Shele Blaisdell

Love In The Digital Age

2009-10-17T18:14:00.000-07:00

I try to keep the computer in its place. I try to see it as only a tool, rather than a portal through which most information now comes to me. But in truth, since the MacBook, I rarely open a newspaper, unfold a family recipe, follow a map, or listen to an Elder tell me a thing or two.

My husband loves all things digital the way I love all things analog.

I am sensory starved. I need soil and salt, paper and wood, catgut and pine tar, mushrooms and seashells -- like I need air and water. He loves ones and zeros, instant transmission. He does not know there are a hundred different names for snow. I do not know why faster is better.

He is away now, on a road trip with a friend like me. They are driving in a car made of bolts and springs, running on gas and oil, spaces filled with local radio, manzanita bushes and papery rattle snake skins.

Surely there must be a way to email a piano from Carson City to Los Angeles

But as always, when pulled away from his computers, into the world of flesh and blood, desert dust and an Elder’s artifacts, he is happy.

And today I downloaded a video he shot from his phone, of a bluegrass band and cloggers. A 10 second digital transmission of image and sound representing earth and sweat, fiddles and cowboy hats. In the background his voice said “I gotta send this to my Wife.”

Sitting in front of my laptop, I played it 14 times in a row, trying to feel the vibration of a hundred work boots stomping on linoleum, trying to smell potato salad with horse radish and pimentos, trying to feel a cotton skirt whipping my legs as he pulls me in tight circles, while he smiles and says “You know, the speakers are out of phase.”

Natasha The Hummingbird

2009-09-14T22:58:00.000-07:00

Natasha lives inside my head, right in front. She has not had enough sleep, and she’s got big plans. She’s tapping her foot lightning fast and chewing on my lips. She is a pain in my ass.

I have important things to do, but this over caffeinated humming bird is flying full force against the window in my forehead. She slams her body against my skull over and over again, believing she can actually fly out of my head. She’s captive in there and can’t stand it. If my head were a yacht, she’d steal a tiny jet ski, then bolt off the back like some immortal character in a loud movie about jewel heists or political espionage.

And even if she really could find a tiny jet ski, she’d screw it up. Once in the water she’d immediately think of something she left on the boat, then slide off the water rocket with the motor running and the keys in the ignition. She’d swim back to the boat but then, before reaching the deck ladder she’d see a flash of silver in the water and follow it down to a cave which she’s certain is filled with sunken treasure.

When she got to the cave and found no treasure she’d cry. She’d mourn deeply the loss of time and energy invested in this poorly planned quest. As she floated, not moving, I’d have a split second to pet her exhausted iridescent little head. I’d tell her I’m sorry this happened, again. I’m so sorry that she’s so tired. I’d gently scoop her up and pull her out of the cave, out of the water. Little waterfalls would pour through my fingers and my beautiful humming bird would sputter and flutter her pinkish blue eyelids.

As she looked up at me, she’d instantly recognize the cinematic potential of this moment and begin a b-grade actress performance of the near drowned ingénue in the strategically torn swimsuit. She’d arch her tiny back while stealing looks at me to see if I’m impressed.

I started breakfast at some point this morning. But instead of watching the skillet, I’ve been following Natasha. She’s far more interesting. Now the eggs are ruined. I can’t blame Natasha. She’s a humming bird. I have to blame someone. I blame myself.

Natasha has four thousand suggestions for an alternate breakfast. She also has twelve deep theories for why I cannot stop watching her, following her, rescuing her. Of course her favorite is that she is so riveting, so beautiful, so talented and so important that I simply have no choice.

You should see her nest. While other birds methodically collected appropriate building materials for a proper nest, Natasha drew plans for her glow in the dark bowling alley. While other birds wove the wispy veins of decomposed leaves into a sturdy foundation, Natasha hastily picked up a few bulky twigs and tied them together with bits of trash. She didn’t have the patience to remove the trash before she began building. But the shredded grocery bags and beer caps proved quite handy so she called herself “resourceful” and called their inclusion “art.”

At two thirds done, she had a vision. In a dream state, she saw the ornamental potential of the half woven house, and changed direction in mid construction. Now the floppy wreath of bread bag twisties and cat hair will become a crown, rightfully identifying her as the power behind my brilliance.

So, flying awkwardly under the weight of her bulky crown, she zooms back to the perch behind my forehead. Once there, she sees my botched breakfast, and she gets an idea. She lunges back to the kitchen. I am terribly excited to see what she’ll do, so of course I follow.

Back in the kitchen she directs me to empty the entire pantry in search of a specific jar of tangerine marmalade that I swiped from a fantasy restaurant at a gaudy resort in Mexico. I loved that trip. That’s where I discovered that every thing is better with lime juice and salt. She heard my thoughts, and shrieked. New plan! Now we’re going for a stunning platter of papaya and jicima and pineapple sprinkled with lime and salt.

Natasha flies out of the pantry at warp speed, hitting my head on the cupboard on the way out.

While slicing jicima, I slowly notice that my head really, truly hurts from the whacking it took as it followed Natasha on her manic quest for the perfect breakfast.

The pain in my head is strong. The rhythmic throbbing of the bell tower in which Natasha lives is so severe that even she must hunker down. She lowers her center of gravity for each blow. This bump needs ice, and I need aspirin. These two tasks are difficult because my skull is swelling. And because, despite all my rushing and effort, I haven’t actually eaten anything yet.

What do I do? How did my day begin like this? Where did I put the aspirin the last time I used it? What am I going to do about food? Why can’t I just focus on one thing at a time?

From her corner, still bracing herself against the throbbing, Natasha perks up and whispers, “I have an idea!!!!!” She convinces me that I’ll feel better if we buy art supplies. I’m sure we’ll pass a coffee shop on the way so I can pick up a muffin and I think there’s a drug store on the way and aspirin is cheap and now that I think of it, I need some wire from the hardware store.

Natasha is already flying full force, slamming her little body against the windshield in my forehead. According to her we should have already gone and come back. She is designing a spreadsheet program that will help me stay organized. She’s found a Sharpie and is already scribbling on the walls of my skull.

On the way to the bank Natasha falls asleep. I am alone for the first time today. I am sitting in traffic wanting nothing more than to be home at my table, quietly eating a hot breakfast and reading a book. Natasha wakes up and reminds me to stop at the library. No -- the bookstore. There’s a coffee shop there. And she wants a book about Mexican gardens.

Edwina The Protector

2009-04-05T09:01:00.000-07:00

I have a beastie named Edwina. She is a dragon with deep blue-green scales. She wears a spiked collar like a bad-ass pit bull.

Edwina is not happy. She stands at the kitchen counter, chain-smoking in her bathrobe. She is waiting . . . waiting for the first hint of indignation. She can smell it like a gas leak when the dryer is not hooked up properly. Edwina’s eyebrows are knit in a tight crease. I don’t like her.

Edwina has an important job, but I didn’t actually hire her. She just came with the building. She guards a trembling secret that lives in a rusted box in the basement. The secret is a slimy, gelatinous mass of goo that never set properly, like watery jello from a church social on a Tuesday afternoon. Some idiot didn’t read the instructions correctly. I think that idiot was me.

That rusted box holds all my gooey, leaky attempts at greatness. And that’s the secret: most of my accomplishments are half set, not ready, not good enough, failed, quit, half assed. My jello will never stand up in great jiggly glory at a party of people I love and respect.

But rather than sit quietly in the basement with my bad jello, I dance on the roof advertising my grandeur. “I am a grown up!" "I am a professional!" "I am an academic!" "I'm an expert!" "I have experience that is worth paying for, with your money, your respect, your friendship.”

I honk like an egomaniacal peacock, puffed up, iridescent feathers flayed out like a Persian fan. “Come see how beautiful I am!” “Gasp at my accomplishments!” “Swoon at my intelligence!” “Come listen with rapt attention to my witty comebacks and lively stories of adventure and peril and triumph!”

However, there begins the danger. The moment you are close enough to worship me you are also close enough to notice the jello is sliding off the plate. You weren’t supposed to see that.

But you did, and I noticed you noticing. And then, like any good watch-dragon guarding her mistress’s secret, Edwina springs to life and stands poised and foaming. She jumps up like a feral cat, not yet in attack mode, but slinking, low bellied, ears flat, pacing in slow motion, waiting and watching for the twitch.

I feel Edwina’s hackles rise. They tickle the back of my throat. I know she’s awake and up to no good, her suspicious and defensive attitude backs up my esophagus. Stinging and familiar.

She has a retch for “How dare you notice that my stories don’t add up” and a screach for “How dare you be disappointed in me” and a snarl for “How dare you imply I’m not what I advertised” and a scream for “You just don’t understand how I’ve been thwarted.” And a pained howl for “But I have so much potential!”

Edwina has embarrassed me too many times.

I tired to kill her once. I beat her senseless with positive affirmations. I made her recite disgusting phrases like “I am perfectly safe and worthy of love and respect with out performing like a dolphin.” and “My imperfections are what make me beautiful and interesting.” She choked on them, but damn it, she would not die.

Turns out I just needed the affirmation “No one believes my bullshit.”

Like most Beasties, Edwina is not terribly sophisticated. I’ve tried reasoning with her but it’s like discussing string theory with a kumquat. So I demoted her. She is my employee, after all. She is no longer in charge of guarding the secret of my imperfection.

I’ve decided my imperfection no longer needs to be secret. I just can't keep up the crazy roof top dance anymore. It was exhausting and embarrassing.

Edwina’s new job is to guard the goblin in my mouth, Ed. Ed blurts out self-aggrandizing statements and lies like mad. Ed was creating most of the trouble in the first place.

Edwina is still with me. She will always be near, ready to snarl and spit at any one who pokes a finger into my bad jello. But she has been removed from key positions, her security clearance has been revoked and she’s no longer allowed to roam freely in the building. She’s shrunk a bit in the last few years as well -- no longer a giant Beastie, but now sort of like a Beenie Baby with teeth.

The important thing is that I have her. She doesn’t have me.

Fireflies

2009-01-14T17:03:00.001-08:00

Yes, they are cliché, but fireflies are real; like silver dollars and white dresses and wedding cake.

Fireflies are chemical hiccups, bioluminescent love letters sent through midwest twilight under old trees in a stranger’s yard, where he made his tired bride giggle and gasp for humid August air.

She’d never seen fireflies before. Heard of them, like she’d heard of unicorns and fairy dust.

On boney knees in Blue Grass, he caught them in cat leaps, held them in the small cave of his slender hands then released them before her shining eyes . . . two and three at a time.

Antennae

2009-01-14T17:01:00.000-08:00

Every morning I plant bare feet on this hardwood and step surely into my kitchen, into a day of scrambled eggs, giggling children, whole hearts and unbroken bones. Yet swimming quietly through this bubbling brew of beauty and abundance is a pale blue ribbon: the fearless knowledge that it all could explode without warning. The ribbon is essential to the recipe.

The house may burn. Mutant cells may bloom in my child’s bones. I might miss a red light. Some other country’s bullets may pierce the veil between Us and Them. Then we’d all be hungry and scared but we’d still breathe. The earth will rotate again, and then again. Every day a new yellow light will fill the shadows behind dumpsters and churches despite our pain or plans. We’ll wake again and then again and one day we’ll smile quietly at strangers; even if we are those strangers wandering hand in hand through a broken world.

And even if the breath staggering from my lungs is ragged and faint, it’s just breath. And it’s just a body. And it’s just a slice of time in which I happen to be aware of Time.

And yes, my heart will break, over and over again. And so will yours. But these resilient little muscles will beat faithfully as we heal. Such a glorious burden to be self aware, to be sentient little animals.

This would be so much easier if I were a rock, if you were a tree, if the tickling on our shoulders was only sweat evaporating, rather than a million tiny antennae straining, listening with delicious anxiety for any thing about me me me me me me.

Love Letter to My Daughter When She Was Three

2008-11-21T13:48:00.000-08:00

I love you more than fish heads
I love you more than bugs
I love you more than stinky socks
or worms or snails or slugs

If you were a piece of candy
with chocolate creme and nuts
I'd set you on a flowered plate
and eat your tasty guts

One Good Rock To The Head

2008-11-21T13:47:00.000-08:00

Tuesday morning service. It’s quiet: there are only about 10 of us, mainly women. We each hold 108 beads on soft cords in our hands and chant words of compassion. OK, so the words are in Japanese. I’m OK with that. In fact, I kind of like it. I can let go of needing to agree with every word. And besides, the 200 year old woman behind me is doing that freaky bull frog thing with her voice and its making my chest rumble like I’m standing too close to the speakers at rock concert. I sneak a look at her. She is about 4 feet tall with a perm so tight it hurts MY head. That voice cannot be coming out of her. She winks at me.

At a certain cue, each person approaches a flower heavy altar. At the center of the altar is a huge white stone statue of a great Teacher. After sprinkling a pinch of powdered incense onto smoldering coal in a tiny cauldron, we bow. Except me.

I would not bow. I stayed in my seat and watched.

I used to bow. As a child I said prayers before bed. My brother and I got into our pajamas, mine usually some fire hazard nighty made out of spun petroleum and decorated with scratchy lace. After brushing our teeth, we’d get on our knees at the side of our beds. Many nights I woke with a shag carpet imprint on my cheek, wondering if I ever got to “and lead us not into temptation.”

Growing up with a mad man who could crack at any moment, I learned to avert my eyes when he was around. This automatically bowed my head slightly. He liked that. It’s no mistake that evil tyrants demand that their subjects bow. It’s a strategic physical and psychological position. To me, bowing meant declaring myself a beaten dog offering myself for more humiliation. Bowing brought to mind images of people with no rights, no dignity, no self-determination.

I knew that bowing meant something different here.

The Bull Frog woman was so clearly self-defined, and she was bowing, and bowing deep too. I can only hope my knees are as good when I’m her age. Every week, she walked back up the aisle, past me and did not look at me but I swear she was sending me psychic messages that said “Wussy.”

I finally asked Sensei to tell me about bowing.

He spoke slowly. “The top of your head is most vulnerable. There is a soft spot there. If someone wanted to kill you, they could do it with one big rock. When we bow to one another, we say “I trust you with my life.” In our case, it is saying to this Teacher, ‘I trust you with my spiritual life.’ Offer your soft spot, where there is less resistance. Some truth may enter with out having to fight your ego.”

For the first year of our lives, the three boney plates of our little skulls are not yet fused. Touch the top of any baby’s head and you’ll feel a soft warm indentation. Mothers instinctively protect that soft spot. As we hold our little drool machines close to our chests, we murmur love and instructions into that furry little dip.

How often has that circle at the top of our heads been covered, uncovered, decorated, protected, exposed, and touched in the quest for understanding?

Men remove their hats before entering church. Boys are asked to remove baseball caps in the classroom. Mothers braid flowers into yellow wreaths for their daughters’ wispy heads. Kings and Queens wear crowns. The Buddha is often shown with a lotus flower sprouting from the top of his head and the alternate halo and thorns that encircled Jesus’ head were hugely significant.

So many Rulers and Teachers have asked us to be humble, to let go of our pride and bow and I have screamed at every one of them.

I remember being called hard headed when I refused to open up, let go of my opinions, my calcified ideas, my arrogance.

Sensei said, “A good Teacher has no desire to control you or hurt you. He only wants you to let down your defenses and open your mind."

I can do this. In fact I’ve been yearning to do this for years. I’m slow to trust. The protective shields over my soft spots are semi permanent. But as I learn how resilient my spirit is, and how badly I want the wisdom of good Teachers, I am finally willing, thrilled even to bow my head, offering that fontanel like a cup, saying please, pour pour pour.

Now, there is an addendum to this story; One morning I decided to do 108 bows with the old monks. They look like huge black butterflies folding and unfolding over and over again as they do full prostrations in silk robes. I don’t wear robes. I am half their age. I do yoga. I died at bow number 62. My knees still crack and that was a year ago. One of the monks smiled at me and said, “Its all about practice. Just like life. That’s what we do; we practice.”

DANDELIONS

2008-11-07T13:17:00.001-08:00

Today, on my morning walk, wedged between the cracks in the sidewalk was a dandelion. A shameless, canary yellow, inverted exclamation point. I stopped in my tracks, bent down to pet it like it was a tiny cat. Good weedie! Good weedie!

Later, as I scanned my email, wedged between ads for low interest mortgages and Viagra from Indonesia, was a Thank You note from a friend. My heart skipped and sent a zap of lime and gardenia through out my chest.

And at the grocery store, wedged between thoughts of coupons and dirty dishes was a flash of brilliance, something about art and farming and God.

And this afternoon, wedged between a million other cars, was a man singing at the top of his lungs, drumming his entire dashboard, grinning and swaying like Stevie Wonder.

I love Dandelions. They are my matron flowers. So brave and underappreciated, unashamed to bust open an outlandish display of fuzzy color. Gotta love dandelions, always in the wrong place, jumping up and speaking out of turn.

Give any other plant a less than perfect setting and its leaves will drop like lame excuses and it will withhold flowers like a resentful lover. But give a dandelion a hairline fracture in a ton of concrete laid over a landfill and its gonna be just fine. More than fine; it will thrive in spite of every obstacle in its path to the sunlight, not to hold its breath in a vase, but to giggle and sway its tiny hips, inspiring weary travelers to skip like children.

ITCHY SCRATCHY BUNCHY BUMPY

2008-11-07T13:11:00.000-08:00

“Time to get up, Sweetie”

My name is not Sweetie. She calls me Sweetie when she’s going to ask me to try something new.

“I got you some new socks, Sweetie.”

“Where are my old socks? I like my old socks. I just got them the way I like them.”

I put on the new socks. Hmmmmm . . . so far so good. A bit tight at the top, but I’ll give them a try. I can be flexible. Daring even, if the pay off is good.

I got to school and ran around at first recess. Now one of the new socks is looser than the other, sliding down around my ankle.

I can’t take this. At least a tight sock can be pushed down, but a loose sock can’t be fixed. Now it’s scrunch up around my toe. One foot is fine and the other is strangled inside a smooshed up sock. I’m uneven! This is unacceptable!!!!

I’m sick of pulling up this sock, but that’s not even half the problem. The tag in my T- shirt is scratching me. My mom usually removes all the tags from my clothes. I wish I could get a hold of the people who put tags in shirts. I mean, what is the point? Just to annoy people?!

Anyway, this shirt must have slipped past her because there’s a tag in it. And it’s driving me nuts! Every time I shrug my shoulders or turn my head I can feel it and it’s scratchy and its making my skin bumpy and itchy.

I asked the teacher to remove it and SHE CUT OUT THE MIDDLE AND LEFT THE SCRATCHY STUMPS IN MY SHIRT and NOW IT’S EVEN WORSE!!!

Lunchtime. Some girl has her mother’s wool scarf and she’s showing it to everyone, whether they care or not. I do not. But that doesn’t stop her from putting it on me.

“Ooooohh, isn’t it just so warm? Its so waaarrrrmmm” Yeah lady, its warm all right because all the blood in my body is now in my neck trying to push this big ugly evil scarf off. I pushed it off of me as fast as I could.

“Oh no!! I can’t believe you just threw my Mother’s scarf on the floor!!”

“Like you would gently set bag of venomous snakes on the floor??” I’m certain that wool is made of invisible bits of broken glass.

So I’m sitting in class now. I know I’m not supposed to dig in my shoes and rearrange my socks every few minutes. The teacher will get all snippy about that. Why my socks are any of her business, I have no idea. I try not to adjust my socks for a while. This is very hard.

In addition to the stiff stumps of tag left in my shirt, there is a big thready thread hanging down my left shoulder. Its tickling my back. Its bad enough there’s a string tickling my back, but the thing is on ONE SIDE. Couldn’t it be down the middle? I’m uneven again!!! I can’t reach it to pull it out. This is killing me!!!! So I’m hunching my shoulders a lot.

Ms Teacher keeps asking me to sit still with my hands folded. It sounds so simple. Actually, I’d really LIKE to sit still with my hands folded. Everyone else looks so peaceful.

I’m sitting with my hands folded, scrunching my shoulders, trying to not think about my neck, which is all hot and prickly now. Ms Teacher told me to leave my socks alone. Now I’m secretly scrunching and unscrunching my toes. If I can scrunch up the smooth sock so that it feels bunched up like the loose sock they’ll be even and when they are even, I might be able to relax my legs.

My hands are folded, just like Ms Teacher asked. Hey, there is an uneven fingernail on my left hand. I start whittling at it with the nail of the finger opposite it, but rather than smooth out the uneven bump, now I’ve dug a notch in the middle of the good nail.

I need for my finger nails to be even. I know that if they are uneven the world will not explode; my head will not cave in. No one will know but me that they are uneven, but that’s just it. I will know they are uneven and it makes me want to rip my arms off at the shoulder.

I bet if I just chew on that little bump, I can make it the same length as the others. Just a tinny little nibble and oh jeeeez, I chewed off too much! Now I need to chew off just a little bit from the others.

Its time to sit someplace new. Ms Teacher rearranges us several times a day. Why? Who knows? So I’m sitting on this bright blue and green rug with numbers on it that is supposed to be cute. Its not. The door to the classroom is open. I hear a lawn mower. The smell of grass floats in. I like the smell, its smells like green.

A great streak of sunlight crashes into rug right in front of me!! This is so cool! Look at all the tiny tiny tiny particles of . . . stuff . . . floating in the streak of sunlight right in front of me. If I blow really gently on them they move in circles. I could do this all day! And there’s a cool little breeze coming in the door too.

In about five minutes, the streak of sunlight has moved past me. And that cool breeze is hitting me straight in the ear. It’s like cold water now, hitting the side of my head and sliding down my neck into my shoulder.

I really do want to hear what the teacher is saying, but all these feelings on my skin are so much bigger than her voice. She could never compete with the glass shards on my neck and ice water on my shoulder, a giant rope hanging down the left side of my back and a king sized blanket stuffed in my shoe.

Some times these things are really more than I can stand. I mean, like I said, I know I’m not really going to explode, but I do feel like I might ACTULLY put my finger in the pencil sharpener and turn the crank like mad, screaming in agony and relief, if I thought it might even out my fingernails.

When I feel like I’m gonna explode, I’ll ask some one for help. I’m usually asking for help with a twisted strap or a left shoe that is tied tighter than the right, but they give me this big speech that ends in the most annoying words in the world: “You really need to just relax” Oh, brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that!?

I can’t wait for the next time one of these people gets a fork stuck in their eyeball so I can tell them to just relllaaaaaaaax.”

Some times it really would be easer to simply stay in bed.

Don’t get me started about my bed . . . . .

MY FRIEND SATAN - Jahovah's Witness, Michael Landon and stunned birds

2008-10-09T20:55:00.001-07:00

My parents said I should envy babies who die with in an hour or two of birth. They escape before being poisoned by this evil world. God really loves them best. They also told me that singing songs by the Carpenters, reading Judy Blum and watching M.A.S.H were gonna lead me straight to the Devil.

And they did. Dad, wherever you are, you should know that I have long hair, I vote and I read all seven Harry Potter books. That last one alone proves that I’m in cahoots with Satan.

But back in the seventies, I was trying my best to be a really good square peg in a round hole.

I was an active student. Always the first to raise her hand, eager to join the academic discourse. In sixth grade, I politely informed Mr. Karsher that he was wrong; The Earth was actually created in 6000 years and dinosaur bones were planted in the rocks by the Devil to fool us. Of course I did this with the utmost respect. I loved Mr. Karshner and wanted him to be the best teacher he could be.

It began as a basic education in the Watchtower Society worldview, then slowly turned into a trip down the rabbit hole in my father’s declining mental health. He slipped and slid through the seven layers of hell, seven layer dip made of every health food fad to hit the seventies, five or six glasses of Carlo Rossi Chablis, four kids in constant risk of possession by demons and one dog who shook and peed every time she heard his voice. As he dropped down each rung of the ladder descending into alcoholic paranoia, he brought his family and his bible with him. Buckle up folks.

The Watchtower Society is sort of a proto Jehovah’s Witness organization. Compared to the Watchtower Society, the Witnesses seem like a leftwing swingers club. Compared to my father, the Watchtower people seem like Scientists.

By 1980, my father had been picking up subliminal messages from Little House on the Prairie. Remember in the final season when “Pa” got all hopped up on saving the soul of every wayward character in town. As an actor, Michael Landon had the angst and hubris of a mortal savior down pat: the crinkled eye brows, the evangelical quiver, the misty eyes. He cried under his burden in every episode. And he looked a little bit like my dad. The message was obvious.

So by tenth grade, I knew my personal role in the coming establishment of God’s Kingdom on Earth. We were the chosen people. And by “we” I mean the six of us – not including the dog. No pressure, and don’t bring any attention to yourself. God hates a show off. Blend. (Incidentally, do you have any idea how hard it is to blend when you look like an overweight white girl impersonating Steve Urkel?)

As chosen people we had grave responsibilities. A few minutes after Armageddon, while the fallen buildings are smoldering and world leaders are repenting and dead babies are everywhere, an amazing thing will happen. Every one who has ever lived and died will magically emerge form their graves. Bullet holes will be healed, amputated arms reattached, moldy lungs re-inflated, and no worms will be present. All these people will be dazed and confused and they will need a guide. And that guide will be . . . you guessed it . . . ME! I’ll be suddenly hip and informed and my leadership skills will finally be appropriate. I’ll be the Julie on the Love Boat “Second Coming.”

My father knew this as Truth with a capital “T”, so I was destined to fulfill my role. Unless I strayed.

I strayed. In the middle of senior year in high school I jumped out of the cart on my father’s version of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. And surprisingly, God did not immediately strike me dead in the middle of running away with what ever I could cram into three Hefty bags.

The first years were a blur as I tried to learn all about the world from which my father and his wife had so benevolently protected me. How does a bank account work? What is rent? What are laws? What is a museum? How does the solar system work? What is birth control? When do I speak and when do I touch? How do normal people act? How does a grocery store work? How long does it take to cook an egg? What is a phone bill and why is everyone looking at me like I’m a complete freak?

Once I could operate with out appearing to be a savant, the real evil commenced. I read newspapers, worked on a political campaign and read books. I went to Planned Parenthood, looked at maps, got a descent hair cut. I said the pledge of allegiance. Or, more accurately I TRIED to say the pledge of allegiance for the first time at age 22. My throat closed up like a furniture store and I winced, waiting for God to kill me. In truth, hundreds of attempts and 20 years after that first try, I’ve still never made it al the way through.

According the Watch Tower Society, people like me, who were considered to be part of a special corps of operatives who would usher in the new world but fell away from the Church, we are considered Dead. We have been demoted to a level from which we won’t even be reincarnated - ooops, excuse me, I mean “resurrected” - There’s a big difference and if you don’t understand you are obviously deluded by Satan.

When the other sinners are given their second chance, I, along with Judas and Hitler, will be enrolled into a special club called “The Second Death” where I wont even have the honor of writhing in fiery torment. I will simply cease to exist.

I saw my Father only three times after disappearing with out warning from his house three days after Christmas in 1983. In those bizarre meetings there was no mention of fear or sadness, only perfunctory questions. He did not say he missed me, did not ask me to come home. He just looked at me the way a tired minister would look at a dying bird. Neither he nor I knew then what a blessing it is to be considered dead, but imagine informing the IRS that you’re dead, or informing the Mob that you’re dead.

And yes, I was a dying bird. Like a sparrow beating herself against a window for 17 years finally falls to the floor, I caught my breath, saw the open door and zipped out, good as new. Resurrected.

THIRD GRADE - Planners, cell phones and signatures

2008-09-27T10:46:00.000-07:00

A typical conversation in my house:

Daughter: I need you to sign my planner.

Me: OK, what am a signing for?

Daughter: Right here.

Me: Yes, I know where to sign, but what am I agreeing to with my signature?

Daughter: That I did my homework.

Me: So, DID you do your homework?

Daughter: I can’t find my math sheet.

Me: So why are you asking me to sign to the fact that you finished your homework when you haven’t finished your math?

Daughter: Well, it doesn’t have to be done today.

Me: So are you telling me that you have finished the homework that’s due right now?

Daughter: Yes,

Me: What does this pencil scratch in today’s column mean? Its in Spanish, I can’t read it.

Daughter: Oh, we did that in class already.

Me: OK, but please just tell me what it says.

Daughter: It says “write paragraph.”

Me: So, you already did this? May I see it?

Daughter: It’s at school.

Me: Dylan, you don’t write down everything else you do in the class room. Why is this one written in you planner?

Daughter: I don’t know.

Me: But you do know that you finished this assignment, right?

Daughter: Well, I’m only supposed to write a sentence for a word that missed in spelling.

Me: Ooooh, so were you supposed to write a sentence or a paragraph?

Daughter: A sentence. See? Its right here.

Me: I thought you said it was a school.

Daughter: What’s at school?

Me: OK, what ever. You did it. I’ll sign for that. But what about this math sheet? If it doesn’t need to be done today, when IS it due?

Daughter: I don’t know.

Me: Dylan, why don’t you know what you’re supposed to do? If you don’t understand your assignment, you have to ask the teacher for clarification. Is it that you didn’t understand what your supposed to do today or that you we’re paying attention to your teacher?

Daughter: I sit next to someone who is always talking to me and I can’t hear the teacher. It’s soooo annoying. Yesterday she was telling me all about her brother and he got this new-

Me: Come back, we’re taking about homework. Is there any point at which you take responsibility for your own homework??? You know you have some every day. Take charge, get clear on what your supposed to do and remember to bring your tools home with you so that you can do the work. You’re eight years old for goodness sake. There are children I other parts of the world who are fixing tractors at this age.

Daughter: I found my math sheet!!

Me: Great! Lets see it. He this isn’t a sheet; this is your math book. Its been sitting right here in front of you for this whole conversation.

Daughter: Yeah, I have to do pages 7, 8 and 9.

Me: OK, get to it.

Daughter: But I need you to sign my planner.

Me: I will when you finish the math.

D: Oh I already did it at school.

Me: So why were you trying to find it earlier. I’m confused. Help me out here D. I can only sign this planner when I confirm that you’ve finished all your homework.

Daughter: Can I use your phone?

Me: What!?! Why?

Daughter: I need to call Reno to ask him a question about the homework. I forgot which poem, we’re supposed to memorize.

Me: There is nothing about a poem written in your planner for today.

Daughter: That’s why I have to call Reno.

Me: Why didn’t you write it in you planner in the first place so you wouldn’t forget?

Daughter: Because I didn’t know WHICH poem to write down. That’s why I need to call Reno. Can I use your phone? You know, Reno’s really good at math.

Me: Great. Is he also really good at figuring out what he needs to do and doing it?

Daughter: I don’t know? Why do you ask?

THE PARKING LOT - Venice beach, paper cups and sun flowers

2008-09-27T09:29:00.000-07:00

Springtime is almost upon us, and those of us near the beach know what’s coming. Our neighborhood is about to become a Disneyland parking lot.

Every weekend, beginning around June, thousands of Angelinos and tourists sit on Venice Boulevard hoping to park the car before the kids in the back seat explode. As they get closer, luckier beachgoers are already out of their cars, sauntering westward with cold drinks and serene faces. This is not inspiration. It’s competition. Once a driver hits Abbott Kinney Boulevard, the race is on.

Although we beachy people like to think we are loving and tolerant folk, by August the beach visitors are as welcome as cold sores.

Witness the behavior of a Parking Shark:

They’ve been circling erratically for thirty minutes. Six other sharks are also circling. Heaven help the neighborhood cats. After loosing dangerous races to at least seven parking spaces along the street, a variation on Road Rage sets in — Parking Frenzy. Illegal U-turns, obscene hand gestures, death threats and complete disregard for fire hydrants.

Forty-five minutes after their first view of water, this family is vibrating with stress. “Out of the car! Everyone out of the car!” And with the people, out onto the street, tumbles the detris of their journey: Fast food wrappers, empty coffee cups, beer bottles, and my personal favorite, reeking, full dirty diapers. Don’t these people know how The Plague started?

I can easily imagine the thoughts that justify this insult. “This is MY mini vacation. I had to work really hard to get here and these selfish people who can afford to live here and don’t deserve it any more than I do can just deal with it. Come on, we’re getting to the beach NOW!”

Then they storm down these narrow sidewalks, trailing candy wrappers and flicking cigarette butts into the yards they pass. The homes that perch three feet from the sidewalk have their windows open. Inside, obscenities and the smell of weed flood living rooms where children play.

I’m convinced that many of our summer day visitors don’t actually realize a neighborhood exists here. They see it only as a parking lot, decorated with quaint wooden structures.

One beautiful by-product of the parking wars does exist: the network of neighbors who all need someplace to put a car. We call our neighbors to say, “Hey, I’m leaving in 20 minutes. Do you want my spot?” The grateful co-conspirator walks 8 blocks to where they had to park the day before. The swap takes place the second the coast is clear of parking sharks. This small act of kindness weaves deep friendships.

In the winter months, Venetians reclaim the neighborhood as the misty, salty, flower heavy small town that we own.

I still call it my own, just for one more season. I moved out of Venice recently. Something violent and noxious was brewing in my gut. It was overtaking my love for the neighborhood. When I was a single girl, drenched in patchouli and spouting irritating affirmations, I thought the broken malt liquor bottles on my sidewalk were Art. My tastes have changed.

The day someone cut the heads off my sunflowers I swore death to the next person to walk down Market Street. The homeless man who regularly snuck into my yard to shower in the early mornings was polite enough to roll up the hose but I was less enchanted by his presence once I had a baby. Too many times I walked ten blocks with a runaway toddler and four bags of groceries in ripping sacks, all the while being followed by lurking drivers who cursed me when I failed to liberate a parking space for them. When I saw my two year old nibble a cigarette butt in the front yard I was done.

My new neighborhood is pretty and quiet. Too quiet. I lived here two months before I met a neighbor. But I’m getting incorporated, slowly. The rage has died down. I actually like humans again. Several nice ones live on my new street, although no one parks on the street. We have driveways. I wave to these smiling strangers as we take our recycling to the curb once a week.

I miss Venice. Not the Venice most Angelinos think of on Saturday mornings in July. I miss the Venice of Tuesday afternoons in October. I miss the minimum ten neighbors who would stop at my porch every day with their coffee or their dogs. I miss the smell of salt and the sight of surfers walking down to the water in the early hours. And I miss the nice visitors, the ones who brought energy and variety to the neighborhood while remembering that our children and pets and gardens are not in their way.

ALIEN ABDUCTION - Illusion, Delusion and Perfection

2008-09-27T08:59:00.000-07:00

Ahhh . . . . Wednesday evening. Five o’clock. I’ve just completed a very productive day: took my business ten steps forward, picked up a new client, filled the house with healthy food, volunteered in computer lab at my kid’s school, ran 8 miles while learning Cantonese via I-pod, tracked down an overdue payment and deposited a hefty check, had a meeting with my agent, agreed to a publishing deal and had a lovely session of phone sex with my husband while driving to the bank.

Now I’m going to put on my satin loungies, French kiss my husband and whip up a game of monopoly with the kid. Hell yes, we’re ordering Thai food. I worked hard all day, what are a few extra bucks for the garlic shrimp. I deserve it.

That’s how my day looked at 7am. That's how every day looks at 7am, but the aliens abduct me shortly after noon. Of course I have no direct memory of the event. They always wipe my memory. But the signs are obvious: I “lose” time. And I apparently loose all powers of discernment as well.

Now its five pm. There isn’t a speck of slimy black stuff under the plastic knobs that cover the bolts that hold the toilet to the floor. The bank register is half reconciled. The cat litter box has been changed, and after three grueling trips to different stores, I found the paper towels I like. I read four blogs on topics completely irrelevant to my life and rearranged to mountain range of papers on the dining room table.

The Husband will come home soon.

Now I’m going to put on my big grey sweats and drink a glass of wine and become invisible.

If invisibility proves impossible, three other options are available:

One: Put on some lipstick and drink another glass of wine, then reduce my husband to a panting heap muttering “yer the besssssst” as he falls asleep. This move eliminates the possibility of his question: “So, what did you do today?”

Two: Eat an entire box of cereal plus three pieces of heavily buttered cinnamon and sugar toast, effectively wrapping myself in a warm and heavy carbohydrate blanket which covers the sharp corners of my conscience that threaten to poke out of my skin.

Three: Pull my hair back in a ponytail; tell my family that I need the next several hours uninterrupted to work. This is good because it supports the illusion that I’ve been working really hard all day.

I am so busy and my works so important that they’ll stand back and gaze in awe upon my supreme busy-ness. Yeah I’m really feeling it now. I’m going to get on top of things, once and for all. I’m gonna get the papers on my desk in order, enter every birthday, mammogram, political debate and dentist appointment of the upcoming year into the computer calendar. Then I’ll clean out the fridge and make a list of all my family’s favorite meals. Then I’ll finish the novel I’ve been working for the last six years.

It just needs to be tightened up. In fact, I’m absolutely certain that if I just have a glass of wine, get in the groove, get my rhythm, I can finish it tonight and it will be brilliant! Hell, it already is. Its right up here, baby, locked away but percolating like mad in my head, its aaaalllll right here, I just gotta catch the wave and it will all come spilling out of my fingers.

And I will make inventory sheets and price lists and design perfect packaging from all recycled materials then pitch my hand made bracelets to the best little boutiques on Montana street. The buyers will love them and will put them in the front display cases and my name will become hotter than hell in one week and the money will start rolling in. I’m visualizing it, I can see it, I deserve it and I’m accepting my right to prosperity so its gonna happen.

You wont see me slouching around this messy house in droopy sweats and gym socks any more. I’m gonna make enough money to dress like the proud and productive artist that I am and I’ll buy my husband surprise season tickets to the Lakers.

And then I’m gonna organize all the art supplies that are currently heaped in plastic containers in the back yard and my daughter and I will make giant mosaic sculptures of mythic heroines as I teach her about Harriet Tubman, Susan B Anthony and Margaret Sanger. Later she will remember me as the awesome mom who spent hours patiently drawing out her creative brilliance. And in-between amazing paintings and sculptures and meals and books the house will be spotless.

I will sail through all this perfection in size 4 yoga pants while eating organic tempeh, conducting insightful conversations about current and historical events and casting come hither looks to my amazed and adoring husband….

Just get me one more glass of wine and I’ll get started.

BONES-Origami, heartbeats and designer dresses

2008-09-26T17:51:00.000-07:00

I don’t remember the details of how that name became mine. But it must have been a game. We played word games constantly.

I think it started with Baloney or Spumoni, but after several days and several tangents, my name became Bones.

“Bones, bring me a beer, would ya?”
“Bones, what do you want to do for dinner tonight?”
“Look Bones, you’ve really got to get a grip on yourself.”

In the winter of 1987, the alarm rang at 4am three days a week. Gotta open the bakery. Just try to crawl out from under a heavy down comforter in January at 4am when the frozen carpet crackles under your feet. In Seattle, it’s not uncommon to use a hair dryer in the kitchen to thaw out your undies.

Unless you have central heating. But don’t turn it on, because its just a tease. The beast makes a big important noise, sends a few meaningless rattles around the house, then goes straight for the big move, no foreplay, no soft warm whispers. Just a massive assault of scalding dehydrating wind that singes the hair off your legs.

Then, when the pets are crackling with static and the house plants have dropped their leaves out of pure fear, turn off the furnace. Like a selfish lover who got off first, it instantly and noisily turns over taking all the covers with him. The house is instantly freezing again. Thank you, here’s your bill.

Larry slept another hour. Then he would walk up the bakery. “G’morning Bones. Gimme a cup of coffee. I’ll see you after work. Have a good day at school.”

Our days and nights were automatic. Not much thought went into a larger plan. Until I started to feel like hell.

One day at the Mall, the local health clinic had simple health checks set up near JC Penney’s. The bakery offered no health insurance. Just all the coffee I could drink.

“Give me your left hand, Sweetie. This won’t hurt a bit.” And with a tiny plastic m-16, a nurse shot the tip of my finger. She then held a tiny glass tube directly over the bubble of Santa red blood. The blood defied gravity, flowing directly up into the tube. I was fascinated and then woke up on the cold floor of the mall next to JC Penny’s with my shirt open and paramedics holding electric paddles over me.

“Whoa, she’s back! Hold up!”

A month later, Larry said “Bones, I think you should see a real doctor.” After an intensive exam, I was sent home with instructions to keep a log for one week of everything I ate, drank, did and felt.

“Well, the good news is this is the most detailed and organized journal we’ve ever seen. The bad news is you don’t eat enough to keep a chicken alive.”

I had been raised vegetarian, so had squeaky-clean arteries. Very low blood pressure. Additionally, I often shuttered my mind so I could barf up every thing I ate, and I’d developed a fondness for a fine white substance that made wind blow in my head. That explained the passing out.

It didn’t explain the heart stopping. It took many years to unravel that mystery.

Working at a neighborhood bakery, or a bookstore, living off student loans, did not fill my fridge with good food or my closet with good clothes. As graduation drew near, a rich friend carelessly tossed a tiny designer dress into my lap. It was an expertly tailored swath of lined linen like I’d never felt before. It fit me like it was never meant to fit anyone else.

Larry and I split up just before my last year of college. He didn’t come to my graduation. He never saw me in that heavenly dress. No one ever called me Bones again.

Slowly, over the next few years, I began to actually taste food. Its interesting stuff. I also ran out of people who would happily spot me sixty dollars for an origami envelope full of as yet unrecognized ADD relief. One day, as I cursed my esophagus for not cooperating as I tried to force shift it into reverse, I looked down at myself in the bathroom stall and said “Bones, this is really fucked up. How long have you been doing this?”

In summer of 1994, the dress I wore for graduation hung in my closet. I was determined to fit into it again. Food still confused me. Still does. Funny how such a simple thing can weave itself over and under the delicate threads of confidence, spirit, self-image, direction, purpose, heart beats.

In 1998, the first woman I ever trusted informed me that a woman’s body is a good thing to have when you’re not a girl any more. I began breathing like a live person that year. I gave the dress to a neighbor.

A few years ago, my husband transferred the few videotapes worth keeping onto DVD’s. I watched a jumpy tape of my college graduation on a green campus. Giant trees and noble brick buildings, rows of baby grown-ups in rented white chairs. Each student walked across a wide stage, turned and waved. When I saw her my heart almost stopped. There was that beautiful dress on a girl I barely recognized. She looked like an exhausted rabbit. She was just bones.

COMMUNICATION - Lasagna, traffic and straight answers

2008-09-26T16:34:00.000-07:00

Me: Hi Honey. How's it going over there?

Husband: Pretty good. What's up?

Me: Nothing terribly important. Sorry to bother you at work, but I need to know your plans for tonight. What time will you be home?

Husband: I don't know, its gonna be a while yet.

Me: OK, but can you give me an approximate time so I can plan my evening with the kids?

Husband: Well, these clients are taking a long time.

Me: Just a ballpark guess is all I need.

Husband: Well, you know . . . not TOO late . . .

Me: What is too late --8:00, 10:00?

Husband: Oh not that late.

Me: Not that late . . . which? 8:00 or 10:00?

Husband: You want me to cut my session short? You know I can't do that.

Me: No. I'm not asking you to do anything. I just want to know if I should include you in dinner tonight.

Husband: What are you making?

Me: Well, if you'll be home, I'll make a big lasagna. But if its just me and the kids, I'll make soup and sandwiches.

Husband: I don't think soup and sandwiches are a decent dinner. I'm starving.

Me: The soup and sandwiches are for the kids and I--if your not going to be here. I said I'll make the lasagna if you are coming home in time, but I need to know now because it takes about an hour to make.

Husband: Don't wait for me. Just go ahead and fee the kids and I'll have left overs when I get home.

Me: There wont be and left overs from soup and sandwiches.

Husband: I think we're about done with this piece.

Me: Was it the last piece?

Husband: No, we have a few more to go.

Me: How many?

Husband: I don't know.

Me: Then how do you know it wasn't the last one?! How do you know you have a few more to do?

Husband: A couple.

Me: Two?

Husband: Oh, more than that . . .

Me: Two hundred?

Husband: Don't be ridiculous.

Me: Ten?

Husband: Not that many.

Me: Less than five?

Husband: Yeah, I guess it's about that.

Me: So you're going to do about five more pieces before you come home?

Husband: I don't think we're going to do them all tonight.

Me: Honey. If you could just guess, please, what time to you THINK you MIGHT be home?

Husband: Well traffic's pretty bad right now.

Me: Yes . . . it is bad right now. Are you coming home right now?

Husband: No, I think these guys are about to order some take-out.

Me: Dinner?

Husband: Yeah.

Me: Are you planning of ordering some take-out with them?

Husband: Well, you know, it's always good to have some down time with the clients.

Me: So is that a YES?

Husband: Sure, I'll have a bite.

Me: Is a "bite" dinner? Does that mean that you won't need dinner here at the house tonight?

Husband: I'll always eat your lasagna. It's my favorite thing you make!

Me: I'm not going to make a big freaking lasagna if your not going to be here for dinner!

Husband: I have to get back to work. I really can't stay on the phone with you this long just to help you figure out what to make for dinner.

Me: Look. You are making me nuts. I'm going to assume that you are not coming home for diner. I'm going to make something easy for me and the kids. You can fend for yourself when you get home.

Husband: That's fine. I'll see you in about an hour.

CHANNEL ONE - Instant Soufflé, soap operas and drool

2008-07-24T12:36:00.000-07:00

My TV has 600 channels. I have not yet watched the bass fishing station.

Most of the channels offer “reality” programming. The action flows uninterrupted and continuous, like those shows about beautiful yet frightening strangers who agree to live in a mansion together until someone spontaneously combusts. In these shows, every moment is riveting. Once the Goth girl slaps the vicious whining diva, both girls stomp off to their rooms to pick their noses. We are saved from this horrid lull by an instant cut to the hunky grad student lifting weights while crying about the betrayal of the man he won’t admit he loves who “accidentally” let his shitzu out the back door of the house they all share. Before this becomes boring, in ten seconds, we cut to the kitchen where the one-sociopath-per-show is cooking the shitzu for lunch and plans to serve it to the diva.

Ever notice that when a perky chef puts the glazed pecan tart in the oven, she pulls a finished tart from the second oven, magically erasing the 40 minutes at 350 during which we would change the channel?

There is no Channel One on a real television, like there is rarely a 13th floor in an office building. Turns out, Channel One is in my head. This in-house production has no editor. This is Real Time.

On Channel One the camera keeps rolling as I search in vain for a clean tee shirt, the kettle begins to boil, toenails snap off the end of the clippers and the car idles in front of a red light. This is not riveting.

Buddhist practice means that I try to stay on Channel One. Every time I realize that I’ve switched to a more exciting channel, I must come back to Channel One.

But the other channels in my head are so much more interesting. Channel Two is a Revised History Network, offering episodes from my life cut into ten-minute segments. In each clip we revisit arguments I lost and, as the camera draws in for a close up, I issue the zinger that came to me a year too late. I win!!! Frequent guests on this channel include my Feminist Theory professor and every low level manager who fired me for eating on the job. Each episode ends with my assailant on the witness stand weeping, admitting that I was right all along. They look at me with a delicious combination of remorse and worship, and then they die. I love this channel.

Channel Three is the Woe Channel, offering long melodramatic corny movies of me in pain and despair, cheesy music and soft focus montages. I used to get addicted to this channel, like those freaks who think soap opera characters are real. Luckily this channel is getting poor reception these days, as the signal is losing strength.

Channel Seventeen, the “Do It Yer Self in 30 Minutes” network is my favorite. It’s just like those shows of perfectly timed, perfectly clean, perfectly executed chocolate soufflés, redwood decks, and real estate careers. The DIYS Network in my head offers expert instruction for how to build a business, loose weight, reshape the dynamics of a family, decorate the house and go vegan, all in one weekend!!! I am the smiling hostess of all these shows. Channel Seventeen has an obscenely strong signal. When its on, I can completely ignore the fact that back on Channel One, a woman is staring at a wall, drooling.

BASE COACHES - good men, green grass & short people

2008-06-26T13:47:00.000-07:00

Five pm on Bill Bott’s Field. The late spring sun is just tipping past the hill, casting a cool shadow on the tastiest men in the world: Little League Dads. Mmmmm. Baggy shorts and glasses, I could watch them all afternoon. It’s a shame there’s no cold beer at a little league game. I’m serious. Little League Dads are hot.

The Expos are leading the Cubs by two stumbles, otherwise referred to as “runs.” These are five and six year olds, so the actual score is hard to know. There is a little girl in the outfield laying down petting the grass. The boy at first base is catatonic while other players scramble around him. And four grown men, ordinarily occupied by jobs and careers, bills and tasks, are jumping up and down screaming directions to small people who can’t find third base.

My daughter is out there, at shortstop, and so is her Daddy, coaching first base. That man’s getting extra croutons on his salad tonight.

I’ve got a Mama’s girl. Despite being born to a man who lives to hang her upside down and blow raspberries on her belly, she wants only me. She’s in Girl Scouts and has two female Leaders. She has a female kindergarten Teacher and two female teacher’s aids. The classroom parents are women. She hangs out with my girl friends. Every Friday we meet our playgroup at the park: two boys, eight girls and seven women. We organize play dates with other Mommies. The estrogen in this kid’s life is thicker than the Venice marine layer.

For the brief season of Culver City Little League, she is surrounded by men. Twice a week she plays with the grandfathers and uncles missing in her life.

Men use an entirely different language than women use. Their voices are a different texture. Their eye contact means something different than ours does. Men treat her with respect and silliness but do not provide an instant lap the second she gets moody or tired. These are her neighbors, good men she will remember in stories when she’s an adult. At least that’s my hope. Its also possible she might look back and think that she was raised in a convent called Our Lady of Culver City.

On the bleachers with the other parents, most of the Moms have additional children with them as we “watch” the game. We are in constant motion, touching children, talking to children, feeding children, dressing children, undressing children, rearranging children, directing children, and in the absence of a child, talking talking talking about children to any other mom close by. The Dads are largely silent. They actually watch the game.

My daughter didn’t love Baseball. The big final game was only a dusty event loosely related to a big trip to Cold Stone’s at the end of the season.

All the Women in my life are necessary to my survival as a Mommy, but we need more Men. She should have a balanced pool of adults to call upon. And frankly, it’s not just for her. I really could use some more base coaches in my life. When the sunlight hits them just right, when they scoop up my daughter, dust her off and say “You’re fine, Sweetie, now go kill that kid.” It’s enough to make a grown girl swoon.

BLUE CHARACTERS - Spirits, windows & messages

2008-06-26T13:45:00.000-07:00

Thursday Night.

Ted is on the couch watching bad TV. I want to wrap him around me and surrender in red wine fog. But it's important to capture this moment on paper, to wedge open this window through which some truth floats, like a ghost into the real life of my living room. A gust of truth is whipping through my guts, forcing it self out my fingers. Ghost writing. Tomorrow I will look at this page, and gasp.

Four months ago, in an ancient European town, my friend Edwin shuddered and bolstered his friends as they huddled in sleeping bags. Late in the night, while wind whipped through old streets and an old house groaned, the exuberant and foreign energies of young travelers confused the Spirits. The visitors were visited that night. Ghosts. Edwin recounts that evening with fire in his eyes, remembering the odd sensation of reality being stretched and warped for a few hours.

In the Swiss morning, the formerly accepted version of reality was restored. The gap in the known was sealed shut again--until Edwin developed his film from that night and saw the blue characters hanging from the broken exit sign in the back of the photo. To any one else they are only an odd play of light against metal. Edwin knows better.

Sometimes wine and a pen open the gap here in my house. In the morning I read what the blue characters said in the night.

When I was twenty they plotted revenge on the scary man who called himself my father.

At thirty, they wrote piano charts, half cooked orchestral scores, songs of longing and redemption.

Now forty, the Spirits demand my attention. Sure, my personal attendant ghosts are here, but so are the Ancestors. Midnight and I am ravenously compelled to build an altar in my kitchen to the god of jealous favors. I want to tear out the cupboards with my bare hands, pull the marble counter top down and re-bolster it with stumps from the dead tree in my neighbor's yard. I will fill silver bowls with whisky and float camellia flowers from my front yard. Kosher salt in the corners will keep unfriendly spirits and bugs away from my corn meal. I will find a statue of some big-hipped goddess with a devilish grin and every morning offer her strong coffee in exchange for material wealth and social status. No more noble prayers for peace, balance and harmony. I want money. I want good health and good luck and a shameless dose of adoration.

Of course I will have to keep this new goddess happy. What if I run out of coffee or what if she wants to smoke? What if I come to my senses in the morning and decide I need counter space? Or are these my senses?

Are the blue characters messengers of something deep and important or are they just sea-monkeys floating in the liquid part of my conscious?

Wine is gone. Fingers are tired. Brain is soggy.

I will build the giant altar in the morning. I promise.

ENDINGS - yoga, darkness & safety

2008-06-26T13:30:00.000-07:00

On a 90 degree evening, seven women spread their mats under a giant tree in Temescal Canyon Park. Caroline leads us through Yoga postures directly associated with this new Corn Moon. It is harvest time. A new season is beginning. A season of growth and production is ending.

After class, the happy women leave the raised wooden platform. Half way back to my car, to husband and child, the tree called me back.

It’s almost quiet now. A bit of gravel grinds under tires up the road. A single bird is stuck like a car alarm, choop, choop, choop. Three angry crows complain about the heat. The bugs are thinning now, and that's good, because Caroline took the bug spray as she left.

The light is beginning to change, darkness accelerating. In a few minutes a choice will be made. Do I stay here in the quiet woods under a magical Tree? No one knows I am here. A combination of faith and fact informs me that I am safe and protected from all harm here. Or do I go home, in deference to the visions that visit a good man whenever his beloved women and girls are unaccounted for?

Years ago, in a crazy man's house, privacy was considered subversive. At 13, I hid behind moving boxes in the garage, unseen. In the few minutes before he tore the house apart looking for me, a blissful flash of privacy and autonomy opened up like night blooming jasmine in my chest. Its scent, disguised as garage dust and cardboard, is with me still, the best perfume ever blended.

At age 25, on a Thursday night, I did not tell my boyfriend or roommate before going to a restaurant for dinner and to hear music. This was the first time in my life no one knew where I was. No one sat on the stairs, weapon in hand, drinking and cursing my absence. No one would ask me to participate in determining what punishment I'd earned by such brazenly selfish behavior.

Now, years after the cycle of dominator and subject has been broken, I still marvel at, swim in, these moments of unaccountability. No one knows where I am right now. No one has an opinion right now about what I'm doing right now. Here under this tree, I am free floating. untethered in space. An hour of freedom erases a year of captivity.

Jennifer is my first Yoga teacher. Her instructions are detailed and specific. She notices how each toe rests on the ground. She asks me to move muscles I cannot locate. Last week, in her small, pristine studio, she spoke about the stages of each asana: setting, holding, and releasing. Releasing a pose with grace and control and awareness is just as important as how we enter a pose.

Caroline is my second Yoga teacher. She gives general guidelines, instructing us to find our own center of balance and to decide for ourselves when its time to let go of a pose. Tonight, on a weathered wooden platform littered with tiny leaves, she spoke about the stages of each asana: setting, holding, and releasing. She asked us to be mindful as we release a pose, to avoid simply collapsing.

Standing still, firmly rooted in mountain pose, stepping gracefully into tree pose, I hold. For a split second, the woman I was races frantically around my mind, checking the corners for danger. I catch her, sooth her, reminding her that she is safe. That was then, this is now. Bringing mind back to present. Bringing heart back to faith. Bringing body back to balance. I wait until ready to release the pose. Despite (or maybe as a result) of great effort, balance gives way and the right leg crashes to the floor. This will take practice.

Shavasana, rest, gazing up through branches, it comes into sharp focus: I rush every ending. Cover up all traces of failure, wipe out all memories of botched friendships, slop the final coat of paint on the cabinets, gloss over all sadness after a loss, pick the scab before the wound has healed, start the next project before the first is done. Toss out all the flowers rather than save the ones that still have a few days of color and strength to hold up their heads.

Here in the twilight, between dark moon waning and new moon waxing, the newly roused crickets sing a song I've never had the courage to even hear. They sing, in comic chirps, a bitter sweet song honoring an ending.

The transition, from the one I was into the one I am, was ambiguous. It began with the arrival of my Husband, who has never wanted or needed to own me, define me, use me as entertainment. At first his lack of dominance was charming and confusing, then infuriating. Several years of anger at his refusal to play the role I was trained to play against almost burned a hole in my heart. But through trial and error, my outbursts and his patience, my confusion and his humor, my good fortune and his relief, a self directed woman emerged.

The light has definitely faded now. Wispy stands of pink clouds stretch across the twilight sky. Mosquitoes no longer buzz around my ears. Dime sized spiders make the trek from ground, to shoe, to knee. I watch them.

And now is the moment when the man who will never hurt me needs me to acknowledge the dangers of being a woman alone in a state park after dark. Even though the stone steps leading further into the green black park are begging me to climb them, even though the prospect of being enveloped in the silence of the darkening wood is almost more than I can resist, he deserves my respect.

This is the end of a Magic Moment under a Giving Tree. Rather than blast through it, I will savor the moment of its ending, quietly basking in a few breaths of instant nostalgia, thankful for the beginning middle and end of moment of privacy and reflection.

CLEANING

2008-06-26T13:18:00.000-07:00

The bank account is getting low.
The kid is having trouble with her flute.
The husband is annoyed with me.
My self esteem is crumbling.

Dear god in heaven, I’d better clean something , quick!