The K Is No Longer Silent

Aging With Grace

2012-02-03T10:13:00.001-07:00

I have been featured on Louise's lovely blog: Lines Of Beauty
It's a little bit of a re-write from a previous post, but her blog is worth checking out. So is her craft blog: http://www.HoleThing.com

Going Dark Today

2012-01-18T08:30:00.000-07:00

Imagine a World Without Free Knowledge or Speech.

Today, over 7,000 websites -- including Wikipedia and Google -- will protest anti-piracy legislation currently making its way through Congress. Sites in opposition to the measures will either "going dark" or post information to educate visitors about bills H.R. 3261, the Stop Online Piracy Act (SOPA), and S. 968, the PROTECT IP Act (PIPA), two pieces of legislation meant to curb copyright infringement.

While many may support the bills' intentions, opponents and civil libertarians are worried that their passage would give the government powerful censorship tools that could threaten free speech.

When a site "goes dark," or participates in a "blackout," the site will in some way restrict its usual content. For example, the English-language version of Wikipedia, which will be dark from midnight January 18 until midnight January 19, will feature information about SOPA and PIPA and encourage visitors to contact their representatives, in place of its usual encyclopedia entries.

Passing For Normal

2011-11-29T08:40:00.000-07:00

Abbie Normal

Norma L.

By whose standard do we measure ourselves and our alignment with other humans? I've been pondering this extensive spectrum of possibilities for years. I once planned to write a book about it: Realms of Normalcy.

I've given up. I recently saw a Tony Award winning play at a local theater called "Next to Normal." Along with playwright, Craig Lucas, I conclude that I can aim for a position bordering the arena, but never achieve solid standing within.

photo by daughter, Mary Ann Edwards

These last months I've been alternating between Abbie and Norma. I appreciate all of you who have inquired about my obvious absence and excursion into the land of inadequacy and abnormality.

For months I have avoided my computer because it was a medium that conveyed messages of disapproval (a very strong one coming from someone quite close to me). It was surprising to me how certain events shut me up. I felt increasingly that what I believed and said wasn't important. Now those same musings have freed me to spew forth just because I do care less and less and certainly have no control over others' reactions and impressions anyway. My silence has been deepened by serious concerns for my children and the death of two of my closest friends (a third is struggling with stage 4 metastasized melanoma).

The realization that Mother is gone looms large in my emotional body. Thanksgiving marked the one-year anniversary of her death.

I still feel like an alien in a strange land as I struggle to speak or write cogent ideas. I miss my blogging friends and their varied reactions to life. I keep waiting for my second wind. I think at this stage of life, my second wind is death.

I've almost forgotten how the internet works and in logging back on, I see that most of my social networks have changed their formats, making them social notworks. As I have rejected and ignored electronic devices, I've mused over the elegance of delay. I've day-dreamed about circumstances where no immediate response is required or desired. I've wanted people to call me no sooner than when urgently moved to do so. The cellphonics have worn me down to a stubble of indifference. Don't text me. If you must leave a message, preface it with "this message has been mulled over and impact-considered for hours." Or better yet, write me a letter that begins with, "Dear Kass, I carried this missive for days in my breast pocket. It leaned earnestly against my heart and now I say to you that the weight of its impact has worked on me, causing me to spill out with....." (then say something loaded with caffeine).

In this self-imposed exile I've been enjoying for almost a year now, I've visited the Land of Shame and Guilt, a familiar place I go when I feel homesick. I talk to close friends about recorded loops that keep playing in my head. Most of them offer that all these concerns hinge on events that happened years ago. They tell me to let it go. It's in the past. I tell them it's not in the past. It's in my body. I'd like to be hooked into reality without being "hooked," but I'm addicted to my sick thoughts. I know you can't fix a sick mind with a sick mind, but I keep trying.

I visited the Tetons this summer and took a running,

jumping, flying leap off a high mountain.

A perfect landing after soaring on thermals for 15 minutes with instructor, Cade Palmer

It was a wonderful experience (among many that keep me quite happily engaged in life despite my intermittent retreats into melancholy).

Now that I'm back on the blogwagon, I want to share a few of the many physical ways I have tried to pass for normal even though it's increasingly obvious that I am not a mainstream, socially-approved individual.

Examples:

DEEP INDENT ON FOREHEAD


Why I wear bangs

FEET

I feel more presentable with glued-on toenails. I fear the gasps of strangers.

HIPS

I always add material between the zipper and side pockets (creating a girdle of sorts) so my hips don't appear bigger than they are. Many higher-end slacks already have this feature.

EARS

Big ears pinned to loops added to the middle of my ears for the express purpose of pinning big ears back.

When I feel fancy, I attach decorations to the loops.

Most of my life I have had the unfortunate anxiety-producing combination of No Impulse Control and Caring Too Much What Other People Think. As you can imagine, this has created a perpetual cycle of regret. In trying to preserve or maintain what's left of my imagined dignity, I've confronted a society given over to a collective identification with frenzy. Maybe we all have a degree of Tourette's Syndrome with its accompanying rapping, hip-hopping bumbledom of multitasking to fulfill spurious requirements for living.

I think I'm finally ready to be myself, warts and all. The effects of age are harder and harder to camouflage and the effort it takes creates more stress and wrinkles. Life is too short for pretense and posturing. As Annette Bening said in the film, The Women (when assaulted by a department store cosmetic hawker), "This is my face. Deal with it."

I'm curious about methods any of you might have employed to fit the mainstream or attempt to go along with a socially imposed current that we are continually conditioned to care about. Please share.

Standing firm against the current

The No Longer Silent K's First Award

2011-02-20T11:28:00.000-07:00

I'm kind of embarrassed and pleased to announce I've received a blog award, from my friend, Alanna, at The Chipper Writer. Thanks Alanna!

Here's how it works:

1. Thank and link back to the person who gave you the award.

2. Share seven things about yourself.

3. Award up to 15 blogs that are deserving (I chose 4).

4. Contact those bloggers and let them know about the award.

Seven things about me (that I may not have covered in my blog):

1. I hate rodeos. Abhor them. They are cruel and unusual.

2. I close all the shutters and dance to crazy music every morning.

3. I drool over tools. Think they are amazing. Most recent purchase: a router.

4. I wish I could belong to a Bloomsbury-like group, be one of the Russian Five (the composers, not the hockey players) or live in an intentional, green, artistic community.

5. I love toys. When my grandchildren get a toy from me, it's usually been opened and played with.

6. I have about 1,000 CDs (Yikes, I just realized how much money that represents!). All of Eva Cassiday's, most of Nina Simone's, Yo Yo Ma's, John Lewis's (of the Modern Jazz Quartet), Jenny Oaks Baker's (a sweet Mormon girl who plays violin beautifully), the Mo Tab's (Mormon Tabernacle Choir - love their CDs, especially Peace Like A River), and the Kronos Quartet's. Every kind of music is represented in my collection.

7. I know how to drive a motorcycle (sold it years ago - decided I wanted to meet future grandchildren).

All of the blogs listed on my sidebar are deserving and obviously favorites, but I choose to bug (because they have been with me a long time):

http://yetanotherstrangeronthebus.blogspot.com
http://attwilightblog.blogspot.com
http://snappingsynapses.blogspot.com

http://toomuchaugustnotenoughsnow.blogspot.com

And of course I would've picked Alanna at The Chipper Writer, but she picked me first. Thanks again to Alanna! I thought this was a fun way to share our interests and friends.

A Room Of One's Own

2011-01-20T09:09:00.001-07:00

"Her mind was like her room, in which lights advanced and retreated, came pirouetting and stepping delicately,...and then her whole being was suffused, like the room again, with a cloud of some profound knowledge..." - "The Lady in the Looking-Glass"

We're approaching the birthday of Virginia Woolf: January 25th. She wrote about having money and a room of one's own in order for a woman to write fiction. I often think that I fuss and decorate the space I want to write in more than I write. But the underlying connective thread holding my life together between the extremes of solitude and communion is the space I call home. Even if my home is a metaphor for my tendency to concentrate more on straightening and decorating than focusing on content and meaning, I rationalize that it's part of the ongoing attempt to make my actions and lifestyle congruent with my values and vision (after all, here I am writing about it).

By nature of the way society is set up, women struggle to find a way to claim their body, mind and spirit while they coordinate career, family and creative endeavors. Anne Morrow Lindbergh, in Gifts From the Sea says, "The problem is how to remain whole in the midst of the distractions of life; how to remain balanced, no matter what shocks come in at the periphery and tend to crack the hub of the wheel. For to be a woman is to have interests and duties, ranging out in all directions from the central mother-core, like spokes from the hub of a wheel." Lindbergh's words suggest that women need to give themselves the gift of a place where those elements that create the "balance beam" of life can be realized.

Woolf was able to shut herself off from the outside world in a shed in the garden. It gave her the privacy to think clearly, explore and expand new ideas. In her essay, Woolf comments that symbolically a room of one's own means thinking for oneself.

If you're so inclined, talk about (and/or show on your blog) how your "room" shapes and expresses your consciousness.

This is where I do most of my writing. It's my kitchen counter. Since I knocked down the walls separating my dining room, kitchen and living room, this is the most central area in my home. I think it represents good things to eat, being nourished and sitting up high to overlook my handiwork.

This is my study where I do some of my writing, but since I bought a laptop, I don't use it as much. It represents my best-laid plans which pretty much just lie there catching dust.

I do a lot of writing at the little table where Mom used to eat.

This is where my late-night ramblings get jotted down; where I've written most of my poetry, working from pages of my organizer and scraps of envelopes.

This is how it will look if my home is ever turned into a museum like Virginia Woolf's House.

What kind of space do you work in?
What is your favorite Virginia Woolf quote?

Genomes

2011-01-02T09:02:00.007-07:00

Her left foot turns out slightly

the forward jut of her jaw speaks

in glowing amber

she says this word at ten

and turns onto that street at twelve

there are always
secret combinations
of numbers

and colors

He recognizes this and holds

the prongs of each detail

inches away from the alternating

current of public opinion

it’s part of the plot

to get him

so he invents story after story

and always there are secret combinations

a certain number of syllables

with the necessity of emphasizing

the right one

so he must be vague

deceptive

precision might unravel the helix

where adenine follows cytosine

in the seventh strand

he mustn’t unlock doors

through which he can
never pass

but in the end

all sequences seem out of order

so he aligns with

the emission

of dying photons

kneels by the bedside

he abandoned

bereft

deranged

by the regular arrangement

of atoms.

(inspired by Kirks's post)

All Things Reveal All Other Things

2010-12-28T15:57:00.003-07:00

My poem, Insomnia is featured on Claire Beynon's blog, '...All things reveal infinitude...' Read it HERE. She has a lovely blog where she generously features poets every Tuesday. The picture to the left from Claire's blog is a detail from Peter Nicholls' steel sculpture - 2009. Be sure to check out Claire's art blog: http://www.clairebeynon.co.nz

Many thanks to Claire for featuring this little-known poet.

"When What To My Wondering Eyes Should Appear...."

2010-12-21T08:17:00.000-07:00

...but miniature Carolers! Yes, apparently I've become "that" person to the good folks of the local church - the widow down the street, the old lady who took care of another old lady who died. Whatever the reason, it was a delight last night to open the door to these munchkins singing, "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer," each facing lighting up on the asides of 'like a lightbulb' (please note the shy nose poking out of the red and black parka, lower right).

I'd like to thank all the people who commented on my last tiny poem and the poetry link I put up. I've been contacted to have one of my poems published by an online poetry site and they wanted a link to my other poems, hence, the list. I appreciate your comments so much. That you would take the time to read any of my poems is a wonder to me - a Christmas Miracle. It makes my heart glow.

Happiness of the Season to you all!

Postmortem

2010-12-18T19:46:00.000-07:00

So she took the bud
out of her ear
and put it back
on the flower.

It was,
there is,
always

consilience.

A Link To My Poetry

2010-12-01T07:46:00.032-07:00

CLICK: (my favorites are emboldened)
John, Reille and Elizabeth's Genomes
Body Scan
Unsent Note to Sister/Friend
Haunted By Hope

Green Lake

Soluble
Diary Entry
For What Remains
Clouds
Poem In My Pocket
Dancing

There Is A Place

Rosetta Stoned Poem
The Quarrel
Obit Fit
Didion Idiom

Poetree

It Follows

Bluebirds Can't See The Color Blue

Bell Canyon

Rotten Advice
Vocal Solo
The Key To Learning My Song
The Meaning of I Mean

Insomnia

Thoracic Outlet Syndrome
The FBI Looks At My Hard Drive
Postmortem

1914 - 2010

2010-11-23T23:57:00.000-07:00

Carol C. Schoenhals

February 07, 1914 ~ November 23, 2010

Carol Chapman Schoenhals, 96, passed away on November 23, 2010 at her daughter’s home in Salt Lake City.

Carol was born on February 7, 1914, in Salt Lake City, to David Charles Chapman and Hazel May Evans Chapman. She was a lifelong resident of Salt Lake City, graduating from East High School in 1931. After high school she worked for Mountain Bell Telephone Co. for six years. She married Alvin Joseph Schoenhals on June 24, 1940, in the Salt Lake Temple.

Carol was a talented musician. She played the piano beautifully all of her life and sang in a number of choruses. She had a beautiful soprano voice. She was a member of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir for eight years. Music was always an important part of her family’s life, bringing enjoyment to her children and to many other people as she often played the piano for Relief Society meetings, programs and groups. She also played the organ for several years.

Carol was a loving and affectionate mother and grandmother. She and Alvin were the parents of three daughters, Carolyn (Robert) Doty, of Logan, Utah; Kristin (Richard) Winterton of Midland, Mich.; and Kathryn Feigal of Salt Lake City. She had 14 grandchildren: Lee Doty, William Doty, Beth Ann Doty, Lynne Marie Kerhin, Matthew Doty, Anna Doty, Elaine Bradley, Marcia Marshall, Jill Campbell, Daniel Winterton, Todd Edwards, David Edwards, Mark Edwards and Mary Ann Edwards. She also had 35 great-grandchildren.

Carol was preceded in death by her husband, Alvin; her sisters, Virginia C. Wood and Esther C. Jensen; her brothers, Eugene H. Chapman and David Marden Chapman; and one granddaughter.

She was a member of Daughters of the Utah Pioneers for many years. Her family members will remember her for her kindness, her devotion to family and her sense of humor. She was a faithful member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

The family would like to thank the many friends in Bonneville Ward for their many thoughtful deeds and loving support of Carol over the years.

Funeral Services will be held on November 27, 2010 at 12 Noon at the Bonneville Ward, 1535 East Bonneview Dr. Friends may call beginning at 10 AM prior to the service.

Condolences may be sent to the family at larkincares.com

Oh, The Ignominy of It All

2010-09-20T11:47:00.000-06:00

This is a phrase Dad said a lot toward the end of his life, and now Mom says it. She also says, "Old age isn't for sissies." Her moments of clarity about her situation are surprising to me because they are in such drastic contrast to how she is during and after her little strokes (T.I.A.s). We say the aliens have visited her because it feels so other-worldly to both of us. She says it is like dreaming with her eyes wide open and when she tries to express what is going on, it is a word salad of utter nonsense.

I watch the tiny rise and fall of life as she sleeps.

I think the end will come like the boyfriend I'm told will appear when I'm not looking for him. I know this is a spurious comparison and probably in bad taste, but Mom's departure is on her mind and everybody who attends to her. I'm glad severe is part of persevere because no one is going gently into this good night. Even though she says she is ready to go, I see her raging against the dying of the light.

I see her perk up when visited and fed by my angel friend, Cathy.

I think I look alarmingly like my mother in features and age.

I delight in the animated expressions between brother and sister (Uncle Dave is 95).

I muse constantly about the meaning and grace of all this. I have felt unable to look at or write on blogs for over a month and then several blogging friends inquire about my well-being and I feel propelled toward expression again.

I have an encounter with a friend who is unable to accept my affection and gratitude and I struggle to not blame, grasp and justify either of our behaviors. What I make of the people who appear in my life, as well as the circumstances, thoughts, emotions and contradictions is up to me. I realize the sweet kiss of freedom is a concept in my mind and I can surrender to not knowing how my life will be used. I realize that trusting thoughts, events and people has been disillusioning and part of my story (always the Drama Queen). Most of my story has been a lie of protection and safety. I remind myself of favorite lines from books that encourage me to not identify with whatever is bothering me, but to engage in what is effortlessly present. "Freedom is the essential nature of consciousness, and consciousness is the source of individual awareness." from The Diamond in Your Pocket by Gangaji

No condition can be labled ignominious when looked at with the natural curiosity that develops when old concepts are released. It is just a thought. I can change my thoughts (but probably not Mom's). I can stop searching for something to rescue me from myself. I am free.

(Top picture taken by Dad while serving on his mission in Germany. All other photos, taken by me)

Jim Murdoch's "This Is Not About What You Think"

2010-08-09T19:48:00.001-06:00

This is Jim Murdoch. He's Scottish. He's intelligent. When you read stuff he's written and understand it, you feel intelligent too.

I can't even begin to pretend that I know how to review a book, but what I can tell you is why I enjoyed this collection of poems.

Jim writes how you wish you could write, but not so much that the jealousy prevents you from laughing at the things you wish you'd said, like, "I'd give my childhood a three. That's me being generous." This is from his poem, "Marks."

His poems follow a thoughtful progression with "Advice to Children" interspersed throughout - things you probably are happy to read now, but glad you didn't have to hear when you were a child. This, from "Imaginary Friends: "People leave; it's what they do..."

As you read along, you will be struck by his wit and adeptness. You'll be thinking, "Oh, there's so much humor here. This is a fun book." But at page 39, your breath will catch in your throat. The poem "Still Birth" will make you realize this man can not only be glib, but he has a depth of feeling that transcends gender barriers. Then you will go back and reread his poems with new eyes.

A major theme in Jim's life is THE TRUTH. You will see it here. In his poem "Shadowplay," he says, "What are lies but truths gone rotten and secrets lie in that no man's land between the two." Man, I wish I'd written that, because I think it's so true. The major theme of his blog and novel, Living with the Truth is found in "Old Flames In the Rain."

"...and the truth about lies
is we can't live without them.
Not even the white ones."

The title of this collection is ironic because Jim gives you permission right away to make of these poems something he never intended or imagined so it pretty much is about what you think.

Click HERE to order
to read excerpts - http://www.jimmurdoch.co.uk/think_excerpt.html

Update on My Neice's Band: Neon Trees and "Animal" Climbing the Charts

2010-08-02T09:01:00.002-06:00

ROLLING STONE'S ARTIST OF THE WEEK: NEON TREES
Utah synth-pop band scores Hot 100 hit and love from the Killers

Who: Provo, Utah synth-pop revivalists Neon Trees. The all-Mormon band started up in Southern California in 2004 when frontman Tyler Glenn and guitarist Chris Allen's fathers suggested the two play together. "They both thought we were deadbeats," says Glenn. The band migrated to Utah separately and made fans in the Killers, who helped them score a record deal.
Sounds Like: Their debut Habits is filled with Eighties pop meshed with bombastic alt-rock choruses — like the Killers playing backup for Duran Duran. "Your Surrender" is a U2-style singalong, "1983" is a bratty dose of keyboard-driven pop punk and Hot 100 single "Animal" is an irresistibly catchy lovesick dance tune. The band's is pretty clear about its inspiration: "New Wave is basically all I listen to," says Glenn.
Killer Instinct: After playing clubs for a few years, the band got its break in 2008 when Killers drummer Ronnie Vanucci Jr. dropped in to see a Vegas gig. The drummer was so impressed, he offered the band a few opening slots on the Killers massive Day & Age tour. "We've always played like we play in front of thousands of people anyway," says Glenn. But the band hasn't rested on its connection to Brandon Flowers and Co. "We've made a conscious effort to not always associate with the Killers," says Glenn. "Ronnie even said, "I think you guys can stand on your own.' "

Clean Team: The band doesn't preach their Mormon teachings in their songs, but none of them drink or party. "It's funny how backstage, if you say you're doing it for God or doing it for morals or for health, people say, 'That's stupid' or 'lame.' But if you say you've been sober for 10 years, they respect you because you've been through AA," Glenn says. "Half the people think I'm on drugs anyway, I've always had a drone-y southern California voice and worn sunglasses in an airport when I shouldn't."
Bad Romance: Glenn's favorite track on Habits is "Our War," a heartbreaking plea to a girl he dated for two years. He even prepared for marriage by asking his aunt for a family heirloom ring. The song traces the day things started to fall apart, when the couple were supposed to take a trip to Salt Lake City. "I was at a bus stop waiting in the rain all day," he says. "I walked all day in the rain. Looking back on it, it felt cinematic. But since then it's bottled up and made me not trust. Maybe the whole next Neon Trees album will be more angry."

Let me try to put a spin on events that keep crossing my mind...

2010-07-19T23:17:00.004-06:00

First spin: It's better to change the nature of a relationship

than lose significant people in your life.

Event: Two ex-boyfriends and I go to a jazz concert together (July, 2010).

Event: Ex's wife & family & our children and my parents

celebrate together our son's willingness to serve (1992).

Second spin: Children usually teach us more than we can ever teach them.

Event: Daughter goes to Sr. Prom with a bunch of independent,

strong-minded girls who are accused of being lesbians

trying to make a statement (which they aren't and weren't,

but would defend to a profound degree ~ they just proudly didn't have boyfriends).

She and her feisty friends, after having to fight their way past

a bunch of uppity, judgmental people who wanted to send them away,

are able to have fun and take a group picture (1994).

Third Spin

Sometimes Everybody Loves Raymond is more important

than Voltaire.

Event: Being drawn into her room every time Mom laughs uproariously (July, 2010).

Fourth spin (borrowed from Michael Ryan):

When the immutable accidents of birth -

parentage, hometown, all the rest -

no longer anchor this fiction of the self

and its incessant I me mine,

the words won't be like nerves on a stump

crackling with messages that end up nowhere

and I'll put on the wind like a gown of light linen

and go be a king in a field of weeds.

kassphoto, Midway, UT 7/2010

(this post inspired by Eryl's latest post)

What different spins are you putting on things lately?

Happy Blogiversary to Me

2010-07-11T08:20:00.000-06:00

It's My First Blogiversary!

How nice you stopped by to join me in celebrating my first BLOGIVERSARY. It’s been
tremendous fun, and I’ve enjoyed meeting so many wonderful, interesting bloggers and
readers that became friends in the process. I especially want to thank those bloggers
who dropped by to say hello in my early days, followed along and encouraged me.
These were my first posts:

Monday, July 13, 2009

Luke 8:36

And those who had seen it told how (s)he who had been possessed with demons was healed.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Solitude

"Being alone and liking it is, for a woman, an act of treachery, an infidelity far more threatening
than adultery." Molly Haskell

Labels: Molly Haskell quote, single women, solitude

As you can see, I had no comments, no followers and no clue how to author a blog. I have
slowly learned by observing your brilliant blogs. My intention for starting a blog was not well
thought out. I had been feeling somewhat silenced for years and had experienced a break-
through struggling with my "demons." Now, blogging is more of a spontaneous outpouring of
varied expressions. I appreciate everyone who has scrolled through my posts and pictures.
Thanks once again for stopping by.

Did You Pick Up the Eaves I Dropped?

2010-07-03T01:02:00.001-06:00

Overheard at Chico's
Customer: I bought this in another state.
Clerk: ...of consciousness?

(laughter)
Customer: My daughter says it doesn't look good on me.
Clerk: Would you like to exchange it for something else?
Customer: My son-in-law's waiting in the car, so that could be dangerous.

I have several backstories for a lot of what is going on here and I may develop it into something at some point, but for your further eavesdropping pleasure, you may want to sample these posts from other snoopers:
http://lambcurryandrice.blogspot.com/2007/07/two-conversations-overhead-while.html
http://brokenbiro.blogspot.com/2010/07/eavesdroppings.html
http://buggedblog.wordpress.com/
Tell me your own overhearings in comments or link to your blog.

Yesterday's post started a discussion in comments that I would like to continue here. After all, a movie is a form of eavesdropping and that's how I came upon that scene from The Last Picture Show. I dropped in on it while flipping through cable stations, looking for something that would put me to sleep. The first time I saw that movie 39 years ago, I thought each black and white frame was a masterpiece. The story was intriguing, but it didn't slam me like Wednesday night's viewing. Accumulated time just pounded in that final scene with a force that drove home issues I have lived. I think some of you have lived the same issues.

For those not familiar with the story of The Last Picture Show, the Timothy Bottoms character is a high school student who has had an affair with the coach's wife, played by Cloris Leachman. So you were right, 'Out on the Prairie,' she is old enough to be his mother. Timothy dropped Cloris cold when the Cybill Shepherd character swooped in on him and Cloris was devastated. What the movie left out of the final scene, which is in the book, is the narrative of her thoughts when he returns 3 months later. She rationalizes, "He's only a boy."

'Standing on my head' commented that Timothy's whipped puppy look would not work on her and that she could forgive, but not continue. Terresa said forgiveness is a gift. Jonas offered a quote about forgiving others often; ourselves, never. Alesa said it depends on the person and the wrong - the face has nothing to do with it. Vicky said she could be shmoozed. Angryparship said a definitive "NO." To forgive her sociopathic X would be to condone his terrible behavior. The "oh woe is me, nothing is my fault" doesn't quite make it anymore. Limes said she is an easy forgiver and that humans are renewable. She has been both hurt and amazed by humans.

My emotional response to the last scene of The Last Picture Show speaks to a common theme that jangles me to the bone. I can't form a cogent sentence to describe the theme, but it has to do with love, forgiveness, boundaries and HOW TO BE in this world. This is not the only movie that has brought up this theme for me.

Have you ever been in a movie theater and upon seeing something, wrenched and shook in your seat with so much emotion, it was embarrassing?

The first time that happened to me, I was 8 years old. It was the last scene of Rodgers and Hammerstein's Carousel. Billy Bigelow has come from heaven to try and help his widow and daughter. They are abjectly poor and the daughter, Louise is made fun of for her shabby clothes and pitiful state. It is her high school graduation and she is standing next to her greatest tormentor, the daughter of the richest man in town. Billy has been given a chance to influence her as a mortal and has failed, so as a spirit, he is granted one last chance to encourage her. He whispers in her ear that she should have confidence in herself. The music is soaring (I think it's "You'll Never Walk Alone") and with an assured smile on her face, Louise puts her arm around her nemesis. I lost it. I mean I really lost it. My little 8-year-old self just wept, and I didn't know why. I think now it was because seeing the extension of love to a tormentor pointed out an earth-shaking truth, one that I needed to embrace to be healthy. But, of course, it doesn't mean we always have to literally embrace our tormentors.

Another time I embarrassingly shook in my theater seat was at the revelation of the underlying trauma in Prince of Tides. This time the shaking was more like an uncontrollable shudder. Too close to home. If you know the movie, no explanation is needed.

Yes, life doesn't play like a movie and we can't extract lessons as if movies are representative of any depth of wisdom, but they can point out issues we continue to deal with. I continue to be confronted by my emotional reaction to movies, poems, stories - any form of art that speaks to the limits of love and forgiveness - all the facets of reconciliation and redemption, renewal of innocence and HOW TO BE. I guess what really got me about Timothy Bottom's face was how I've never seen that or experienced a man saying he was TRULY, DEEPLY sorry. It's a fantasy, one that shook me to the core when I saw Timothy's face. Oh yes, if I ever saw that, I'm afraid I would be Cloris Leachman and reach out and say, "never you mind, never you mind." I also believe I have hurt people deeply enough that I long to hear those words spoken to me.

Please tell me what movie scenes have elicited strong emotions from you and how you've dealt with it, or address what the limits of love and forgiveness should be - what the facets of reconciliation, redemption and renewal of innocence are and how TO BE (I'm not asking much, am I ?).

2010-07-01T16:34:00.000-06:00

If a person who had wronged you

showed up at your house with this expression on his face

and reached across the table to hold your hand

after you had ranted and railed against him,

would you,

could you,

say,

"Never you mind. Never you mind"?

Shadow Shot Sunday

2010-06-27T18:00:00.003-06:00

Click icon to view other shadow shots.Two posts today. Scroll down.

Happiness Is...

2010-06-27T15:37:00.002-06:00

There are many prompts that we, as bloggers can use to stimulate us into action. There's the Poetry Bus, Shadow Shot Sunday, Happiness Is....and many others if you really go searching. This is my Happiness Is...photo essay. I'm not entering it in the competition because I have more than three photos.

Happiness is being able to hang from a tree to stretch out after a bike ride and not caring if your underpants show...

Happiness is buying lemonade at the end of a hot bike ride from cool dudes who are raising money for the poor people.

Happiness is finding an art gallery in the back yard of someone living on a country road.

Happiness is coming home just in time to see your daughter get the phone call informing her she got a job after being unemployed for a year and a half.

Happiness is being able to go the country because your big sister drove 2 hours to come take care of your mother for 2 days.

Shadow Shot Sunday

2010-06-20T08:44:00.001-06:00

Check out the other entries at Shadow Shot Sunday by clicking the above badge.

Body Scan

2010-06-17T14:38:00.005-06:00

Today I've gone missing.

I'm hiding in my body,

visiting all the hankerings

I never resisted.

A shrewd and small alien,

I furrow along wiry edges

where edible music

escapes like blood.

I drain sacs of dark secrets,

splay upon the surface

of sentient cells,

pressing for answers.

I lodge in peevish crevices,

consort with membranes

too permeable

to hold lies.

I surface to a d minor scale of skin

so tenderized by touch,

it no longer

covers dense, irregular issues.

I wrench through follicles

of foregone conclusions,

hear tiny trickles

of truth broadcast

on narrow bands

of breath.

I come clean about being

caught dead

in desires etched so deep

they invert.

Pain accompanies me,

points out the bone-on-bone grindage

of missteps,

shows me deposits of fear

where I've been disparaged

into bits.

Arriving at the place

where fantasies dislodge,

I spring open like laughter,

and settle

into myself.

Kathryn Feigal, 2010

© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.

Unfathomable mind! now beacon, now sea.
Samuel Beckett

What Constitutes "BedTime"?

2010-06-16T11:44:00.001-06:00

Photo challenge from Brenda's blog.

Mom and Lola are ready.

The necessary items await me.

The sky darkens.

Kissing Joy

2010-06-08T01:18:00.007-06:00

He who binds to himself a joy doth the winged life destroy.

But he who kisses the joy as it flies
lives in Eternity's sunrise.
William Blake

In the time since I last posted, a lot has happened.

There have been difficult times, hard work,

and sadness mixed with joy.

I attended the funeral of a wonderful cousin-in-law

in a beautiful country setting -

gathered with family on Memorial Day

in remembrance of a loving,
yet complex father/grandfather -

- moved my mother in with me

and fussed over all the preparations and adjustments,

including the replacement of my clawfoot tub

with a walk-in shower -

- watched with amazement at how much my daughter

threw herself into helping me -

She cooked up a weeks-worth of meals for me to serve

and painted the bathroom yellow.

My sister came from out of town to help with the move. This is the ultimate older sister, who was a second mother to me growing up. I remember when she sat me in front of my mother's dressing table, fussed with my hair and as we both looked at our reflections in the mirror said, "You are really going to be something special when you grow up. I can just tell."

I've watched my daughter's dog
tenderly cuddle with Mother.

For some reason, Lola lies on top of Mom's feet
when she is at the table.

I think animals have a special ability
to sense when someone needs comforting.

My life has changed, but I am at peace.

(the sky last night)

Caring For Mother Earth

2010-05-24T11:50:00.005-06:00

Last week I participated in Earth Fest in Kanab, Utah. I played violin with The Symphony of the Canyons. The event is trying to bring awareness to the dire need for ALL OF US to honor and preserve our environment.

This marvelous woman dances with the environment
TO SAVE IT (Maida Withers,age 73)

This man is using all his savings, hoping to bring awareness through the arts to
SAVE OUR PLANET

(Hans Ehrbar)

James Westwater brings awareness to the environment through photochoreography.

This man is a conductor and violist who takes community orchestras and gets the heart and soul out of whatever their level of playing is.

This is Peggy Robinson, the daughter of the woman who put me up in her house. This poem was on the wall and I love it for many reasons, but on this trip it brought back to me how much we owe to those who paved the way for us. The least we can do is preserve the land and the environment for ourselves and generations to come.

I am of strong descent

I know

They whisper in my dreams

And I hear their courage

In my own voice

I am of strong descent

I know

About the great

And the great great grandmothers

Who went hungry

So their children could eat.

Who put their lives into the land

And their dreams into their children

And when the time came,

Put those dreams on a boat to a foreign land

So that those they loved could live better

I know

About my own grandmother

Who nursed men to health in World War II

Who raised children against the kansas corn

And watched her own setting sun,

Battling cancer with the courage of a soldier

Leaving her children with a Legacy of patience

I know

About my own mother

Whose whispers are the strongest

Who taught me quietly

How to be who I am

Who told me I was more than this

When I needed that

And who said so softly

"Believe"

I am of strong descent

I know

And tonight in my dreams

When they whisper

I will whisper back

"I will not disappoint you"

I am of strong descent

I know

picture by Lee Teter

Clouds

2010-05-18T03:29:00.017-06:00

As the sky holds clouds,
so must we
carry sadness

with ineffable grace.

© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.

(to read more offerings about Grace, visit Bridget Chumbley's blog here: click link

Collaborative Comment Poem

2010-05-13T17:50:00.001-06:00

Poetry moving forward
gets the heart thumping
in a flari maravillosa tea party.

Poetic kindred spirits
and politicians manage
to throw out a challenge.
They tell us the way it came
about is what we wanted
all along.

The scrim is covering
a once apron,
a time
when wizardly candidates
were poets
able to gift us and
tie perfect strings
to our hearts.

Dave King said...politicians manage

Helen said...able to gift us

Eryl Shields said...scrim is

Vicky said...poetic kindred spirits

Leslie said..flari tea party, poetry moving forward

Alesa Warcan said...once apron a time

N. Davis Rosback said...the way it came about

Paul C said...gets the heart thumping

Jan said...perfect

Standing on my head said...maravillosa!

Tag said...throws out a challenge.

Collaberative Short Poem

2010-05-13T08:09:00.003-06:00

One Moose Trumps Seven Deer

Backlit on the apron of the forest,
the scrim of daylight shadows fading,
the mushrooms snore, the ferns curl,
all but the meadow sleeps.

(Title by Jan. 1st 2 lines, Kass. Last 2 lines Sherry. Be careful. What you say in comments, may turn up in a poem)

NEWS! - Niece, Elaine Bradley and Neon Trees On Jay Leno, Friday

2010-05-12T09:47:00.000-06:00

WATCH IT!

Happy Mother's Day

2010-05-09T09:07:00.000-06:00

Growing up, I always thought I had the most beautiful mother. As pretty as a movie star.

She read us stories ALL THE TIME,

and took us to fun places.

She has always had a wonderful sense of fun,
and is full of fun phrases - like:
"Let's whistle and start over."
"I'm about to have a shizacal fit."
"I can't place his face, but his breath smells familiar."

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY, MOM
Love, Kass

Spring was late: I saw its first greening

2010-05-07T23:26:00.001-06:00

Every time I go to my mountain home after the thaw, I end up taking the same picture from the upper deck...

...and the same picture from the top of the hill -

I keep hoping to see the fairies that live in this hollowed-out burl -

...and when I'm out walking with granddog, Lola, I always try to see what she's seeing -

I'm always shocked and delighted when we run into wildlife. Sherry posted about seeing 7 deer and said, "The earth as we know it stopped spinning. No one would believe me about Time stopping to sit down in my driveway and saying 'Sherry, go ahead and soak up the moment.'" This is how I felt at the sight of the moose; how I feel when I see life asserting itself through matted-down layers of leaves. It seems like a revolutionary miracle every spring.

The Arch of the Year

High summer's sun raked and cratered the earth
Disinterested, implacable
As you were implacable.

Early frost and some wind bent and stripped the trees
You did not could not bend.

Snow bandaged the hill
But not the sage
And enfolded in its soft slight embrace
All your time and times.

Spring was late: I saw its first greening
I know you smelt the jasmine but did not see the rose
I saw the rose but not the hawthorn.
You did not could not wait for summer.

We waited
And are parched.

Gwendolen Gittens, 1990

Homage to Hippage

2010-04-30T17:18:00.002-06:00

O.K. folks, poem #30 is a rap.
And that's a wrap for National Poetry Month.
© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.

Poem In My Pocket

2010-04-29T14:24:00.008-06:00

Poem 29

This is the poem
that can't be
heard.
It will never be
spoken,
only sung in the body
like a frayed wire,
scutched and twisted,
humming toward
ungrounded
assumptions.
© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.

Dancing

2010-04-28T10:43:00.006-06:00

(I can always be distracted by love, but eventually I get horny for my creativity.
- Gilda Radner)

I may not get

my story

or my leg straight,

but I will always

dance.

Possibly The Best Birthday Ever

2010-04-27T15:28:00.001-06:00

Sunday was one of the best days ever! It started out with reading the wonderful Birthday tribute, organized by Leslie. It continued on through the day, with a picnic at a park given by my children, and ended, once more with reading the warm comments from my bloggies. How can I thank you enough?
THANK YOU!!
My family knows me well enough to have given me the perfect gifts:

Homemade multi-dimensional card from granddaughter, Sandra.
Tickets to a concert by one of my favorite artists,

Jenny Oaks Baker

and an artistic handcrafted treasure box made by daughter-in-law, Autumn. It featured cut-outs of operatic pictures and words and was modpodged and waxed. Inside, Kathryn and Sandra had put a collection of little goodies. You can see my expression as I admired all the intricacies.

Thank you again to everyone who made my day such a happy one!

Cards and printed-out blog gifts and comments.

A Special Borrowed Post For My B. Day

2010-04-25T04:17:00.001-06:00

Visit Ramblings From Yet Another Stranger on the Bus. It's my BIRTHDAY today and this great woman organized a party.

There Is A Place

2010-04-24T23:17:00.001-06:00

Look here.
The clouds behind and the sky before
do not reveal your secret shame.
Wherever it is, it is not here.

Your precious, diligent mind
has fulfilled its custody agreement.
Now your skin can taste serenity
and your hair will breathe glory.

Here, in the rich earth
you can begin to grow
the fronds of
your own story.

If you are still enough,
you will see
this place does not know
the landscape of regret.
© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.

"I Feels It"

2010-04-23T21:04:00.002-06:00

Dial 1-900-EMPATHY (367-2849)
for the muster master.
who can cue cry,
limn the line,
disconnect you
from your sorrow,
tune in to your trauma -
you'll feel felt
(this is not a told-free number).

Rosetta Stoned Poem

2010-04-22T10:48:00.011-06:00

(mistranslating a poem from a language I don't know) Olav H.Hauge
DU LEIKAR MED PILER YOU LIE IN PILES OF GRASS

Lover er sette Settling into
for alt i verdi. your lover's newness,
Og du skal sukka you skillfully looted
og luta med herdi. her greenhouse

Du smiler. Du kan and smiled. You had
dette no: no idea
Gripa pilen i floget gripping piles of flowers
og leika med ho. made her so happy.

Du veg din lagnad. Your body was languid -
Vel har du tap. now it feels retracted
Og sælebot slær like a sailboat barely slicing
si dør på gap. through a tiny gap.

Du leikar med piler You lie in once green
og lov i ei verd - plucked grass,
svik du deg sjølv, sick with defeat
er det her. that is not yours.

(If you can find a translation, I'd like to read it. Google word for word translation says it is about you, playing with arrows, where laws are set to everything with value. You smile, grip an arrow in flight and play with it. You are off the mark and have lost your destiny. The betrayal to yourself is here. I think I came relatively, poetically close to the meaning just by guessing. What do you think? Any Norwegians out there?)

The Quarrel

2010-04-21T10:35:00.001-06:00

The impact of words:
blunt force trauma.

The heart of the matter:
what you can weigh
against a feather.

Poem 20: Truth Blues (or, "oh no you di'int")

2010-04-20T12:20:00.015-06:00

been in trouble all my life

for digging truth,

unearthing reluctant bones.

been driven with other shovelers

to shallow harbors
where thin-lipped
coloration specialists

quibble over niggling nits.

I'll tell you

like it isn't.

"...no matter how hard I try to be brutally honest with myself, about myself, I keep changing, morphing, evolving/devolving. I've seen cherished beliefs crash and burn. This business of truly knowing the Truth about oneself is a never-ending challenge. As for divining the truth about others? It's a matter of faith. "
- Jonas Dikinis

"...we should all aspire to the truth, but we should be realistic when it comes to our abilities. Truths are not cold facts and the simple - okay, not very simple - truth is that everything I do is a consequence of everything I have done before. We're constantly course correcting, a degree here, a degree there. Truth is also and assemblage, something we construct over years. The best we can end up with is something that resembles the truth in just the same way a photograph resembles the sitter, an aspect of the sitter at least, at that point in time. In that respect truth is like memory. There are old truths in fact probably the ony way to identify any truth is after the fact which is why the sculptor or the painter steps back from his work from time to time because when he is involved in it he is too close to the truth to see it for what it is." - Jim Murdoch

"...and that's the truththththth!" - Lily Tomlin, as Edith Ann

...leaving town now. I appreciate all those who have stuck with me and my very unpoemlike daily offerings. I appreciate all your careful readings and comments. Don't know if poetry is 'my thing,' but connecting with y'all certainly is! Please click on the Jim and Jonas links. You won't be disappointed (that is, if you are interested in The Truth).

Poem 19: Obit Fit

2010-04-18T16:39:00.003-06:00

I wander around obituaries

reaping grimaces,
unwaxing eloquencies.
You, Mr. Hospitality -
who loved everyone
unconditionally,
your warm heart
and bright outlook on life
do nothing
for me.
Where did never saying
an unkind word
get you?
Quit staring at me.
Don't you know
your picture will fade
silently over time,
be as faithful
as you were
to extinction?
I know,
I get it.
Death notices
me.
© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.

Poem 18: Didion Idiom

2010-04-18T13:48:00.008-06:00

I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking,

what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means.

What I want and what I fear. Joan Didion

I'm thinking that men think,

"when in doubt, initiate sex."

I'm looking at a man forever

in doubt. I see a man

I've forgiven

again and again

and again.

It means I continually grant
amnesty over boundary disputes.

I want the innocence

of our legs being loopy together.

I fear I will try to dig up

all the hatchets we buried.
© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.

Offering 17: POETREE

2010-04-15T21:27:00.013-06:00

any
poet

can write

a poem and
shape it nicely
into an acceptable,
viable form, but it's hard

to imagine a poem cramming

itself into a warped idea, a flaming

exaggeration of a concept so bizarre,

so completely out of the ordinary occurrence

of anyone’s most fantasmagorical phenomenology

that nature herself drops her guard and lets us in on the

frivolous, absolutely temporary eternal clandestine flutter of

things tightening and loosening, things intentionally at cross-purpose,

so that when the realization of it hits our psyches, peonies line our sinuses

and our most cherished notions are shoplifted by gypsies who tell us that rebellion

is obedience and we no longer wonder, we no longer have any doubt, that whales fart.

No, I’m not

going to send

this to you

at Christmas.
© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.

Poem 16:

2010-04-15T08:57:00.014-06:00

It Follows

Like the wintering

language of violets,

I make no sound at all.

You leave.

In the garden,

rumors of blackbirds praise Beckett

for excusing the pimp
who stabbed him.

The bearded dragon lizard sits upright

and cocks its head,

producing rain.

A massive bud appears

on the green wattle plant,

spreading wild fires.

Lady Gaga performs

in a rotting hall

and termites eat faster.

A Buddhist teacher
sends himself to hell,

saving your soul.

I sing your blood's song

and the Aurora borealis

shimmers in your organs.

You return.

© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.

Poem 15: A Cleave Poem

2010-04-15T00:05:00.003-06:00

In its most basic form a cleave poem is three poems: two parallel 'vertical' poems (left to right)...with a third 'horizontal' poem being the fusion of the vertical poems read together. It was created by Dr. Phuoc-Tan Diep. He says, "One of my aims was to examine how something can be more than the sum of its parts and can be 3 in 1: synergy, fusion, cooperation, dialectics, marriage, interdependence, teamwork and The Trinity."

Cosmic Truth

I am where I'm going, yet
a star stares
from the sky,
a flash in the distance
a footstep torn
to shreds
death again.

© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.

Bluebirds Can't See The Color Blue

2010-04-14T06:47:00.014-06:00

I die daily to uplifting transgressions of nature,
the blow holes of some errant god
who created disruption, exactitudes of chaos.
My restless eyes demand
infinite fields of privation.
I am fixated on weather's irrational bias,
the forced entry of beauty screaming
from cloud-licked skies.
I relentlessly doubt dogmatic order
and float on rivers that heckle boulders by bending.

© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.

Poem 12: Mother's Words

2010-04-12T18:49:00.008-06:00

Hearing the label of obstreperous,

I didn't conform,

but investigated other potent words.

Dogged by,

"You're so off the beam,"

I looked for balance

and wondered about sunbeams

and how no one can really see light,

just what bumps into it.

Even if, like light, I'm invisible,
a particle or a wave,
I bump into things
that matter,
so I'd say
Mom's words
were effective.

© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.

I realize this is not a poem, but I've hit the wall.

...so may I offer this poem by Lee Upton

from the New England Review, Volume 27, #1/2006

Undid in the Land of Undone

All the things I wanted to do and didn't

took so long.

It was years of not doing.

You can make an allusion here to Penelope,

if you want.

See her up there in that high room undoing her art?

But enough about what she didn't do -

not doing

was what she did. Plucking out

the thread of intimacy in the frame.

If I got to

know you that would be

- something. So let's make a toast to the long art

of lingering.

We say the cake is done,

but what exactly did the cake do?

The things undid

in the land of undone call to us

in the flames. What I didn't do took

an eternity -

and it wasn't for lack of trying.

Poem 11: Bell Canyon, 1970

2010-04-11T13:35:00.011-06:00

Thickets ago,

your silent body

dispensed the residue

of our last dry crackle.

On the slotted ground before us,
our bandied barbs
lay flat and famished.

Through the dazed clouds,

I saw the gravity of

Poem 10: At The Airport

2010-04-10T23:02:00.004-06:00

The sun hits

just right -

mirror charms

of some dangling participant,

who waits.

Poem 9: Rotten Advice

2010-04-09T08:01:00.007-06:00

"When I was a boy," my father said,

"they called girls like you sex apples...

I was 14...

...those girls with that kind of appeal."

and doing my homework.

"Watch out," he said.

I never really understood Algebra.

English was my best subject.

"You'll have to be careful."

Now I watch

and I'm careful,

but I still want

to understand the square root

Poem 8: Vocal Solo

2010-04-08T10:37:00.003-06:00

Unaccompanied as I am
to public clumping,
I sharpen the caw quill
and sing
I Am Lousy With Midnights:

♫ My skin is liquid.
It oozes down the drain,
sings from the traps,
rips through couplings,
spreading rusted lilacs.
I wear fish hooks
and slither the sewer
looking for loopholes
where liquid skin
is the architecture of the world. ♫

© 2010 by Kathryn Feigal. All rights reserved.

Me 'n Mark Strand, Poet Laureate of the U.S., 1990

2010-04-07T18:01:00.002-06:00

Perhaps because I defended you and your style of poetry the other day with Jim Murdoch on Elisabeth's blog , I ran into you today at Ruth's Diner. I was doing my usual Shooting Strangers in Restaurants, when I noticed that you were no stranger. I had a poetry workshop from you 25 years ago where I wrote the first draft of Green Lake, a poem I have reworked on and off for years. I was scared to death of you. You gave me an 'A' because your method of grading was to leave it up to us. You seemed pleased when I walked up to you, told you I was a fan and asked the woman you were with to take our picture. Thank you for being so gracious. You don't frighten me anymore.

To Mark

Oh Marky, Mark Mark -

you're tall and still handsome.

I can't write poetry

on the same day

I ran into you.

Maybe tomorrow.

Poem 7: The Key To Learning My Song

2010-04-07T09:26:00.002-06:00

He is the master of

arpeggiated sarcasm,

practicing demonic scales,

unacceptable parallel fifths*.

His staccato could sever a limb,

but when he plays

dolce, con amore,

poco a poco, ma non troppo,

da capo a fine☢ -

Bravo, baby,

BRAAAAVO!

( *The P5 is a strong definer of tonality, tending to give the feeling of being in different keys.

P5s reduce contrapuntal independence and provide bad voice-leading)

(☢ dolce,con amore-sweetly,with love, poco a poco, ma non troppo-little by little, but not too much, da capo a fine-from beginning to end, )

Poem 6: The Meaning Of I Mean

2010-04-06T07:41:00.004-06:00

It's like

not quite

but almost

coming close to

approaching
sort of but

virtually

approximately

similar to

metaphorically

juxtaposing it with

a quasi

semblance

verging

Poem 5: Insomnia

2010-04-05T07:18:00.006-06:00

In the evening,

the sinister curl of his lips

forms the first of many

smarmy solicitations

to lie with him.

Holding me flush against the sheets,

he presses.

He authors consternated, greedy love-making,

giving up the plot right away,

submitting endless revisions,

bookmarking me for tomorrow.

Gathering courage, I grab his face,

hold it close to mine.

I scream - I am alive,

not carrion -

I suggest there are others

he could plunder.

With hostile indifference

he reveals his promiscuous need

to drive minions

through his slavish sluices.

He taunts me, tells me

wallowing is all I will ever know.

At dawn,

sated by his manic insistence and with

plagiarized grace,

he grants a partial spasmodic respite,

in which I dream intensely

Poem 4: Thoracic Outlet Syndrome

2010-04-04T05:26:00.001-06:00

Arm extended,

eyes diverted,

reaching

for another heart

Poem #3: The FBI Looks At My Hardrive

2010-04-03T09:21:00.002-06:00

Agent Floyd: (in a low tone)

Axial poetics

chaos theory

hybrid air purifiers

rat control

Dim Mak Death Touch

Resonance Science

Agent Lawson: (boredom in his voice)

kundalini awakening

quantum theory

wood restoration

poetry daily

Both: (with disappointment)

Still a suspect, doubt she's the one -

too scattered.

National Poetry Month

2010-04-02T12:31:00.006-06:00

In honor of National Poetry Month, I will be writing a poem a day.

Warning: this will NOT be pretty -

proceed at your own revulsion/ridicule rate.

It usually takes me months, sometimes a year to write a poem.

April Fool,

(written on the 1st)

You were the main attraction,

but the film broke.

Now you're a horror flick,

with limited engagement.

Nausea Vu

(April 2)

I've seen you before,

or someone like you,

or someone like someone like you.

It is Good to be Merry

2010-03-29T14:28:00.001-06:00

"I don't think its' necessary to always put on a grave, solemn air." Erwin Wurm (from the video on Sarah's blog)

son,Todd

son, David

son, Mark

daughter, Mary Ann

It Falls To Me...but I can hurl it back...(on my blog)

2010-03-23T17:33:00.004-06:00

Before I start in on the things that "fall to me" (as suggested by Elisabeth's latest post), can I just say that I love my blog? I think you know that I love reading your thoughts and seeing your images. And it's obvious I like organizing all my randomness into blah, blah, blah. But what I mean is, I really love my blog. As in, it's the last thing I want to see before I go to bed at night, and the first thing I want to see in the morning kind of love. After I write a post, I narcissistically gaze at this thing I've created - this wonderful one-of-a kind expression of all that is me. But it's not the same gaze I reserve for new babies in my life. No, that's the normal me.

I can probably blame the stresses in my life right now for this abnormal attraction to my blog. I've received a few comments about my obsessional need to talk about my mother's failing health and I have Rachel to thank for reminding me that this is not fiction I'm writing here - it's my life. And this is what's happening right now, so I'm compelled to write about it and photograph it (new picture of Mom's hands on sidebar). And this brings me back to THINGS THAT FALL TO ME:

It falls to me to care for my mother. I'm the only daughter who lives in town. It fell to me to organize her finances after an unscrupulous trustee invested a huge portion of her money in worthless junk bonds. It involved a law suit and thousands of hours of understanding things financial and legal. There were times I half-seriously looked around my house for convenient places I could toss a rope and quit 'hanging in there' by hanging there. After lawyer's fees, we recovered about a tenth of what he'd lost, so I am more philosophical about what money can do and what it can't do. It's kind of a good thing there were no exposed beams in my home, though.

When I was married, it fell to me to do a lot of housework. Like I said to Elisabeth - Yeah, things fall, but why do we women think we have to catch it all?

Byron Katie, author of the revolutionary concepts in The Work, talks a lot about things that are our business and things that are not. If we are the ones that want an organized house, then we do what is required to keep it that way. Trying to badger a mate into having our values is pointless. She goes through 4 simple questions about the truth of any matter and how it all goes back to our choice in how we think - concepts so mentally healthy, it makes me shake. I highly recommend it. I know I resist doing things that are healthy because I'm a little addicted to drama. Choices, it's all about choices.

Which brings me back to things that fall...

...and people who scoop things up. I am wondering if any of you are scoopers and if you've managed to deflect some of the falling debris. Stories?...Successes?....Failures?

Update On My Neice, Elaine Bradley, and Her Band, Neon Trees

2010-03-22T10:22:00.004-06:00

The band's first album came out March 16, 2010.
The single, Animal, is being played on rock and alternative radio stations. They were interviewed last week on MTV.
Watch them (or record it) Jimmy Kimmel Live - Tuesday, March 23rd.
CD: Habits, both CD and mp3's of the tracks at Amazon.Vinyl: Can you believe it is also out in vinyl, Habits

iTunes:
Single, Animal - Free download!
Neon Trees - Habits (Bonus Track Version) choose any single or the whole album with bonus tracks.
Spread the word!

der Frühling kommt

2010-03-16T00:25:00.018-06:00

I need to tell you how my heart feels about Spring.

My heart has labored, long and hard,

to love men who were wrong for me.

The love of my children and grandchildren
has pushed my heart right to the breaking edges of my skin.

I have flung my heart out in songs and poems
and midnight utterings that go unanswered.

Yet when Spring comes, I am willing to fling it all out there again. My heart gets most hopeful and malleable in Spring. I think about my literal heart and the lifeblood rushing in and out, in and out, every moment of my life. I think about the other things that occupy my heart. My heart is full of hopes, dreams, music, stories, art, friends and children. Is it silly to hope that my very worth is the stuff of the universe; that I have the power to transform sorrow into joy, darkness into light and destruction into new life? I feel foolish sometimes to list on the sidebar of my blog that I am an irrational optimist, but it's true, as true as SPRING.

Disordered Words

2010-03-12T12:19:00.006-07:00

Blogging friend, Leslie did a wordle today and I liked it. So here is one of my poems wordled. I almost like it better than the original.

Place As Touchstone

2010-02-26T22:49:00.023-07:00

In this tag I'm asking you to describe a place in your life that is a reference point for your growth and authenticity: a touchstone. New York City is such a place for me.

Wikipedia defines touchstone as a standard: a basis for comparison; a reference point against which other things can be evaluated. Each time I stay in New York, I use it as a gauge, not only of my maturity, but my ability to cope with outside influences and still be at home with myself.

I arrived in New York City as a teen-age runaway 43 years ago. I stayed in Brooklyn with two gay men who were friends of a friend. I kept this from my parents and told them I was living with a girl I had met while working at Grand Canyon. On the right is a dark alley in the neighborhood where I lived. At the end of the alley is a small white sign which reads, "No Standing." I guess once you walked down the alley to see what the sign said, you had to scurry back to the sidewalk....or else.

My new friends showed me all over Brooklyn Heights. We were in Norman Mailer country, they said. I didn't know who he was. I became enthralled with many erudite things while living with these men. This is where I developed my love of opera. One of the men played LPs all the time and it made me cry, especially Micaela's aria from Carmen.

When my parents said they were coming to visit, I found a new apartment in Manhattan with female roommates through an ad on the bulletin board at church. I was a runaway, but I was a devoted (albeit) conflicted Mormon who wanted to experience something different than Salt Lake City. My parents were against this so I rebelled and left a note on their light switch and flew to New York in the middle of the night. My time in New York in the 60's was exciting and eye-opening. I was too naïve to be frightened.

After less than a year, I moved back to Salt Lake City to pursue my new-found love: Opera. The University of Utah was what I could afford.

I returned to New York City as a young mother in 1973. I had met my husband in Opera Workshop at the University. We moved so he could get his foot in the door of the opera world. As a mother, I was a nervous person this time around in New York. I had given up my dream of becoming a singer myself and chose to support my husband in his dream. My reaction to the city at this point in my life was a result of this decision. I found the city menacing and contradictory. The bright spots in my life were my children and taking advantage of standing room tickets at the Metropolitan Opera. My husband and I took turns watching the kids and walking to the Met, which was just down the street from us. When I was 8 months pregnant, I stood and marveled at the sound of Pavoratti and Marilyn Horne in Carmen. Awe and ouch.

Little old ladies in the park were always after me for not dressing my children appropriately for the weather. "You should have a hat on that baby," they would say. They were also openly critical when I became pregnant with our 3rd son. New York was difficult. I couldn't afford it. I didn't fit in. I had too many kids and someone a half block away was murdered and cut up into little pieces.

In 1975, we returned home to Salt Lake City to have a better place to raise our family. Years later, after a painful divorce, I wrote this note while on a visit to New York:

Jan. 28, 1988. Walking through Manhattan today just like I did 15 years ago made me weepy. I've been back to New York three or four times since I lived here with my little family, but it's never made me nostalgic or sentimental before. Perhaps it's because the boys live with their father and are essentially gone. In Central Park I just wanted to sit down on a bench and cry. Not from sadness, but because I can embrace all of this now. How much I wanted to escape everything back then. I couldn't see anything for what it was.

Returning to New York City to sit in an actual seat at the Metropolitan Opera.
(all black and white photos mine)

Happy Coincidence - The Latest "Tag"

2010-02-26T10:41:00.006-07:00

Open your first photo folder,scroll down to the 10th photo,
post this photo and the story behind it.
Tag 5 people.

I'm not going to tag 5 people. Please follow this prompt if you are so inclined. I would enjoy seeing what you come up with.

My photo was taken last Sunday, February 21st. I didn't cheat. It really is the 10th one in my file. This is Amy and my son, Mark. Amy is gracefully and joyously IN LABOR. Her family has a tradition of standing vigil at the hospital as soon as they hear a family member is in labor. My daughter, Mary Ann and I joined in this tradition. We were at the hospital 6 hours. Mark and Amy were there 17 hours. This was our reward:

For What Remains

2010-02-19T14:38:00.008-07:00

1941

2010

I touch things

like the child I was,

all the familiar things

that kept me safe.

Depression salvage -

handled, used, re-used,

stained, rusted -

tended and brought to the present.

Sacks of memories -

fragmented histories

stacked neatly in liquor boxes -

The apron she was wearing

when she caught me at the bottom

of the basement stairs -

The crystal stemware

that sang with

moistened fingers -

The meaning of things

altered

like her mind.

Walls hold the plot

of our lives;

stand blameless

like change.

I sweep the floor

to clear the effort it took

to place her, replace this -

With a gentler fate.

The End Of An Era

2010-02-08T11:44:00.004-07:00

To leave a home that you've lived in for 55 years must be a hard thing. To watch a mother struggle is almost impossible to describe. I can't say words escape me because they never arrived.

Blogging friend, Leslie talks about the insistent quality of her story-telling. I envy her ability to get it all down - to dish it out in a way her readers can bite into, chew on and digest so that the assimilation is universal.

I don't feel able to do that. Any troubles with my mother I might have wanted to hash out seem irrelevant in the face of what she must be going through. This, coming from the child that ran away from home, the one who as a teen-ager, used to flip her mother the bird.

All I feel capable of writing about is the positive things that have occurred since my sister and I moved our mother into an assisted living community. These communities, as they like to call them, are not other worldly, they are nether-worldly-with-a dash-of-imposed-cheeriness. But the good news is, it works. The staff plasters smiles on their faces and greets everyone with obsequious glee. It does create a pleasant atmosphere.

Mother was assigned a seat in the dining room. I sat with her. A very attractive 97-year-old from Norway announced that this was her table and she decided who got to sit there. A woman to her side, who appeared to be younger than me and an obvious survivor of a head trauma, explained that a very unpleasant woman used to sit at the table and had made their life miserable. They said they got her kicked out of the home. Mom and I raised eyebrows at each other. By the end of the meal, Mom had managed to get a smile from the Norwegian Ice Queen and had given her hand a squeeze wishing her a pleasant evening. Mom was workin' it.

Being forced to dress for meals and interact with people has lifted Mother out of some of her confusion. On her own, she has decided to act rather than react in this new situation. In typical role reversal mode, I am proud of her.

I took Mother to her old church Sunday. She has not felt well enough to go for months, but I knew the members would make a fuss over her since it was her Birthday. They didn't disappoint. Mother was in such a good mood afterwards, that she actually agreed to pose behind the pulpit for her daughter and what she calls "that damn camera." Sorry, Mom.

Later, back at 'the home,' some of her friends stopped by to give her gifts and have ice cream and cake. The best gift of all came from the younger woman from her dining table. Mother had admired her lamp and she brought it over and insisted on giving it to her. Whatever has happened to this woman, it has turned her into some kind of angel.

To all the well-wishers, you can't know how much it meant to me to check in during the week and see your comments, even though I had not posted. Thank you, Leslie, Rachel and Gabi and all the others who seemed to sense there was more to my plant dilemma than artistic musing.

Tropism

2010-01-29T20:58:00.001-07:00

How can you

throw out

a seasonal plant

that still yearns?