Category Archives: Stories

Tiger in the Tall Grass

Posted on by
19

We have a watch-cat. Our relationship with Him is very simple, so simple in fact that I cannot say for sure whether He is actually male. Clearly we do not “own” him; cats are seldom owned but rather ‘run operations’ as it is, but in this instance we are talking about a cat whose relationship, if any, is with the people living about four houses down from us. But he patrols the neighborhood, and seems to take particular care checking the perimeter of our place, both house and property, daily, so he is ours in that way–or we, his. In any event, he has no name here other than Watch-Cat, because being a businesslike and vigilant gentleman he seems to require no other, and we have both grown quite attached to him.

My husband isn’t even a so-called cat person, since he has allergies to those of the feline persuasion, which makes this arrangement ideal for him, and seemingly so as well for Watch-Cat, because on those rare occasions when we see him making his appointed rounds while we’re outside rather than observing from a window, he prefers to halt in his path or step aside discreetly while we pass and then continue unperturbed on his way. He’s a compact cat, appearing younger than I think he is because he’s fine-boned and small and sleek, but has such admirable equanimity and steadiness of purpose that I cannot imagine but that he’s fully mature.

photoWatch-Cat has a fine domain here, as we live on a wonderfully peaceable road with no through traffic and our modest property is bordered, however closely, by the fenced gardens of very kind, if nearly invisible, neighbors at either side (all of them also rather fond of small creatures) and by an excellent small leafy ravine with a sometime-stream that bears both the city’s storm drain access and the more meandering waters of ordinary rain runoff. Additionally, the greenbelt there has an outstanding mini-forest of oak and soapberry and elm, some lacy variety of Mahonia that is almost visually impenetrable by virtue of its large-numbered community, and enough other friendly brush that the birds, possums, raccoons, rabbits, foxes (so I’m told), armadillos and the elusive-but-heard bobcat all find it exceptionally homey and inviting. There is plenty to keep Watch-Cat’s vigilant attentions at any given time.photo

[Disclaimer: This armadillo does not live in our ravine, but nearby, so I’m pretty sure he has cousins in our ravine.]

And while he apparently eschews suddenness or unpredictability, he is in fact a fine guardian for our place. I have observed his managing with a certain sang-froid a rather noisily growling stare-down from a much larger and more imposing stranger-cat that dared to come hulking uninvited into our territory. I’ve seen Watch-Cat zoom up a tree after a piggish squirrel nearly the cat’s size and tell it in no uncertain terms that it was not welcome to be quite so impertinent. My favorite indicator of his dominance over the wilds of his territory was when we had afternoon guests one day, and as we sat in the front room visiting I looked out the window next to us to see Watch-Cat sauntering by with a small dark snake in his jaws. The snake hung limply on either side, looking remarkably like a very impressive bandito mustache on the handsome little black and white cat, and it seemed to me a perfect representation in that way of his insouciant approach to running his universe here.

That said, I think it’s fair to guess that Watch-Cat has an admirably confident sense of his authority and value in the world, one indeed from which we could all take a lesson. I’m quite certain that if he happens to catch his reflection as he passes by our windows or if he should pause at the ravine’s tiny stream, what he sees looking back at him is a magnificent and unconquerable beast, the ruler of his marvelous territory (where, luckily for us, he allows us to live as well), and the beneficent master of all good things. Who are we to argue with that?

photo

Who's the Kingliest One of All?

I curtsey now to our little king of the suburban jungle, because it is Thanksgiving Day, when I am particularly aware of how many people–and creatures–do their part to keep us safe and sheltered and loved and well attended in every way. Including you!

A Little Autumnal Magic

Posted on by
30

I can’t help it: autumn brings out the nostalgia in me. Something about the solemnity of nature’s visible procession from summer’s excesses into a more profound state, one clearly aware of death yet always moving through its dormancy toward the revival of spring–it all calls forth recollections of seasons past, of holidays I’ve floated through without being quite conscious of how few of those loved ones around the room and around the table will be there at the next or the next one after that . . . .

photo

The emptying-out that comes with the end of a season is in preparation for newness yet to come . . .

But the loveliness in this is that that knowledge of what lies ahead is not only the foundation, the underpinning, of awareness at the end of the year, it is indeed the purpose of this cooling down, going to ground, this tempering of high spirits. In part, it’s what adds piquancy and sharpens the joys of the winter holidays, whatever they are in one’s culture or part of the world. For us in the northern hemisphere, the descent into winter has begun and brings with it the knowledge of our mortality–but those of us among the truly fortunate know that it’s precisely that gift that leads us to live more vividly in the present. So we sing and dance and feast and laugh a little more wildly, and it brings out the imaginative child in us all.

Thanksgiving has always been a welcome celebration to me. I come from a family that counts its riches and revels in its blessings very readily, and certainly not just on the Official date designated by the state but with perhaps renewed vigor on that day. But sixteen years ago on Thanksgiving weekend I was gifted with a particular reason for deep thanks, and so the whole festivity took on a yet more personal tone. That was when the man who would become my beloved asked me out on our first date.

You all know by now that I am not very quick on the uptake, so I’ll just say right off that I didn’t even know we were going on a date. I just thought this interesting person was being wonderfully collegial. He’d asked me to collaborate on a project at the university; we’d had a meeting or two with other colleagues to begin the planning, and I’d already started work on my part of the process and was only very dimly aware that when he’d check in on my progress his questions were less germane than personal. I was delighted to go along with the plot when he invited me to go with him on Thanksgiving weekend and have dinner and then attend a performance of the Mark Morris Dance Company’s production of ‘Dido and Aeneas‘. What’s not to like! We had a fabulous salmon dinner at a local bastion of Northwest seafood excellence and discussed, among other things, whether either of us intended to have children; you will begin to understand the true depth of my obtuseness when I tell you that I have no idea how that topic arose on a first dinner outing, let alone did I twig to it that it might indicate the dinner as something more than collegial.

So there we were, eating and chattering and–oh yes–almost being late to the performance. For which Mr. Smooth Operator had in fact prepared the pit choir. His choral group was singing along with the orchestra for the program, and I came that-close to making him late. And found out we were sitting in the front row, center, of the sort of theatre where you can not sneak in surreptitiously. I was in a mild panic. I also had no clue at the time that a conductor might prepare the singers but not conduct the performance (as in this case, where the orchestra’s conductor took the helm), so I was both worried and mystified that my companion was calmly clambering over knees right alongside me to the middle of the stage-apron row. But suddenly there was a tiny, sneaking thought that this person was intending to sit with me throughout the performance and therefore might–just possibly–not have invited me strictly out of co-worker friendliness.

Well, I’ll just cut to the chase and end your suspense. Oh, that’s right, I already told you the fairytale ending! Opaque as my love-goggles are, and slow as I am to order my facts and realize the truly obvious, once I got the hang of all of this I wasn’t particularly behindhand in taking advantage of the situation. I may be silly, but I ain’t stupid!

So I got this ethereal dance/concert date under my belt and wandered a little foggily through the Christmas holidays, dodging my fears of the unknown rather handily for such a big scaredy-cat if I do say so myself, and by the beginning of the year was engaged to build a lifetime of ridiculously happy adventure with Mr Sparkly. And I call him that not just because of our shared last name but because, dang it, he brought and brings enormous amounts of sparkle to my every day. I can’t think of anything for which a person could be more thankful, at this or any time of year.

Now, I’ve been all mushy and reminiscent on you, and I owe it to you to say that it’s entirely the fault of the season. HAH! Of course that’s pure nonsense. But I must reiterate my thesis that Fall encourages such things in me. It brings out with its chill and darkening the contrasting warmth and light of home, hearth, holidays, and hope, with all of their spices and sweetness, their inviting doorways and gates to adventure, and all of the beauty that living in a time of Thanksgiving can bring. I wish for you all the same!

digital photocollage

Can't wait to see what newness and graces lie on the other side . . .

The Latest Dance Craze, and I Do Mean Latest

Posted on by
15

photoTarantella* for Arachnophobes

I’m told a lizard ought to find

small creatures of arachnid-kind

as tasty and desirable

a treat to make the tummy full

as anyone could wish to munch–

but I hate them, that horrid bunch!

Spiders, to me, are crawly, creepy

creatures; make me frightened, weepy,

send me under my bed, my couch,

in a zipping zing or a crunching crouch;

they make me itch in my lizard pants,

in my reptile rooms, until I prance

around the house in a manic dance!

I try to shake my whole belief

that they’re attacking; no relief

is found when I am faced with grief

from eight-legg’d monsters or their kin,

and then such dancing must begin!

I’m forced to writhe and wriggle madly,

spin and struggle wildly (sadly),

and last, because the fear remains,

tromp out a tarantella, badly!

O, would that I could simply snap

my jaws on that small hairy chap

the spider, show no fear of death;

instead, I lose my very breath

and shrivel, like the brink of doom

has entered in my living room!

What was my fateful youthful sinning

set my head and heart to spinning

like a dervish when one shows,

to tearing my poor lizard clothes,

sneezing out of my reptile nose

and stretching like a garden hose

to flee arachnids; why do those

bring fear into my scaly soul?

I only know my utter goal

when spiders enter into view

is: dance until they set on you.

* Just so’s you know, I do realize that this poem in no way conforms to any of the traditional Tarantella forms, nor will dancing whilst reciting it actually cure you if you should be gnawed on by a spider, but it might possibly frighten away any proximal tarantulas–as well as humans–if you dance in an appropriately bizarre fashion during your recitation.

digital photo-collageTotentanz

I shall sing you a ditty, you fine dead folk;

dance along to it if you like; no joke:

for naught’s so right in my heart and head

as to pay respect to the honored dead,

who have earned the ease of their Late condition,

but also deserve deep recognition,

and might be glad to take part, perchance,

in a little postmortem song and dance.

In limpid blue and livid red

but nary a drop of gloom or dread

I’ll dress my act for each measured measure,

creating a funerary pleasure

to honor the love, in my death-knell song,

of those dear departed, the moved-along,

and move, if I can, each girl and boy

to dance a jig of unceasing joy,

remembering all you dead-and-done

with fond frivolity, every one,

dancing our socks off, slow or fast,

as we sing and swing to the very last,

and when ghost-persons join, their haunts

bring cheer to the perfect Totentanz.

Pardon My Parsnips!

Posted on by
18

You and Your Old-World Charm

I sigh, I wrack my soul with darkest sorrows

for yesterday’s delights, not for tomorrow’s;

I’m dancing backwards all the time you’re near

in fear that all my romance only borrows

–or steals, perhaps–from something far too shining

and too refined for wasting on repining,

those salad days we ought to hold so dear

instead of wasting happiness with whining . . .

I will stop whimpering like boobs and babies,

and let go of the wherefore-nots and maybes;

instead I’ll let your elegance and charm

revive me from this case of “retro-rabies”,

reminding me time’s such a grand invention,

a Golden Age not lost to this dimension,

as long as boulevardiers remain,

like you, aptly distracting our attention

with courtly kisses and such furbelows

and petals hung on every breeze that blows,

bringing the romance back into the present:

yes, I can fall in love with all of those . . .

watercolorPardon My Parsnips

Parkinson’s particular

pet pudding’s par-cooked parkin;

his partner’s partial to parfait,

that paragon; yet hearken:

those sub-par parabolic parts

of almonds, partly parted–

not fully sliced, par excellence—

make Parkinson hard-hearted,

for those same partial nonpareils

leave his poor partner parched

for parsley tea to the degree

you’d pardon if he marched,

parade-like, past, departed hence

to parsley gardens, fast,

in search of same to quench the flame,

–apparently aghast–

and Parkinson in repartee

imparted their remorse:

“Though sparse, the parcels of our thanks

are thus par for the course.”

Then Parsons, partner to the man,

now almond-paroxysed,

creaks out a tea-tinged parable

of why he’s paralyzed;

and both the partners no parfait

or parkin now partake,

but parsnips parsimonious,

and pears, for safety’s sake.

watercolor/acrylic on canvas

Let Out the Waistband a Little, Wontcha

Posted on by
17

photoBig as All Outdoors

Though she’s partial to the taste

Of homely things, she would not shun

A lobster tail or truffle, waste

Fine wine, or insult anyone

Who’s made the effort to provide

Her with the best the fecund earth

Produces, so she opens wide,

And so maintains her striking girth

garphite drawingMy paternal grandfather was a fabulous person, a super-grandpa. He was also a well-rounded man. He used to tell us kids he had a ‘watermelon’ stashed under his belt, and we had little reason to doubt it. Clearly a man so full of joie de vivre could have no worse burden than being shaped like the centerpiece of a summer picnic. Unfortunately in combination with an imperfectly functioning ticker this particular element of his physique probably led down a fairly direct path to his early death. But honestly, I can’t say it’s likely he’d’ve traded for more years of life if it meant giving up any serious amount of the good food he adored. He didn’t seem too distressed when laughingly relating his trip to a clothier where he’d been rather imperiously informed by the tailor that he was Portly and would require a bit of special attention to be well fitted.

Me, I can’t say I’d find it easy to choose differently than he did. Because food is a grand part of my joie de vivre as well. I’m more likely to reenact his slightly sheepish yet cheery confession when Grandma caught him almost literally with his hand in the cookie jar and he told her “I only ate fourteen.” Or I’ll quote his favorite refrain about virtually anything edible: “Wouldn’t this be great with some chocolate ice cream!”

photoWhether the menu du jour is old-school comfort food like lemony shellfish over butter-steamed beet greens, a cheeseburger-meatloaf or an egg salad sandwich, or is some fantastic concoction full of exotic ingredients (probably made by more skilled hands than mine, in that case), count on me jumping into the buffet line right away. Hey, I give myself aerobic credit for the jumping, for starters. The exercise’ll help improve my odds, right Grandpa? I’m always going to have a little Grandpa-angel on my shoulder, of course, reminding me to be moderate when I can stand to be, so I won’t follow too exactly in his genetic footsteps, but if I can keep up with the total-immersion happiness he seemed to find in sitting down to a great meal with his loved ones I’ll be glad to consistently have that aspect of my role model in mind too. Just thinking of our many fantastic times with Grandpa makes the food taste that much better, as it is. Hey, you over there, sneak another scoop of that Tillamook Mudslide ice cream into my dish while I go change into my elastic-waist stretch pants, all right?

graphite drawing

Highfalutin Company

Posted on by
28

Otto von Münchow is a very nice man. But I don’t have to tell you that, if you’ve done any looking around the web. I’ve never even met him–in person–but it took very little time looking at his blog and ‘conversing’ with him in the process before I saw how much help he offered not only me with his photographic and creative-production insights but also shared with all of his other readers and correspondents. And then he went and shared a Versatile Blogger Award with me. I’m humbled, and I’m touched.

vba logoYes, there are those who would say I’m tetched. It’s how I got where I am today! And where I am is in truly rarefied company, as I’ve been learning over the last number of months here in Bloggerville. I am surrounded by deeply gifted and incredibly generous fellow bloggers, some of whom have taught me more in my short stint as a web denizen than I learned from many an arduous class project and long years of practice. (Okay, I’ll still say the years of practice made it possible to actually understand and make use of some of the good stuff I’m learning here, so no, my young friends, don’t skip that part!) I know I’m one seriously fortunate person, surrounded by, as my good friend Nia aptly identifies them, a glorious cloud of “angels and muses”.

mixed media painting

Sankt Synnøve, an appropriate patroness for adventurers!

The Irish/Norwegian saint Synnøve is one of a select group I chose to make mixed media portraits commemorating for a collaborative program with organist David Dahl a number of years ago. The fabulous Dr Dahl agreed to create a performance program with me, and despite his renown as a Bach expert, even agreed to plunge into French Romantic literature to please my whim–something he not only performed with superb fire and panache but taught me a lot about in the process. I loved the preparations: David would join me in the organ loft for a flurry of ‘howzat’ samples he played from a number of great composers in a wide variety of styles and moods and colors within the fantastic treasury of my dream realm. He told me about the background of the pieces, how and why and when they were written and by whom–and who that composer studied with–and so on. Gradually we winnowed down the possibilities as I began to talk, in return, about what sort of imagery these evocative pieces inspired. I fell in love with each and every song and movement, and with the genre yet again.

I also decided, as the good Doctor played, that the exquisite and potent Finale by César Franck was reminiscent of a solemn procession of saints, so I decided it was a good excuse to play around with a series of portraits, beginning with figuring out which ones it would most interest me to envision. My main criterion was simply that I was on the hunt for saints famous for more than martyrdom. While I recognize that being willing to die for your beliefs, whatever they are, my school of thought tends to be more impressed with how incredibly challenging it is to live for your beliefs. So I looked for people beatified and sanctified for their deeds rather than their being dead. The princess Synnøve certainly seemed to fit the bill, what with evading an oppressive forced marriage, adventuring off on the wild open sea to who-knows-where and landing in remote Norway, creating a community there, and then fending off pagan attackers. As well as a few other attributions that become even more mystical and magical. In all, a history that says this was one tough Celtic character who went to great lengths to shape her own destiny, and in so doing shaped others’ as well. Eventually she was joined in the recital processional by a number of other intriguing worthies–educators, hospitalers, rescuers of the poor and builders of bridges among them–and I found a large quantity of inspiration, not strictly artistic either.

That’s what I find in this new endeavor of mine too. A long parade of angels and muses that bring to me new knowledge of art, of self, and of life. And I am ever so grateful for the gifts!

We who are inducted into the Versatile Blogger community are tasked with telling you friends a little more about our selves and then sharing the gifts of the award with others whom we deem deserving as well. I’ve done this twice before (thank you, dear Cecilia and Nia!), so I’ll try to be succinct.

mixed media painting

Saints Valery and Finian, leaders, builders-of-things, and my birthday brothers (I was born on their feast day). (I'll take my inspirations wherever I find them.)

Versatile Blogger Award protocol:

1. Nominate 15 fellow bloggers.
2. Inform the bloggers of their nomination.
3. Share 7 random things about yourself.
4. Thank the blogger who nominated you.
5. Add the Versatile Blogger Award pic on your blog post.

So here’s that Pack of Facts about me:

1 – I’m one of those awful excuses for a human being that doesn’t like blueberries. There are a number of fruits I’m not crazy about for texture but in the juice or coulis form I’ll slurp ’em right up. Not blueberries. Don’t like the scent or the flavor any more than the texture. Yet the blueberry bush is a plant I happily put in my garden because I think the shrub is beautiful year-round, and even the berries are very pretty to look at. Go figure.

2 – Even a complete non-athlete (there are few who can begin to compare with me for lack of skills) can have a Sports Injury. My only-ever stitches are hockey related. Too bad I wasn’t making a brilliant goal play at the time, but at least I got a little scar to show for it.

3 – The dentist is my friend! I am something of a rarity, not only enjoying visits to the dentist but also hitting the 50-year mark without ever having gotten a cavity. That’s thanks to good dental care on top of a bit of good luck: my parents both have “normal” teeth, so it was clearly not straight-up genetics that gave them four caries-free kids.

4 – Besides some costume design and construction for theatrical productions, ecclesiastical vestments, and other clothing design/construction projects over the years, I’ve had a few evening gown commissions–favorites are probably the plastic-garbage-bag (Hefty Steel-Sak) gown in silver and black for a costume party (I labored over the hand-cut lace edges) and the plastic wedding gown made for an exhibition (that one had plastic doilies for its lace).

5 – No cigarette or smoking device of any kind has ever touched my lips. Wait: I did try a couple of bubble gum “cigars” in childhood (banana was my favorite of the chewing gum flavors, I think), does that count? But thankfully (for both my lungs’ and my wallet’s sake) I never had the remotest urge to experiment with smoking.

6 – I think my husband has one of the most beautiful singing voices I’ve ever heard.

7 – Many of my art projects arise from random exposure to topics, objects and ideas I encounter whilst “on the way somewhere else”. Ah, serendipity!

I know that some of my favorite bloggers have received Versatile Blogger recognition before, and I do know that it takes a great deal of time and effort to meet the requirements of acceptance, so for the following blog-stars, I personally exempt you from any of the responsive requisites, but I want to recognize publicly how much I admire your work.

Today’s Sparks Blogroll of Honor:
The Bard on the Hill

Year-Struck

Not Quite Old

The Dassler Effect

Kreativ Kenyerek

Sweet Caroline’s Cooking

The Seven Hills Collection

Patridew’s Perfect World

Aspire. Motivate. Succeed.

cfbookchick

Nine Lives Studio

Daily Nibbles

dnobrienpoetry

The Valentine 4: Living Each Day

A Cup of Tea with this Crazy Nia

With thanks and cheers for all that you do in the blog universe, I bow to you all! Onward and upward, my friends!

The Train Passing through by Night

Posted on by
20
photo

What mysterious music leads me there?

I have been yearning. It’s no one’s fault. Someone casually mentions a city I’ve visited and loved. A food I associate for its first heart-stopping recognition with a particular time and place. Friends not seen in an age plus two more ages, and miss with all my heart. And off I go. Yearning, once again, to reconnect. To plug my lonely, under-appreciated passport back in to the hot socket and rev it up for travel.

Homesick! Happier than a pig in dirt where I am, loving every minute of my today-is-today life, rejoicing in the beautiful and joyful things that make my existence such a pleasure and a fulfillment–but able on top of all that sugar-frosted wonderfulness to still feel deeply homesick for places and people who make my many other homes, both slightly and exceedingly far away. From my longing distance, I throw kisses to all . . .

To our family all around the world–tied to us two by blood, or by music, by hope and serendipity and adventure. I miss you whenever we’re apart. To those magical places called cities, countries, houses, apartments, ships, fields and forests, or convent cells, that have given us shelter and, far beyond that, a sense of home wherever we may be on this big watery hunk of rock: I miss you every day that I can’t be there. To the memories and sweetness that have arisen from so many escapades and accidents and crossings of the way, I relish even those precious sensory connections that I never would or could repeat; you, I miss you too, and my mind roams your way whenever it can.

photo

Above stairs, below stairs and through a million passages . . .

Beautiful are the passages in life that so stamp us with their marks as to turn up the corners of our mouths in blissful grins on every recollection. That make our eyes blur hazily in that inward stare of endlessness that can take us back at a second’s wishful impulse, taking us back on the vicarious flight to relive a bit of it.

Horrible and wonderful both, these cataclysmic catalysts that make me long, no matter how content, to rise up and run off! A fugitive passage of song, that peculiar light at the end of the hall and behind a certain door; the sound of beech leaves shivering in a breezy rain–suddenly I’m transported to the land of transportation, getting yet again that nearly irresistible urge to hit the road, the air, the sea, the rails. And while I’m not really moved to love the arguably threadbare joys of air travel in these latter days, there is one sound I love above all others that might cause this sort of travel-dreaming reverie and ache in the vicinity of the ventricles, and that is the sound of a train. Rumbling, purring, chattering. Calling out its whistle code to draw me out and wake me as it passes through the sleeping dark on the other side of the ravine to slide its way out of the present night.

photo montage

. . . and every episode leads me to the next, and the romantic, mysterious next . . .

BOING! “Hi, Old People!” BOING!

Posted on by
15
graphite drawing

Never mind keeping an eye on the little ones, who's watching out for the geezers?

The neighbor kids, that’s who. They’re the ones that always know what’s happening with the ancient people next door. I know because I’m just the pseudo-grownup version of one of those little squirts. I was the one that went over to the big tall wood fence on Ryan Street when I knew Mrs Pipkin was gardening because I could see the top of our dear neighbor’s head from my shrimpy P.O.V., and piped, “Pickens, my mommy says I can play with you!” I can’t confirm at this great remove that I’d actually received such permission, especially given that I suspect, more accurately, that I was approaching my add-on grandma of my own volition–she having proven endlessly patient in answering my blue-sky questions and letting me trail around after her like a little bit of leftover Christmas ribbon.

Let’s face it: children are insightful whether you want them to be or not, and especially adept at providing their deepest insights at the most inconvenient moment possible. Which is decidedly the most entertaining as well as the most hideously dangerous aspect of spending time with persons of the childish persuasion. Witness the uncanny gift mini-people have for repeating, verbatim but utterly out of context, horrendously revealing things that their elders have previously uttered within the hearing of said small persons. There is simply no antidote for having been indiscreet around toddlers and their ilk. Part and parcel of this talent is they are marvelously gifted at cutting through the cauliflower and getting down to gritty reality in record time.

A friend and colleague once related an excellent tale of such insightful youthful efficiency, regarding a long-ago episode one of his cohorts experienced while teaching in the deep south during the era of Civil Rights‘ supposed birth. A Concerned Parent had contacted the school board with a complaint that friend Mr Krapelski was behaving in a fashion incompatible with the intents and aims of the whole Civil Rights concept, and the board felt the complaint warranted a full inquiry. Hurray for the Board; I imagine this sort of follow-through was fairly rare at the time. The approach was simple and obvious enough. Talk to the kids. So the inspectors, amazingly, did. Somebody did recognize the power of children’s keen observation.

They approached the situation with simplicity and no pre-arranged outcomes dependent on ulterior motives, and they posed the obvious questions to the class: “Does Mr Krapelski treat any of you children differently than others? Is Mr Krapelski prejudiced?” And their answer was equally simple and untainted. A pert little fellow raised his hand immediately. “No, sir, he ain’t prejudiced. He hates us all equal!”

I, though a childless person, am well equipped with nine brilliant nephews and one equally dazzling niece, all of whom in their time have provided rich stores of intelligent interpretations of the universe and its workings, from understanding the threat of the backyard swing that ‘threw’ Grandma when she stuck her toe too firmly in the ground under it (“Mormor, det er farlig!” [“Grandma, that’s dangerous!“]) to telling wildly indecipherable stories that despite their incoherence become clear (and hilarious) by way of outsized pantomime and garbled, gagging narration (the best one was about–you won’t be surprised–a gigantic sneeze followed by an even bigger booger).

They taught me about instinctively genius juniors knowing just how to make it possible for Mormor to get back up the long steep hill from the beach if she wanted to walk down there with the family after her back had gone bad (let Tristan, the beautiful husky dog, tow her back up while she held his leash–which he did briskly and without batting a pale blue eye) to why the same grandma should act as Home Base in a closely contested game of Hide-and-Seek (“because she’s the oldest thing in the house!”).

This latter is precisely the appeal of childlike clarity and bluntness, in my book: they recognize that all of us over about the age of twenty are unspeakably, unreachably, unimaginably distant in the mists of antiquity–yet this has a certain cachet with young kids: unlike, say, their teenage counterparts, they admire and respect this very strange quality of Oldness. It’s really weird, and thus somehow kind of piquant and beguiling.

My husband and I thought of ourselves as only moderately advanced in age when we were in the early fifties and just moseying into the forties, respectively. The neighboring kids put that right into perspective. They lived in the house across the fence from our apartment garage, and the young sprats spent a great deal of their spare time and energy bounding around on the trampoline next to that back fence. We could hear them flouncing and giggling almost ceaselessly–enough, perhaps, on its own to make us feel our age a little more keenly–and then one day we paused for a moment when we’d gone out to get in the car.

BOING! The neighbor kids heard our talking, through the fence. They jumped a little harder so they could clear the top of the fence and get a better look over our way. We heard them cackling and turned around. BOINGGG! We grinned. BOINGBOINGBOING!!! The biggest of the kids waved madly and yelled, “Hi, Old People!” And they collapsed on the trampoline, laughing their curly heads off, while we fell about in equal hilarity as we stumbled into the car. That was all the encounter required. Acclamation and affirmation–of childhood silliness, of punctured pompous pretend-adulthood, and of the joy of being whatever age one is, as long as it’s not taken too seriously. Can’t help but rebound from such commentary a lot higher than we were leaping just a little bit before.

Hurray for unfiltered youth! Hurray for the goofiness of happy aging! Getting old, after all, surely does beat the alternative. Especially when there are some junior wildlings handy to keep everything somewhat in perspective.

graphite drawing

<BOING!>

Stage Blood and Loud Noises

Posted on by
18

graphite drawingI’m a big fan of cheap theatrics, except when they’re being used to manipulate the innocent for nefarious purposes. Take, for example, the “rainforest” fakery of grocery stores that play a musical little mini thunderstorm soundtrack for a second before spritzing their produce bins with a fine mist of “freshening” water to impress us all with how natural and pristine their dew-flecked delectables are. Always hoping that we will be pleasantly enough diverted by this charming display to ignore the general reality: that we are being annoyingly dampened whilst attempting to retrieve our groceries in an ostensibly sheltered indoor space. That the soundtrack is remarkably similar to that White Noise one we play to put us in a somnolent state in the comfort of our own boudoirs, and could reasonably, therefore, fall under suspicion of attempted brainwashing more than vegetable-washing (no one need comment here on how much the two may be assumed to resemble each other by our grocery-vending overlords). That adding moisture to vegetation that has been removed from its growing environment speeds its decay and makes it more vulnerable to contamination of many wonderfully creepy kinds. That the ensuing waste of live produce drives up the cost of said produce almost as much as does the production and installation of the whole set-piece that put the drama in motion in the first place.

And we complain about the price of the Real Deal in the farmers’ market.

On the other hand, as a flaming fan of fantasy, I have to show my appreciation for the sincerely phony. You know: art for Fun’s sake. Silliness. Over-the-top drama on the stage and on the page, to drench the theatre or the reading room with tears and terror. Wildly, extravagantly gorgeous embroideries and carvings and photos and engravings and pastels and bronzes and encaustics that make no pretense of being journalistic but want only to transport us to their own extraordinary alternate worlds. This is the stuff that dreams are made on, and from which new dreams are made. Because it expresses our true selves in ways that no other thing can: art.

There are many lost or neglected skills and crafts in the wonderful world of art, and many yet to be discovered. The universe is awash in potential song, image, and dance, and the invitation is out: come and play! Write a play! Bring on the new opera, the marvels of a magical aquatint, a novel, a scintillating sweep of tapestry, a ballet, a symphony–or maybe it’s time to revisit some longtime form and bring a new perspective to this fabulous world of ours by opening new vistas into yet another set of worlds. Write a love letter to creativity that you’ve never written before, and all the rest of us are here waiting to share the love. After all, there is something deeply inviting about fiction and fun for their very own sakes.

graphite drawing

I’ve Saved Millions on Psychotropics

Posted on by
14

digital photo-illustration Why do drugs when the brain is so exaggeratedly colorful and nimbly wacky all on its own! I’ve always felt mighty fortunate that there’s such a party under my hat; not a moment of boredom in sight. Interpreting and making actual use of all the magnificent moonbeams and nutty notions, well, that’s another bag of baloney altogether, but at least the ingredients are there for the taking.

digital photo-illustrationRiding bareback on butterflies and curling up under Enkianthus umbrellas, I learn so many things that no one else has known; how to pass along the knowledge then becomes the deeper part of the puzzle. Shall I present my in-head info as it appeared on my mental screen, in all its glory, and let the world in on my secrets, or is it better to release the brilliance in smaller doses, as poems and pictures, as though it were all mere artistry?

digital photo-illustrationThe mind, one could say, reels. Me, I just try to hang on and go along for the ride. Success is varying. Sometimes it might be simpler to go the magic-mushroom route and pretend the stuff that springs from my innermost is someone or something else’s figment. Fewer questions to be answered, one would think. But I rather enjoy the leaping and wriggling that happen both internally and as an external expression of such fruitful foolishness, so perhaps I ought not to entertain such an extreme premise, but rather stick to my stupendous life of lily-lapped loveliness.

digital photo-illustrationSorry, Big Pharm, I’ll remain on the Funny Farm instead, thank you very kindly. Remarkably fewer side effects, if you don’t count the quizzical inspections by many a well-meaning Normal person or the occasional inability to maintain a facade of ordinariness when it should have been particularly useful. The only mind-altering meds I need are supplied to me by equally offbeat thinkers lending me a loving sip of the nectar of their own merry musings. I thank you all, and invite you to share in this best sort of madness any time you like. Welcome to my psychedelia!

digital photo-illustration