07-05T20:37:00.000-07:00

THREE SHORT ONES

“In this short Life”

In this short Life
That only lasts an hour
How much – how little- is
Within our power.

-Emily Dickinson

“First Fig”

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends
It gives a lovely light

-Edna St. Vincent Millay

“A man said to the universe”

A man said to the universe;
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”

-Stephen Crane

Oh.... writers block is so rare, but it's usually only brought on by a horrible head cold, which I now have.
Can't think. Can't write. Can't rhyme. Can only respond.
But I can still appreciate... If only my nose would stop running...

2007-07-04T07:26:00.001-07:00

My New Favorite Art Piece

I recently discovered this amazing new piece on my visit home. It’s called, “Will’s Special Place,” and it is by the new hot artist, my nephew, William Henry. A mere eight-years old when he first created it, this now sophisticated nine-year old enjoys art, engineering and training his new dog, Doby.

The theme of this assignment was “My Special Place.” Everyone in Will’s class was asked to make a drawing of their favorite place. The artist chose his grandpa’s recliner with one of grandma’s quilts over him. Although he created the piece in oil pastels, his favorite tool of choice is pencils. When asked what he liked about art, he replied, “A lot of stuff.”
What I like about this piece is not only the colors, but also the composition. The angles and shading are fantastic! The depth perception is particularly impressive. Even the artist himself had to say about his work, “Yeah, I did a good job.”

Words to live by.

2007-07-01T10:45:00.000-07:00

VOODOO VIRGINIA

Not necessarily being a fan of Virginia Woolf, I have to give her some props. “A woman must have money and a room of her own.” Woolf meant this in order for a woman to write. I am going to elaborate on this. “A woman must have money and acres of her own.” And not just for writing, for thinking. For breathing.

Whenever I go home to Washington it just becomes more obvious that I am person who needs room to stretch and wander. Years ago, my parents sold my childhood home on the water. I still dream about it at least once a month. It had a huge pasture where I used to sit out with my sheep and read and pick the most amazing wild blackberries. It was also right on the Puget Sound so my summer days were filled with swimming in freezing water, digging geoducks, paddling my dinghy and building sand castle forts that never saw the nighttime.

Still, their new home has room to move around outside. Yes, you can see the neighbors, and it is on this odd-shaped lot. But there are flowers, trees, two ponds, fruits, vegetables and lots of grass. I can wander around outside with various animals following me and pick random fruit. I can sit on their small deck and listen to birds. Of course, I take into account that one of my main sources of relaxation is I usually have nowhere urgent to go when I am home. And yes, most of my meals are cooked for me. And yes I can write and quilt to my heart’s content. But it is quiet (when my dad, who is now going deaf, isn’t blasting his various TV shows) and it is green.

I was raised without art, without literature, without music, but I was raised to go after what I desired.

In New Orleans, I like to spend as much time as possible on my back porch. I am a firm believer in the mental therapeutics of a hammock. But sometimes moving about the yard, even for the shortest time, gives me heat stroke in the summer. And I can still hear loud music from my neighbors, and cars speeding down the street and the occasional argument.

Would I miss the city and culture? Yes, of course. Where else can I have a weekend like last weekend? Attend a voodoo ceremony where the voodoo priestess wore a thong. Sit next to drummers from New Guinea and try to have a conversation despite our language barrier. Talk with a woman who traveled from Delaware with her adorable grandkids to be healed. Get my hair washed in the traditional voodoo rite - water mixed in with things from the alter: cake, flowers, perfume, fruit, etc.– in this gunky paste that covered my head while they chanted. Then have my head wrapped in a white cloth and be told that I needed to wear it until the morning in order for it to work and dream my prophetic dream (which I did). And to have all of this interrupted by my friend’s text message. “Y’all coming to the sex toy party? Now at Bridge Lounge? Me drunk. Fireworks.” And then to go to the Bridge Lounge, dressed in white with my cakey hair and white headpiece and be mistaken for a nun (or a “really hot pirate”) before we get our drinks and head to the back room for a private sex toy party that goes late into the night. Watch my friends argue over who gets to wear the vibrating panties, or be tied up and blindfolded, or fight over various lotions that they rub on different parts of their bodies and compare notes. Or have my friend pick up an armful of toys and yell across the room, “X, will you show me how to use these?” And to have the slightly shaken “hostess” tell me at the end of the night, “Phew, I am used to having at least one rowdy person in the group, but not the entire group.” Yes, I would miss that. Definitely. And I am not saying that there are not opportunities for solitude and nature in the city. It’s just in the city you usually have to travel to it, not wake up to it.

And sometimes I have just as much fun playing Chinese Checkers with my nephews, or hanging out with my friends and their family on their couch talking and having a cheap glass of wine.

It makes me even more determined to get what I want. To be able to float between those two worlds on my own terms.

I don’t think contradictions make people hypocritical; I think they make them more full human beings.

I write this on my childhood bed, an uncomfortable twin bed with a bookcase built in. (my teenage bed is safe in my office in New Orleans). I have a quilt my mom made out of Crown Royal Bags on my lap, my cat Fido is stretched out next to me, and on the walls are these pieces of wood my mom decoupaged with Raggedy Ann & Andy and some framed pictures of bunnies. There is also a vase of fresh flowers behind me. And in the bookcase on my bed? “Hell in a Very Small Place - the Siege of Dien Bien Phu,” “A Perfect Hell-The True Story of the Black Devils, the Forefather of the Special Forces,” “Infantry Aces-The German Solider in Combat in WW2,” and “Star Trek – Strange New Worlds.” Ahhh…. Home.

To quote Virginia Woolf again, “Arrange whatever pieces come your way.”

I am off to kayak.

P.S. For breakfast I had a smoothie I made from my mom’s garden with fresh raspberries, cherries and strawberries, a few pieces of black licorice, a bowlful of raw peas from my sister’s garden and a poptart. I love being home!

2007-06-28T07:09:00.001-07:00

SOMETIMES THE ONLY THING THAT COMES OUT OF TAKING THE HIGH ROAD ARE NOSEBLEEDS!

2007-06-15T06:20:00.000-07:00

ART: IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER #3

I first discovered Gleb Golubetski in a French Quarter gallery around 1999. Initially, he was not someone that I would ordinarily be drawn to. The paintings of his on display were landscapes and flowers. In general, those subjects tend to bore me. But there was something amazing about the texture and light of his work. While I wasn’t necessarily enamored with the ones I saw in front of me, he was someone I wanted to explore more. I found his works for sale on a website in Prague. Golubetski was young. Born in 1975, in Omsk, Russia, he studied at The Academy of Art in Saint Petersburg. His father was a Merited Artist of the Soviet Union. I haunted the website until, one day, the painting I wanted emerged. At the time, Golubetski painted landscapes, doorways, cottage rooms and boats from his travels all over Europe. They were all equally stunning, but I didn’t feel connected to them. This painting, “Rome” spoke to me on many levels - even on the website, I could tell his use of color was extraordinary. Ascetically, it was gorgeous (later, I discovered that Golubetski only paints in oil and only uses a palette knife). It was the first (and only) painting I ever bought online without actually seeing it, and one of the first paintings I bought outright (I am the Queen of Layaway). I purchased it immediately, and with the wonders of technology, it arrived at my work in a tube a few days later from Prague.

To me, the painting represents the end of a lovely afternoon. It literally glows (and hums). A boy bike and a girl bike. Together, but separate. There seems to be this beautiful comfort and need that is expressed, while at the same time conveying independence. This painting for me evokes contented sighs, mild breezes, swaying hammocks, arms and legs intertwined on a lazy Sunday morning between the sheets and luminosity.

I can’t wait to see what else Golubetski does. His future is bright!

2007-06-09T19:03:00.001-07:00

The Head of a Dead Cat

I really, really don’t want to comment on Paris Hilton because I like to pretend that she does not exist. And who needs another commentary about the conceited AND stupid heiress? But with all this recent media attention swarming around her, (minute by minute updates – no matter how I try to avoid it) and her cries of “victim,” it only reinforces something I have been pondering for quite awhile.

It’s become increasingly disturbing to me that the older I become, the more I realize how fuckin’ old fashion I am. There are simple “rules” in life that I see fading with each passing day. It disturbs me how “childcentric” this society has become. Although I don’t have children of my own, working as a camp counselor, nanny, day care worker, volunteering with the Big Brothers & Big Sister Program and having 13 nieces and nephews, it doesn’t leave me entirely clueless. Doesn’t make me an expert either... But here goes.

What society seems to be lacking today is accountability. If Paris Hilton had an ounce of the gumption and intelligence (I’m not asking a lot – an ounce) she’d smile her manufactured smile, wave her sun-streaked arm, and cat walk her way to jail gracefully for the crimes she has committed. At least then, one could somewhat respect her. For example on the topic of gumption and intelligence in celebrity lives--- In 1927, Mae West was arrested for public obscenity for her play, “Sex,” which she wrote, directed and produced. And yes, she fought the charges with a high-paid lawyer. When the presiding judge asked her if she was trying to show contempt for the court, she sweetly responded, “On the contrary, your Honor, I was doing my best to conceal it.” Eventually she was sentenced to 10 days and sweet-talked the warden in being allowed to wear her silk underwear instead of the scratchy prison issue. She was released after eight days for good behavior, for which she commented to the press, “It’s the first time I ever got anything for good behavior.” Afterward, she wrote a magazine article about her experience and donated her $1,000 fee to the prison library. That’s class.

Did West deserve to go to jail? No, it was purely a puritanical reaction. But yes, it’s one thing to rebel against the suffocating morals of society through art, and it’s another thing to be a complete idiot and blame someone else for your obvious disregard for the law (Hilton “didn’t know her license was suspended”). West, as always, handled it with class. I don’t think she ever once asked for pity, or cried out, “It’s not right.” Besides, West’s crime was an interpretation of the law (obscenity is purely subjective) while there is not a lot of room for interpretation in the case of drunk driving. You did it, or you didn’t.

The whole thing disgusts me, regardless of it being a cultural commentary on today’s society. Why do we care about this gnat-brained imbecile? Although, historically, it has been misrepresented that rich people must be more fascinating than the average droves of human beings. After many interviews with “average” people of different classes – I beg to differ.

So pulling out the ladder on which to climb up on my platform, these are some of the lessons I learned growing up in rural Washington State.

1. You get caught, you pay for it. AND you don’t complain about it. My dad liked to tell the story about when he was a kid and got into a fight on the school bus. The bus driver slammed on the brakes, walked back, grabbed them by the necks and threw them out in the snow. They walked home. When my dad arrived at his doorstep cold and shivering, my grandmother took one look at him and said, “Well, you deserved it.” I paid the piper many a time growing up. Sometimes I got away with things (okay, I was pretty good at getting away with things) but always in my mind loomed the possibility of punishment. Whenever I took the steps toward something that I knew had consequences, I went in knowing the odds. And yes, sometimes the desire outweighed the practical, but isn’t that the case in most stupid/fun decisions? You skip school and get caught, you get detention (or suspension). You sneak out at night and get caught, you get grounded. You mess around and break something you were not suppose to touch, you work your ass off until it is paid for. Very simple. I almost break out in hives over reports of parents who sue school districts because their kids were caught cheating and the teachers failed them. Many times (the majority) the parents win. If I had done something like that, my parents would have killed me. I would have been in that classroom with my head hanging low cleaning erasers for the rest of the year. And I would have been sent to summer school, I am sure of it. AND I would have failed the class. So here’s the proverb to best sum it up: “In times of trouble, leniency becomes a crime.”

2. Work isn’t going to kill you. You might not tell from looking at me, but I helped shingle our roof, dig ditches, cut grass, chop wood, clean out animals’ pen, pick and can fruit, put in fence posts (the worst – my brother got the brunt of that job) and did the traditional chores: dusting, dishes, sweeping, etc. Someone set the table; someone cleared it. Someone washed the dishes; someone dried them. It was by no means child labor; it was contributing. It was being a part of a family. With these chores, I also found time to ride my bike, build go-carts, dig geoducks on the beach, swim in between the boards of a shipwreck (which was something I was not supposed to do – and I got caught for it – and there was hell to pay. And yes, I did keep doing it but…), climb trees (and accidentally set fire to one) invent things that didn’t work, make “poison cookies” (full of crushed of dog food and hot sauce) to feed the neighbor boys, construct forts in the woods, and scale mud mountains (oh, there is nothing worse than being hosed down outside in the middle of a Puget Sound winter). Even though we were the first ones in the neighborhood to have Atari, I didn’t spend a lot of time inside, and when I did, it was usually devoted to reading or writing. Granted, if I had videos and Cable TV at my fingertips without limits, things probably would have been different. Every Saturday morning (when we didn’t have to chop wood) my brother and I would be up before dawn to watch cartoons – all cartoons, until the horribly boring American Bandstand came on and signaled it was time for us to go outside and play. Every morning we had a list of chores that we were expected to perform before my parents came home from work (from the age of eight and nine, we got ourselves off to school and took care of ourselves when we got home). On the weekends, we helped out for a few hours and once done, we were free to do what we pleased.
When I hit around fourteen-years old, I became anxious to get an after-school job so I could earn some extra money. Most of my friends had one, and I found them to be very exotic. My dad refused. He started working at age 13 and told us, “You will have your whole life to work, now is the time to enjoy yourselves.” And I look back now and am glad my summers were fairly lazy and carefree, and I really didn’t need that extra shirt or record that a job would have afforded. And it didn’t make me sloth-like (not too much). It made me appreciate my down time, and it made me appreciate the value of hard work. Proverb for that: “The lazy sweat when they eat, and complain of the cold when they work.”

3. A thank you goes a long way. My mother was very strict on thank-you notes. If someone takes the time to do something nice for you, then the least you can do is sit down and write them a note. Every year, right after Thanksgiving, we would start on our gifts for our teacher, bus driver and principal. Sometimes they were handmade gifts, other times we baked Swedish Tea-Rings (amazing family recipe) or cookies, but whatever it was, it was a statement of our appreciation. I am FAR from perfect, especially in the social-graces department, but I still try. Manners have always been VERY important to me, and I tend to surround myself with people who feel the same way. It doesn’t make you stiff. It doesn’t make you stuffy. It doesn’t make you less passionate or spontaneous. It just makes you considerate, and that is a HUGE deal. I wish I could say I was that way 24/7, but it’s a conscious effort. I am always trying to follow this Chinese proverb: “Do not forget little kindesses and do not remember small faults.”

4. Friends are important. My dad has had the same best friend since he was 11. He also spent 30 years in The National Guard, so I grew up with (and continue to grow with) my dad’s Guard friends (fireman, longshoreman, truck driver). My mom has had the same pen pal in England (they have visited each other many times) since she was a child. My sister is still close friends with her best friend from middle school. My brother met his best friends in elementary school. I am very proud of the friends I have; they are kind, loyal, creative, odd and compassionate. People, in general, interest me and I am always excited to hear their stories, but very few individuals I am actually interested in – if that makes any sense. If you trust yourself, you can trust others. Sometimes only time will weed out who is a weed and who is a flower (LOUD GROAN over cheesiness from that last statement). Status, money, background are all trivial when it comes to someone who will be there for you in your time of need. Not that I have ever given a shit about status, bank accounts, blah blah blah. So here is a proverb for that: “Friends are made in wine and proved in tears.”

With that said, my home life was far from perfect. There were definitely troubles, but it is your choice to decide what to take away from each experience. You model yourself after the good, and learn from the bad. There are things I will do differently than my parents, and there are things I will strive to be as half as good as they have been.
Everyone has sad stories, but not everyone has stories on how they overcame them.

And I am trying not sound preachy. Honest. But I still haven’t figured out how one can take a moral stance without sounding preachy but … the whole point of this is, “Paris Hilton is an idiot.” And her parents are even worse!

For some reason, I keep thinking of this old Zen story. The beauty of a lot of these stories are they are “like water.” Flexible. Fluid to every situation. So, to sum up: A student asks a Zen Master what the most valuable thing in the world is. The master replies, “The head of a dead cat.” When the student asks why, the master says, “Because no one can name its price.”

And for people who put a price on everything: justice, friendship, fame, nothing ever is truly priceless, and that is a shame. With a price tag you lose the wonderment. You lose the actual value of things that can not be assessed: a job well done, a thoughtful gesture, a good friend.

So there you go – Mae West, ditch digging, the magic of Swedish Tea Rings and Zen… I guess it would have been easier to say, I am happy Paris Hilton is in jail. Woo-Hoo!

But that wouldn’t be any fun…

2007-05-31T19:30:00.000-07:00

I just want to go on the record to say,

I BELIEVE IN BIGFOOT!

2007-05-18T14:54:00.001-07:00

COME ONE, COME ALL!

2007-05-16T19:40:00.000-07:00

On the dog theme…. I had forgotten about a poster I made a few years ago starring Wiggy. I was lounging in the backyard and started shooting pictures of Wiggy for no reason. When I downloaded them onto my computer, I noticed they told a story. A story of a dog and a sprinkler. So modeling it after “Life is Hell” by Matt Groening, I made a big poster and called it “Anatomy of a Relationship.” My significant other was in Turkey for a month, so I made the print to surprise him. I remember being excited and showing it to one of my closest male friends and he said, “You can’t give that to him; it will upset him!” But I thought it was really funny, and thankfully he did too. It was a nice surprise when he got home.
Basically the poster was in rows and it had the verbiage below it. I don’t know if it will have the same effect shown this way, but it still cracks me up. I wonder if Wiggy posed this way for me on purpose. Hmmmm…..

Anatomy of a Relationship

I am so lonely.

Who is that?

Do you come here often?

I have so much fun with you!

Even my friends like you.

I love you.

Do I look fat?

You seem so distant lately.

We don't talk anymore.

Ahhh.... alone at last!

2007-05-16T19:09:00.000-07:00

I Miss My Dogs

Yes, they bark nonstop, drool, their farts peel the paint off the wall, and half of my floor is still insulated by their hair, but I miss them. I didn’t realize how much until I had them for the weekend. It wasn’t anything special. I completely tore the guest bathroom apart to paint it a much sunnier and brighter color than advertised on the tiny paint chip (my bathroom is still in pieces in the living room while I decide what to do with the color). I bathed them. Laid in the hammock on the porch with them for a bit while they dried. Bought them new bones to gnaw. They hung out on the front porch and barked at every person that passed, or twig that broke, or car alarm that went off… I put raw eggs in their food as treats. Took them for a late night walk/drag. Nothing to out of the ordinary. Wiggy still walks me to the door when I leave; Dita barely opens one eye. Wiggy always gets up to greet me, even if I just came in from taking out the garbage. Dita still attacks me if I have cheese in my hand; Wiggy salivates over grapes. Wiggy still takes the blame for everything, while Dita takes none. Wiggy is still angst ridden; Dita randomly performs her “happy dances.” Wiggy still loves to sniff and groom Zelda; Dita still tries to eat her. Wiggy still sits near me and sighs loudly when he thinks I am ignoring him; Dita still tries to sit in my lap any chance she gets.
I was relieved when they were gone. I could make my bed without Dita rubbing up against it and destroying the sheets. I could take a nap without them waking me up every four minutes. I could climb into bed at night without having to wonder when was the last time I took them out. I didn’t have to scramble to make sure they had food and water in the morning, when I barely remember to feed myself sometimes. I didn’t have to cover the furniture with crap so they wouldn’t climb on it when I was gone. I didn’t have someone breathing on me constantly, telepathically begging me, “Pay attention to me! Pay attention to me!” But they both have great hearts.
It’s been eight months and I still miss them. And they drive me up the wall. And they make me laugh. And without diving into things too personal, that’s what happens when any relationship ends - for whatever reason (good or bad) or regardless of whoever initiates it, there is still loss. And you still keep feeling it. And it still affects you. Deep in my writing last night, I had a mild panic attack thinking I was ignoring the dogs. And with the calm that came when I realized that they were gone, there also came sadness.
I went to the SPCA about a month ago to see if I could find another dog, and while there were a lot of great ones, there wasn’t one that jumped out at me. I’m not in a rush. I’ll find one. It just has to be right.
And I know this just "screams it," but for once, this is not a metaphor for anything else. Honest.
I just really miss my dogs.

2007-05-09T05:53:00.000-07:00

I am very excited about this, and for many reasons.

1. I have derby friends in it.
2. It’s going to me an amazing smorgasbord of various art forms and artists
3. It’s all local.
4. It’s reasonably priced – I don’t have to pay $25 to see a bunch of GI Joes glued to the floor in an obscene way. All right, CAC! It’s about time.

I might go both nights, I am that thrilled!

2007-05-06T19:53:00.000-07:00

ART: IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER #2

This is my most recent acquisition. As in, the credit card statement hasn’t even arrived on my doorstep yet.

There are many different stories on this piece. So, in typical fashion, I will jump around a bit.

Last weekend at Jazz Fest, while I was pursuing the Contemporary Craft section with my friend, Trix, I saw many of the artists that I had seen before at The American Craft Council Shows in Baltimore. The show in Baltimore is a juried show with over 800 artists from around the world. The first few days are for wholesale only – gallery owners come from all over the country to place orders. The last few days are for retail only. People travel from all over the country (mainly the East Coast) to buy things directly from artists’ booths. It’s a great show, although it always falls around Mardi Gras, the food prices are astronomical, it’s freezing and the air in the convention center is comparable to sitting on an airplane for 12 hours straight. But…. you get to see some great art. Many of the art pieces I will be writing about in the future came from that show.

Anyway, I told Trix about this one artist I wanted to get Chris Roberts-Antieau Roberts-Antieau makes “fabric paintings” She rocks the appliqué tradition. While I love animals, I tend to shy away from “animal art” in general; it makes me feel just a little bit too precious. But aside from the basic skill and craft of Roberts-Antieau’s work, there is a deep, slightly twisted humor to it. My favorites tend to be her “Bad Habits” and “Manners” series. I have also seen some amazing work from her 2005 collection that included a Circus series and King Kong piece. In her new collection she even has one “Alligator Attacks” and another one of Jerry Lawler pile driving Andy Kaufman. Not topics you usually see on quilts. How she does it?

“She hunts through old five-and-dimes and tiny country quilt shops to collect a palette of fabrics: linens, flannels, cottons, calicos-even velvet. Back in her studio in the Michigan woodlands, she cuts her designs freehand, then uses the sewing machine as a drawing tool to define the borders of her figures with a beautiful, almost invisible satin-stitch. She finishes her pieces with hand-embroidery work, and then frames the finished art behind glass in hand-painted frames.”

Wow… being raised by quilters (Great Grandmother, Grandmother, Mother) and doing some quilting myself, you can’t help but be impressed by the skills involved. While my family has/had a tendency to veer toward the more traditional forms of quilting, I have always been drawn to the storybook quilts. And even though I have yet to master quilting, or to even learn appliqué, it’s my favorite form. I love the hidden messages and symbolism involved in the storybook quilts. My mom recently has been experimenting with form and making some amazing pieces.

My mom made this one based on a comic book cover from the 1940s. It looks even better close up

I feel if my Great-grandmother (Ivy Love Green – what a magical name) was still alive today, she would be doing the same thing. I have seen many of her quilts, but by the time I was born, her hands had become too riddled with arthritis to do the thing she loved. Instead, she would color coloring books for me. I remember sitting next to her (she always smelled liked roses) while she would color “Proverbs.” The one I remember the most, and have always taken to heart, was her coloring in the picture of a boy helping an elderly woman across the street – “Handsome is as handsome does.”

All right, so how is that for jumping around?

Back to Jazz Fest, Trix and I went to visit my friend, Mitchell Guadet, who owns Studio Inferno. I am lucky to own one of Mitchell’s pieces (which I will write about later) and would one day like to acquire more. We chatted for a while and then I walked around the corner, and right next to Mitchell’s booth was Chris Roberts-Antieau! Her first time at Jazz Fest! I was stunned and excited. I had actually tried to buy a piece 2 years ago and it fell through (some damn emergency came up where I had to spend money on something “practical”). Going through her booth, I recognized many of her traditional pieces; I was also thrilled to see a series of blues artists (I assume specifically made for Jazz Fest) and then I saw him…. John Lee Hooker – one of my favorite blues men (he is tied with Booker T. Laury). I first discovered Hooker back in 1987-88 (much to the dismay of my friends who were still absorbing the Top 40 radio). My friends could barely tolerate Elvis and Jerry Lee, but they would demand I turn him off when they came into my bedroom. I loved Hooker. Born in Mississippi to sharecroppers, his sound was simultaneously yearning, cocky, confident, passionate and pained. If I had to nail down favorites it would be: Boom! Boom! Dimples (“You’re my babe, I got my eyes on you”) I Need Some Money, and my all-time favorite – You Know, I Know.

Look at these details!

With recent events, I tried to be sensible, but Hooker was calling for me. I decided to walk around and think about it. And think about it was all I could do. So right before the BINGO! Show, I went over and bought it. They agreed to hold it for me until Jazz Fest ended so I didn’t have to carry it around with me. Poor Trix and I got separated, and she stopped back by the booth, and was sorry to call and break the news to me, “I am sorry, your piece is gone. Someone else bought it.” I was happy to tell her that I was the one who bought it. That’s when I knew I made the right decision.

It took a couple of days to decide where John was going to go, but now he hangs on the entrance to my bedroom, looking cool in his light-colored shirt and dark-sunglasses. “Ain’t No Big Thing.”

He’s a wonderful addition.

2007-04-28T14:10:00.000-07:00

ART: IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER #1

Art has always been a passion of mine. And while I have many different reasons for loving it, I have never been able to sum it up in any kind of general explanation. In simplistic terms: someone had an idea and followed through with it, it’s unique, I like it. That’s pretty much it. It brings me joy – plain and simple. I have been meaning to document my art for prosperity and to share with others, so here goes. Bits and Pieces. This might take awhile…

A SWISH FOR DORIS

This was the second
Michalopoulos painting I bought, so I am not sure why I am starting with this one. I purchased this one around 1995 – 1996. I had just finished paying off my first Michalopoulos painting and was anxious for another. Not seeing anything I liked in the gallery, the gallery director (who I had grown close to from showing up every week with my payments) let me go in the back storage and rummage through the paintings. I chose, “A Swish for Doris.” At the time, I didn’t know the name of the painting. It wasn’t until Michalopoulos’s first book came and I was flipping through it that I discovered its name. The feeling was surreal. My whole life devouring art books, and here something I owned was actually in one. I think my exact thought was, “Holy shit!” I’ll never forget that moment.

I like this painting on many levels. One: straight-up nostalgia factor. I learned how to drive on a 1964 Ford Fairlane (and it is still at my parents’ house waiting for me to reclaim it). There is something so sexy (you can really stretch out in them) and so freeing about cars of that era. What has always attracted me to Michalopoulos’s paintings is his sense of movement. Everything flows without being intrusive. Although the woman’s face in the painting is not really defined, you can tell she is out for an adventure. Independent and free – Where is she going with the top down in the middle of the night?

But the star of the picture is, of course, the car. It seems to match the general theme of liberty and latitude. I can’t think of any modern car that seems to buzz, “Drive me, please!”

And this one does. It’s a favorite.

2007-04-26T21:17:00.000-07:00

Imagine my consummate delight to open up this month’s issue of “Metropolitan Home” and find a small article about the new bridge in Paris, “The Pont Simone de Beauvoir” named after, of course, the existentialist feminist writer, Simone de Beauvoir. In a city with the most river bridges in the world, it is their first bridge named for a woman. Yay! I read it looks like a bra that’s been flung on the floor…. not sure how exactly I feel about that (being someone who bolsters for brasseries … but the bridge is beautiful). What surprised me was that it actually opened in July 2006. How could I have not known for so long? How come a bridge named after a French female philosopher that looks like a discarded “soutien-gorge” didn’t make front-page news? Oh, the tragedy. I weep big tears over my demi-cup.

But, I will tell you what launch I was aware of – Star Wars stamps! Yes, I was anxiously waiting to stick Princess Leia on a card or student-loan bill. The surge of power. Efflux of efficacy! Deluge of dynamism. So to say that I was more than mildly disappointed at the scene they chose to depict Princess Leia is an understatement. Feeding an SOS message into R2-D2? How many opportunities did they have to portray her as the true badass she is? Standing up to Darth Vadar. Blowing away storm troopers, busting into Jabba the Hutt’s fortress (before she was forced to wear that slave girl outfit). Damn-it, George! Han got a blaster!

Sigh…..

Yet, the link between Simone and Leia is uncanny. Both revolutionary thinkers ahead of their time. One had a bridge named after her, one swung across one. Simone is routinely known as the Ambassadress of Existentialists; Leia was the Chief of State of the New Republic Jedi Knight. Do you see what I am getting at? Existentialism is a philosophy that emphasizes the uniqueness and isolation of the individual experience in a hostile or indifferent universe (Leia captured in the middle of the universe on her ship, where she was actually acting as a spy for the Rebellion). Existentialism regards human existence as unexplainable (The Force), and stresses freedom of choice and responsibility for the consequences of one's actions (Ah, those rebels knew what they are getting into).

And do I even have to point out the eerily connections between Han Solo and Jean-Paul Sartre? They are practically twins.

So in honor of the new Paris bridge, here is a brief quiz.

Who said it - Beauvoir or Organa?

Think carefully.

Take your time. (See answers below).

1. I don’t know who you are or where you came from, but from now on you’ll do as I say, okay?

2. I wish that every human life might be pure transparent freedom.

3. One is not born a woman, one becomes one.

4. Well, I guess you don’t know everything about women yet.

5. Sex pleasure in woman is a kind of magic spell; it demands complete abandon; if words or movements oppose the magic of caresses, the spell is broken.

6. It only takes one to sound the alarm.

7. I am not a committee!

1. Organa
2. Beauvoir
3. Beauvoir
4. Organa
5. Beauvoir
6. Organa
7. Organa

You know what? I could go on and on…
But I just have to stop myself.

2007-03-18T07:54:00.000-07:00

Where’s the Passion?

Ahhh, the den of disappointment…

The great thing about roller derby is the fierce fervor. I could do without the accompanying drama that seems to snag my metaphorical (and actual) fishnets, but… there is something admirable about putting yourself in the line of fire – physically and emotionally.

All weekend in Philly, I keep thinking about F.X. Toole. He wrote, “Rope Burns,” a collection of short stories about boxing that was turned into “Million Dollar Baby.” He was in his sixties before he got his first short story published. An agent read it in a small literary magazine and contacted him, only to discover that Toole had a stash of short stories in a shoebox. Got them published… movie made…. and the rest is history. And then he died.

I carry my journal around with me. It’s not a typical journal with my thoughts, hopes & dreams written down in it. It’s filled with other people's poems, quotes, philosophies and ideas. That way, I know if I am stuck somewhere that I will always have something to read that I like. But, I also believe it is pretty telling what people read and covet, so in that sense, it’s fairly personal and revealing.

Here’s the Toole quote that has been drifting into my head.

“About the only thing I haven’t done in boxing is make money. It’s the same for most fight guys. But that hasn’t stopped me any more than not making money in writing has. Both are something you just do, and you feel grateful for being able to do them, even if both keep you broke, drive you crazy, and make you sick. Rational people don’t think like that. But they don’t have in their lives what I have in mine. Magic. The magic of going to wars I believe in. And the magic of boxing humor is the joke is almost always on the teller, that marches with you every step of the way.”

With snowstorms, delayed flights, cancelled flights, car crashes, taxi crashes, car-rental scrambles, lost luggage, still… derby skates on. And always, it’s that razor line between stupidity and heart. I have to vote for the heart. It would just be nice, that kind of public declaration, if more people adopted that kind of ideology - The willingness to lay bare for the worst kind of ass-kicking to achieve the best kind of satisfaction. In life. In work. In love.

A large life is not for the timid.

2007-03-14T20:48:00.000-07:00

OLD POEMS FOR A CURRENT STATE OF MIND

White Buick Car Driver, I hate you

His white Buick has its
hazards on,
driving down an Idaho freeway
…and this affronts my
right-lane courtesy.
And although I’ve made motions
to the fat man
in the blue shirt with a crew cut and red mustache,
he ignores me.
Must liken me to
a crabby out-of-state
Driver
And despite my growing annoyance, I can’t stop
staring at those flashing lights –
like with women who have god-awful
boob jobs and low-cut tops to accentuate
their involuntary hatchet jobs
that brag with each non-bounce.
It’s an unconscious dare… and I fall for it every time.

There’s no exit for miles; I want to roll down my window
and yell at passing cars,
“What the fuck is that idiot in the white Buick doing?”
But the thing about driving
1,371 miles by yourself is it
limits your shared experiences… and fully-effective hand gestures.

It’s been almost an hour and he paces me.

Maybe he’ll blow a tire,
Or run out of gas
And I am almost ready to even see a deer sacrificed…
As long as it stops him.

The landscape passes me by –
like reading a comic book in the Lourve

Although, I am certain,
no one that stupid ever goes to museums.

Appetite

Wears it – She –
like a table for two
eight ball in the corner pocket
stone in my shoe.

Plays it – She –
like scrabble for the blind (outside the lines)
curved at the base and touched behind the spine
a coveted sprocket that lies and confesses
with each eyelash bat
and nipple flutter.

Loses it – She –
like a grocery store receipt of her markdowns and clearances
sixth martini under an hour
gumball machine trove.

She’ll climb on the table
and kick silverware at anyone who says
Hungry – they still are –

The Perfect Kiss

The perfect kiss involves
Your lips and mine –
an eight-course dine
of:
A puckered pounce.
A tongue trounce.
A lip gnaw – taken raw.
An upper lid lick
(or bottom)
--your pick.
A tender suck
A gluttonous pluck.

And when we’ve taken in this
luscious feast
A tongue banquet, to say the least.

Our lips part-
Our sighs collide --
A signal to start ---
All your lips provide.

Visiting my neck…
My chest…
The buffet below…
(waiting, impatiently,
for its hello).

I welcome the calories
That comes with this guilt….
That makes me bloom
Then makes me wilt
For when your lips start to avert
I know,
right then,
It’s time for desert.

2007-03-07T05:09:00.000-08:00

Fun, Fun, Fun!

I can't wait to go!

2007-03-02T20:57:00.001-08:00

FAVORITE MOMENT #5

The only way to be sure of catching a train is to miss the one before it.

I was not a crier as a child. In fact, I was almost stoic. Many of my childhood friends frequently commented on my lack of tears growing up. Of course, this all changed once I got older. It still perplexes me when I find myself sobbing over the same movie for the EIGHTH time. The frustrating thing is I rarely cry when I’m sad. I cry when I’m happy, or when I’m furious (which just makes me even more pissed because half of the time when I’m mad, it’s during a confrontation and it’s really difficult to appear bad-ass when you’re shedding tears and your nose is running).

My first major non-injury cry occurred when I was five years old. My grandmother had bought me an anthology about dogs. It had everything from the different types of breeds, to proper training, to courageous stories of St. Bernards in the Swiss Alps, or ordinary mutts saving their owners from a grizzly bear or pulling them from an icy river. All of the stories were very inspiring, and even though I somehow knew that none of our dogs would ever reach that kind of noble distinction, I was awed nevertheless. Then I came upon the story of Gelert.

This is how the story goes:
Around the 13th century in Glaslyn Valley in the mountains of Snowdania in North Wales, there was a prince named Llwelyn. His father-n-law, King John of England, gave him a giant Irish Wolfhound named Gelert. Gelert was the prince’s favorite dog; together they spent many days alone hunting. Everyone who knew Gelert remarked on his gentle nature, but his ferocity on the hunt. Now, the story I read said his wife died giving birth to their son, Gruffudd (but there are other versions where she lives). Gruffudd and Gelert were the only two things that brought the prince comfort. Gelert was intently devoted to Gruffudd, refusing to go on hunts so he could remain at the infant’s side. They were inseparable. One day, upon returning from a hunt, the prince went into his son’s room and found everything disarrayed. His son was nowhere to be found. A bloodied Gelert greeted him at the door. In a rage, the prince drew his sword and plunged it into Gelert screaming, “You killed my son!” As Gelert slumped to the ground, his eyes looking at his beloved master as if to ask, “why?” The prince heard a noise; he pulled back a blanket and found his unharmed son next to a giant wolf that Gelert killed to save him. Overcome with grief for killing his beloved hound, the prince, they say, never smiled again. He built a monument to Gelert.
I bawled. I was completely inconsolable.

The story had quite an effect on me. Perhaps it was the betrayal of loyalty. Or maybe it was knowing the consequences that a split-second action could take. Or maybe it was just the profound sense of loss. Growing up, I thought about the story often. It was always referenced in my mind as the first story I ever cried over.

When I was 17, I went to The University of Wales in Aberystwyth (you have no idea how long it took me to pronounce that). Located in a small town on the West Coast of Wales, it had hills, beaches and castles. My room overlooked Cardigan Bay. It was an amazing experience: we got to meet and hear a lecture from George Martin (the producer of most of The Beatles records) watch a performance of Oliver (with original accents) and attend a reading by Dylan Thomas’ daughter (which was actually quite pathetic and disturbing and a whole ‘nother story). On the weekends, the professor would rent a van, and anyone willing to chip in gas money was free to go wherever he was headed. Together we went to Amsterdam and Scotland; I went to London and Ireland by myself. Usually, once a week, we went on field trips around Wales.

One night, after a considerable amount of vodka, I decided it would be a fantastic idea to go swimming in Cardigan Bay. I even managed to enlist a friend. I grew up swimming in the icy waters of the Puget Sound so I was used to the frigid temperatures. What I wasn’t used to was the pounding waves. After about thirty minutes of jumping up and down in the surf, the next morning, my ribs were so badly bruised I could barely stand up. I contemplated staying in bed for the day, like my friend, but decided to go on the field trip instead. Besides, I could stretch out in the back and have people bring me newspapers and ginger ale.

As usual, I had no idea where we were going. Itineraries didn’t interest me; I just climbed in the van with my usual bag of raw peas that I bought at the market, a journal and a camera. We joked around, listening to the same mixed Elvis tape the professor brought (the only tape he brought and the only one we were allowed to listen to). We made a few stops that day, but in the afternoon we stopped in a small village – Beddgelert. The village seemed oddly familiar to me, and I couldn’t help but feel an acute sense of déjà vu. We walked around until I found myself standing in front of a large pile of rocks. I stopped, suddenly, realizing I was standing at the grave of Gelert. The town, Beddgelert, literally meant, “The Grave of Gelert.” The already crushing feeling of my ribs coupled with my rush of euphoria made me dizzy; I almost fainted. It wasn’t just the memory of my childhood, or the effect the story had on me, it was the realization of possibility. Being raised in a small town in Washington State, I never thought I would actually one day be standing at the foot of a grave from a story I had read about in a far-off place 12 years before. I made everyone take a picture of me, at least twice, just in case some freak accident happened and the photos didn’t turn out. In the photo(s), there is an excited, but slightly pained look on my face. What you might not be able to tell from the photo is how proud I was to be standing there.

I have been thinking about this story a lot lately. It seems to pop in my consciousness for different reasons. The current state seems to be the travel bug; I think it was triggered by my recent trip to Japan. It’s such a joy to be able to glimpse another culture. There are still so many places I want to see, and so many things I want to do. In an ideal world I would spend most of my time just writing, learning and observing – free to do the things I want. It’s a child’s dream that I can’t seem to let go of no matter how hard I try.

I am firm believer that you can learn from every experience, all you have to do is pay attention. Everything around you is an adventure. I can’t bear to see people who are lulling into the mundane hum of technological distractions. SUVs and big-screen TVs have become their shields of mediocrity. It’s a protective standard that has digressed people into a compliant state of watching other peoples’ experiences, instead of living their own.

Commuter – one who spends his life
In riding to and from his wife;
A man who shaves and takes a train,
And then rides back to shave again – Elywn Brooks White

It’s funny no matter where I go or what I see, I can’t help but credit that afternoon spent on my parents’ itchy green couch, wrapped up in an afghan my mother knitted (which we dubbed “Monkey Puke”) and reading about Gelert as the start for my lust for adventure. Possibility is always looming - you just have to pay attention.

Second to the right, and straight on till morning.

2007-02-02T21:10:00.000-08:00

HURRAH FOR FREEDOM FRIES

Oh, sigh.... what can I say? Heh-Heh!

2007-01-26T05:18:00.000-08:00

Frida Pancake's man's band. Starts around 10ish. Should be fun.

2007-01-24T05:46:00.000-08:00

EVERY PERSON HAS A UNIQUE TONGUE PRINT

An interesting thing happened last weekend in Vegas (always a good starter sentence). I laughed more than I could remember, and I drank more than I care to admit. With all of the recent tragedies in the city and the crushing accumulation of personal events, it was a welcome vacation from reality.

You can spend a considerable amount of time pondering the appeal of Vegas (or for that matter, you can spend a considerable amount of time trying to remember your time in Vegas). But what struck me the most about my brief interlude there was a traveling exhibit. On my last day, a group of us went to see The Bodies Exhibit at The Tropicana Hotel on Las Vegas Blvd. I had read about the exhibit beforehand and it was something that didn’t really interests me, although I was the one to pioneer it.

Death is a difficult enough issue for me to grasp as it is, but for some reason I have always struggled with the defenselessness of death. Death has a vulnerability that unnerves me. It’s the inability of choice, regardless of what kind of air-tight directions you leave. Even as a child, I wrote wills with elaborate instructions, but still worried my parents would put me in a frilly dress, even though I specifically requested my Red Sox’s hat. Would they portray me as an angel though I (accidentally) burned down a lot, beat up the school bully, and got kicked off the floor hockey team for throwing my stick (twice) at the coach (he was making ludicrous calls, and I was the captain, after all)? And when I viewed the massive graves of Jew in the pages of the World War Two books I read, it put me in a complete state of panic. Not only was the senselessness of the death sickening to me, but the disrespect of the bodies was almost as worse.

As someone who routinely roots for the underdog, there is no one more deserving of a “rah rah” cheer than a corpse.
The first time I saw a dead body was when I was 16. How I got into that college-level biology class my junior year in high school was beyond me. Divine intervention? Probably a scheduling mistake by the nuns. This was evident when our biology teacher announced we were going on a field trip to see a cadaver at the local university and I was the only one in the class to clap. I am sure many attributed it to my infamous selective hearing – the words “field trip” spun around my head like a half-lit disco ball inside a dumpster. That was only partially true. To be honest, it was because I no idea what a cadaver actually was. I figured it was some kind of fossilized rock, or perhaps a new machine to measure bone density in mammals. I really couldn’t give a shit; I was getting off of the school grounds. I was consumed by my Scarlet O’Hara philosophy: “I’ll think about that tomorrow.” Of course, when tomorrow came and I was informed of the proper definition, my deadbeat doctrine quickly changed. I didn’t want to go. But faced with reality of being left behind in study hall by myself under the supervision of Sister Beatrice, who always said, “Deal with it, Missy,” and whose saggy arms could act as sails on a catamaran, I chose to see the dead body.

The day of the field trip, we all endured the “act like an adult” lecture and “this is a privilege” speech. I remember bouncing up and down on the bus I was so excited. Even being forced to wear my dreaded Catholic School uniform in public didn’t detour me from my exhilaration. I had been preparing myself for this day. All I had to do, I reasoned, was stand in the back of the room, stare off into space and think about other things. It would be just like any other day in biology class. I had survived dissecting a frog and fetal pig (barely – and that is another story) in that very same manner. It was a tactic that worked well for me. I learned it was quite easy to become lost in a sea of green and blue plaid skirts.

While I knew the lecture from our biology teacher was expected, I wasn’t prepared for the lecture from the college professor. I assumed it would be along the same lines as our teacher’s (minus the threats). It wasn’t. “The man you are going to see is named Phil,” he told us, slapping his clipboard against his thighs. “He’s 67 years old and his family donated his body to science because he loved the field so much.” He waved his clipboard in the air. “Follow me.”

Phil? I was much happier with “the cadaver” but now he had a name. Now he was someone. Now he had a family. Now he had breathed, lived, loved, had regrets. He walked, he danced (maybe poorly, but still) he lived. I wasn’t ready to be part of his end-story.

To make a long story short (I have a feeling this entry will be dragging on for quite while) I marched into the room and ran smack into the table where a dead, clammy, naked Phil rested. I guess I had envisioned something out of Star Trek. The professor would push a button and Phil would descend from the ceiling. Or flip a switch and pop out of the wall. Or at least he’d have a white sheet covering him. Nope, there he was, in all of his unintentional immodesty on the table. And while I am proud to say that I did manage to maintain my composure for a few minutes, once they started poking around his body cavity and holding up various parts for examination, my composure quickly desengrated. “You don’t care about this man,” I hollered. “You have no feelings for him. Phil had a family and you don’t care. Why? Because you’re all a bunch of insensitive assholes.” I was quickly escorted from the room and was so traumatized from the whole affair that I was actually excused from school for the rest of the day. I can’t even begin to tell you what a rarity this was, having once attended school with a 101 temperature and hallucinations of Bugs Bunny driving a convertible.

So, this was all factored into my apprehension of viewing The Bodies Exhibit. Still, I was older and wiser (?).
The Bodies is an exhibit where human bodies are immersed in acetone, placed in a bath of silicone and sealed in a vacuum chamber. Perfectly preserved- like a dried apricot. The bodies are so stripped down and so depersonalized that you have to actually remind yourself that they were once humans. And I think that’s their intent. They had these humans in multiple poses to represent the way our muscles and bones work. They also had pieces of the body: healthy lungs vs. smoking lungs, parts of the heart, eyeballs, etc. The most difficult thing to view was the fetuses. It’s one thing to see a five-week old fetus in a textbook, it’s another thing to hold your pinky finger up to a glass case and measure it.

It’s my fault that I personalize situations; it’s a bad habit I have to take even the most detached circumstance and find some kind of sympathies. Looking at the “specimens” (as they called them) only made me revisit my recent feelings about violence and death.

What makes someone gun down a mother with sleep in her eyes? What possesses an individual to unload a clip into a car, not even caring if their intended hit is surrounded by innocents? These are basic questions everyone asks, and it’s almost embarrassing to recapitulate them. Thus far, I’ve been blessed that I have never intimately known anyone who was murdered (although I have known some suicides). But I have known people who have murdered.

When I first moved to New Orleans, I became friends with a dj in the bar where I worked. He was funny and odd, and when it was slow we would do crossword puzzles together. He let me keep my schoolbooks behind the dj booth and because I was punctual and sober for my shifts (something that would seem to be the most rudimentary of requirements, but apparently was something of an oddity) the management looked the other way and let me sit at the booth and read when it was slow. Sometimes I would give him my notes, and he would quiz me if I had an important test coming up. When I wasn’t studying, he was frequently telling me about his love life- either exalting it or bemoaning it. He couldn’t seem to exist without being in a relationship and it was almost scary how quickly one would end and another would begin “She’s the one,” he’d say, about a girl he had just met the night before in some bar. “I can feel it. I’m in love for the first time.” I didn’t try to analyze it; I just listened and thought about how different people can be in matters of the heart. How can anything that authentic occur with as much haphazardness as a wink? It reminded me of “The boy who cried wolf,” except he wasn’t consciously lying. He believed the authenticity of his proclamations, so I would sit and listen to his various dramas (and there were many).

The dj and I did not travel in the same circles. He was much more a part of the recreational, late-night, drug crowd, and I was more of the two-drink minimum. But still he would come over to my house sometimes for barbeques or parties and he knew not to offer me anything.

After I moved from the bar scene, I lost touch with him. Occasionally I ran into him in the Quarter with his newest girlfriend, and we always greeted each other warmly. I heard from friends that he had gotten even deeper into drugs and the nightlife. A few years ago, when I was returning from an art convention in Baltimore, there were various voice mails from one of my friends asking if I had heard the news. A stripper had been murdered by her boyfriend. Thinking I knew the stripper, I held my breath and called my friend. She asked me if I was sitting down. I didn’t know the stripper; I knew the boyfriend. It was my dj friend. In a drugged-up rage he beat his girlfriend to death, stuffed her in the back of her car, dumped her body in a swamp in Lafayette and took off for Chicago. She had a two-year old son. Her parents were immigrants who moved to this country when she was a teenager so they could give her and her sister a better life. And she ended up human luggage in the back of her own car with a body full of swamp water.

The other murder was closer to home. In November of 2005, I went home for my Grandma’s memorial. The last time I saw her was when I drove my cats from Colorado (where we evacuated) to my parents’ house shortly after Hurricane Katrina. I visited my grandma in her new retirement home. She was constantly being kicked out of homes for spontaneous outings (i.e. running away) and harassing other residents. She looked great; alert and spunky at age 92. The day after I left, her health dramatically plunged and she passed away a few days later.

When I came home for the memorial, I had been living in Post-Katrina New Orleans for about four weeks. I still didn’t have gas, phone, or cable. I boiled water for a shower, cooked on an electric grill, and slept in sweaters surrounded by space heaters. I still drove 25 minutes to buy a pack of fucking gum. And while I won’t go into all the emotions involving visiting a city that had all of its facilities and wasn’t surrounded by debris and destruction, I will say it was a massive culture shock.
The thing I was most looking forward to going home for was seeing my eldest niece, Erin. It had been awhile since we had been together. She had taken time off of work so she could drive down to see me. Being the youngest of four, I was always desperate for a little brother or sister and used to BEG my parents to give me one. They weren’t looking to add a fifth.

When Erin was born I was elated. Every show-and-tell in my third-grade class after that revolved around her: her favorite toy, her blanket, pictures, locks of her hair. The kids took to groaning out loud whenever it was my turn to present.

When Erin was 19, she began seeing LC and became pregnant. She gave birth to my great-niece, whom she named after me. My great-niece was a highly imaginative, somewhat bossy, and incredibly sassy little, redheaded, blue-eyed girl. I adored her. Shortly after my great-niece’s birth, Erin broke it off with LC. I was glad; I wasn’t too fond of him. He never made an effort. She married a nice guy and had two more children.

Erin remained close with LC’s mother, and would bring my great-niece over to visit with her. LC never held a job and was eventually diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic, floating in and out of mental institutions. Erin had moved more than once because of his erratic behavior and threatening phone calls. LC moved back in with his mother and spent his days locked in his rooms playing video games and watching tv. The day before the memorial, LC’s mother called the local mental hospital. She was worried about her son because he had not been taking his medication and wanted him recommitted. A health care worker showed up at their door. LC became agitated, got a knife and stabbed the man to death. Then he went back to his room and continued watching tv. The man was 46 years old with a wife and children.

The murder caused a sensation in our community, since it was the first murder in over a dozen years. Every day I was home it was all over the news and papers. This tall, sullen boy who barely acknowledged anyone’s existence and was father to my great niece, stabbed a man to death while his mother screamed helplessly. Last month, he was sentenced to 30 years in prison. The man he killed helped the state pass a bill to require all health workers to have two people to respond to calls.
My great-niece is eight-years old and still ignorant about all of this. I can’t help but worry about her own mental health, since schizophrenia is hereditary. I think about hugging her every day.

I don’t even know where I am going with this. I’m not attempting a dues ex machina in my final paragraph.

One of my problems with Phil was this- did he actually think his life was going to end up with a bunch of school girls in saddle shoes and penny loafers surrounding him with plastic gloves and poking at his internal organs. Giggling at his slightly green-colored penis? Does anyone expect their life to turn out the way it does? Good or bad? Phil was supposed to make me understand the workings of my body better; instead he made me understand the workings of my mind better. He was just a reminder that at age 16, I was mortal, and it wasn’t something I wanted to be reminded of. And despite, my usual sunny disposition, while some of the girls joked about how they hoped they never married a man as stocky and portly as Phil, they seemed to take the stance – “Thank God, we’re not him,” or “Thank God, we will never be with someone like him.” I took it as, “Oh God, I am him.”

Looking at The Bodies made me feel almost the same way. I felt like a passenger of my own flesh and bone. It made me value breath and respect life even more. It made me mourn for those who, technically, could now be put on display. (Isn’t James Brown still in his living room?)

I don’t know what to say about the philosophical differences between a drug-hazed murder and a mentally ill murder. Or maybe, I just don’t want to address it. This has rambled on and in too many directions for too long.

Heraclitus, “The Dark One,” had these conclusions:

You can’t go home again.
Your childhood is lost.
The friends of your youth are gone.
Your present is slipping away from you.

But with this seemingly pessimistic view, it provides almost a comforting logic. It shows that life is not an arbitrary event; it’s an eventuality. It’s universal.

You control the things you can. And I guess that is what I am still trying to learn.

The Bodies

2007-01-10T18:40:00.000-08:00

KEEP YOUR PANTS ON

There has been a slight change in the starting point for the march tomorrow on City Hall.
1. Formation: 11AM at the foot of Canal Street (by the World Trade Center).
2. Depart: 11:30AM Process up Canal Street to Tchoupitoulas
Left on Tchoupitoulas to Poydras St.
Right on Poydras and walk to Loyola Ave.
Right on Loyola and start a BLOCK OF SILENCE in honor of loved ones lost to violent crime.
Left on Perdido to the steps of City Hall.
For more information, visit Silence is Violence
They are requesting that our public officials answer three fundamental needs: Presence, Protection and Accountability.
Their two slogans reflect these needs: Walk With Us and Silence is Violence.

Remove your pants before resorting to violence - Yoko Ono

2007-01-08T13:15:00.000-08:00

NEW ORLEANS’ BLOOD RED RIVER

I first read about the signing of Lalita Tademy’s new book, “Red River” a couple of weeks ago. I marked it on my calendar of something of interest to attend. The novel begins with the horrifying account of the 1873 massacre in Colfax, Louisiana. On April 13, 1873, blacks gathered in defense of local Republicans and their own citizenships. White Supremacists were determined that the voting rights for former slaves would not be honored. The recent 14th and 15th amendments granted citizenships to blacks and prevented states from denying the right to vote based on race. The White League was formed, a “shadow” government with their own army, hell-bent on securing white rule in Louisiana. When the day was over, over hundred blacks were killed. Of those murdered, nearly half were slaughtered after they had already surrendered. Three men from The White League died. In the aftermath, the federal government convicted only three whites. However, they were freed when the U.S. Supreme Court declared they had been convicted unconstitutionally. Tamedy details her family’s fascinating history in this fictionalized account of her ancestor’s survival of 1873 riot. She will be discussing and signing her book, this Wednesday, 6PM, at the independent bookstore
Octavia Books located at 513 Octavia at the corner of Laurel.

Unfortunately, this book only seems to coincide with the current theme playing in New Orleans: senseless killings. The recent murders of Dinerral Shavers and Helen Hill have confirmed the fundamental lack of leadership and protection that presently plagues this city. I won’t go into the details of their murder, it has been gone over before. However, what I will note is Shaver’s involvement in the Hot 8 Brass Band. A drummer and music teacher, people who knew Shaver spoke of his dedication, generosity and enthusiastic spirit. Hill was a filmmaker, wife, mother and owner of a pet pig. Hill and her husband were both active in the community assisting others that were less fortunate than themselves. Ask anyone in the city and they will probably tell you the same thing.

Above Hill’s obituary in Sunday’s paper was the obituary of nineteen-year old Corey Hayes. He was found dead with several gunshot wounds to his head and body on the 2300 block of Fourth Street in Central City. I can’t tell you what Hayes’ interests were. I can’t tell you the names of his pets. I don’t know what type of music he liked. Hayes only noted distinction was being awarded the dubious honor of being the first person murdered in New Orleans in 2007.

In July 2006, the slaying of five teenagers in New Orleans set off mass hysteria, not only in the city, but around the world. But I bet, if pressed, that 98% of New Orleanians could not tell you the name of the victims involved, nor could they tell you anything distinctive about them. They were a body count, a MASSIVE body count. I googled the incident and found various reports on AP, CBS, USA Today, ABC, and various other media outlets, but not once were the victims’ names ever mentioned. It was “three brothers and a friend.” “Five People Killed” “Five Teenagers Murdered.” They had their sex & ages listed and little else.

A recent study done by the Department of Psychology at St. Joseph’s University focused on how newspaper coverage reduced empathy and engendered blame for victims. This study focused primarily on female victims, but their findings are relevant to the way the media covers murders. The study discovered that empathy for the victim was increased by both inclusion of personal information and referring to the victim by name. Victim blame was also reduced by the inclusion of personal information.

What would happen if the media actually took the time to know the victims. Would it take that much to include a story, antidotes or details from their loved ones? This is important because it allows you to identify with them. It forces you to stop and see yourself in another human being. It reminds you of the sacrosanctity of the soul.
Ask the media for more details, push for more knowledge. Force the media to humanize victims, not stereotype them.

It is without a doubt that Hill and Shaver were exceptional people and the city will be less brighter without them. And it is a shame that it took their murders to jolt the city out of their mode of learned helplessness. But if it helps the citizens of New Orleans advocate change, their deaths won’t be in vain.

John Webster once wrote, “Other sins only speak; murder shrieks out.”

I hope from these tragedies, that New Orleans can shriek out and let their voices be heard. One way is at the Enough! Stop the Violence Rally, Thursday, January 11th.
11AM: Meet at the foot of Canal Street.
11:30: March begins
Noon: Rally at City Hall.
I encourage as many people as possible who can go to attend.

Hopefully, Tademy’s personalized account of the massacre of 1873 will make people take a note from history and learn from it. To quote the Greek historian, Dionysius “History is philosophy teaching by examples.”

Let's not only learn from these tragic losses but work toward change, so that history will not repeat itself.

To Nagin, Riley and other local leaders:

And to the families of Helen Hill & Dinerral Shavers

Success
To laugh often and love much; to win the respect of intelligent persons and the affection of children; to earn the approbation of honest critics and to endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to give of one’s self; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to have played and laughed with enthusiasm and sung with exultation; to know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived – that is to have succeeded.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made in the name of Helen Hill to Doctors without Borders
Doctors Without Borders
Helen Addison Wingard Scholarship Fund at Columbia College,

To specifically donate money for Dinerral Shaver's family. New Orleans Musicians Hurricane Relief Fund

You can read about Corey David Hayes and sign his guest book at
Legacy

2007-01-05T05:33:00.000-08:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR

Another year up in smoke, thank god. I threw my complaints into the Mid City bonfire again this year in a futile attempt to eliminate them. It is apparent that I need a better system because it never seems to work. Acid?

Still, it's fun to be out and about with hundreds of drunk individuals wielding fireworks. Every year I go, I am amazed I can still see out of both of my eyes and a large section of my hair isn't burned off.

Right now, I just want to pray for clear skies so I can get outside and finish my photography project. Oh, that and a camera that works.

Meanwhile....

A Gallery for Fine Photography on 241 Chartes Street is showing a collection of Diane Arbus photographs through Feb. Thursday to Monday 12-4. "My favorite thing is to go where I have never gone." DA

Savion Glover is coming back!!!! I saw him in the spring of 2005 and he was amazing. I was able to check off a list of things I have always wanted to do/see. He will be here January 25th at McAlister Auditorium. He is a genius and I advise everyone to go and see him. I will be purchasing my Tickets today.

The Historic New Orleans Collection Exhibit at the Williams Gallery on 533 Royal Street is closing this weekend. Go now! It's fabulous. Time permitting, I might go see it again.

And.. the art walk on Julia Street this Saturday night from 6 to 9. I always find that the best exhibits and most interesting work are NOT displayed on White Linen Night or Art for Art's Sake. Get out and support your local artists!

I know I need some mental mitigation from all of these senseless killings

2006-12-22T16:58:00.000-08:00

I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT STREET CANADA IS ON – AL CAPONE

A few weeks ago, while I was traveling out of state, I happened to catch the front page of USA Today. The headline screamed out, “Crime takes hold of new New Orleans.” The tag line was, “Murder rate soars after Katrina as violence creeps into upscale neighborhoods.”

As of December 1st there have been 147 people killed in New Orleans, and with the current population that means that New Orleanians are killing each other at a rate of 73.5 murders per 100,000 residents. The article claimed that this “honor” put us ahead of the nation’s previous title holder, Compton, CA, whose murder rate was 67 murders per 100,000 people in 2005.

The article continued to state:
70% of the murders are drug related.
Orleans Parish Police Superintendent, Warren Riley estimates that 80% of the criminals that operated in New Orleans before Katrina have returned.
Before Katrina, 1,668 officers patroled the street. Since the storm, 183 officers have been fired or resigned. 109 officers are out sick or injured. 80 have been assigned desk jobs because of administrative layoffs, there are currently only 1,275 officers on the street. 4 out of 5 officers lost their homes in flooding.
The Orleans Parish Prison has about 2,200 beds, down from 7,200.
The D.A’s office lost more than 30 of its attorneys.

Of course, I am aware of the murder rate in New Orleans, but for some reason the comparison against Compton really struck me. I decided to look up some basic statistics comparing New Orleans to Compton and this is what I found.

Median Family Income
Compton: $37,246. New Orleans: $35,878

Sales Tax
Compton: 8.25% New Orleans: 9%

Auto Insurance Premiums
Compton:$2,186 New Orleans: $3,099

Job Growth
Compton: 13.69% New Orleans: -0.99%

Median Home Price
Compton: $340,000 New Orleans: $128,000

Home Price Gain
Compton: 36% New Orleans: 7.80%

Number of Colleges, Universities & Professional Schools
Compton: 23 New Orleans: 11

Test Scores Reading
Compton: -52.5% New Orleans: -36.8%

Test Scores Math
Compton: -42.8% New Orleans: -35.9%

Personal Crime Risk (100 is average, lower is better)
Compton: 420 New Orleans: 445

Property Crime Risk
Compton: 121 New Orleans: 276

Personal Crime Incidents (per 100,000)
Compton: 1,613 New Orleans: 948

Property Crime Incidents (per 100,000)
Compton: 2,626 New Orleans: 5,162

Movie Theaters (within 15 miles)
Compton: 113 New Orleans: 23

Restaurants (within 15 miles)
Compton: 12,115 New Orleans: 2,087

Bars (within 15 miles)
Compton: 527 New Orleans: 465

Libraries (within 15 miles)
Compton: 178 New Orleans: 44

Museums (accredited by AAM within 30 miles)
Compton:14 New Orleans: 6

Yes, we need some help.

During my research, my first shock was to discover that Compton was voted one of the top 100 places to live by Money Magazine. How could that be possible with the rampant crime, exploding drug use, and the Crips & the Bloods roving the streets 24/7? Truth be told, I didn’t know much about Compton except for what I learned in the media; which essentially was the blaring headlines similar to the one I read in USA Today about New Orleans. I had a good friend I grew up with live through the riots in 1992 that resulted from the outcome of the Rodney King trial; her stories gave me nightmares for weeks. But what I didn’t know…

Compton was recently designated as an “Entrepreneurial Hot Spot” by Cognetics, Inc., an independent economic research. Compton made the national list for best places to start and grow a business, and ranked #2 in LA County out of a field of 88 cities. The city provides a business assistance program consisting of a comprehensive mix of resources to small business owners and entrepreneurs. It has over 140 public golf courses within 30 miles of the city, 7 ski resorts within 100 miles, a celebrated equestrian club and one of the best astronomy programs for teens in the country. 80.2% of the city has a health plan (couldn’t find the statistics for New Orleans). Of course, it does has its corruption factor. In 1995, the mayor and a councilwoman were convicted of extortion. In 2002, the new mayor was convicted of using city credit cars to purchase golf supplies and lavish hotel stays for himself and his friends. He was sentenced to three years in prison (oh, dare to dream). I was unaware of all of this and would have remained so if I had not taken the time to look up these facts. It’s definitely changed my perspective.

Of course, in the USA Today article, there was no mention of the rebuilding efforts of local New Orleans organizations. It mentioned the murder of Addie Hall. It didn’t talk about the volunteer groups who spend countless hours assisting residents gut and clean their houses. It cited how an 18-year old from Mississippi was stabbed to death on Bourbon Street. It didn’t point out how every day more and more businesses are reopening their doors. It referenced the shooting near The Spotted Cat in October. They also quoted various residents.

“The sun goes down, and I go in.”
“This is a city out of control.”
“The parents don’t want the kids down here.”

They didn’t ask me. They didn’t ask my friends. They didn’t ask my neighbors.

When the National Guard came back into the city following the shooting death of 5 teenagers, I got frantic calls and emails from around the world. My friend from Japan called asking me if there was a safe way for me to get out of the city. My friend from Australia emailed me asking if it was true there were military roadblocks on every street. My parents called me begging to come home. I got other emails from WA, NY, CA, PA & CO asking about my safety and offering their homes as havens. These are not uniformed and hysterical people.

Do I think New Orleans is perfect? No.
Did I think it was perfect before Katrina? No.
I have the “healthy” balance of a love/hate relationship with this city.
Yup, we have our problems.
What I do know is entertainment is the city’s main form of income. It is our lifeline. We need to bring back our people and we need to bring back our tourists!

Before, the idea of going to Compton was along the same lines of going to Iraq to sunbathe.

In Compton, I imagined constant gun fire, cracked out prostitutes convulsing in the street, barefoot kids running through the streets with guns. That was my ignorance and I take responsibility for it. But even with that, I have a tenacious curiosity and I worry that the average guy from the Midwest isn’t going to take the time beyond what is spoon-fed to research the “new New Orleans reality.” What are they thinking about us?

We are promoting our ADD society with catchy headlines and exploitive pictures. We live in the catchphrase generation. But we don’t have to be at the mercy of the media.

Speak out! Tell your story.

I compare the media coverage to out of town guests. As I am sure all New Orleans residents can attest, everyone, at one point, has experienced the same emotion when you cross your arms across your chest, sigh and tell your guests, “No, there is more to New Orleans than Bourbon Street.”

You take them canoeing in Jean Lafitte National Park. You take them to the sculpture garden in City Park. You take them to the cemeteries. You take them to hear Washboard Chaz at the Circle Bar, Rebirth at The Maple Leaf, or Kermit at Vaughans. Or hell, cram them in the Apple Barrel or Spotted Cat. You take them to a burlesque show at One Eyed Jacks, shopping on Magazine Street, ride a streetcar (real soon) on St. Charles. Feed them burgers at the Clover Grill, gumbo at Liuzza’s and po’boys from The Verti Mart. Then your guests start to slowly understand a little bit about New Orleans.

This is what we need to do to the media and anyone who will listen. Yes, we are hurting. But yes, we are getting better.

I wish the reporter from USA Today could have been with me last week. Looking for some down time before The Big Easy Rollergirl Bout (I tend to get nervous and distracted, which is often misinterpreted as rude and insincere) some friends and I decided to go to Celebration in the Oaks at City Park. Driving in City Park, my heart started to sink. It was dark and I didn’t see anyone. Was this going to be another let down? With recent personal events I couldn’t bear to be let down by a less than stellar reaction of the reopening of the walking tour of City Park. I quickly realized that I drove in the wrong way. When I did find the correct entrance, it was packed! Families galore! Kids decked out in their winter gear barely able to contain their excitement! Couples lovingly holding hands and kissing. The cars were lined up and I couldn’t find parking less than a half-mile away. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have been a problem, but with my knee injury, I couldn’t push it.

Yet, I drove home happy.

It was just another example of the rebirth of the new New Orleans, still rooted in tradition.

Please, get the word out!

2006-12-13T06:50:00.000-08:00

2006-12-12T05:15:00.000-08:00

On Wednesday, December 13th from 7:00 PM to 9:00 PM there is going to be a general membership meeting of the Faubourg Saint John Neighborhood Association FSJNA at Mount Calvary Fellowship, 2900 Grand Route St. John

The meeting will include election of board members and officers for 2007, as well as an update from The Unified New Orleans Plan UNOP from Wayne Troyer and Lisa Amoss and information on the Keep LA Beautiful Grant from Daphne LeSage and Bobby Wozniak.

I hope everyone can attend. It’s not just a secular event that involves our little neighborhood, it’s for everyone in New Orleans.

2006-12-11T05:36:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, one of the gallery owners that stocks our wares called me and said that someone walked into her store and bought every single one of our items. She was completely out and needed to restock immediately. My first reaction was pride and celebration that people were getting out and buying local. My second reaction was panic over having even more orders to complete this season. This is always the busiest year and time management is a must.

But wouldn’t it be great if all of our local artisans, craftspeople and businesses were filled with the same emotions?

After getting some work done and not cleaning up after my Christmas party, I decided to head into the French Quarter and keep some locals busy.

My first stop, of course, was to Santa’s Quarters in the French Quarter to add some more decorations to the donation bin. There were so many wonderful decorations to choose from, but I tended to sway toward the local-themed ornaments. I would have loved to purchase an upside down Christmas tree, but they were sold out and $499 (order early next year). As well as getting some great gifts for the donation drive, I managed to get a lot of my own shopping done. At one point, the owner came over and slipped some of their pralines into my coat pocket and I must say, although, I am not a huge fan of pralines, they were fantastic! I highly recommend them. I was pleased to see that there were already quite a few decorations in the bin, but we need more! Please stop by this week and help fill it to the rim.

Afterward, I decided to get some more shopping done (I won’t say what, don’t want to give away any surprises). The streets were festive and everyone was in a high-spirited mood. I ran into some people I knew, which is always fun on an afternoon instead of a blurry-eyed late night.

Andrew Jackson and Josie Arlington

Grandpa Elliot

I stopped off at Aunt Sally’s (great name). I loaded up on more gifts there and was surprised to find that they have more than pralines; art, books, photos, crafts. There are so many options to buy local.

The Little Toy Shop carries a lot of great children’s books from local writers and artists and I had to pick some up for myself.

I walked around some more, enjoying the day, oblivious to the fact that since it was difficult to carry my shopping bags around, it was probably going to be more difficult to get them home since I rode my trusted bike, Lillian down to the French Quarter…. It was a slow ride back, but well worth it.

A friend of mine just started a new venture, B-Native. It’s a great site and she just had her debut party last Friday.

Please get out and support your local businesses and artists!

2006-12-10T08:34:00.000-08:00

If you were to ever experience the joy (or excruciating pain) of sitting next to me while I unpacked my Christmas ornaments, these are some of the stories you would hear.

The beaded candy cane ornament and wreath: I made it when I was in “Indian Princesses.” It was a father-daughter group that met once a month for weekend camping trips. While my father said we could chose our own name for our “tribe,” he was horrified when I elected to call us “The Red Hot Mamas”

The glass bell: My mom got it for me when I was eight-years old and I felt so trusted and so much like an adult to have something that was so fragile. Of course, I chipped it shortly after.

The ceramic bear will a scarf and bell: My mom bought it for me when I was in boarding school in Colorado because she said it would keep me warm.

The wooden buffalo: Me and my boyfriend were driving cross-country and ended up hitting Jackson Hole, WY at 10AM. We later discovered it wasn’t the wisest idea to stop at the Cowboy Bar and have some drinks before eating breakfast. The ornament was a result of not being able to drive, so we had to wander around town until we sobered up.

Santa on the Eiffel Tower: We got that in Paris. Yes, it is cheesy, but it gets the point across.

Elvis: Picked one of them up in Graceland, the rest from all over.

Brass Unicycle: My friend’s mom bought fit or me and gave it to me at one of her Christmas parties because I used to ride (or attempt to ride) one. I use her Christmas parties as the standard.

Ferry: From my hometown in WA.

Mini stockings: my mom crocheted them when I was younger and stuck candy canes in them. She used to threatened us not to eat them but we always did.

Eggs: from my boyfriend when he was in Prague.

Velvet shoes: I bought them at Harrods in London during a summer heat wave.

Stick reindeers and santas: I purchased them when the small drugstore in my hometown closed down.

Clara: from when I took my friend and his daughter to the Nutcracker in Seattle. I bought us matching ones.

Santa in a grass skirt: from my brother the first year he lived in Hawaii.

Trust me, the list goes on and on.

My parents still have the giant cardboard star I made by gluing tried beans to it. It weighs about four pounds and one year fell off and struck our cat Smilin’ Jack in the head, who had a minor seizure and then retaliated by peeing on some of our presents.

Christmas ornaments evoke memories. They are markers in life. They have stories to tell. They let you take a moment and reflect.

Every year brings changes. Good and bad. I, like everyone else, have had many ups and downs this year. Surviving another year post Katrina, job changes, creative pursuits, injuries, relationships that have grown or fallen apart. But I am lucky that I can still pull out the Christmas tree skirt I made in ninth grade to avoid failing home-ec class AGAIN. I’ve made many skirts since then for friends and family and even though I look at the one I made and cringe, it represents a time in my life and I honor that.

You don’t need possessions for memories, but, still, I find it comforting to hold in my hand some of the ornaments my great-grandmother once held in hers. I hope one day, I can pass these ornaments and their memories onto my children.

A lot of people in New Orleans are not as lucky, which is why I encourage everyone to help out as much as they can.

The Big Easy Rollergirls are teaming up with The Arabi Wrecking Krewe and Common Ground to provide holiday decorations and toys for local families affected by Hurricane Katrina.

The Arabi Wrecking Krewe’s goal is to bring our musicians and our music back home. They have assisted thousands of local musicians, their families and extended families. They have gutted, cleared and repaired numerous homes free of charge. To better understand the unselfish commitment of these volunteers, listen to Brian Denzer from WTUL’s Community Gumbo give an interview with the krewe. If this won’t help you understand the depth of their commitment and the positive impact they have had on the community, nothing else will.
Community Gumbo Interview

For more information on AWK visit
The Arabi Wrecking Krewe

Common Ground provides short-term relief for victims of hurricane disasters in the Gulf Coast region, and long-term support in rebuilding the community affected in the New Orleans area. They are collecting toys to give to deserving children this holiday season. Please give a child an opportunity once this year to wake up to an optimistic future. For more information visit
Common Ground

Santa’s Quarters in the French Quarter is offering a special discount to people who donate to The Holiday Décor & Toy Drive. Not only do you get 15% off any item you buy in the store to donate, but 15% off your entire purchase! Please take advantage of their incredible generosity. You can also drop off any ornaments or toys at that location. They have an incredible selection of artificial Christmas trees, lights, ornaments, nativity scenes and much more. Come visit the husband and wife team who have been part of our local landscape for over thirty years.
1025 Decatur Street. Daily from 10-6
Santa’s Quarters

You can also drop off decorations and unwrapped toys at the following business locations

Tommy Crane Group, Realtors
3702 Bienville St
Monday-Friday from 8:30 to 5:00
Tommy Crane Group

Vespa of New Orleans
901 Julia Street
Tuesday to Friday from 10-6
Saturday 10-5
Vespa New Orleans

To mail tax-deductible contributions, please send them to
Big Easy Rollergirls
P.O. Box 19751
New Orleans, LA 70179
Please make your checks out to Arabi Wrecking Krewe or Common Ground (or both)! In the memo please write, “Holiday Décor and Toy Drive” or HDTD. Please get them to us by Friday, December 15th so we can get them to the families.

Of course, The Big Easy Rollergirls will have a bin set up for donations at their next bout, Saturday, December 16th at Mardi Gras World. Buy your tickets now at
Rollergirl Tickets

Please support your community by buying from local businesses and artisans. For more information on local businesses, check out Buy Local at
Buy Local

2006-12-08T20:35:00.000-08:00

My New Favorite Christmas Cd

Fabulous local music. Very appropriate to New Orleans style - They take something traditional and adapt it to their own musical phraseology. I've always been a fan of Ingrid Lucia, New Birth Brass Band and Dukes of Dixieland, and they don't disappoint. The whole cd is a Big Easy hybridize of classic Christmas favorites.

You can find "New Orleans Christmas" at

Putumayo

2006-12-02T15:15:00.000-08:00

THE AIM OF EDUCATION SHOULD BE TO TEACH US RATHER HOW TO THINK, THAN WHAT TO THINK – RATHER TO IMPROVE OUR MINDS, SO AS TO ENABLE US TO THINK FOR OURSELVES, THAN TO LOAD THE MEMORY WITH THOUGHTS OF OTHER MEN – BILL BEATTIE

A new documentary, “Left Behind: the story of New Orleans public schools,” is debuting this week at Canal Place. I urge everyone to check it out. I am curious to discover what the filmmakers have learned.

According to The New York Times, No Child Left Behind (NCLB), forced schools to reduce class time spent on other subjects (science, art, history) and eliminate them all together for some low-proficiency students.

NCLB depends entirely on standardized testing to measure student advancement. Studying for standardized tests is not the same as asking questions and learning to think independently.

Robert Stenberg, the dean of arts and sciences at Tuft University, states that the “massive” amount of standardized testing is “one of the most effective, if unintentional, vehicles this country has created for suppressing creativity.”

A survey, by the independent group, Center on Education Policy, found that since the passage of the federal law, 71 percent of the nation's 15,000 school districts have reduced the hours of instructional time spent on history, music and other subjects to open up more time for reading and math.

At Martin Luther King Jr. Junior High School in Sacramento, about 150 of the school's 885 students spend five of their six class periods on math, reading and gym, leaving only one 55-minute period for all other subjects.

"Only two subjects? What a sadness," said Thomas Sobol, an education professor at Columbia Teachers College and a former New York State education commissioner. "That's like a violin student who's only permitted to play scales, nothing else, day after day, scales, scales, scales. They'd lose their zest for music."

According to the filmmakers of NCLB, their new film chronicles the corruption, controversy and failures of New Orleans city schools premieres Tuesday, December 5th at Canal Place Cinemas at 7:30 pm. A second screening at Canal Place is scheduled for Wednesday, December 6th at 7:30. Admission is $10 and seating is limited.
The 90-minute documentary, Left Behind: the story of the New Orleans Public Schools, follows three High School seniors through the 2004 and 2005 school years in one of the worst public school systems in America, before, during and after Hurricane Katrina.
A limited number of tickets will be available each day of the screening, December 5th and 6th, at 5 PM at the Canal Place Cinema Box Office. The show starts at 7:30 PM each night.
The directors and some of the people featured in the film will be present at showing for a short question and answer session immediately after the show.
Academy award-winning writer and producer of Crash, Bobby Moresco, is executive producer of the film. The music is composed by Rolfe Kent, composer for Sideways and Wedding Crashers.
I will be there on Tuesday and hope to see everyone out there!
More information, as well as the movie trailer, is available online at: New Orleans Left Behind
For more information contact:
Mandy Vincent  504-913-6819 leftbehindmovie@gmail.com
or
Jeremy Cooker 504-247-4181 leftbehindmovie@gmail.com

2006-11-27T08:10:00.000-08:00

GIVING THANKS

I am not completely ignorant to the “re-interpretation” of Thanksgiving. I’ve read my history beyond my seventh-grade textbooks of pilgrims and Indians. I know the way we dress it up, cloak it, and smack an American stamp of approval on it. But to me, Thanksgiving has always been a time of, well… giving thanks. Plain and simple. Sharing with people you love and care about. And although, they aren’t sitting down to turkey in China, I can’t help but think of the Chinese proverb – Do not forget little kindnesses and do not remember small faults.

This time of the year (as it should be all year) is a time to remember what we have, not what we don’t have. With all the commercials screaming out for us to BUY, BUY, BUY as a way to show our love, and all the stores blaring their holiday music under the guise of goodwill toward all, it’s sometimes hard to focus. Here’s something I have always been thankful for – I don’t really give a shit about keeping up with The Jones. People’s value is not measured by their income or the price of their gift, it’s what they give of themselves. I would much rather have a gift filled with thought than will currency.

Enough of that.

First off, this Thanksgiving was special in many ways, but the most important one was that my mom was out visiting. Yay, mom! I hadn’t seen her in awhile and was struck by our similarities. I know we all struggle to define ourselves as unique, when in reality we are just recycled from numerous people. Watching my mom made me think about the true effect people have on each other. How much residue of other people (good and bad) do we carry over in our lives? These are some things that struck me.

A few months ago I was bemoaning to a friend that it was hard for people to respect when I wanted to be anti-social and left alone. She replied, “Well, that’s because you talk to everyone. And I mean. EVERYONE. It doesn’t matter who they are, you will go up and talk to anyone.” I hadn’t really thought about it before. Then I saw my mom. I have picked her up at the airport only to see the people she was sitting next to hug her good-bye (in one case, a really good-looking guy in his 20s). My mom talked to the woman we were standing next to at the baggage claim. The couple in the elevator. The woman in front of us and behind us at the grocery store. The woman in the fabric store. She talked to everyone. It’s hard to imagine her being quiet, but unknown to many, we both require a lot of solitude.

Another thing I noticed was her struggle with words - frequently mispronouncing them or her unique malapropisms. I have that in spades. I don’t know if this is genetic or learned. But we both have it.

And her selective quest for perfection in details. I noticed this when her hair wasn’t combed properly (she got a haircut and didn’t realize her bangs were six different lengths until she got home. “Oh, well”) and she was bent over the ironing board. As I stood in my flour-covered t-shirt and hair pulled back in a ponytail, fretting over the proper placement of the table settings, I told her that it wasn’t necessary for her to iron the napkins. The pot calling the kettle black.

So, a lot of my Thanksgiving had to do with being thankful for anytime I got to spend with my mom and noticing connections (despite how odd and frustrating they might be).

The next part of my “Thankful Thanksgiving” was going to the racetrack! A New Orleans tradition. This was especially important because the track was closed down last year due to Hurricane Katrina. About a dozen or so of my friends met at my house around noon (I insisted all the ladies wear hats) and we walked over to the track.

The weather was perfect, clear blue skies, 70s. Along the way I was treated to a rash of interesting bumper stickers on cars, which always makes me happy. Everyone called out holiday greetings and frequently complimented us on our outfits.

Inside the racetrack, the lines were long for beer and snacks, but the mood was festive.

Everyone seemed excited to be there and I had (and witnessed) various reunions. The general mood seemed to be one of “Aren’t we lucky to be in New Orleans?” Any time that mood hits I am thankful for it.

I left a little early with my friend’s son to set up for the big meal. I had 19 people, at three tables. It was a potluck, so everyone brought something. Most made the dishes at my house (with help from my friend’s stove four doors down) so it was a full and frantic kitchen. People hung out on the patio, in the yard, or piled around the cooking area. People who didn’t know each other met for the first time. Old friends got to catch up. Derby girls got to talk trash.

We had two turkeys (one baked, one deep-fried) mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans, three pies, crawfish bread, oyster stuffing, bacon wrapped in water chestnuts, sweet bread, spinach salad, fruit salad, creamed onions, and a lot of alcohol.

At the table(s) the conversation never stopped and I was reminded how lucky I am to have such good friends and be surrounded by such fun, caring, intelligent and interesting people.

When you have people near you who have those qualities, it makes it easier to realize what you HAVE. There were people missing who I would have liked to be there, but the warmth I felt from other people was a reminder of their presence. But above all, it made me thankful.

Thank you!

Gratitude preserves old friendships, and procures new.

2006-11-16T05:59:00.000-08:00

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM

Seventy years ago today, my mom was born. Full of laughter, creativity, kindness, an inquisitive nature and a unique ability to always do her own thing, my mom has had an effect on everyone she met. Of course, I have only known her half of her life, and those who are fortunate to know her longer have their own stories to tell, but these are some of my favorites.

• Painting the entire house with an oyster shucker and 2.5 inch brush
• Always making sure I made/baked Christmas gifts every year for my bus driver, teacher and principal
• Calling the school so I could wear my ERA t-shirt to school at age seven, even though it had the word “sex” on it.
• Picking up me and my friend and our dates in the RV from the spring dance. We sat in the empty high school parking lot and feasted on pizza and gummy bears.
• Buying us Oreos when my dad went out of town, despite the ban that befell our household
• Braiding my hair with different colored yarn every day
• Always picking up the phone at 3AM (or whatever the time) so I can rattle on about World War 2, existentialism, or whatever it is that comes to my mind that early in the morning
• Trying to explain the facts of life to me curtsey of an obese cow
• Singing and playing the piano for all of my dates, just so I could gauge their mortification
• Teaching me words and pronunciations that don’t exist, to which I still struggle with today
• Making me two phenomenal Elvis quilts
• Letting me speak my mind in front of her friends, although she rarely agreed with me
• Singing like Marylyn Monroe at my wedding
• Not caring when we named her croqueted afghans “Monkey Puke” and “Rhino Shit.”
• Always finding a way to laugh about the situation
• Grinding the household to a complete stop whenever she works on a new puzzle
• Letting me read whatever I wanted, no matter what my age, except books that had Satan in them
• Lying to the principal of the all-girls Catholic boarding school I went to so I could wear moccasins instead of penny loafers
• Installing in me the value of thank-you cards
• Allowing my lamb, General MacArthur to sleep in the utility room
• Having a ring made for me out of my great-grandmother’s favorite opal earring
• Buying me my first book of poems for my first birthday
• Teaching me this: You get more bees with honey than you do with vinegar and Treat others the way you want to be treated

These are but a few of the special qualities that make up my mom.

Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you!

2006-11-15T06:50:00.000-08:00

THE IMPORTANCE OF TOUCH

Sarcophagus from Cerveteri, Seventh to Sixth Century B.C.

I woke up this morning thinking of an old Asian fable I had read years ago.

A woman hates her mother-in-law. She can’t stand living with her anymore and goes to the local wise woman asking for a potion to kill her. The wise woman thinks for a moment and then gives her an ointment telling her to massage it into her mother-in-law every day, and in three months time she will be dead. Ecstatic, the woman returns home and does exactly what the wise woman tells her. Four weeks later, she returns to the wise woman sobbing and begging for the antidote. She doesn’t want her mother-in-law to die. The wise woman tells her she already has the antidote; the potion was harmless. Through touch and massage every day, the woman had grown to know and love her mother-in-law, and in return, she had grown to be grateful to her daughter-in-law. You can’t touch someone and continue to hate them.

Seated Man and Woman, Dogon Sculpture, Mali

I’ve worked in childcare for many years. It wasn’t until I worked with infants that I was astounded by the vast differences of personality and behaviors – even at two weeks old.

When I was living in New York, I worked as a nanny for a family from Thailand. They had recently moved to the United States and were working as accountants. They were saving up to buy a house, but until then they lived in a tiny, dark, walk-up apartment by the railroad tracks. It wasn’t the most pleasant place to be during a typical New York winter. Their son Jason was three months old. The parents had lots of requests, but one of them was to give Jason a daily massage. In the afternoon, I was to lay him out on the floor, play relaxing music for him and massage him with oils from head to foot. I thought it odd, but began to enjoy our daily ritual. I also became very close with Jason (or Jason-san as I called him). Jason-san was nothing but a pure delight as a baby. He constantly smiled, wasn’t fussy, always affectionate. When he yawned, I’d lay him down and he would relax quietly in his crib before drifting asleep. Likewise, he never woke up screaming. More often than not, I’d have to check on him and he would usually be awake in his crib just hanging out. He’d never scream or cry, he would just make noises to let me know he was up. I could sit him in his high chair with a pretzel for over an hour while I practiced my French homework on him. He was the easiest baby I ever (and have ever) seen. I can’t help but credit the massage to his disposition, and hope to one day try this theory on my own kids.

Motherhood by Margeurite Gerard

Consider this:

• Touch is the first sense to develop inside the womb.
• A fetus’s skin can sense touch at just nine weeks.
• Until the 1930s, the death rate for babies under one-year old in American foundling hospitals was nearly 100%. They died from “marasmus” which is Greek for wasting away. Then a Dr. Talbot visited a children’s clinic in Germany. There he saw an elderly fat lady shuffling around with babies clinging to her. The doctors there told Talbot that when the babies didn’t improve from their medical efforts, they handed them over to Old Ana who simply carried them around with her. The babies always thrived. Talbot returned to the U.S. and introduced the concept of mothering into foundling institutions. The infant rate decreased.
• In Mexico, Zinacanteco shamans hug patients to help them recover the lost part of the soul, “to get in touch with it.”
• In Northwestern Nepal, an entire community will take turns regularly massaging an expectant mother. They do this because they believe an anxious mother is bad health of the village as a whole.
• A1950s study revealed that touch is a more important factor to a baby primate in forming attachment. Monkeys were taken away from their mothers and given two wire-frame surrogate mothers. One “mother” provided milk, the other was covered in blankets and provided touch. The monkeys bonded with the touching mother, not the feeding mother.
• Dolores Krieger pioneered Therapeutic Touch. This is a development of laying hands on people to direct healing energy. Tests have shown that is has a positive effect on hemoglobin (which deliver oxygen to tissues) and on brain waves.
• Greeks prescribed massage as a cure for melancholia (depression), asthma, digestive problems and sterility.
• In Nigeria, the moment a Burno baby is born, it’s held by all the birth attendants, who have heated their hands over hot coals. Much better than a slap on the ass.

The Throne of Tutankhamen, Egypt, Late XVIII Dynasty

Loving Couple, Pre-Columbian Terra-cotta Sculpture, Mexico

King Mycerinus and Queen Kha Merer Nebty 11, Circa 2570 B.C.

Touch revives our senses. The nurturing aspects of touch are as important a part of the physical therapy aspect of working the muscles and energizing circulation. It is a powerful tool, which helps us discover non-sexual bodily intimacy. Touch is way to calm. It’s acknowledgement of the inherent need of interconnection.

Self-Portrait with Isabella Brandt in the Honeysuckle Bower by Peter Paul Rubens, 1609

Now, I am not talking about the grope on the Subway, but sometimes a hand on top of another is the greatest form of communication.

Spring in Central Park by William Zorach, 1914

Kiss your child
Pat your friend
Hug your partner

Romance by Thomas Hart Benton, 1931-1932

“Touch is a language that can communicate more love in five seconds than five minutes of carefully chosen words.” Phyllis Davis

Lovers with Flowers by Marc Chagall, 1927

P.S. I mistakenly picked up the book “The Tao of Health, Sex & Longevity,” by Daniel Reid thinking it had the fable in it. I’m now rereading it for the third (fourth?) time in fifteen years. Excellent book. I highly recommend it.

2006-11-13T06:20:00.000-08:00

For me, there is no better reward in life than the ability to find joy, especially when times are taxing. While, I write this, and cringe at the greeting-card sentimentality of it all, it’s how I feel. I seek joy.

The smell of babies after a bath.
The unexpected laugh in unusual places.
Eating outside.
Making someone in a bad mood laugh
Watching fireworks on a big blanket
Forgotten money in pockets
The lights going down in the movie theater
Good food and better conversation
Deserving people getting rewarded
High school marching bands that “get down”
Small gifts out of the blue
Elderly people holding hands
Symbolism in ordinary places
Warming your hands on your lover’s chest
Fields of flowers (I’m not too picky)
Standing close to paintings in art museums
Refrigerators covered in children’s drawings
Outdoor naps
Midday Naps
Warm towels out of the dryer
Waking up and realizing you have nothing to do that day except what you want
Leisurely strolls holding hands with someone you care about
Children who spontaneously dance, stand on their head, or sing
Wriggly puppies
Getting stamps in my passport book
Sincere compliments
Marching in the St. Ann’s parade
Lying in soft green grass and having animals congregate around you.
Sitting in patches of sun when it’s cold outside
Singing loudly on road trips
Getting clean sheets dirty.
Good story telling
Small-town parades
Dozing in hammocks
Being read to (bonus if the reader has a real nice voice)
Handmade gifts
Bright, crisp weather that only requires a heavy sweater or a light coat
The intellect that doesn’t take himself/herself too seriously
Well-deserved stains on clothes
Unpacking Christmas ornaments
Finishing a long, laborious job
Telling secrets around campfires
Eating waffles with my hands
Forts in the living room
Breakfast in bed
Giving the perfect gift
When the weather calls for hot apple cider
A child’s hug (they are always earnest)
Seafood buffets
Catching your desired throw at Mardi Gras parade
Sleeping under Christmas lights
Making someone’s day
Creating something new
Claddagh rings
Swimming out to a dock on a lake and just relaxing
Taking a deep breath and feeling the bliss

2006-11-08T08:28:00.000-08:00

HOORAY FOR DEMOCRACY!

In celebration of the democrats reclaiming the house, I would like to pay tribute to another fighter for democracy. A dauntless leader. A courageous heroine. A salty babe. A pugnacious princess. A woman who knows when to reason and when to take out her blaster. An inspiration to us all... Princess Leia Organa!!!!

Princess Leia in 5th Grade

Princess Leia in her trusty go-kart "Charlie's Angels"

2006-11-07T07:31:00.000-08:00

FINGERS CROSSED.

I am a sooner than later type of gal.

On Election Day, it's roll out of bed and vote. This year was no different, but imagine my surprise to find the parking lot at my voting precinct packed! I always tend to vote early in the morning and have never experienced this before: people parking blocks away, on sidewalks, behind other cars. It gives me hope.
Of course, aside from making a difference with a vote, it's always great to run into people in the neighborhood, which I always do and always forget I do. This year was no different with my greasy hair, unbrushed teeth and swollen eyes from an unexplainable allergic reaction. But, alas, there's no vanity in voting! And there is no excuse not to. A minute behind those maroon curtains makes all the difference.

Please, everyone get out and vote!

THE BALLOT IS STRONGER THAN THE BULLET - ABE LINCOLN

2006-11-03T14:23:00.000-08:00

AMENDMENT #5

Please support local artists!

If Amendment #5 doesn't pass this Tuesday, all artists who show in galleries must pay inventory tax on their unsold work at the end of every year.

This not only effects struggling artists, who will now have to bear the tax burden of their unsold works, but also the galleries contending with the lack of tourism in Post-Katrina society. This amendment would be a nail in the coffin of the already fledging art community. Once again, it would be an attempt to "Mc Manufacture" our diverse and culturally expressive city. The only artists who could afford to show in our city would be internationally-known "name" artists, and even then why would they? Why pay the extra tax when they can show somewhere else? As an unknown artist, why take a chance to show your work in a city where you will be punished for it not selling.

I keep thinking back to those wonderful exhibits all over the city dealing with Katrina. Professional and amateur alike. They allowed such a wide variety of expression and interpretation. A majority of these artists who showed their Katrina-specific art were not concerned with compensation; they only wanted a chance convey their experience. The art was not only healing but also bonding. But would any of these occurred under the threat of taxation for merely hanging unsold in a gallery? I doubt it.

It's difficult enough to be an artist. Let's not make it more difficult.

ART IS NOT A MIRROR TO REFLECT THE WORLD, BUT A HAMMER WITH WHICH TO SHAPE IT - Vladmir Mayakovsky

This is a message from Steve Martin, President of the New Orleans Arts Association

AMENDMENT # 5
Vote Yes for the Artist Consignment Tax Exemption

We strongly endorse Amendment # 5 to exempt consignment art from the inventory tax. The Louisiana constitution states that only those items specifically enumerated are exempt from what has suddenly become a somewhat onerous inventory tax on artists. Consignment art is not among the enumerated items and this tax is now being unevenly and arbitrarily applied by only two assessors in the city of New Orleans and is applied nowhere else in the state of Louisiana or for that matter anywhere else in the United States. One of the assessors that is applying the tax, Darren Mire, has endorsed amendment #5, as he does not want to impose this tax to the detriment of the industry.

This tax if evenly applied to all businesses that consign art across Louisiana it would turn our wonderful State into a pariah of the art world rather than an incubator of creative talent. As we seek to grow the Cultural Economy, it is important for Louisiana to both encourage local artists and to continue to provide a welcome for international artists to exhibit their works in Louisiana galleries. The sales taxes from these works benefit state and local governments much more than the vague and uncertain application of an inventory tax which would be nearly impossible to ascertain.

The Artist Consignment Tax deters the growth of the Cultural Economy

The Artist Consignment Tax conflicts with the IRS's value of unsold art

The Artist Consignment Tax discourages both Louisiana artists and those from outside of the state to exhibit here.

It is proven that the Artist Consignment Tax is less profitable than the tax collected when a work of art sells; therefore counterproductive

Louisiana is the only state that has an Artist Consignment Tax and only two assessors currently enforce it.

Let's stop killing the Goose that Laid the Golden Egg, Vote YES for the Artist Consignment Tax Exemption.

Steve Martin

The object of art is to give life a shape - Jean Anouilh

Art is the most intense mode of individualism that the world has known - Oscar Wilde

Art is the only thing that can go on mattering once it has stopped hurting - Elizabeth Bowen

All art deals with the absurd and aims at the simple. Good art speaks truth, indeed is truth, perhaps the only truth - Iris Murdoch.

Art is not a special sauce applied to ordinary cooking; it is the cooking itself if it is good - W.R. Lethaby

Life without industry is guilt, and industry without art is brutality - John Ruskin

2006-10-31T10:01:00.000-08:00

BLOODY FEARS

For the record, I have jumped out of an airplane without an ounce of hesitation except to ask, “How high?” I used to be a camp counselor where we white water rafted and sometimes hiked alone for days. I can sit atop the highest rooftop and casually eat a sandwich. I have walked up behind a bull and slapped it on the ass. Of course, I did mistake it for our own affectionate-driven cow, Showboat. (I wondered why my mom looked like she was ready to faint). I can scoop up spiders and bugs without blinking, and cockroaches and rats only startle me. I traveled parts of Europe by myself. I have never shied away from a fight regardless of the person’s sex, position, or extra 75 pounds. There isn’t much that frightens me. With that said, these are some of the things that I am deathly afraid of: snakes, The Teacup ride at Disneyland, bureaucracy and needles. My biggest fear would be riding The Teacup ride with a python and a dozen needles pointing at me while filling out legal forms in triplicate.

I decided it was finally time to give blood.

I don’t know what exactly triggered this. I think it started a week ago when I was walking through the mall in a lingerie quest (where can you find hot pink boy-cut shorts? – long story) and saw a group of people lined up to give blood. I looked at them enviously, wishing I could be so fearless. So, on my way out (sans the pink underwear) I bravely jumped in line. During my time in the mall, I convinced myself that if the people were still there on my way out then I would donate. It would be fate. I was so nervous about the possibility of it actually coming true that I accidentally walked into the men’s bathroom while I was preparing to “pysch” myself up. Instead of recognizing the immediate error of my ways, I actually had to stop and give myself time to wonder. “Huh, what is that man and the urinal doing in here?” The embarrassing part was the long walk out of the bathroom, as there seemed to be a sudden influx of old men with pressing bladders. With this social faux paus out of the way, I bravely approached the table. “Am I too late to give blood?” I asked the woman counting a large stack of money. Instantly, a new rush of goodwill swept over me. Unfamiliar with the exact procedures of blood donating, I decided that I would decline any sort of compensation. The woman put down her pile of bills and squinted at me. “Honey, this here is for flu shots.”

Noble deed dashed.

I was positive I would never be able to sum up the courage again. Suddenly, everywhere I went there seemed to be an urgency to donate blood; a child with a disease, an officer who was shot, or a friend who was in a car accident. But it got me thinking about my recent post regarding having more fears than desires. I made up my mind that no matter what, I would give blood.

I have a somewhat tumultuous relationship with needles. If I was to guess the exact origin of this phobia, I would speculate that it all started with the wound on my foot when I was seven-years old. I forgot how the bottom heel of my right foot was cut open, but I shortly thereafter caught the chicken poxs. The virus got into the cut and infected the bottom of my foot, turning it almost black. I had to go in and have it worked on numerous times (burned, frozen, scraped). Every procedure started with a shot. It took three nurses to hold me down, and the only reason why they succeeded was that one nurse momentarily distracted me by asking me about my new Star Wars watch (bitch). To this day, I can’t have the scar on my foot touched by anyone, not even me (so, I guess that is actually five things I am afraid of).

After that, any time a shot was in my future, my family had to take special precautions. Or I guess coercion is the correct word. One time, after establishing a price of a pound of gummy bears and a banana split, I went into the doctor for my shot. The first one went okay. The second… Well, let’s just say my dad “forgot” to mention that there would be a second. He says sometimes he can still hear my screams. “WHAT???? ANOTHER SHOT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME!! BRING MY DAD IN HERE NOW! WHERE IS HE? WE DIDN’T DISCUSS THIS!” I came out of the doctor’s room, shaky, angry and ready for renegotiation. After that, I only accepted payments in advance.

Another time, when I was fifteen, I split my foot open with a razor. I seem to have this bad habit of stepping on sharp objects in my bare feet. “You’re going to require stitches,” the doctor told me. I told him that wasn’t a problem. Then he said I needed a shot; my mom had to physically barricade the door to prevent me from bolting.

I don’t know what it is about shots. I can handle pain fairly well. I’ve sustained various injuries and operations without so much as a whimper. But there is something about that half-second before the inevitable that sends me into a tizzy. It’s almost like static electricity or popping balloons (okay, two more things that terrify me). Anyway, my life, until now, has been a careful journey of avoiding shots at all costs.

The writer relaxing between doctors' visits.

Here’s my routine for getting a shot. 1. I can’t see the needle. Some doctors think I’m kidding and insolently stroll into the room holding the weapon in full view. If this happens, they have to leave the room and come back with the needle properly hidden. 2. They have to let me know right before they do it. 3. When I keep asking, with my head turned away and eyes tightly shut, “Are you done? Are you done? Are you done?” They have to say, “Almost” and tell me how brave I am being. 4. When I am done and the needle is completely dislodged from whatever part of my body that is has been jammed into, and taken out of my view, it’s imperative that they tell me how brave I was.

It’s a fairly simple routine, and I am always very clear and specific about the guidelines. “Do you have any questions?” I ask my doctors. “Is there anything you don’t understand?” You’d be surprised how many doctors screw it up.

I remained relatively calm when I drove out to the West Bank Blood Center. I took a lot of deep breaths. I tried to trick my mind into believing I was driving across the bridge for something else. Something pleasant. A facial. A lunch date. A colon checkup.

The Blood Center was easy to find. When I approached the door and found it locked, I gave a big sigh of relief. Even though I had called earlier that morning to confirm, I figured it was the gods’ way of telling me that they didn’t need my blood; I was off the hook. A nurse popped her head out of another door, “Down here, sweetie!” I was trapped.

After showing my driver’s license and filling out paperwork, they asked me numerous questions. Have I paid for sex? Have I swapped needles with anyone? Have I spent more than 3 months in the United Kingdom from 1984 to 1997 (just missed it). The basic stuff. I passed. Phew.

The nurse at The Blood Center then informed me that I had four options in giving blood.
1. I could get a free t-shirt.
2. I could choose to put it toward Camp Challenge. For every 200 donors that donate, a child with cancer is able to go to camp for a week.
3. I could list myself and three other people, and if we needed blood anytime in the next year (regardless if our insurance didn’t cover it) I would be guaranteed the amount I donated. Like a blood voucher.
4. I could choose four people for the blood voucher.

I chose Camp Challenge. And not to tell anyone what to do but… choose the camp! Choose the camp! Choose the camp!

Camp Challenge

Afterward, we went into another room where the nurse informed me that they would have to do a finger prick to check my iron level. I hadn’t been counting on this part of the procedure and could feel myself starting to get anxious. “You mean like a needle?” I asked.
“It’s just a little prick,” she reassured me.
“What if my iron is too low?”
“Then you can’t donate.”
“So, that means I would have gotten my finger pricked for nothing?” The nurse looked at me oddly. “Could you just take my word for it?” She couldn’t. “Is there a waiver I can sign?” There wasn’t.

Still, I was there, I was in the chair, I passed the verbal test; I was halfway home. Even though this was just a prick, I told the nurse of my routine and she understood, following my directions to a tee. Afterward, she wrapped up my left index finger and told me what a good job I did. I was soooo brave. Luckily, my iron count was 4 points above the bare minimum so I was free to give. Now I was on my way to the Big Chair.

When I sat in the chair another nurse came over to me. I quickly asked her if the other nurse had told her about my method. She nodded. “Okay, I don’t think you are aware of how terrified of needles I am,” I told her. She said she understood and I don’t know if it was my testament or the somewhat nauseated look on my face because another nurse came over so both of them could hold my hands. I took a deep breath and tried not to pass out, but once the needle was in I realized that by looking away from my arm, I was looking directly at another woman with a needle in hers. So I cried. Not big, gasping, body-wracking sobs, but “quiet, lips pierced, tears slowly streaming down my face” crying. The kind of crying I do when I am at the dentist (all right, all right, another thing I am scared of). The nurses brought me tissues and a stack of “Good Housekeeping” Magazines to distract me from the needle in my arm and to shield me from the view on my right. In between recipes for peach cobbler and tips on making my own environmentally safe laundry detergent, this is what I tried to think about.

One out of every three people will need blood before they turn 72 years old.
Blood, unlike medication, can’t be manufactured it has to be donated.
There are so many children and adults out there with illnesses whose recovery depends on donated blood.
The Blood Center took a hit from Hurricane Katrina. They need to replenish their supplies.
It’s pretty simple; it doesn’t take a lot to help save lives.

The procedure took about ten really long minutes. When it was all done, the nurses wrapped my arm, helped me up and gave me orange juice and cookies. And even though I chose Camp Challenge, they gave me a free t-shirt anyway. And a clock.

I am that pathetic.

If I chose, I can come back in eight weeks to donate again. And while it may not be eight weeks on the dot, I know I will. It’s important.

Of course, in retrospect, I won’t just eat peanuts for breakfast. I will also not make the fatal mistake of donating blood and not allowing enough time to eat before my physical therapy appointment. My therapist sent me home early because I was doing my knee exercises at a ninety-degree tilt.

I was somewhat loopy for the rest of the day.
And my arm still hurts.
And thinking about it makes me want to cry.

I came home, ate some food, and took a nap. When I awoke, I cooked myself some shrimp pasta with olive oil, pine nuts and fresh basil from my herb garden. I made it with angel hair pasta because I can’t have pasta that’s any bigger than regular spaghetti unless it is lasagna. Anything else in between, like, say, fettuccini freaks me out. And definitely not elbow macaroni.

Never elbow macaroni because that really scares the shit out of me.

Here are the local Blood Centers that are up and operating

42268 Veterans Ave
Hammond, LA 70401
(985) 542-0263

3400 16th St.
Metairie, LA 70002
(504) 887-2833

2701 Manhattan Blvd
Harvey, LA 70058
(504) 263-1190

1137 Gause Blvd. Ste 106 (Opening the first week of November)
Slidell, LA 70458
(985) 641-4400

For more information, visit

The Blood Center

So, here is my point. If I can donate blood, anyone can. Seriously.

PLEASE DONATE TODAY!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Writer on the left, 1981. Now, that's scary!

2006-10-13T21:02:00.000-07:00

BUDDHIST HELL

It’s only fitting that when in Japan, you visit a love shrine one day and a “Buddhist hell” temple the next.

It wasn’t Buddha, but British novelist, E.M. Forester that said, “Death destroys a man, the idea of Death saves him.” Are men saved because of fear? Is all religion an attempt to frighten individuals into compliance? And, if you’re only motivated by fear, does that make your actions sincere?

A short story in a futile attempt to illustrate my point:

When I was seven-years old, I was sent to a Christian summer camp for a week. While some children stood by their parents crying, or were pulled from their cars screaming, my only anxiety was getting their early enough to secure a top bunk. I barely had time to say good-bye to my parents before I rushed off to say hello to dozens of potential friends.

The second day at camp, aside from learning to avoid the last bathroom stall and not to litter for fear of bears, we learned that it was essential to ask Jesus into your heart. If you didn’t, you went to hell. This confused me.

I asked about babies. I was told they were exempt.
I asked about people in Africa. I was told they were exempt.
I asked about people who lived alone on islands in undiscovered parts of the world. I was told, once again, that they were exempt. However, this time it came with a disclaimer. “If you don’t know, you’re okay. But if you do know and choose not to let Jesus into your heart, then you will go to hell.”

Me: What if you’re a really good person?
Christian Camp Counselor: No.
Me: What if you saved someone from drowning?
CCC: No.
Me: What if you have a whole farm full of stray dogs and stray cats?
CCC: No.
Me: What if….?
CCC: Little girl, stop talking! There’s no excuse. If you know and you don’t ask Jesus into your heart, you’re going to hell. That’s all there is to it.
Me: (sheepishly raising hand): Well, I am not quite sure if my dad has or not; mostly he stays at home when we go to church. I mean, he goes on Christmas and Mother’s Day, but that’s about it. I am pretty sure about my mom, but I don’t know about my dad.
CCC: Well, you’re dad is going to hell.
Me: What? But he’s a really nice person!
CCC: Sorry; he’s going to hell!
Me: Are you certain? Wouldn’t Jesus see that he’s nice and stuff?
CCC: Nope, sorry. You’re dad is going to hell. Next topic.
Me: (frantically waving my arm) Is there a phone I can use?

I spent the next week in complete turmoil. What if something happened to my dad while I was at camp? Although, not savvy to the ways of the world, growing up on a farm I was aware of death. I also witnessed it on the human level. A child in my class that year died of leukemia. Another friend’s dad died of a heart attack. With the possibility of death ever looming, how could I enjoy canoe trips and marshmellow roasts when my dad was destined to spend eternity withering in agony? Smores lost their taste. Camp songs lost their zing. And kick-the-can didn’t ignite my usual passion. Aside from worrying about my dad’s soul, what about mine?

Feverishly I prayed to Jesus at all hours of the day to come into my heart. The door to my heart was wide open. But if Jesus could read my thoughts, would he know that I was mainly triggered by this sudden burst of religious accountability because I was scared? In my top bunk at night, I would try and reason with him. “It’s not just because I am afraid, Jesus. Really it’s not. I mean, I kind of am. But I want you in my heart, I do. Because I love you. I really mean it. Really. But if you are coming down to earth this week and destroying everything, can you wait until after my soccer game on Thursday? I’d really appreciate it.”

But it all came down to this, was Jesus smarter than a seven-year old girl with hell on her brain? Could he read my mind? And deep down, I was terrified that I was more driven by the thought of the skin burning off my flesh while crows picked at my boiling eyeballs until the end of time than I was at the idea of “unconditional” love. How can you really love if you’re scared all the time? Deep down, I was also petrified that I wasn’t being honest.

When my parents came to pick me up, I threw myself around my dad and screamed, “Have you let Jesus into your heart?” He looked down at me and my troubled expression and answered, “Sure. Of course I have.” After my initial sigh of relief, the harsh realization swept over me that I wasted my precious camp experience worrying about hell. “Can I stay another week?” I asked.

One of my favorite quotes is from Francis Bacon, “It is a miserable state of mind to have few things to desire and many things to fear.”

I must admit, my knowledge on Buddhism is limited. I do keep The Four Noble Truths and The Noble Eightfold Path written down in my journal. I’ve read books on Taoism and the Primordial Breath. Judaism and the Gehenon and Garden of Eden. And I have some inkling on Hinduism and the caste system, and the Native American religion and the Peyotist doctrine. But with all of these, I realized (except for Christianity) that I have no idea what any of these religions’ interpretation of hell was. I was shocked even to discover that Buddhism had a hell, let alone eight hells. Perhaps, it’s my tendency to always focus on the positive. I like to discover new things and learn the assorted roads to enlightenment. I’ve never really been too concerned about what will happen to me if I don’t achieve that goal. But I am trying. Perhaps it is my hell-filtration process.
I don’t want my actions controlled by fear.

But, like always, for my back-story, I apologize.

“Buddhist Hell,” is the Hanibe Gankutsu-in Temple in the town of Komatsu located on the coast of the Sea of Japan. Upon entering, the first sight you see is an enormous Buddha head. Gigantic. Even in the drizzling rain, the sight was impressive. He was perfect, down to the ears that looked like the #8 and the sea-shaped curls on his head.

Leading up to the caves, the path and walkways are filled with countless Buddhas and various statues.

Once you make your way up the walkway, you are lead into a room filled completely with jizos. Apparently, the temple has become famous for the in-demand service of “mizuko reijo” or the exorcism of aborted fetuses. An entire room is dedicated to the lost souls of aborted babies. When you walk through the room with the tiny statues covered in miniature blankets, or charms, or religious paraphernalia, you can feel the guilt of the mothers. The jizos, draped with messages and toys, hang like bribes begging for forgiveness.

Continuing up the steps are more statues, until you enter the caves. The caves are made of limestone and dark with low ceilings. Even only standing at 5’7, I had to duck more than once.

At first, you are greeted by welcoming statues, many with their hands in the mudra position (symbolizing fearlessness). There are also various stages of Buddha’s life represented.

And it’s quite apparent that Buddha didn’t have a problem with sex, as a variety of the sculptures are dedicated to the age-old art of lovemaking. In fact, Buddha seems to look kindly on not only experimenting with your partner, but various partners as well.

Despite the dampness and the mold, the caves appear peaceful, that something this beautiful has to be hidden away.

But then you turn a corner, and a large beast stands with his hand out, beckoning (almost inviting) you into hell.

The first table has four demons dining on eyeballs and entrails. Next to them is a jug of blood.

Further down the line are people decapitated and chopped up.

For telling lies, a man is eaten up by snakes.

For having an abortion, a woman is forced to eat her healthy baby.

For believing in Jesus, you are mutilated, just like Adam and Eve.

Everywhere you looked people are brutalized in one form or another. I couldn’t understand the sin of the man with the inordinately large penis, but he did appear exhausted.

The images and statues in their cruelty are upsetting but what was truly disturbing was they were meant to represent your future if you did not obey. Obviously, religions don’t make their money by being nice. Like the counselor told me when I was seven, if you don’t follow the rules, you go to hell.

Like the duality in the caves, how can we recognize good without recognizing evil? Still, in my stubbornness to try and see the good in people and religions, I have to acknowledge the balance of life. Like Lao Tzu so eloquently wrote it in the fourth century BC

The whole world recognizes the beautiful as the beautiful,
Yet this is only the ugly; the whole world recognizes the good as the good, yet this is only the bad.
Thus Something and Nothing produce each other;
The difficult and the easy complement each other;
The long and the short offset each other;
The high and low incline towards each other;
Note and sound harmonize with each other;
Before and after follow each other.

Regardless of my brief descent into hell, and my appreciation of the Four Noble Truths, I still feel blessed because, like Francis Bacon, I have more desires than I have fears. And that’s the way I believe it should be.

2006-10-05T14:28:00.000-07:00

THE LOVE SHRINE

The validity of premonition. The verity of signs. What is coincidence and what is fate? Whether it is in a hammock, scented bath, early mornings hidden under the covers, long car rides by myself, or sprawled out on my chaise lounge with my feet in the air, these are topics I have given considerable time. It’s always been frustrating to me as someone who works in metaphors and analogies to desperately need explanations.

Rituals bring comfort. What makes someone who has OCD and needs to touch a light switch 32 times so they won’t explode any different from someone who has to say the rosary three times a day so they won’t burn in hell. Are all rituals a false protection like a stuffed animal you tuck under a child’s arm at night so they won’t have bad dreams? Do we replace these stuffed animals with more acceptable but equally useless versions of security? Is it worth it if it eases our mind? One of the fascinating things I find about other cultures are their rituals and customs. It’s a glimpse into what alleviates their pain or brings them hope. It even displays how they punish themselves. We all have some form of “Hari-Kari,” be it through drink, or reckless behavior or even parasitic relationships. But how do people submerged in their routines keep their faith when things go awry. Do they keep their heads bent and minds true, or do they seek out signs as guidelines to show them that they are on the right path?

I have been trying to decipher if I am only reading signs just because I am striving for a connection. I can’t disconnect the oddities or the happenstances that often make me pause and reflect, but maybe a pause is all it is worth. When it comes down to it, perhaps I am clueless in my interpretation. I don’t know which is more enigmatical, that you read someone incorrectly and didn’t use proper judgment, or this individual is not who you thought. The pain of being wrong, or the pain of losing faith in someone - neither is a happy solution.

Just yesterday, my friend Colleen handed me a quote from the Dalai Lama “We also often add to our pain and suffering by being overly sensitive, over-reacting to minor things, and sometimes taking things too personally.” It was completely relevant to my current state of mind. That same morning, I got more Dalai Lama quotes emailed to me from an unusual source. For the record, I don’t usually have people giving me advice from his Holiness.

Last week, when I was finishing my blog about Maya Angelou, I received an email from a old friend, who I had not heard from in years (and have never received an email from) with a list of Maya Angelou quotes. There was no greeting, no update, just quotes. Both of these are pleasant synchronisms, but do they mean anything? What are the degrees of importance when it comes to judging signs?

Recently, I have been deliberating the value of signs. Am I putting significance on something that doesn’t need to be? Am I holding onto someone that needs to be let go because of some list of odd events and coincidences that triggered a strong emotion in me, but in reality means nothing? When does effort become wasted energy? Do I go against actions for instinct? How long can I keep the faith before it is just plain stupidity on my part. So, after the burning on Chirihama Beach, I settled into the back of the car as we headed to the Love Shrine.

The Keta Taisha is a Shinto (the way of the gods) temple in Hakui City in Teramachi. It’s located on the sacred forest on the Noto Peninsula and has been a place of worship for over 2,000 years. Shinto is the indigenous faith of the Japanese people. It’s characterized by revering nature and ancestral spirits without a formal dogma. Shinto, influenced by Buddhism and Confuciusism, does not believe there are absolute rights or wrongs. Nobody is perfect, but they believe humans are fundamentally good. They deem that evil is caused by evil sprits so the meaning of many of their rituals is to keep evil spirits at bay.

Okuninushi-no-mikoto, the god of marriage lives at the Keta Taisha Shrine. One of the reasons it has grown in popularity as a “love temple” is that one of the Royal Family prayed at the shrine and became engaged shortly after. Now, people come from all over to write down their wishes, desires or blessings on an ema (wooden plaque) and leave them at the shrine for the kami (spirits or gods) so they can read them.

After cleansing myself at the purification fountain, I wrote my prayer on my ema and looked for the ideal place to hang it for the kami to read it. I saw a tree and hung it on the back branch away from the others but still in the sun. The tree was lush and incredibly green. Later, I discovered that it was a 1,000-year-old holy tree.

MY EMA

While my friends Neil and Colleen wrote a blessing for Chris and Yuki’s wedding, I wandered the grounds. Immediately, I was struck by kinship of the forest and the human soul -. ancient trees surrounded by ancient desires. People’s wants and hopes were just as old as the trees they hung them on. There is comfort in that. Nature and matters of the heart are sacred and need to be protected.

Standing under the Torii gate (gate of the gods) an older Japanese man in a long white robe approached me. His graying hair was combed back and he wore large glasses. He had a smooth, open face that was perfected with a childlike enthusiasm, but coupled with that rare grace of patience and sagacity. It was a quality I immediately found endearing; he reminded me of the tree I had just hung my ema on – youthful and wise. Regardless of this initial impression, my instant Western reaction was that he was trying to sell me something and I kept motioning that I was okay by myself. He wasn’t trying to get anything from me; he was trying to give. He was the head priest of the shrine – Hideo Mitsui. Despite my polite declines for company or assistance, he seemed anxious to talk to me and continued engaging me. At one point he asked, “What do you do?” Not wanting to go into lengthy detail or long explanations I just replied, “I write.” He smiled and didn’t ask me any more. His English was fairly good and when Colleen and Neil came over, he insisted on taking us on a private tour. With their assurances, I followed along.

One of the first things he told us (and he repeated this no less than ten times) was that when Emperor Hirohito came to the shrine 23 years ago, he was his personal guide. There were pictures of the emperor’s visit all over the shrine. One of Mitsui-san’s favorite phrases was “Very famous. Very famous in the whole world.” Mitsui-san was also the personal guide to many members of the royal family. He was no longer a guide so to receive a private tour was a great honor.

Mitsui-san spoke to us about Shinto and the history of the temple, then showed us the entrance to the woods. No one, not even him, was allowed in the virgin forest. It was holy ground; he was only the guardian. Afterward, he helped me pick out a special charm for protection. The tour ended. Thrilled by this special treatment, we thanked him profusely and then Colleen and I went to find a bathroom. When we came back, Mitsui-san was waiting for us. Asking us to follow him, he lead us to his personal quarters where other visitors weren't allowed.

Earlier that day, I mentioned to Colleen that I would like to get some calligraphy IF I found something that spoke to me. When Mitsui-san took us to his private dwelling, it became apparent that he was going to make personal calligraphy for Colleen and me. There was no hesitation as he dipped his brush into the pot of ink. His slight movements of hand became fluid forms on the paper. I had never seen anyone's hands dance with ink before. I didn’t know if I was more honored that I was allowed to watch him do his art or that he was making a blessing for me. When he handed my gift over, he gave me a smile, a nod and said, “Your dreams will come true.” The official translation of my calligraphy means, “The majesty of God shines on your path.” Colleen’s translation meant, “The Core Belief” which is the foundation of bushido (the way of the samurai). She is the strongest warrior.

After Mitsui-san gave us our calligraphy, he led us to his bedroom to show us where Hirohito rested when he visited. The room was simple with another picture of the emperor to which he pointed. “Very famous. Very famous in the whole world.” It hung next to a scroll he recently completed – Happiness & Love.

Mitsui-san walked us to the car. On the way he told me he learned a lot of his English from American Movies. I was curious what kind of movies a Shinto Priest would enjoy but he couldn’t give me any specifics. I wanted to at least know where he got his charming way of responding, “Well, then, let’s see…” to my questions.

I thanked him again and as we were saying goodbye, Mitsui-san clasped my hands, smiled and said, “Nobel Prize in Literature.” Then we waved our goodbyes.

So there you go…. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it wasn’t. I am still feeling a little off and unsure of my instinct. Maybe the trip to the love shrine for me was to reaffirm what I love to do, not who I love. Maybe that will be enough, or maybe that will be all. I don't know. Ideally, both would be nice.

What I do know is, regardless of my future, I will always looks back on it as a lovely afternoon with an even lovelier man.

Thank you, Mitsui-san.

Some Wisdom of the Dalai Lama
1. Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk.
2. When you lose, don’t lose the lesson.
3. Follow the three R’s a) Respect for self, b) Respect for others, c) responsibility for all your actions.
4. Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.
5. Learn the rules so you know how to break them.
6. Don’t let a little dispute injure a great relationship.
7. In disagreements with loved ones, deal only with the current situation. Don’t bring up the past.
8. Once a year, go someplace you’ve never been before.
9. Approach love and cooking with reckless abandon.
10. Remember that the best relationship is one in which your love for each other exceeds your need for each other.

2006-10-05T05:11:00.000-07:00

JAPANESE T-SHIRTS

Please excuse the condition of some of these - they were taken in a stealth like manner. Enjoy!

2006-10-03T19:12:00.000-07:00

ZEN AND THE ART OF JELLYFISH MATAINENCE

The Daijo-ji Temple was built in 1261 and sits at the foot of Mt. Daizyoji in the Noda Range. The area is gorgeous and surrounded by tall red pine trees and has a general feeling of calm and serenity. The temple is important in the Japanese culture because it is one of the original places where zazen was born over 800 years ago. Zazen, translated means “just sitting.” The monks practice asceticism in the temple, which means a life away from worldly pleasures. They believe this lifestyle can make them think more lucidly and help them avoid potentially damaging short-term impulses. Wouldn’t that be lovely if we all avoided those more?

All around the temple were Jizo statues. Most of them had red aprons tied around them. I found out, Jizo means “earth womb” or “water baby.” They watch over unborn children: aborted, miscarriage, stillborn. If children die early, they are taken back to the realm of gods. This can often be confusing to them so the Jizo shelter them and watch over them. They are the guardians of the souls of unborn or dead children. Every one of them is a testament of loss and grief. While it’s hard to look and know that all of these aprons represent someone’s malaise, it’s also a comfort because hopefully it is bringing some grieving family peace.

Colleen, Neil, and their friend, Rick and I walked through the grounds. I rang the temple bell and said a quick prayer.

On the grounds was also one of Buddha’s footprints. This shows his perfection and defines the sacredness of the place.

Afterward, we walked though the cemetery; many of the old tombstones had fresh flowers on them. Colleen told me that the tombstones don’t have the deceased’s real name on it. At the time of death, individuals are given dharma names (kainyo), which symbolizes the deceased’s final entry into the pure land. This makes it difficult to trace families. The beauty of this tradition, to me, is that it’s not about the family. It’s geared around helping that person reach the afterlife. Could you sacrifice your family name, the name of someone you loved? I feel in the Christian ceremony a lot of the ritual is to not only put someone “at peace” but to give the ones left behind peace. Aren’t the tombstones and grave markers really for the family? Could some people feel just as good visiting a marker with a different name on it if it guaranteed the person’s entrance into “heaven.” Or would they more likely put their needs above others, even in death. It reminds me so often of witnessing people who died where the family comes in (sometimes estranged) and often makes arrangements for the individual’s death based on what they want, not on the life the person lived. I have always been a little touchy about death and I feel it is equally important to respect people in life as it is in death. It’s still their energy, just in a different form.
The dharma names are just one of the few things I have found fascinating about this culture.

Chirihama Beach is on the Japan Sea in Ishikawa and is famous for supposedly being the longest beach you can drive a car on. My friend Colleen suggested we stop at the beach on the way to the Keta-taisha temple for a burning of the “negatives.” This is a personal ritual she has done with many of her friends when they are going through a transition in their life. They write down the things that are negative in their life and burn them on the beach. It reminded me of the last two years of Vinotok in Crested Butte, Colorado…..

Fade to Back-story.

Vinotok is a pagan festival that celebrates the autumnal equinox. There is a pregnant Harvest Mother, maidens, torch bearers, an Earth Dragon and the ever-popular Green Man, who represents lusty fertility and whose main job is to walk around town drinking and kissing maidens. There are many more activities such as Liar’s Night and Harvest Festival, but the sum up revolves mainly around the Grump Trial. The Grump is an effigy of the ancient Slovenian traditions that has been morphed into a… well, Grump – a giant sculpture stuffed with people’s complaints. Weeks before, children of Crested Butte make “grump boxes” and place them around town. People write down their complaints (i.e. things they want to release) and things they want to invite into their life. During Vinotok, after the Grump Trial on the main street (where the grump is always found guilty) he’s is wheeled to the center of town while hundreds of people follow and chant, “Burn the grump! Burn the grump!” The grump is then set on fire (you can also toss your grumps in then) and maidens dance around him. Nice, right?

My first time, I wasn’t informed of the actual specifics of the festival. I was just told to bring a costume. Imagine my surprise to be parading down the streets in my black corset, red tutu, big red fluffy coat and platform boots surrounded by women in long flowing burlap dresses, sandals and flowers in their hair. But, there is something to be said about the hospitability of Crested Butte. When I walked into a bar after the grump burning, all of the maidens stood up and cheered, asking to kiss my breasts. It took quite some time to scrub all of the lipstick off the next day.

My second time, was curtsey of Hurricane Katrina, since we ended up in Crested Butte after the storm. Oh, did I mention there is a lot of drinking involved in Vinotok? My friend Chloe and I were dancing around the burning Grump, when it suddenly expanded to three times its size. A giant ember flew off and landed on her dress. In my somewhat inebriated state, I tried to warn her. “You know,” I said, “you have one of those things on you.” Chloe asked me what. “You know, one of those… umm… what are those things called? They, um… You know they, uh…” Chloe kept trying to coach the word out of me all the while her dress started to smolder. “It’s when, umm… those things that… um….” Chloe stood patiently, throwing out possible suggestions of words I was trying to describe. “It’s when... the thing from the fire that….” Once her dress caught fire, it didn’t take long for Chloe to figure out the word I was trying so hard to explain.

But I digress…..

On the drive to Chirihama, I worked on my list – two pages! When we got there, the first thing I noticed was that the sand was a lot like Jefferson Beach where I grew up: light in color and firm -good for digging up gooey ducks. I wandered around looking at the fishing boats on shore and then became momentarily distracted by the dead jellyfish. They looked like something. Clouds, Rorschach Inkblots? What where they trying to tell me? You decide. What do you see in the jellyfish? I hesitate to confess what I see.

Later, we dug a hole and I placed my “grumps” in the sand and we slowly set them on fire. Since none of us smoke, we were prisoner to the car lighter and Neil had to make numerous trips. But as Colleen noted, “It always takes a long time to accumulate and takes just as long to get rid of them.” Which was a good thing everything was released because we were off to Keita; The Love Shrine.

To be continued…

2006-10-01T19:54:00.000-07:00

JAPAN 101

TO: Kanazawa, Japan - medieval castle town located on the Sea of Japan. Nicknamed “Little Kyoto,” it is considered a cultural center, famous for its ceramics, silk paintings and gold leaf. One of the few cities not bombed during World War Two, it has one of the top three traditional Japanese gardens. It is also home to one of the last fully-restored Samaria districts and one of the last Geisha-in-training districts.

FROM: New Orleans, LA

WHO: Staying with my good friends, Colleen and Neil. I first met Colleen on a trip to Wales, eighteen years ago. Despite my predilection to shave things in my head, drink five screwdrivers at a time and blindly walk into situations without thought or consequence, we became friends. Colleen is a competitive hula dancer, photographer and works for the government at the convention center. Her photos and articles have appeared all over Europe and Japan. Neil, a tri-athlete and an English Teacher, owns his own English school. The other cast of characters include: Charlie, a 14 year old Bishon Frise. He is the crotchety old man of the group, the ji-sama (grandfather). The extent of his unique and funky scent is only matched by the enormity of his heart. Alfie is a longhaired dachshund. Despite being a native to Japan, he is considered “The kissing bandit” or “The Latin Lover” He has a herniated disk, which makes it difficult for him to walk on his back legs. He maneuvers by nobly pulling himself around. Of course, his spirit and resolve are what naturally drew me to him. He loves nothing more than to be cradled and have his stomach rubbed. Jet is a three-year old black lab who exists solely to seek out and spread joy. My possessions are a never-ending sense of fascination and exploration for her and frequently end up in odd spots with large quantizes of drool on them. Can’t decipher any specific personality traits of Fred & Andy, the goldfish, but if I do, I will immediately post them.

WHERE: At the top of an extremely windy, windy, windy hill with abnormally narrow roads. The highest spot in Kanazawa. One of the city’s defensives to foil and confuse their enemies in the 1500s was their windy roads. And it still foils and confuses people to this day. Since the city wasn’t touched during the war, the original streets are still in tact. So there is no direct route into town and no street names. Fun! I thought NOLA drivers were bad. The only thing that distinguishes NOLA drivers from Japanese drivers, is Japanese drivers will smile and nod when cutting you off or barreling full speed down a road the size of a McDonalds drive-thru. So, yes, this is one of the few places on earth where drivers don’t threaten to shoot me (and this happens more than most people can imagine). To get your license here, everyone has to be 18 AND go to driving school, which costs between $1500 and $2000 (USD) but you wouldn’t know it. Every time I make it to and from somewhere in a car I consider it something sacred to be marveled.

The room I am staying in is a traditional Japanese-style room. I sleep on a futon and the room has sliding doors with paper-covered wooden frames (shoji). It has a wooden paneled ceiling. My room also holds Colleen’s mask collection from around the world (so I feel like I am either be looked out for, or looked over, I haven’t decided yet). Also predominantly placed is her gorgeous wedding kimono.

THE VIEW FROM MY ROOM

The house, like almost all of the houses here, is not insulated. The walls are typically wallpaper on lathe. There is not enough power for a dryer so everyone hangs their clothes outside. The tubs are fabulously deep and short. The shower and tub are separate from the toilet, so they are in different areas of the house. One of the best features (aside from their lovely garden, which I spend many early morning hours by myself sitting in, since there is no daylight savings and it gets light around 5AM) is their toilet seat is heated. I have discovered that this is commonplace in Japan. The “toilet room” has quickly become my favorite place in the whole house. In fact, if it had proper outlets and internet connection, it would probably be where I would be composing this blog right now. While, I can’t imagine the practicality of having one in New Orleans since it would foster a perpetually sweaty ass, I have just accepted that it is a luxury like eating Italian food with chopsticks that I am to enjoy while I am here.

WORDS: These are words I have learnt (learning). I am really focused on the pronunciation, so I carry my own cheat sheet with me with my special phonetic notes. This is crucial since I am barely able to pronounce the English language. I don’t want another episode like the one I had at customs where I kept on insisting to the agent that I was staying in Kwanzaa, the African American Holiday. I finally just wrote down, “The Hilton” and she foolishly let me in the country.

Hello: Konnichiwa
Goodbye: Sayonara
Yes: Hai
No: Iie
Excuse me/I’m sorry: Sumimasen
Please: Kudasai
Thank you: Arigato
More: Motto
Cheers: Kampai
I don’t understand: Watashi wa wakarimasen
I’m a rock star: Watashi wa ro-ku stah desu *I figure this one will be the greatest use to me in sticky situations so I am trying to not only pronounce it correctly, but deliver it with a pompous and ostentatious attitude for the proper effect*

WESTERN OBSERVATIONS:

1. America is really obese. Wow, really obese. They are practical no obese people here. In fact, it has become somewhat of an obsession with me. Almost like the book “Where’s Waldo,” or the out-of-state-license plate game. They are also very petitie and I am enjoying the perks (?) of being an Amazon. Although, I did post this commentary on one of my message boards and someone posted back, “I hate to break this to you, but you’re an Amazon here too,” still… Call it what you like, but despite the fact that I am a 3L here, I still love towering over people.
2. All of the mannequins are petite Westerners.
3. Yes, Hello Kitty is huge here. Grown women wearing Hello Kitty sandals, holding their pants up with Hello Kitty belts, carrying Hello Kitty purses and paying for their purchases out of a Hello Kitty wallets. Entire homes are decorated with the cat who has no distinct personality or even remarkable flaws. If you can imagine it, Hello Kitty is on it.

4. It’s much cleaner here. In fact, it’s spotless. The interesting dichotomy is while their city is immaculate, their public places such as beaches are littered with crap.

A SIGN WHICH BASICALLY SAYS, "KIDS, CLEAN UP YOUR DOG POOP"

5. There are no paper towels in the bathrooms. This cuts down on the litter and is cost effective. While, some bathrooms have amazingly groovy hand dryers, which always thrills me, most lack them. Most people carry around little towels to dry their hands.
6. The automatic sinks actually work. A pet peeves of mine is sinks that try to dictate when I can turn water on and off. There is nothing more annoying than soaping up and walking up and down a line of defective sinks in an attempt to rinse your hands. And there is always the one sink that is gushing boiling water and won’t turn off. But, surprise, the sinks here are utilitarian and stress-free. The phrase Japanese efficiency, well, there you go.
7. There is a lack of garbage cans, which is odd considering my previous observation of the general cleanliness of the city. I have been informed that this is an effect of the sarin gas in the Tokyo subway in 1995. I have taken to carrying my refuge with me.
8. People dress up a lot more. Presentation is everything. It is standard to see women in high heels, short skirts, elaborately made up hair and makeup to go to the grocery store. So, not only am I an Amazon, I am also a slobbish one.
9. The urinals have warnings. And I know this because…. because of the unisex bathrooms. Over the urinals in some of the train stations hangs the sign, “Not for drinking.” Apparently this speaks volumes on the Japanese opinion of the intelligence of English-speaking foreigners (gajin).
10. Japanese love random English words. These are some of the phrases I have seen on children’s items: “Special Animal. My hot mind.” “Dear my friends. Progress. Good Lack.” “Another newly born dream. Simply best move time.” Even with my large glass collection, I couldn't resist purchasing some glasses because they had the phrase on them – “Yes, I am winner. Chance plays a part in deciding the issue of a battle.” Granted, it could be a zen message and I am just missing the deep philosophical meaning. That and the Tupperware I was given, “Happy fruits is very delicious. I will eat this and will become fortunate all together.” Don’t use that phrase, it’s copyrighted by “Lube Sheep.” But, to be fair, we probably have t-shirts in the U.S. that say in Japanese, “Flashlight ice-cream soccer boys.” On a side note, vodka is one of my favorite vices and is not readily available here so I have been enjoying “Fazzy Nevels.”

And finally…

WHY: Why am I here? Because I really needed to.

2006-09-30T01:39:00.000-07:00

MAYA ANGELOU AND NEW ORLEANS

I first saw Maya Angelou speak, January 1991, in Seattle, Washington. I was nineteen years old. Sitting in the middle of the room on an aisle chair, I was slightly self-conscious that I didn’t have anyone to whisper to or nudge, like the hundreds of other individuals surrounding me. As more people filled the room, their whispers grew to a collective hum, but when Miss Angelou took the stage her presence quickly sequestered their conversation and the room fell silent. Dressed in vibrant colors, she sashayed her way to the microphone. I don’t remember exactly what she said, but I recall how she said it. With her arms outstretched and her chest expanded, she roared. She would draw in a deep breath, and exhale a flow of verbs and adjectives that commingled into the most divine array of musings and meditations. Occasionally, she would stop in the middle of one of her poems, pop her hip out, raise her arms over her head and break out into song, singing snippets of an old blues or jazz tune. I didn’t know if it was spontaneous or rehearsed; it didn’t matter. Her confidence, coupled with her uninhibited bravado as she howled, wailed, shouted, or coaxed words from the bottom of her gut, was astounding. Simply put, she was dazzling. You could hear her heartbeat.

Afterward, a crowd gathered in the back for a book signing. Many of them held “I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings” or “The Heart of a Woman,” but I clutched my handwritten poetry journal. All of my various poetry and fiction journals were in black and white Mead Composition Folders. In them, I wrote my poems and the date of completion. Periodically, I’d scribble notes at the bottom for prosperity. In the back of my journal, I collected inspiring quotes or poems that motivated me while I attempted to fill the journal up with what I hoped would eventually be inspiring for others. This was the typical format in all of my journals. The particular one I held while waiting for Miss Angelou contained poems by Stevie Smith, Ernest Dowson, Shel Silverstein, Gelett Burgess and Emily Dickinson, as well as my own personal nuggets: “Underwear Voidness,” “Sex Appliances,” and “Wild O’Wild Salad Fork.” I don’t know if I was at that motivational part in my writing yet.

In the back of the line, I flipped through my journal wondering if this is how Miss Angelou got her start - if her scribbles led to revelations. Time passed until eventually a security guard made a loud announcement that Miss Angelou was getting tired, and was only going to sign autographs for the next ten people in line. I was number twelve. The person in front of me, and everyone behind me moved, but I locked eyes with the security guard, holding my ground until he shrugged his shoulders and waved me forward. I suspected the security guard was using this tired “excuse” as a rouse. Miss Angelou certainly had more exciting plans than dealing with fawning fans.

When it came my turn, I handed my journal over, explaining that I was a poet too, and for the first time looked closely at the woman who was just on stage. This was not the same woman. This was not the woman who tramped and sauntered. This was not the woman who bellowed and howled. This was not the same woman who, through movement and words, took captive an entire audience. This woman was tired.

Maya Angelou signed my journal, gave me a polite smile and nod, and handed it back to me. Seeing I was the last one in line, a man helped her up from her chair.

In my journal she wrote, “Joy, Maya Angelou 1/91”

She was sixty-two years old at the time.

In this short life, she was called: a prostitute, a poet, a mother, a singer, an actress, an artist and an activist. She was resurrected, reformed, and reborn. She was all of these things and more. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the complexities humans possess.

In 2005, I had lived in New Orleans for eleven years. After Hurricane Katrina, I evacuated to Crested Butte, Colorado. I managed to take with me my computer, cats and a small backpack with some flip flops, tank tops and a few toiletries. My home was in Mid City. Since there was varying degrees of destruction reported in my area, I was unaware for six weeks if my house and its contents were okay. A friend from Alabama sent me a gift box of donated jeans (thus, breaking my lifelong habit of only wearing 501 Levis) and books. Since I couldn’t concentrate on anything with too much of a time commitment, I took to reading poetry. Favoring novels and short stories, I hadn’t actively read poetry in years. 95% of my own poems were written in free verse. I liked the experimentation of loose words and placement. Rules were too restrictive. Yet, after Katrina, I embraced strict rhyme schemes and logical structures. I devoured haikus, villanelles and sonnets, finding solace in the formula and routine. For some reason, this structure and discipline I eschewed for years, took my mind off the situation of my adopted city and the loved ones I still couldn’t find.

I had been a volunteer for the Big Brothers and Sisters of Southeast Louisiana for over a year and half. My little brother, Nicholas was nine-years old and lived in the Lower Ninth Ward. Two to three times a month, I drove down to his slanted blue shotgun house on Tupelo Street to pick him up. His youngest brother, Devon, who was only two at the time, was frequently in his diaper or a pair of shorts playing on the sidewalk. He’d run to my car, waiting for me to roll down the passenger’s window so he could hang from it and call my name, one of the first words I ever heard him speak. Devon loved Spiderman and he loved cuddling, and I knew every time he was outside, regardless if we were late for a movie or event, there was time to pick him up, hug him and hang him upside down by his ankles. “That boy is a flirt,” his mom would always say with her infant son, Jquine, securely on her hip. ‘Don’t know what I am gonna do with him.”

Frequently, I took Nicholas’s two older brothers (and occasionally a cousin or two) with us on our outings. They were hard to turn down, and I suppose anywhere I was going in my car seemed more exciting than playing up and down the cracked sidewalks, like they did every day. Most of the time, I agreed, but other times I had planned events for just Nicholas and I didn’t want him overshadowed by his other siblings.

The first time I took Nicholas and his older brother, Shaun, to a movie was the first time they had ever been to one. Since we were running late, I told them to go pick out our seats while I bought our concessions. Shaun was already amazed they served cold drinks and candy at the movies. I spent a good five minutes reassuring him that it was okay for him to go into the theater without me. “They don’t let people like me in there,” he worriedly told me. Shaun, tall and lanky like all of his brothers, was eleven-years old and put in a different school because he punched one of his teachers. He stood in front of me nervous, almost unwilling to leave my side. “It’s okay,” I told him, pointing in the direction of the theater doors. “Just go in and get our seats; I will find you.” Minutes later, as I was debating over buying Milkduds or Hot Tamales, the two boys came running back. They were beaming proudly. “We got our seats,” they told me, jumping up and down. “We got them!”

I didn’t want to crush their coo. “Okay, well, you got to sit in them.” They thought this over for a couple of seconds and then raced back without saying a word.

During the movie, the boys laughed, shouted and filled up on the usual movie fare. Afterward, Shaun dropped to his knees to find his ticket. Thinking he only wanted a souvenir, I offered to give him mine. “No,” he wailed, “They won’t let me out without one.” It was only a glimpse into what their lives were really like.

Another time, at a pizza party at my house, Shaun asked me why I was scraping dishes and putting them into “that machine.” I told him it was a dishwasher. “You put the dishes in here,” I told him, opening the door. “And then you put in soap, shut it, turn it on, and it washes your dishes.” Shaun contemplated this for a good minute. “Can I see that soap?” he asked.

I took a lot for granted.

After I passed the interviews and background checks with Big Brother and Big Sisters, I was given two choices for little brothers. I chose Nicholas, despite the fact they said he had learning and social skill problems out the applicants, because he was the same age as my friend’s stepson, Jake. The two couldn’t be more different. Jake was small for his age, a voracious reader and loved rocks and biology. Nicholas, tall and gangly, had a bit of a lisp, mumbled and lived for sports. They instantly hit it off. When Jake asked Nicholas if he was excited for the new Star Wars movie and Nicholas responded he had never heard of it, Jake elected himself Nicholas’s personal Star Wars tutor. Jake promptly renamed Nicholas, “Nick” and would constantly chant “Nick and Jake are the man!” Nicholas quickly deemed whatever Jake ate and drank as “it.” They also enjoyed talking to no one. Sometimes I would look in my rearview mirror to find both of them deep in conversation with themselves. They had a lot to talk about.

A week before the storm, my friend and I took Jake and Nicholas to a co-worker’s birthday party for her son in New Orleans East, where they rented a large water slide. Before we left the party, I dropped school supplies off for the brothers. Fearing they would think them lame, I tried to find the most “exciting” supplies I could: folders with tigers, pencils with basketballs on them and notebooks with racecars. When I handed them over, feeling like the aunt who gives socks and underwear for Christmas, the boys attacked them, jumping up and down and screaming. They acted like I gave them all new motorbikes. Sensing Nicholas was a little sad about “sharing” me and my gifts, I took him out separately and he picked out a backpack, notebooks and calculator of his own. He held tight to the backpack, even insisting on taking it into the convenience store for fear it would be gone when we returned four minutes later.

At the birthday party, I watched Nicholas and Jake race barefoot through my friend’s yard and hurl themselves down the slide. Later in the park, I wondered how a kid who was so much taller than Jake frequently lagged yards behind. My friend had pointed out the state of Nicholas’s shoes before, but it was the first time I really noticed the effects. In a year or two, his older brother’s shoes would be fine, but for now they were an encumbrance; extra baggage. It must be a horrible thing to always be last. When I dropped Nicholas off at his house that night, I told him next week we would get shoes. It was the last time I saw him.

For weeks after Katrina I tried to find Nicholas and his family. Eventually, through the help of the local Red Cross, I managed to locate his mother, two older brothers and Jquine at the Houston Astrodome. Nicholas and Devon were not on the list. I paniced. If they registered the nine-month old, surely they would register Nicholas and Devon. I tried many times to contact the family at the Astrodome. Who could I call? Could I have them paged? Was there a phone? Where were Nicholas and Devon? No one could tell me.

Somehow, and I am not quite sure how, Devon and Jquine’s father, Darrel, managed to track down my cell phone number. “Are you the white girl that always comes around the house and gets Nicholas?” he asked me when I answered. He told me couldn’t find his sons. He didn’t have a computer. He was using a church phone in Alabama. He didn’t know anyone. We traded information and spoke every other day. Eventually, Darrel told me his story. He spent three days on a rooftop with a baby in a cooler. They waved to the helicopters, holding the baby up and screaming every time they passed. Eventually, it was the wildlife and fishery department that rescued them. He took a deep sigh and said, “Miss ______, the water rose so fast. The water rose so fast.” And to this day, although I can’t recall the exact particulars of our other conversations, I can still hear the incredulity and exhaustion in his voice.

Three weeks later I found Nicholas. I am still not clear how he and Devon were separated; they had been in Arkansas. I was driving through Oregon from Washington on my way back to Colorado after dropping off my cats at my parents’ house. I had to pull over to keep from crashing.

Nicholas and his four brothers and mother were in Dallas and staying at a church. I immediately called a friend in the city to drive down and drop off pizza for them. It was Floyd, the eldest brother’s thirteenth birthday and I had promised him a pizza party of his own. My friend, reported back to me that they were and okay, but a little hesitant and distrusting of him. Nicole refused his money.

Months later I would try to send them whatever I could. I came back to the city in October and was like everyone else, just trying to get by. A friend of mine in Pennsylvania had her son’s Cub Scout Troop adopt them for Christmas and all of the boys got an electric car. They called at least twice a week. Nicholas would sometimes sneak the phone and call me at odd hours. His messages were jumbled. “Please come and get me. I need…Come and get me… Please…No longer… Come and get back.” Then there would be a long pause and he would end the message like he did all his others. “Love, Nicholas.”

Sometimes Nicole would call me and tell me how much she hated Dallas and how they “treated black kids like shit.” “They hate us here,” she told me. I asked her if they treated her and the children badly because they were black. “No,” she said. “We surrounded by black people. They just treat blacks from New Orleans bad. They just don’t like us. This ain’t our home; we want to come home.” I wanted them back, too. I didn’t tell them I had been by their house and it was even in worse condition than before. It wasn’t their neighborhood anymore and it certainly wasn’t there home.

Once I was back in New Orleans, I continued reading mainly poetry. One night, after another day of cold showers, no heat and cooking from an electrical burner, I picked up a poetry anthology and opened up to Maya Angelou’s poem, “Still I Rise.” I had not read it in years. When I was younger, I marveled at her descriptions of what it was like to be a black woman. Her courage and confidence resonated with me. But reading it this time there was a familiarity that I didn’t recognize before. A déjà vu. For days I couldn’t place it. And then I remembered Darrel’s comment about the water. I reread the poem and this time, I realized she was speaking about Hurricane Katrina and New Orleans. It was an affirmation of the artistry and symmetry of the true beauty of poetry. A good poem not only withstands time and circumstance, but it changes with you. It adapts. It grows along with you. It’s multinational; it’s universal. All the while being so incredibly intimate.

STILL I RISE

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
“Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns
With the certainty of tides.
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Wakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words.
You may cut me with your eyes.
You may kill me with your hatefulness
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a post that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise.
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave
I am the dream and the hope of the slave
I rise
I rise
I rise.

It’s been months and I haven’t heard from Nicholas and his family. Their phone has been disconnected and I don’t know where they are. In the fall of 2005, Big Brothers and Big Sisters contacted me and asked if I would like to be reassigned. I declined. I didn’t want to upset Nicholas if he came back and discovered I had a new “brother” or “sister.” I still had hope they would return. But hope only goes so far and then action is necessary. I contacted the Big Brothers and Sisters and am waiting to hopefully be reassigned.

If Nicholas and his family does come back, I know I will still have room for him and all of his brothers. Just like I hope New Orleans will.

Because of Maya Angelou and a poem she wrote almost thirty years ago, I am reminded how people are like cities. I see New Orleans in Miss Angelou, full of history, spirit and color. The mouth of the Mississippi River is like her defiant hips that pop to either side. Her raised fist is the Ninth Ward with her defiance and strength. Her song is the glow that comes from the dark bars and clubs that harbors the voice of jazz past and present. Her eloquence and elegance are the Garden District’s Oak Trees. Her flash and subtleties is Storyville. And her heart is like the cemeteries that keep their souls so close to the surface.
Still, with all this, a city is nothing without the people that inhabit it. Despite all its strength and sassiness, sometimes it just needs some assistance.

And still New Orleans rises.

THE LAST POEM IN MY JOURNAL, 1991

2006-09-27T22:58:00.000-07:00

Katrina’s Ark

The newsmen foretold Katrina’s wicked path.
SUV arks fled, heeding the gods of TV.
The criminally poor braced to deal with her wrath.
No credit card oars enabling their flee.

God doesn’t issue checks or ATM cash.
Green segregates the followers in his flock.
It’s why are some antiques, while others are trash.
Redemption for those who live on the right block.

The water rose quickly, her fury was swift.
Rooftops that once sheltered became the penthouse view.
To watch soul sacrifices caught in the drift.
Floating away, along with everything they knew.

And when it was over: the city at a halt.
The rich still pointed to the poor, “It’s all their fault.”

2006-09-27T03:24:00.000-07:00

GOING HOME: DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT MEANS TO MISS NEW ORLEANS? 11/05

Almost seven and a half weeks after boarding up our houses and fleeing New Orleans due to Hurricane Katrina, my friend, Chloe and I came home to live. We had returned ten days prior with my husband, Michael to view the damage. Our last few weeks had been spent in Colorado gathering information on our city like we were cramming for a final exam. Still, as we turned off the City Park Exit, we knew no amount of research would prepare us for what we were about to experience. We drove past Lake Lawn, one the cities grandest cemeteries. Ironically, it was not a place I usually associated with death. With its lush grounds, elaborate gravestones and sometimes scandalous past, I looked at it as more of a historical walking tour, not a final resting place. Now the colorless landscape signified death. It was eerily symbolic that the cemetery was the first landmark to greet us.

Once off the exit, we encountered National Guards men sitting on lawn chairs under the freeway pass. They had guns slung across their laps and bottled water at their feet. They waved to us in such a manner that without the automatic weapons, Hummers, and camouflage you would think their main job was Official City Greeters, not there to keep the peace by any means possible. There were few people on the streets and with the stoplights not working, everyone drove at a guarded pace. The streets, littered with trash and debris, had a stench of baked swamp sludge that filled your nose and rooted to the top of your mouth. We continued our drive down City Park Avenue. The majestic oak trees that once witnessed pistol duels in the late 1800s and survived countless storms, now looked like that they had been ripped up like a mischievous child tears up blades of grass. Possessions that once marked individuals’ identity: antique furniture, photo albums, or framed prints of faraway vacation places, were now regulated to garbage. While we were shocked by the state of the various houses (roofs caved in, walls completely torn out, trees reclining in people’s living room) we were looking for that one ominous feature- the water line. The water line, which looks like ground-up coffee grinds, encircles miles and miles of houses. It was an automatic indicator of damage. It told you if you could move forward with your life or if you had to move away. Water was the greatest threat; any amount could create inexplicable destruction. Our friends got less than a foot of water and returned home to find three different types of mold scaling their walls and covering their possessions. They lost everything.

Aside from the obvious destruction, the military had spray-painted messages on houses. They marked the unit, the date and the number of bodies found. The SPCA came in after and marked the type of animal found and if they were alive or dead: Dog starved to death 9/27, Two cats found 10/2, Pit Bull Rescued 9/21. It was just another way to identify tragedy. We didn’t know what to expect when we drove into our Bayou St. John neighborhood.

Chloe, who I met in Washington State over seventeen years ago, lives four doors down from us with her husband, Jason and nine-year old stepson, Jake. We knew from various reports that our neighborhood sustained three to four feet of water. Our houses, like most old houses in the city, were raised. It was just a matter if they were raised enough. Homes two blocks away from ours were in shambles.

The business owners, who were allowed back in the city before the residents, had already begun piling their ruined wares on the street. We could barely breathe as we turned on our block. Miraculously, we both suffered roof damage and lost all our landscaping but we escaped the water: Michael and I by four inches, Chloe by one. Opening our front door we encountered a musty smell, but all our possessions were unharmed. Standing in front of some of my favorite paintings, I cried.

We were both blessed.

BEFORE

AFTER

The next few days, in the heat, without water and power, we cleaned. Michael worked in the yard, chopping up and tearing out our dead oleander and crepe myrtle trees, azaleas, dwarf orange shrubs, gardenias, jasmine, and lavender plants. We couldn’t do anything with our enormous, one-hundred year old magnolia tree that was lying on our neighbor’s roof. I scrubbed the walls and floors to prevent any future mold. Our refrigerator was duck taped and wheeled outside. The meat had liquefied and the refrigerator was filled with maggots. We learned through our friend, Josh’s folly not to open the door until it was safely on the sidewalk. We had a large ice chest on our patio filled with drinks and snacks and handed them out to anyone who returned on our block.

Our next door neighbor, Gwen, whose two-story house was on ground level, took water. She had just lost her husband, Bobby less than two months before from a heart attack. Bobby was the first one to welcome us to the neighborhood two years before. He was a former Mardi Gras Indian and worked at the Krystal Hot Sauce Company. On Fridays, you could always count on Bobby and Gwen sitting in their lawn chairs on the sidewalk, drinking Milwaukee’s Best, listening to R&B from a boom box and shouting “Happy Friday” to anyone who passed. It was heartbreaking after Bobby’s death to see Gwen sitting out by herself on the sidewalk. We always had a friendly competition with them over holiday decorations. It seemed every weekend Bobby was either taking down or putting up decorations, “Gotta keep the wife happy,” he’d chuckle. Since his death, the only decorations that hung were a garland of white plastic flowers around her windows. Surprisingly, they were still up as Michael and our friend, Glenn helped her salvage what she could from her second floor. Despite their respirators, they were gagging within minutes. Michael said the horror of the mold was only overshadowed by Gwen’s devastation.

During our stay, we slept at our friend’s house in the Garden District who had power and miraculously didn’t suffer any storm damage. The only working grocery store was twenty minutes away from our house and only open from nine to five. In the morning we loaded up on ice and snacks under the watchful eye of the military. We stayed for four days; our power came on the last few hours we were there. Our last night, Michael and I walked down our dark street. No lights, no music, no barking dogs or arguing spouses. It was completely silent. New Orleans is many things but quiet is not one of them. The stillness was staggering.

Ten days later, Chloe and I came back to New Orleans to live and I returned to my real estate job. Michael stayed in Colorado to work while Jason stayed so Jake could finish the school semester. We foolishly believed since we had spent a few days in the city before, we were prepared to return full-time. We were wrong. Living in New Orleans is a daily struggle. After eleven weeks we are still without gas, which means no heat, hot water, or cooking. When we can’t use a friend’s shower we either take cold ones or boil water on the electric burner we purchased and fill a camp shower to hang in the bathtub. We don’t have a phone, cable, or internet. Our cell phones are sketchy so communication can be limited. We don’t have any restaurants or gas stations in our neighborhood. The only grocery store is still the one twenty minutes away. With its limited hours and supplies it’s like shopping the day after Christmas every day.

More people are coming back in the city which is a sign of hope but also a sign of more refuse. We’ve had garbage piled in front of our homes for over a month. It has overflowed onto the street, making it difficult to park, and we have no idea when it will be removed. The flies are everywhere and the effort to keep everything as sterile as possible is a never ending task. We are the last block to have power, behind us is only darkness and devastation. There are areas in the city that are completely empty and abandoned and every day we see something that makes us stop and sigh. The Military has taken over NOCCA, the local performing arts high school. I used to drive by on the way to our art studio and see aspiring dancers, artists, actors mingling in the courtyard of the beautiful brick building. Now, it’s filled with Jeeps and Hummers while men and women in camouflage sit outside with their automatic weapons and wave to passerbys. The military is a constant presence and a odd juxtaposition of comfort and apprehension. It’s something I am yet to get used to and probably never will.

Our first trip back into the city, Chloe and I started documenting photos. I chose to concentrate on the messages that the citizens began to paint on their own houses, abandoned refrigerators and vacant businesses. It was their way of expressing their faith, their fury, their feeling of desperation, or all of the above. Chloe focused on the destitution and emptiness that Katrina has caused. Chloe’s brother, Kilian Wicks, who owns the Kilian Wicks Gallery in downtown Bremerton, Washington was in New Orleans during the time of the evacuation and wanted to try and give people an understanding of the loss from a local’s point of view. We had the photos on display in his gallery for the month of November. Despite our fastidiousness in attempting to capture the true situation in New Orleans, we know our photos only warrant a quick glance into the city’s desperate condition

Regardless, of the daily events that bring us to tears, it’s also a reminder of not only how lucky we are to emerge relatively unscathed but also how fortunate we are to live in this city. It is the loss of the irreplaceable structures in the city (Greek Revivals, Creole Cottage, Shotgun Camelbacks) that taught me a valuable lesson. While the houses are part of New Orleans’ heritage, they don’t make up the identity of the city. The people do. Where else on a Wednesday afternoon do you stop your car to give a girl on a bike wearing chaps, a bikini top and a tiara the right of way? Where else on a Thursday night at 3AM after listening to jazz band does the trumpet player lead you and the members of his band who aren’t too intoxicated outside to the back of his pickup truck for barbeque? Where else would your dentist understand that you were late for your appointment because of an impromptu second line? This is the magic of New Orleans. Yet, before Katrina hit, the city was already in a storm of racism, poverty, illiteracy, corruption and crime. Now, with the rebuilding underway it is crucial that we take this opportunity to not only preserve the qualities that make this city so unique but to reconstruct with social reform in mind. It wasn’t the hurricane that tore the city apart, it was the aftermath. New Orleans will no doubt be reborn but it can not forget the beauty and the angst of its former life. We are home to stay and ready to contribute.

Published in The Kitsap Herald 12/05
Some of these photos appeared in The Kitsap Herald 12/05 and Square One Spring 06