tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90551182024-03-14T03:53:30.411-07:00post-apocalypse sorry nowSometimes political, sometimes personal, always chocolatey goodness with a nougat center.lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-4604164044572899532014-12-08T10:44:00.001-08:002014-12-08T10:44:07.731-08:00All about the sex<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #141412; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
I always hear about women having trouble having an orgasm. About 10% of women have never had an orgasm, and I've heard plenty of male friends tell tales of girls who just "lie there". As someone who feels sex is a very important part of life, this strikes me as extremely tragic!</div>
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First off, I want to say, I’m not anti-porn or pro-censorship and I freaking love sex – let’s just get that out of the way up front. I am definitely not one of these women, but I have talked to several of them and have always been puzzled by this issue. (And because I'm a hetero cis female, I will speak from that point of view, so excuse me for leaving out all the lovely LBGT beauties, but that is not my experience, so I don't want to speak for anyone in that community.)</div>
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Porn gets blamed for the brokenness in male/female sexual relations a lot, but as adults. But I think the disconnect happens sooner, and it isn’t just in porn, but in the idea of what “sexy” is via the male gaze. Think about it: what we think of as “sexy” has been highly constructed. I believe the disconnect for women is that their first introduction to sexuality in our culture is entirely focused on the external than the internal — looking sexy as opposed to feeling one’s own sexuality. So in other words, women learn to act sexy according to pre-prescribed ideas of what sexy is visually…but they learn little to nothing about how to pleasure themselves. (Think about it — we don’t even really have much popular slang in this culture for women’s masturbation, but dozens of terms for the male — how do girls learn about masturbation for themselves?) So many women fall into a sort of “performative” sexuality that is disconnected from their own body and what it’s doing, instead focusing on “acting” sexy and not communicating with their partners.</div>
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Which is the key point: sex is a thing we do together, not a thing we do to one another. The best sex includes communication about what feels good and intense connection — if women are just “lying there” I’m guessing that they don’t feel good and they don’t know what will enough to communicate it to their partner, or they feel like they can’t communicate with their partner in the first place without being judged possibly. (I don’t know for sure, I’ve never been one to “just lie there”.) I’m guessing this is where the “feeling safe” idea comes into play — “feeling safe” could just mean feeling able to express themselves, however, if they don’t know what makes them feel good, then they’ll have trouble expressing that anyway.</div>
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This is compounded by the idea of “experience” — if a woman seeks to gain experience to become better at sex, she is slut-shamed…and if she talks about liking sex, forget about it. For a woman to be sex-positive is to be "dirty" or a "whore", and acknowledgement of female masturbation is almost non-existent — there are very few examples in the culture of women experiencing pleasure for themselves, it’s all performative. If a woman is thinking about how she looks, it’s not going to be as easy to think about how she feels…or to lose herself in a sexual experience.</div>
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I believe we are all responsible for our own orgasms. It isn’t your partners job to “make” you come — sex happens in your head, and if you aren’t a full participant than having the expectation of an orgasm almost seems unreasonable to me. Conversely, under that model, a woman having an orgasm isn’t an “accomplishment” for the male, or an example of sexual prowess, which I think would take some of the performative pressure off of men (which can’t be easy).</div>
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I don’t know how we change this except to do a better job educating girls about their bodies and about pleasure! I’m always shocked when I hear about women not communicating or just lying there…it makes me sad for both them and their partners. They're missing out on one of the best parts of life! </div>
lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-76759146451405596802014-04-10T23:45:00.001-07:002014-09-17T23:26:28.091-07:00So now George Bush is a painter.(This was actually a facebook status update, but it bears repeating. My apologies for being a lazy blogger, for the three people who might read this!)<br />
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Enough about George Bush's "paintings"! Or maybe I should say..."George Bush's" paintings?</div>
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Let's think about all this logically for just a minute, can we? Please?</div>
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We should well know by now the Republican publicity machine we're dealing with, yet once again, we're allowing them to lead us around by our noses while we squawk about mediocre paintings supposedly painted by someone the rest of the world knows as a war criminal. Let's break this all down.</div>
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1. We first learned of ol' 43's little hobby via a "hacked email". Instantly, the national conversation turned to a bizarre pair of "self portraits", echoed endlessly in the media everywhere. (The angle on the one with the mirror makes it just as logically likely, based on the pictorial space, that it's GWB looking at someone else's ass in a homoerotic encounter, but we'll leave that aside for a moment.) Umm...since when is an ex-President's email being "hacked" not the national conversation we SHOULD have at that moment? It's a major Secret Service FAIL. Where are the articles indemnifying the lax security? Why aren't the Republicans foaming at the mouth to find out who would allow their former leader to be in such danger? What's wrong with this picture?</div>
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2. Just curious: where are the articles about the prosecution of Guccifer, the hacker who was caught in Romania back in January? Now, don't get me wrong: I find Guccifer's antics fairly hysterical. Hacking Colin Powell's facebook page? Priceless. Releasing Hillary Clinton's Benghazi emails in comic sans? Epic. I'm generally fairly pro-hacker, in part, because hackers make our systems more secure and often reveal wrong-doings. However...shouldn't that be front page news? And not on Gawker, but everywhere? Shouldn't George Bush be more than "annoyed", as he expressed following the "accidental" unveiling of his hobby?</div>
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3. George Bush paints a bunch of world leaders because they're his "friends", and instead of using the vast trove of photos available in both his personal and official collections, since every move he ever made was documented by officially sanctioned photographers...he goes to google. He does the same thing a fifth grader writing a report would do, he picks the very. First. Image. On. Google. Now: aside from being the exact same crime that Shep Fairey just lost a lawsuit over, it's so extremely unimaginative that one wonders why. It just begs the question: did he choose the pictures? Did he think about them? Because...that's how painters roll. Even painters that pull images off of google.</div>
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4. We all know Jeb Bush is going to make a run for the presidency. And we ALL know who his biggest liability is. Yeah. That one.</div>
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So, here's one possible scenario: Karl Rove aka Turdblossom hired some Michaels crafts painting teacher to make those and then "leaked" them via email to start this whole ball rolling, so that we could all sit back and talk about what a silly doddering old man GWB is, and isn't it cute that he thinks he's an artist, and clear the way for JebBro's run by humanizing his evil sibling.</div>
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Now: I'm not trying to start a big conspiracy theory here. I have no proof that happened, and no reason to believe it could aside from extrapolating from past experience with the trail of lies, tricks and games this team has brought us for the past 20 years or so. Have we learned anything?</div>
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What I'm trying to do is get you to think. Of course it's fun to debate the merits of sub-par paintings, and complain that they don't deserve the attention and we should be talking about real art instead. But we're being part of the problem in that -- we could, for example, just go on talking about real art and ignore the hubbub, instead of lamenting that we aren't.</div>
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I just want everyone to think about whether or not they're being manipulated and played here. Because let's face it -- it wouldn't be the first time. We can always work on creating our own national conversation instead of following the talking points and P.R. mavens' goals for our interactions. What's in the news is rarely newsworthy these days, and I look to my fascinating collection of friends for a different, much richer, conversation. We're better than this. Stop.</div>
lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-85799388663741725962013-11-12T10:08:00.002-08:002013-11-12T10:08:31.282-08:00Untended Gardens<div class="p1">
I hate my racism.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
You white people saying you’re not racists? You’re all liars.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Racism grows on your heart like kudzu, unwanted</div>
<div class="p1">
untended, leaving little room for useful plants to grow</div>
<div class="p1">
You must hack it away, burn it, revile it</div>
<div class="p1">
Tear it back from the tender seedlings</div>
<div class="p1">
Empathy, understanding, courage</div>
<div class="p1">
Tear it back so you can see what lies beneath, yank it out by its grasping roots</div>
<div class="p1">
We ALL fear the other.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“But they’re racist too!” you sputter, the toddler’s lament for justice</div>
<div class="p1">
“you’re right”, I say, “now hush”.</div>
<div class="p1">
We are ALL racist. We are all filled with</div>
<div class="p1">
Bitter stories and years of fears</div>
<div class="p1">
Suspicion and unfulfilled curiosity</div>
<div class="p1">
They’re racist too. They. Always they.</div>
<div class="p1">
So?</div>
<div class="p1">
Is that your only excuse? It’s a bad one.</div>
<div class="p1">
We can only tend our own hearts, mend our own weakness</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Your racism lives in that sidelong glance</div>
<div class="p1">
That shiver of the shoulders when someone is behind you</div>
<div class="p1">
It lives in the weak smile and downcast eyes</div>
<div class="p1">
It lives in the way you read the news</div>
<div class="p1">
First skin is suspect</div>
<div class="p1">
Then hoodies</div>
<div class="p1">
What next</div>
<div class="p1">
Breathing? Speaking? Living?</div>
<div class="p1">
You know you thought for a second there must be a reason</div>
<div class="p1">
That boy was shot.</div>
<div class="p1">
Admit it.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
My momma didn’t raise me that way.</div>
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All people were equal, and I was not allowed</div>
<div class="p1">
To let the word “hate” past my lips, not even for broccoli. </div>
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But she couldn’t stop the world’s whispers</div>
<div class="p1">
She couldn’t stop the parade of white faces only</div>
<div class="p1">
On tv</div>
<div class="p1">
And anyway</div>
<div class="p1">
All people didn’t live in our neighborhood. Only a few people</div>
<div class="p1">
a lot like us.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But I was different. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“Mom, what’s a kike”? </div>
<div class="p1">
She froze in place like a button had been pushed and slowly</div>
<div class="p1">
Asked</div>
<div class="p1">
Where</div>
<div class="p1">
I</div>
<div class="p1">
Heard</div>
<div class="p1">
That</div>
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Word.</div>
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But she didn’t tell me.</div>
<div class="p1">
Didn’t tell me what it meant, didn’t tell me</div>
<div class="p1">
How it applied to me.</div>
<div class="p1">
‘Cause see, we weren’t supposed to be Jewish</div>
<div class="p1">
we were WHITE, and that meant</div>
<div class="p1">
we were above that name-calling</div>
<div class="p1">
above the bad words</div>
<div class="p1">
we had taken on the mantle of that privilege</div>
<div class="p1">
when my parents slipped rings on now Catholic fingers</div>
<div class="p1">
with my grandparents barely there, at the last minute</div>
<div class="p1">
deigning to attend their only child’s forbidden marriage.</div>
<div class="p1">
We were WHITE. We were Catholic. And that matzah-ball soup</div>
<div class="p1">
Your grandma makes for you</div>
<div class="p1">
That’s just an East Coast thing. Pay it no mind.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Difference followed me. Followed me like the old man</div>
<div class="p1">
That slithered down the sidewalk after me</div>
<div class="p1">
After he hissed, apropos of nothing,</div>
<div class="p1">
“I’ll bet you one thin dime you’re a Jew”.</div>
<div class="p1">
I guess he earned his dime, earned it from my bushy hair,</div>
<div class="p1">
My big nose, my…what? How could he know about me</div>
<div class="p1">
What I didn’t know myself?</div>
<div class="p1">
But by that time</div>
<div class="p1">
I had embraced the other</div>
<div class="p1">
Thrown it over my shoulders like a grand cape</div>
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Festooned and shaved my colored hair, hammered spikes through</div>
<div class="p1">
The cracked black leather of my coat</div>
<div class="p1">
Left my legs unshaven and pierced every extra flap</div>
<div class="p1">
Of tattooed white skin</div>
<div class="p1">
If you wanted to hate on me, I’d give you a target.</div>
<div class="p1">
Give you a reason, take a number,</div>
<div class="p1">
Bring it on. </div>
<div class="p1">
Because I could choose that.</div>
<div class="p1">
We were WHITE. </div>
<div class="p1">
I could choose,</div>
<div class="p1">
But still not pass.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
We justify our hate.</div>
<div class="p1">
We tell ourselves stories,</div>
<div class="p1">
That it’s worthy of tending</div>
<div class="p1">
That it’s earned</div>
<div class="p1">
That</div>
<div class="p1">
That</div>
<div class="p1">
That those people over there, they’re just DIFFERENT</div>
<div class="p1">
You don’t understand.</div>
<div class="p1">
But I do.</div>
<div class="p1">
I live in this country too,</div>
<div class="p1">
And feel ashamed when I think</div>
<div class="p1">
To lock the car door passing through certain neighborhoods</div>
<div class="p1">
Feel ashamed when I judge</div>
<div class="p1">
The cashier’s pronunciation of “ask”</div>
<div class="p1">
And recognize her judgment reflected back through brown eyes</div>
<div class="p1">
Because I am found unworthy, too</div>
<div class="p1">
We all judge one another.</div>
<div class="p1">
We are all unworthy.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
What happened that night</div>
<div class="p1">
Will never be known</div>
<div class="p1">
And we can argue through all the ones remaining, but</div>
<div class="p1">
There is only one pertinent fact</div>
<div class="p1">
And that is</div>
<div class="p1">
That a boy is dead.</div>
<div class="p1">
And his body is feeding the kudzu</div>
<div class="p1">
That chokes out other life in the south</div>
<div class="p1">
That covers all the habitable spaces</div>
<div class="p1">
That camoflages the world into a blanket of sameness.</div>
<div class="p1">
There is only one pertinent fact.</div>
<div class="p1">
A boy was shot.</div>
<div class="p1">
And the man who shot him is free.</div>
<div class="p1">
And a nation has forgotten to tend its garden,</div>
<div class="p1">
And has allowed the kudzu to swallow it.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But I’m not a racist, you say.</div>
<div class="p1">
That boy, he was suspended</div>
<div class="p1">
He had a hoodie</div>
<div class="p1">
He had some skittles and an iced tea</div>
<div class="p1">
And a girl on the phone that clattered against the pavement</div>
<div class="p1">
Before it went silent forever.</div>
<div class="p1">
Please know this: you are.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
Now: tend your garden.</div>
lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-87453562260843622112013-11-03T11:17:00.001-08:002015-03-13T17:19:30.428-07:00For P.<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I know you
said you wanted to hear positive stories, but this is the only one I've
got.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You get the story you get.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can say that in the end, it is
positive...hopefully it's worth it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
don't want to depress you more, but I think there is redemption and comfort
embedded in all stories.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>An hour
after we were told my Father would die, my stepmonster was screaming at me by
his deathbed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the entire week, as we
took turns holding vigil even through a blizzard, I was just smoldering with
rage and trying my best to push it aside and stay in the present instead of
sifting through every hurt, every disappointment, every lie I'd been told, all
of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wracked my brain for just one
happy memory and came up blank every time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When he died, I refused to join the family and go to see the body, despite my brothers' urging (of
course, it WAS my birthday, which didn't help), because though I felt I should,
I didn't want to be near my stepmonster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Instead, I went to my studio to seek solace…only to find my studio-mate
with a broom, sweeping water towards the garage door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ceiling had collapsed and flooded the
place, destroying all my works in progress in the process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not a good day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We muddled
through the week of making plans, and she pretended she was letting us make
choices even though we were only there to keep her company while she decided on
appropriate flowers and song choices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was put in charge of the program and was told I’d be reimbursed for the
expensive color printing, but of course that never happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We weren’t even put in the obituary (to “save
money”, we were told).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She refused to
speak to us at the funeral, and was enraged by my Mother’s presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of my father’s works were on display (he
was a woodworker and made beautiful, hand carved replica guns); I tried to get
myself to take a picture of them but I couldn’t muster the energy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t know I wouldn’t see them again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later, we
found that she had changed his will; around the time he was diagnosed with
Alzheimer’s. (Most likely before?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hence all
the secrecy surrounding his noticeable decline?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was now a “Living Trust”, the terms of
which we were not allowed to see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
took everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My brother and I
crafted a letter explaining what we wanted – the gold watch passed down through
6 generations, the family Bible, my childhood spurs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had promised me his tools; she had begun
to sell them the minute he was out of the house and in the home where he died,
miserably unhappy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The letter went
unanswered. She knew we had no money for a lawyer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While we
planned for the funeral, I learned new things about my Father, as always
happens.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned that he had claimed
to have earned a college degree; my Mother, who was there at the time, knew
that hadn’t even started to happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(My
hard-won claim of being the first one in the family to get a college degree – a
true story, and one not without it’s own pain – was suddenly erased.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also learned that my father, who had hunted
for our food and made succulent elk stroganoff from his own kill and surprised
us with fluffy, bubble-filled beer pancakes on Sunday mornings, had never
cooked again in his new life, for twenty-four years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As my
brother and I related memories of my father’s talents – salty summer sausage
hung in the garage rafters to cure, rich beef burgundy over buttered noodles –
my stepsister stared at us astonished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“He never cooked!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could
cook?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My stepmonster looked at her
hands, and I recalled all the times I had been chased from her kitchen when
trying to help…thought of the rigidity with which she viewed gender roles…and I
began to understand something new that turned my view of him on end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I had always
been upset with my father for never spending time with me, never coming to my
events, never seeming interested in my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Amongst other things…there was a fair amount of physical violence in my
relationship with him as a child, and his distant teasing was a stand-in for
the affection my Mother assured me he felt on the inside.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now I recalled a tic in so many of our
phone conversations, wherein I would ask him if we could go to lunch, ask him
for help with a project, invite him to something I was doing…the answer was
always, “well, I’ll have to ask Carol”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Which at the time, I saw as being considerate…but was that all it was?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If my Father didn’t feel the freedom to
pursue one of his passions, cooking, then did he feel freedom to carry on a
relationship of his own with his offspring?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Or was it that he only cooked because my Mother hated doing it so much
that everything came out of a can or the freezer?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aside from dragging him into therapy to
listen to him lie in front of my psychiatrist, I almost NEVER saw my father
alone, and the times I did were the times I cherished, when we actually talked
and communicated fluidly, rather than in the stilted formality that his wife’s
presence seemed to inspire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But was my
father…afraid of his wife?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was he
deferring to her wishes or cowering?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My parents,
for my sake, had hoped to stay friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They got divorced when I was thirteen, and though I cried, the true
emotion filling my awkwardly growing body was relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our house was a pit of tension; my parents
barely spoke to one another and even had resorted, a couple of times, to the
cliché of having me “tell your mother…” After my father moved out, I would go
on Wednesday evenings to his extremely tidy apartment nearby, and he would make
me gigantic salads filled with everything I loved – chickpeas, hard-boiled eggs,
strawberries, olives -- that we would eat on tv trays in front of the Rockford Files.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know if my Dad ever knew I cherished
these nights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had no way to tell him,
no words to help me draw the shape of our new relationship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Within a
year, my Dad remarried.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wait was
only for respectability’s sake, as my new stepsister and I discovered in our Gunne
Sax calico dresses at their modest wedding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Comparing dates revealed a long affair, one of which I was sure my
Mother was unaware.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Father had
already been in my new stepsister's life for some time, a person I didn’t even know
existed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In an age of secrets, this was
one more to harbor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Through
high school, family Christmases became a bizarre bundle of tension and regret
as we tried to include everyone in a merged ball of awkwardness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Dad and my Mom were still friends – as
high school sweethearts together 25 years, how could they not retain some
friendship?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Carol was prickly and
jealous, and not good at hiding it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>After we ended this charade with no amount of relief on my part, it
became clear that my Father was not “allowed” to call my Mother unless it was
an emergency.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This hurt me, as I knew they
still loved each other, even though it had changed long ago from a romantic
love to simply a deep friendship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So, this
was why I was being berated at my Father’s deathbed while his raspy breaths
filled the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Could he hear us?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was he still in there, saddened by this
conflict?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had, apparently, unknowingly
committed a cardinal sin by bringing my Mother to see him, one last time, while
he battled his considerable demons in an Alzheimer’s fog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the only time I saw him smile in that
place, the only time his face lit up since his brain began to turn to Swiss
cheese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thirty years fell away like broken
shingles as he beamed when he saw her and their granddaughter, standing with
his more regular visitors in front of the door disguised as a bookcase to
confuse potential escapees like himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My Mom smiled too, though I think she was shocked to see his face
beardless, which it hadn’t been since the country’s bicentennial when he grew a
beard on a bet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spoke with a quiet,
wispy voice – he called it the “Hubble voice” after his Mother’s side of the
family, claiming “all the Hubble’s spoke like this”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a short visit, but the best one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And, as the
stepmonster pointed out harshly – I hadn’t visited enough!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it was true, I hadn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, in a lifetime of being held at
arm’s length, seeing my Father monthly was an accumulation of visits that would
have spanned years in our previous lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And of late, it had been even worse – long bouts with sicknesses had
kept me away, as germs were verboten in the elder-hive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what’s worse, I knew in my heart I had stayed
away deliberately – her accusations were true – because each visit I saw him
angry, agitated, unspeaking…plotting escapes and awaiting trolleys that weren’t
there to take him away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked several
times if I could take him on outings and was denied, the stepmonster’s iron
fist didn’t even allow his children to be consulted for medical decisions, much
less trips outside the walls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I would
try to talk to him, he would look past me…I would walk him around the grounds,
and he would mention his idea to throw chairs through the windows to
escape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll admit: I am weak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would leave each time and sob alone in my
car in the parking lot, across the street from the old Ft. Logan Mental Health
Hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How many tears were shed on
those acres?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mine were
insignificant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Guilty,
guilty as charged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet…had the
tables been reversed, would my father have been visiting me more?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No…this was not about him, or I, or either of
our wishes, but yet again about her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Always about her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she berated
me I finally snapped, “was I ever even part of this family anyway?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And making a shocked face, her sticky mascara
lashes widening, she claimed, “we were going to try to have you live with
us!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We wanted to take you out of that
situation with…your mother!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This was
ugly, horrifying news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mother and I
have always been extremely close, but those bonds forged by the early, messy
days of the divorce, with strange men coming around and hysterical crying jags
for days, were deep and strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And to
think that they had wanted me to live in that beige coldness and Southwestern-flavored
sterility that they called a home, constantly annoyed by my stepsisters who
were favored and coddled, not even having my own room…THIS was somehow proof
that she cared?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What HAD those whispered
conversations, truncated by my sudden presence, been about?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So who was
my Father?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am still puzzling through
the handful of facts and misremembered anecdotes to construct a portrait of
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Four years after his death, even
the truck that he had babied, that my stepmonster sold me for more than the
blue book value, has died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The things I
have of his are precious and few: a green army blanket that was ever-present in
every vehicle he ever owned, a carved gun stock on a meticulously crafted stand
that was a sample for clients to see his workmanship, the scroll-bedecked easel
he made for me when I was a young artist, with his fine craftsmanship showing
in the hinge he built and the care shown by plugging each screw hole with
walnut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one thing that the
stepmonster left, in a box of odds and ends she didn’t want that she left on
her porch for my brother to pick up; (no further contact, no further response
to our request for his heirlooms, and demands that his handcrafted guns be
given to a museum) she couldn’t have known I would cherish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father’s briefcase filled with his
drafting tools…plastic arcs and circle guides that I played with as a child,
the same pens he taught me calligraphy with, a few scraps of paper with his
ordered draftsmanship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This plastic
shell, monogrammed in fake gold stickers with his initials, held more memories than a
million heirlooms, though just trash to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I still want my childhood spurs, last seen hanging on his workshop wall.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I fed my
father his last bite of food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had
fallen, alone, outside, and hit his head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Unbeknownst to us, as we rushed to the hospital as fast as we could late
at night, the stepmonster had signed a DNR, without consulting us, as usual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were never included in decisions, at any
point in his life, even when we were convinced he was on the wrong drugs, no
one would listen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wouldn’t have
disagreed with the DNR – my father was clearly unhappy, caged in his confusion
and hallucinations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But to be consulted
would have been to be treated like a person of some sort of consequence, at
least.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we drove down Broadway that late night, I told
my husband, “I think my Father is going to die”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reassured me, said it was fine, said all
the things one says, both kindly and dutifully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At the hospital, my Dad’s neck had been encased in a giant foam collar
meant to immobilize his head, and every few minutes he would notice it was
there and begin attempting to pull it over his head, like an itchy
turtleneck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would struggle, we would
calm and sooth him…eventually he exhausted himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The next day, back at the home, he sat propped in a common room in front of an endless television, lying in a recliner dwarfed by pillows. I fed him pudding and used the spoon to scrape the excess from his thin lips, as he once had done for me I’m sure. I could see gratefulness in his eyes, and humility, for just a brief moment. He couldn’t speak. But as his watery eyes locked with my red-rimmed ones, there was a short connection, that somewhere, as the subdural hematoma slowly leaked into his brain tissue, there was enough of him left to see me, to know who I was, in his last hours of consciousness. The next time I saw him, he was asleep in his room, his breaths growing harsher and more uncertain, his newly bald chin slack, almost collapsing into his neck, as if his body was sinking deeper and deeper into itself. The only change throughout that long week was in the timbre and length of his breaths, the effort his ribcage rose and fell with becoming more choppy and labored. The last time I saw him, I sat by his side, alone, and said, “it’s ok Daddy…you can go. I love you. You can just relax and sleep.” Did I imagine a change in his face, a slip of a muscle, a wrinkle twitching? I’m sure I did. We see what we want to see, always. </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHhZRl2ZvqePQLpnSwKmmM8obwgW6UYGFBEBveZ3k-020xJ9f5AESe2laPn6IdU_HWdllCQysYUfZhPSN_t-059RpdMR7G71iYvXf3yTwdzJpdnY-yl71kZNtfk_0oAMGNKuYP7Q/s1600/Dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHhZRl2ZvqePQLpnSwKmmM8obwgW6UYGFBEBveZ3k-020xJ9f5AESe2laPn6IdU_HWdllCQysYUfZhPSN_t-059RpdMR7G71iYvXf3yTwdzJpdnY-yl71kZNtfk_0oAMGNKuYP7Q/s320/Dad.jpg" height="320" width="231" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-69039812731013662832013-09-29T09:15:00.000-07:002013-09-29T09:16:26.051-07:00The Power of One Asshole<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was an amazing, stellar night, the night of my first big opening
in New York.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had done my hair up
in a spectacular, crazy fashion, with pom-poms and yarn creating a colorful
crown and dressed in my finest, and my friends and plenty of strangers came to
admire my work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Afterwards, exhilarated,
three friends and I had walked to a nearby French restaurant in the Meatpacking
district and dined sumptuously, drinking celebratory champagne served, on the
house, by a charming, sweet waiter who congratulated me for what he knew was a
very big deal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Walking to the 14<sup>th</sup>
street and 8<sup>th</sup> avenue subway with my friend chatting about shoes, we
witnessed a guy hanging out of a car, making a grotesque noise at a lone
woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we passed her, we asked,
“what did he say?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And she
shrugged her shoulders and said, “something stupid, no doubt”, and then asked
us where the subway was, confessing that she was a bit tipsy and not in her
element.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We invited her to join
us, and relieved, she fell into step, joking and laughing along as we made our
way to the A train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
needed the L to the Q, so I parted ways with the others and headed to my train,
awash in the glow of a magical night and donning my headphones so I could bob
my head to Janelle Monae’s Queen while I rode home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sitting on the wooden benches on the Q platform filled with
girls on platforms and hipsters in trucker hats, a semi-drunk guy with dark
hair and a plaid shirt sat next to me and said, in a friendly voice, “Mind if I
smoke”?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well”, I said with a
smile, “as long as you’re asking, yeah, kind of”, thinking to myself that
surely, I had seen at one point in time “no smoking” signs on the subway
platform anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked
surprised and said, “well, I appreciate your honesty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most people seem to have trouble expressing
themselves”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I laughed and lifted
my eyes upwards towards my elaborate hairdo and said, “clearly, that’s not a
problem for me”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He squinted and
said, “Yeah, because most people, you know, they’d let me smoke”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A low rumble behind us indicated the
train, and I said, “well, sorry”, and got up to wait at the edge of the
platform.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His initial friendly demeanor
had given way to a scowl, and I thought to myself, “well, you DID ask, after
all”. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
I got on the train, I carefully chose a seat between two people as opposed to
the long open seat closer to where I entered the train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The drunk guy shuffled towards where I
was sitting and hesitated, scanning the seating situation, and then asked the
guy next to me if “he would scoot over so he could sit next to his
friend”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My seat neighbor
shifted, and alarmed, I spoke up, “hey, he’s not my friend – a two second
conversation doesn’t make us friends”, and hardly glancing up from his phone, I
felt my seatmate’s weight shift back to resting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The drunk looked confused, then decided to occupy the still
open seat next to my neighbor, and began talking to him as though their
maleness made them compadres.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
still had my headphones on, so I ignored what he was saying until I heard the
word “bitch”, and then, still staring at my open book, I discretely removed the
ear bud furthest from him to monitor the situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Some chicks
don’t know what’s good for them, am I right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fucking bitches think they can say whatever they want, man,
know what I mean”?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My seatmate
didn’t acknowledge his solicitation for agreement, continuing to stare at the
game on his phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If he was
afraid, he didn’t show it, but I doubt he was afraid, whereas I was growing
increasingly alarmed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
drunk shoved the cigarette between his lips and continued muttering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re allergic to smoke?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, well I’m allergic to bubblegum”,
I guess referencing the carefully placed decorations in my hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He continued to loudly and aggressively
speak to no one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The full train
continued to stare at their books, stare at their feet, stare anywhere but at
the spectacle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every once in
awhile he asked loudly, “so really, no one minds if I smoke?” staring at me in
the window opposite of us to watch for a reaction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I continued to read the same sentence of Edwidge Danticat’s
prose repeatedly, without meaning, only glancing occasionally up to check if he
was still glaring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yeah, tough
crowd – no one wants to talk, huh?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His protestations grew louder, over the wine and squeak of the rattling
cars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Fucking bitch, I’ll show
you what kind of asshole I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yeah, you’ll see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a
five star asshole, you won’t forget it.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I began to tick off the stops in my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At each station, I held my breath, hoping he’d get off as
the train slowly emptied, stop-by-stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Still, no one said anything, and he continued to rant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m a man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pushing a broom ain’t no job for a man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll show these fucking bitches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, got nothing to say now, do
you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wanna express yourself
now?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I continued to pretend I
could comprehend even a word of my book, continued to pretend that the ear bud
closest to him, still pounding out a quiet beat, blocked the sound of his nasty
voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of existing to me,
didn’t want to let him have a taste of my fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet, I also was fighting within myself, fighting with
every breath not to “express myself” and let him know that he had no fucking
right at all, not one fucking bit, to intimidate a carful of people going home
after a night out, and not even me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had not wronged him – he asked a question, I answered, in as friendly
a way as possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My rage bubbled
behind my lips but the icy clutch around my heart and my common sense stifled
my tongue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
Atlantic-Barclay, 4 stops from mine, I knew I needed to make my move before the
train emptied even more, leaving only me and my tormentor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tightening my grip on my bags
discreetly without looking like I was going to move, I waited for the doors to open
and bolted, dashing to the next car up and jumping on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard his sarcastic snarl yell out
“goodnight miss”, but he didn’t follow me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could see him through the window of the car one over as
the train leaned around a corner, continuing his hostile rant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept nervously glancing through the
shifting windows, but didn’t catch a glimpse again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Getting
off at the Beverly stop, I looked behind me on the platform several times to
make sure I was alone, not quite believing I’d dodged this psycho.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time I reached the house, my
chest had stopped pounding, and my sweat had crystallized to a cold veneer on
my skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
right does he have?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought, to
take a piece of my perfect night and piss all over it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where does he get off?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What kind of privilege allows a man to
feel so entitled to do what he wants that he can terrorize another person,
simply for speaking their mind?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
is what street harassment looks like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It isn’t always flirtation, it isn’t always the wolf whistle or the catcall;
it’s the entitlement, the emotional blackmail, the casual intimidation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s feeling you have the right to be
an asshole, the rest of the world be damned.</div>
lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-59390247101297762672013-01-24T12:52:00.001-08:002013-01-24T12:53:12.349-08:00Gavin Bryers: Jesus' Blood Never Failed Me YetWritten for Michelle Herman's Writing About Music Class, Winter 2012, The Ohio State University, about this song: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E1lnSi7QWY8">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E1lnSi7QWY8</a><br />
<br />
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Silence. So much
silence. Then not, but so faint that you
aren’t sure that what you’re hearing is sound, or rather, intentional
sound. What is there? You doubt your hearing, check the volume. There’s a croaking whisper, an old gramophone
from beyond, replete with faint hiss. An
old man’s voice, draped in a cockney accent, fades into understandable, slowly,
magnetically, singing, “Jesus’ blood never failed me yet, never failed me yet,
Jesus' blood never failed me yet, there’s one thing I know for he loves me
so…and repeats. His voice grows stronger
in volume, but you still hear the whistle on his inhale, the emphatic pause
before “yet”, as though Jesus’ blood might still fail him, for faith and doubt
exist like binary stars. In the
background, other men’s voices hover, unintelligible whispers, like static,
just out of reach. After so many repetitions,
(Ten? Twenty? You’ve lost count, yet are mesmerized) the
violin creeps in, in a leisurely, glacial pace, sneaking in alongside the other
muffled voices, gently filling itself, liquid between notes, the C string
pulling it’s lilt upward so slightly, dragging the other strings with it. The verse repeats, endlessly, melancholic
hopefulness. Yet each iteration of the
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Seven minutes in, a plucked string is a gentle shock, a pull
to the forefront of the trance you’ve been lulled into. A warm note followed by a sharper ping, a
muffled twang. The old man’s voice
hasn’t stumbled, hasn’t changed, he drives his song forward with the faithfulness
of each foot on a long road, one in front of the other, propelled by habit and
memory. Faintly – another voice? No, the instruments are tricking you with
their minimalism, melting together into a crest, a swell, lapping at the ragged
edges of the old man’s voice. He is as
crisp and straightforward as a Walker Evans photo, as dusty as the back corner
of an antique shop. The strings are
drowning him slowly, so slowly you and he faintly notice, like the proverbial
frog in the pot. But by twelve minutes,
he and the instruments have traded places, the velvety surge of strings pushing
to the foreground while he allows his voice to dip below the surface. He doesn’t fight it, not when a bassoon
gently, subtly honks, not when a trumpet sneaks in. His meter never changes, his volume doesn’t
fight for it’s place in the foreground but is content to repeat, again, and
again, “Jesus blood never failed me yet”.
There’s one thing he knows, and we know it to, and we are comforted,
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At fifteen minutes, a seventh chord creeps in, pulling the
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into itself, inside its belly. The
music is Jesus’ blood, and it is not failing him. It is covering him, comforting him,
enveloping him. He is just out of reach,
beyond the song, subterranean. The chords
are still filling themselves, brassier, more complex, tiny hints of dissonance
suggested, then pulled away from like it’s too much to endure. A melody plucks out, coming forward here and
there as tendrils wrapping themselves around the body of the pregnant, dripping
chords. Heaving upward, the man’s voice
peeking through in the silence between phrases, a tiny boat amongst the waves. Plaintive, but never losing confidence. Yearning.
But steady, ever steady, not lost, never losing hope. For twenty-five minutes and fifty-seven
seconds, he is with us, and we are with him.
And as quietly as the instruments crept in, they fade unhurriedly with
the man’s voice, in the end, leaving him alone again, whispering, fading,
disappearing, but staying in your head for hours.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-25789324627897910442013-01-06T11:20:00.003-08:002013-01-06T16:43:29.648-08:00Sugar Hill.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I had only recently discovered the power of music that I
chose myself. Not my parents’ John
Denver and Neil Diamond records furtively slipped on the turntable when they
weren’t home, and not the disco-heavy pop music and classic rock that permeated
every invisible wave that could be captured with the bent antennae of my
radio. After I realized I could control
what I heard and form my own tastes, I would sit in front of the radio on
Sunday nights, cassette recorder in front of me and holding my breath so as not
to pollute the background with excessive bodily noise, repeatedly pressing
record and stop during the Top 40, trying to trim away the commercials and Dick
Clark’s unnaturally upbeat and too-young voice from filling up even a precious
millimeter of my 90 minute Memorex cassette tape. This was my weekly ritual. I would sit on my bed, recently swathed in a
polyester comforter that my Mom let me pick out of the Sears catalog, with
matching curtains. It was my foray into
adulthood, picking out the brown and orange graphic sunset and mountain range
to replace the nauseatingly frilly pink that my Mom had tried to force on me
for years, hoping to pull me back from the brink of tomboyhood. Dick Clark’s picks only got 45 minutes on one
side of the tape, for the other side was saved for Dr. Demento, who underwent
the same laborious and largely inaccurate editing process. For the rest of the week, that mix-tape was
the soundtrack to my life, to be covered up by new selections in about a month,
once I had cycled through my other hand-me-down tapes from my brother’s job at
the Radio Shack. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the summer of 1979 I’d discovered two things that I felt
heralded this coming adult-hood: kissing boys, and rap music. Both had been discovered the same weekend,
while staying at my friend Lynn’s house in Park Hill. Park Hill was glamorously in the city,
walking distance from City Park and the Museum, and miles away from our
suburban townhouse nestled in the foothills of the Rockies. Since the houses were older, Lynn lived in a
modest bungalow next to what I considered a mansion, since it possessed three
Victorian stories and a pool in the back.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The pool came with two brothers, a short one, and a tall
one. The shorter one, whose name I
don’t, but should remember, became my crush.
Which didn’t mean Lynn took the taller one – living next door to him, he
lacked any appeal. I had no clue how to
act on this crush, though, so I kept it to myself, admiring his cannonballs off
the roof of the garage into the pool and pretending that I didn’t care. Later in the summer, he would miss, breaking
his arm, but by that point my pretend lack of caring had become real, so his
sympathetic cast gained him nothing but my signature in purple marker. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our Saturdays that summer consisted of roller-skating around
the pool and listening to tapes – the brothers, of course, bought their tapes
at the record store instead of relying on staticky homemade mix tapes. One weekend, they played something none of us
had heard before, something that made us stop our clumsy circling in
tennis-shoe style skates and listen, rapt, for the full 15 minutes. We spent the rest of the day rewinding and
repeating the Sugarhill Gang’s Rapper’s Delight. It was like nothing we’d ever heard before,
and we were mesmerized. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By the end of the day, we knew most of the words and would
yell-sing along, most raucously during Wonder Mike’s part, which we would try
to do without giggling:</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">have you ever went over a friends house to eat </span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">and the food just ain’t no good </span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">I mean the macaroni's soggy the peas are mushed </span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">and the chicken tastes like wood </span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">so you try to play it off like you think you can </span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">by sayin’ that you’re full </span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">but your friend says momma he's just being polite </span><br /><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">he ain’t finished at all that's bull <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This, of course, was the part of the song we could relate to. After all, our knowledge of pimps, sperm, and bootie was limited in the seventh grade, and we were a couple of thousand miles from the Bronx. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a full day of rapping and roller-skating, we wound up on the third floor, far from any adult activity. Like any hormonal pre-teens with nothing to do, there were but two options: Spin the Bottle, or Seven Minutes in Heaven. And we didn’t have a bottle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lynn knew all about my crush on the short boy – we’ll call him Jack. He was round-faced and one of the few boys around shorter than even me, with a bit of baby fat and sandy blond hair. Before anyone else had a chance to say a word, she had picked us both out and wordlessly shoved us towards the closet. We both protested weakly, but it was disingenuous at best. My heart racing, we went in and closed the door with a click that seemed to echo with an unnatural loudness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Surrounded by ghosts of coats and single mittens, he smelled moist and dirty, and faintly of Wonder Bread. I towered over him, although I was used to being shorter than everyone else. Without saying anything, he leaned up towards me, and stuck his tongue out, and I fought the urge to pull away. I wondered if he had ever kissed a girl before, or if he could tell I hadn’t kissed a boy. My friend Jackie and I had once kissed to practice, although for her I think it was less practice and more thrill, since she spent most of her time trying to concoct scenarios via which her female friends would have to disrobe. But we drew the line at tongues, just too gross. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Now, I was presented with Jack’s tongue, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do. In the back of my head, I could hear “goin on n n on n on on n on </span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">the beat dont stop until the break of dawn” and I tried to mentally fast forward through the song, looking for a more appropriate-sounding lyric, maybe one that would remind me of what I was meant to do. Our lips came together, and his salty breath steamed the bottom rim of my glasses. His tongue, slimy, like a dead fish, lay there limply, unsure of what to do. We pulled apart quickly, and then tried again, not much more successfully than the first try. All I could think about was the snack his Mom had fixed us, worrying that it had lodged itself in my braces and that he was tasting it for the second time. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When we emerged from the closet, red-faced and triumphant, our friends whooped loudly enough for the parental units two floors below to holler a stern warning regarding indoor voices. It hadn’t been anything close to seven minutes, but no one seemed to notice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">According to what we’ve been told, that first kiss should have been the most important memory of that weekend, of that summer, of that year. But its sweaty awkwardness could never live up to the rhythm of the boogie the beat. Wonder Mike and Master Gee had captured my heart completely. After all, their names, I still remember.</span></span></div>
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I
didn’t cry for my grandmother’s death.
Well, either of them, really. Nor
did I cry for my grandfather’s. I
managed to work out a sniffle when my Father died, as it seemed untoward not
to, and I didn’t want to give my step-monster the forever longed-for proof that
I, in fact, did not love my Father, as she had always suspected and
passive-aggressively intimated. I
suppose the intimations grew less passive and more aggressive as his demise
neared, resulting in vicious screaming from her at his deathbed and an icy
demeanor at the funeral. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s
not lack of love, though even I have to admit my relationship with my Father
was trussed with tension and remorse. It’s
not even that I eschew public crying, although, to be honest, there is little I
find more humiliating, even at appropriate and expected times. It’s more that, with people I don’t see
daily, the evidence of their absence needs to fester for it to become real. I need
to linger over the phone number absent-mindedly, go through a Christmas
shopping list, before it becomes clear to me that they aren’t just living their
own life while I live mine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It
may have become real faster with my Dad, I suppose, if I had gone to see his
body when he passed on the morning of my birthday. The step-monster was there, however, and my
feelings were freshly slapped from her most recent accusations that I had not
visited enough. (What constitutes enough
when someone alternates between ignoring and forgetting about your
presence?) Besides, did I mention it was
my birthday? My Father had already
ruined several of those in my lifetime, and fear mixed with resentment
bolstered my resolve. My brother pleaded
with me to come, but I reasoned that he must not look much different than he
did on his deathbed the night before, and I preferred to remember him
breathing, even raspily. My brother
could, were he churlish enough to take it, claim his “I-told-you-so” regarding
my regret. Luckily for me, he’s not that
sort; though were the tables turned I can’t promise he’d be as fortunate. <o:p></o:p></div>
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No,
I save my crying for the cats. The tears
build up in a hard rock behind my broken thyroid and wait, through all the
dying, through all the tsunamis, through all the romantic hurts and physical
pain, and comes out in a raw, utter wail of sub-human sorrow when a cat
dies. For you see, the absence is real
immediately. The absence is real from
their staring eyes and limp jaws and sudden realization that there is no one to
wake you up with wet pushy purring tomorrow morning, no one galloping to meet you
at the door tomorrow night. The absence
is real and keenly felt in a way it can’t be when a relationship has been
reduced to unsatisfying phone calls filled with only good news and uncomfortable
holiday visits.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This
is why I drove around Santa Fe New Mexico for a week, hitting “repeat” on the
CD player. Santa Fe’s lilac dust
glittered through my tears, the soaring strains of Japanese-scented English smothering
my wails behind the rolled-up car window.
Fritz, my big, orange tub of a tabby, was gone forever, and I was
inconsolable, save for Yuko Honda and Miho Hatori’s soft harmonies and
near-incomprehensible lyrics.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It
was the verse, really. “I wish I can
take it away to three thousand light years away”, I would croon with them,
repeatedly, snot dribbling down my upper lip.
“Don’t be afraid, I’ll be next to you”.
I would imagine myself flying to a faraway planet, one arm stretched out
before me a la Superman and Fritz cradled in the other, no dripping bag of
fluids or pain, to a planet where kitty kidneys grew on trees and nine lives
were literal. Even now, the song can
make my knees week.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That breathy, tentative first note,
like a low test of the trumpet’s mouthpiece, is enough to push a tear to the
brink of my eyelid on even the best day.
By the time it steps up to the crescendo and the brushes hit the snare,
I am invariably a snuffling wreck, even in public. “All I can do is sing for her and
myself”. All I can do is sing for him
and myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-62108362487217064842010-06-06T00:54:00.000-07:002010-06-06T00:59:03.018-07:00Notes on Bravo's "Work of Art"So many people are up in arms about a reality show featuring art, acting as if art is somehow RUINED by any kind of reflection in pop culture. People, get over it.<br /><br />No pun intended, but take art off the effing pedestal already. It's ART. It's part of our lives, not some sacred cow that can't possibly stand to be sullied by the dirty medium of television. The inherent classism in the arguments against this show is exactly why art gets MOCKED relentlessly by popular culture. The art world does itself<span class="text_exposed_show"> no favors by being mysterious and obtuse. <br /><br />You know, the fashion world didn't shun designers from Project Runway. Chefs on Top Chef don't get mocked for "sullying" themselves -- on the contrary, Top Chef Masters features some of the best chefs in the country. The show exists. Deal with it. If you're so closed-minded that you can't even consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, it might not suck, and you won't ever watch it to see for yourself, then I truly pity you for the limits you place on yourself.<br /><br />I actually CARE that people connect with art. I'm an artist; I don't make art for only one type of person and I don't care as much how it's seen as I do that it IS seen. I don't want to be a court jester to the wealthy; I want to make art for everyone, anyone who's interested. It hurts me that people don't care about art. I currently live in a state where there is not one grant for individual artists, a state with one of the lowest funding for the arts; yet, we have the fifth largest concentration of artists in the U.S. That's shameful, and it's because people don't see enough art to care. I've taught at rural schools where kids never see art, have no way to see art, and if one kid gets to NOT feel like a freak because suddenly he can see people like him on tv, then to me, it is a GOOD THING. If art is to have a future, then I'm sorry, but people have to give a shit. <br /><br />I didn't audition for the show, not because I think it's bad, but because I'm already too busy with other opportunities, but I will confess I did consider it. I don't fault the artists who did -- hell, I think it would be a fun experience, if only for the chance to be challenged. In fact, I'd find it interesting to do the challenges without the television portion of it at all -- some friends and I have talked about doing the challenges at home, just for fun. I can't imagine living such a joyless, curmudgeonly existence that I couldn't allow art to be fun at times, too. Art reflects ALL of human experience -- the poignant, the trivial, the smart, the stupid, the sublime, the downright ridiculous. Should it only speak to a narrow band of concerns?<br /></span>lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-8944903010451521032010-01-19T20:09:00.000-08:002010-01-19T20:10:10.608-08:00Grrrrr.....<div id="text_expose_id_4b5681556af6722e7303a" class="comment_actual_text text_exposed">I'm not disappointed in Obama, I'm disappointed in EVERYONE. Maybe I just wasn't as fervent a believer as others, but I truly expected him to get cock-blocked at every turn, which is exactly what has happened, even at the hands of his own party. Doesn't matter. For me, it is ENOUGH that he is not a madman, nor stupid, nor willfully ignorant, <span class="text_exposed_hide">... <span class="text_exposed_link"><a onclick="'CSS.addClass($(">See More</a></span></span><span class="text_exposed_show">nor aggressively religious. Have we forgotten where we just came from? Baby steps, people. We were teetering on the brink of insanity, there is a lot of damage to be undone. It can't all get undone in a year. Perspective.<br /><br />That said, I truly believe we are talking about the moral failure of our entire culture, and nothing short of that. We have monetized human suffering, allowed wholesale greed against our own people. It is shameful. I am aghast at anyone who thinks health care should only be for the rich. I can't believe the stupidity of those who think this system WORKS. </span></div><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-family: Helvetica-Bold;"><b></b></span><!--EndFragment-->lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-75981596778084887782009-06-23T13:25:00.001-07:002009-06-24T09:23:23.184-07:00Anonymous Iran<p>I have never seen anything more worthy of going viral in my life. Please, take these words and spread them, repost them, and if you are a member of the media or good with technology, act on them. The people of Iran are showing immense courage and providing the kind of example the world needs. The American people should take note: there is nothing more important than protecting our voting rights, and demanding accountability from our government and media. </p><p><br /></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-family:'Trebuchet MS';font-size:13;" ><div id="header-wrapper" style="border: 1px solid rgb(51, 51, 51); margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 660px;"><div class="header section" id="header" style="border: 1px solid rgb(51, 51, 51); margin: 5px; text-align: center; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);"><div class="widget Header" id="Header1"><div id="header-inner" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; background-position: 50% 50%;"><div class="titlewrapper"><h1 class="title" style="margin: 5px 5px 0px; padding: 15px 20px 0.25em; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 0.2em; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',Trebuchet,Verdana,sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; font-size: 200%; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal;"><a href="http://anoniran.blogspot.com/" style="color: rgb(204, 204, 204); text-decoration: none;">ANONYMOUS IRAN</a></h1></div><div class="descriptionwrapper"><p class="description" style="margin: 0px 5px 5px; padding: 0px 20px 15px; max-width: 700px; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 0.2em; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',Trebuchet,Verdana,sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 78%; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; color: rgb(119, 119, 119);"><span>WE BELIEVE THAT THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE HAS BEEN SUBVERTED... BUT NOT IN THE WAY THAT THE OFFICIAL SPIN HAS IT. FREE IRAN.</span></p></div></div></div></div></div><div id="content-wrapper"><div id="crosscol-wrapper" style="text-align: center;"><div class="crosscol section" id="crosscol"></div></div><div id="main-wrapper" style="overflow: hidden; width: 410px; float: left;"><div class="main section" id="main"><div class="widget Blog" id="Blog1" style="border-bottom: 0px dotted rgb(51, 51, 51); margin: 0px 0px 1.5em; padding: 0px 0px 1.5em;"><div class="blog-posts hfeed"><h2 class="date-header" style="margin: 1.5em 0px 0.5em; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',Trebuchet,Arial,Verdana,sans-serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; font-size: 78%; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 1.4em; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 0.2em; color: rgb(119, 119, 119);">TUESDAY, JUNE 23, 2009</h2><div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template" style="border-bottom: 1px dotted rgb(51, 51, 51); margin: 0.5em 0px 1.5em; padding-bottom: 1.5em;"><a name="6636440548329840977"></a><h3 class="post-title entry-title" style="margin: 0.25em 0px 0px; padding: 0px 0px 4px; font-size: 140%; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.4em; color: rgb(170, 221, 153);"><a href="http://anoniran.blogspot.com/2009/06/message-to-international-community-from.html" style="display: block; text-decoration: none; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">A Message to the International Community from Inside Iran</span></a></h3><div class="post-header-line-1"></div><div class="post-body entry-content" style="margin: 0px 0px 0.75em; line-height: 1.6em; text-align: left; font-family: courier new;"><p><span style="font-size:85%;"><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">This was found in an undisclosed location. The text is as follows:</span></em></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >I apologise in advance for the tone and style of this letter to you. The people in Tehran of whom I speak on behalf are weak and tired. I hope you are able to clearly understand the message we are sending to you. This letter is a call to all people outside of Iran, both Persian expatriates and other people. At the present time this is very important for the fate of Iran. To quote Napolean: "There is but one step between victory and defeat." We in Iran are at the same critical step. Your help is of the most urgent importance.<br />Tonight I was just up on the roof. I was at home and began hearing the voice of a young girl crying out from her roof top, "Allahu Akbar!" I began to join in with her chant until I had no strength remaining to yell. "Allahu Akbar! We're all together!" For 30 minutes we cried out into the night together. Eventually I became a bit frustrated and nervous about being on the roof and came down. But the sound of the girl continued. She began chanting loudly, "Iranians join together! Support, Support!"</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >These words warmed the hearts of those of us within the range of her voice. The last few days I have been all around the city, demonstrating and chanting. This girls voice touched me most of all.<br />Here in Tehran people are scared. The rumors are swirling about people who are identifying demonstrators from pictures found online and then going to their homes at night and attacking their families. Yesterday </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a class="zem_slink" href="http://www.cnn.com/" title="CNN" rel="homepage" style="text-decoration: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">CNN</span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" > aired a video with a voice screaming from inside a house. The video showed darkness, but the sound of a woman begging Basiji to leave her home has galvanized us. People are scared!</span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >Another video has also put fear into a lot of Iranian people. That is the video of the late Neda Agha-Soltan (the woman shot on the street who died). Neda's death has perplexed people. As foreign media has been removed from our televisions, we are dependent on Iranian State Television which is practising a severe psychological warfare with our minds. Now everywhere people go they are watching who is behind them. All over the streets of Tehran are clothes which have been left behind by those arrested by police and Basiji. Today I became downhearted when I saw only a few thousand at 7 June Square for Neda's memorial. God, we all have to get our spirits back! Right now, time is very critical! We have these immediate needs:</span></p><ol><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >Please tell your governments that if they are seen as interfering or supporting our actions - then we have lost! I believe that if we can receive covert resources and support without prompting action by the regime, our enemy will be severely suppressed. Today we heard from sources outside of Iran that we can not win. Those who are saying this in the media please notice: You must also mention the success of the results thus far. For the sake of the spirit of our demonstrators, you must mention that we are making great strides. Your words have the power of giving energy to our cause. The actions against us will only escalate unless the legitimacy of this government is removed from popular opinion. We only have ourselves to depend on. Today the commander of the Tehran Police refused to implement the suppression orders sent down to him by the Government. This was a small success, however many were later arrested when the information became known to the Officials.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >People are afraid to demonstrate without money or resources. Many are afraid that a general strike will drain bank accounts and thus cripple our efforts. Please be cautious when calling for demonstrators to remove money from banks, stop shopping and work. While it is effective for us to use these measures, please be cautious and regard that we are making necessary plans within our groups. Your information being sent en mass through public mediums is falling directly into the hands of our enemies.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >Continue blocking Iran regime websites. We continue needing Firefox plug-ins, anonymous portals and IP devices. If you can find a way to provide those to us, it will be important in our efforts.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >Iranian State Television is creating massive distorition of truths. Their reports are stirring fear and frustration in the people. They collect information from foreign media websites and report just the opposite, or design filtered propaganda to distress our efforts. The Iran television news is showing pictures that have been collected off websites of the demonstrators, and they are asking viewers to send in informative leads to who the face belongs to and where they live. Recently many have blanked out the face of the demonstrators before uploading our pictures. That is a great help to our cause.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >The Regime is accusing foreign governments and Western media with unfounded charges. Their motive in doing so is to create chaos and diversion. They are provoking governments to take a position instead of well-thought passive defense. The State-Run News plays up the Western governments as imperfect and problematic - attempting to inspire people to stop these protests for fear of becoming like the Western nations. These allegations have been extremely critical of the USA and </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a class="zem_slink" href="http://www.whitehouse.gov/" title="Barack Obama" rel="homepage" style="text-decoration: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">President Obama</span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" > administration. What we feel is best would be the United Nations to call on Iran's regime to hold another election. We all have the courage to face this, so International Community, as your governments to pressure the UN to act on requesting a new election in Iran. Also continue to call on your governments in Europe and America to visibly appear neutral and do not show explicit support. The USA administration is doing that and it helps so much. President Ahmadinejad is very worried at this hour of the protests.</span></li><li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" >It is very likely that quite soon our leaders: Mousavi, Karroubi and Khatami will be arrested. It is also very likely many other political leaders will be detained. We call on the International Media to continue broadcasting fair information while remaining responsible.</span></li></ol></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></span></p>lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-76255389940378159292009-04-18T13:16:00.000-07:002009-04-18T13:41:01.864-07:00Of Underdogs and Overnight SensationsLike everyone else with an internet connection and a pulse, I bawled like I’d been snorting onion juice at the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wnmbJzH93NU">ultra-viral video of Susan Boyle</a> surprising the judges and audience of Britain’s Got Talent. But with each callous description, with each wide-eyed commentary, I find myself growing more and more dismayed and angry.<br /><br />First of all, consider the cynical manipulation of their viewers by the B.G.T. producers and editors. Following the undiscovered virtuoso of former snaggle-toothed cell phone salesman <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=woAUSJpHHuI">Paul Potts</a>, the formula for success must have become crystal clear to the producers. “Unlikely” (read “ugly”) contestant possesses world-class talent, comes on show to jeers and guffaws, and proceeds to produce a stellar performance with accompanying standing O and “shocked” judges. We conveniently forget that everyone involved with the show knew exactly what to expect, the oft-irritable <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ao-yXgntmUw">Simon Cowell</a> included. It’s not as if they hadn’t heard her initially audition for the show – they can’t possibly drag everyone who shows up onto stage. And if you watch the banter and audience reaction preceding her performance, it’s clear that everyone is “in” on the “joke” except for Susan herself.<br /><br />So, while the show led to her worldwide fame, it was ultimately at the initial cost of her dignity as a serious artist, and potentially at the cost of her long-term viability as having a serious career, once the inevitable backlash starts. There’s a cruelty and cynicism in the clip that betrays all of the “feel-good” status of her amazing rise. We’ve grown so accustomed to seeing slick, over-produced acts who have been groomed by stylists right down to their toenails that we apparently believe external features have something to do with one’s vocal chords or lungs. We’re used to multi-tracked vocals, pitch adjustments, and a hundred other <a href="http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=a9c_1219341209">digital enhancements</a>. A singer’s qualifications for pop stardom, in other words, rely less on talent, hard work, and practice, and more on “image” and star-quality these days. (Interestingly, a fact that seems clearer in <a href="http://www.the-beauty-blog.com/american-idol-makeover-secrets.html">American Idol</a> than in the other Cowell productions.) But it’s clear from even a cursory reading of Susan Boyle’s biography that she has been a singer for her entire adult life, singing in church choirs in her village, and even appearing on a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FnUgX1785OA">recording</a> ten years ago. This isn’t an overnight sensation, but someone who has plodded along as a working artist, studying with others when she could, holding her dream inside her for her 47 years. She hasn’t been singing in her shower, she’s been performing in public weekly, just like thousands of talented singers in churches and community productions everywhere.<br /><br />The fact that anyone could be surprised once she opened her mouth says nothing about Susan or the quality of her talent, but speaks volumes about US. We all like to think we don’t judge by appearances, but this is about more than that even. Everything in Susan’s life works against who we “think” someone with her talent should be: looks, yes, but also age, weight, lifestyle, and even geography. Every article mentions that she has cats, every article comments on her mode of dress, and every article mentions that she’s “never been kissed”. These classifications build upon the stereotype of the “spinster-singleton-small-town-cat-lady” in order to increase the “surprise” that she manages to sing so beautifully.<br /><br />How different the story would be, however, without the game show. Susan Boyle is a very good singer (from the 2 songs I’ve heard, anyway), but is she good enough to get discovered any other way but through a game show? Well maybe, if “getting discovered” was about talent anymore….it’s not. We tell ourselves that we live in a meritocracy, that having enough talent or enough drive is enough to get us through the magical doors of fame and fortune, but the gatekeepers no longer care about talent, or drive, or hard work: they care about marketability and profit. And Susan Boyle is marketable, but only based on our wicked assumptions that people we have collectively deemed “ugly” can’t possess world-class talents. After all, would you have forwarded her video as an “inspiration” had a <a href="http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/thedishrag/2009/04/it-had-to-happen-and-it-hasthe-chicago-tribune-has-posted-this-susan-boyle-makeover-i-wont-let-simon-cowell-take-her-to-h.html">stylist</a> tweezed those bushy eyebrows and tarted her up a bit first? Be honest: would you?<br /><br />And really, what IS “ugly”? The popular and quirky television show <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ugly_Betty">Ugly Betty</a> would have us believe that <a href="http://media.photobucket.com/image/america%20ferrara/mrduckbear/tvshowgirls/americaferrara.jpg?o=12">America Ferrara</a>, a stunning girl dressed up in goofily clashing outfits, braces, and glasses represents the tv version of “ugly”. But there’s the rub: modern beauty is as <a href="http://www.metacafe.com/watch/450700/celebs_with_and_without_makeup_beware/">manufactured</a> as Betty’s supposed ugliness is. Look to the plethora of makeover shows for your evidence of how simple it is to turn a hot mess into hotness. Anyone with enough money can be beautiful these days, it has little to do with genetic gifts or healthy living. Our ultimate shallowness and vapidity has eclipsed us, and found us lacking: few of us qualify to be “beautiful” by today’s standards, unless we’ve opted for plastic surgery or spend a large part of our budgets on makeup and hair products. Meanwhile, <a href="http://209.85.173.132/search?q=cache:Vv5lghbJ47QJ:bono.house.gov/UploadedFiles/BONO%2520-%2520IMPACT%2520Act%2520Fact%2520Sheet.doc+eating+disorders+doubled+since+1960%27s&cd=1&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=us&client=firefox-a">eating disorders</a> in young girls have doubled since the 1960’s, 12.1 million <a href="http://www.plasticsurgery.org/Media/Press_Kits/Procedural_Statistics.html">Cosmetic Surgeries</a> were performed in 2008, and the latest <a href="http://www.newsweek.com/id/191247">trend</a> for 5-year old girls is mani / pedi parties in spas. Focus on appearance has obscured all other qualities a human may have. We buy the books based on the covers and don’t even crack the spine.<br /><br />We all love rooting for the underdog, but I think we fail to see our own patterns in creating the very condition of underdog-ness. Our expectations and habits dictate what we listen to and whom we pay attention to. We’re all guilty of judging on first appearances and buying based on the packaging. Even in the art world, looks and <a href="http://brooklyndays.blogspot.com/2007/06/why-current-art-world-youth-obsession.html">youth</a> play a part in what artists make it into the best galleries & museums, though neither should have anything to do with marketing artwork. With the monolithic entertainment culture that has grown up in America and spread like a viral video throughout the world, we only see talent that has already been manufactured for us, with little of the inherent creativity of the artist left to shine through. A band’s marketing and image sells them as much, if not more than, the music itself does, whether on a major label or an indy start-up. We rely on hype and PR instead of our own instincts and tastes, and only find underdogs after they’ve been discovered by someone else and groomed for our consumption AS underdogs. We’ve lost our sense of discovery.<br /><br />So, I would like to issue a challenge, to anyone reading this. Go out and see the bands you’ve never heard of, buy art from local artists, go out and DISCOVER the talent in YOUR community instead of waiting for them to “get big” and then pretending you went to their early shows. Hunt out the underdogs in your own community and SUPPORT them. Every single community on this planet, large and small, urban or rural, has talented people in it. If you miss them while you’re gobbling up the latest Hollywood offering and downloading the next Billboard hit, then ultimately, the one missing out is you. Susan Boyles are all over: go forth and find them.lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-11426051981563382982008-12-12T08:19:00.000-08:002008-12-12T08:44:41.075-08:00Do the Right ThingGov. Mike Huckabee just wrote a book called "Do The Right Thing". What an ironic title, unless by "Right" he's referring to the right wing. How can someone argue that "the right thing" is that semantics are more important than people? His need to keep the definition of marriage the same as it has been in relatively recent years overrides the right of a gay man to be at his lover of 25 years' death bed, for just one example? Does the "right thing" include killing abortion doctors, I wonder? <br /><br />Let's not forget what marriage began as: a business transaction. A transfer of property (i.e., the woman) from one family to another. Sometimes in exchange for a few cows. Now, I'm as glad as anyone that the concept has evolved, but then again, that's the point: it has EVOLVED. Marriage is not an institution that has been static for hundreds of years like they want us to believe. Not allowing it to evolve further is false logic with more than a dash of cruelty. <br /><br />No one on the religious right has ever been able to clearly explain how gay people marrying one another manages to harm marriage. R and I don't even have a marriage license -- Colorado is a commonlaw state, so we're married if we say we are. But then again, I don't want a marriage license if all my gay friends can't have one, anyway. My argument always has been, why pay the state to ratify our relationship? Especially since 100 years ago we wouldn't have been allowed to get married anyway!<br /><br />What harms marriage more: abstinence-only education causing teens to get pregnant and then married too young, or gay marriage? I would argue the former. Allowing two people who love one another to commit themselves legally and have the same rights as everyone else could only be wrong if you're crazy. And really, believing that a virgin gave birth and a man rose from the dead would be considered crazy in today's world, so why allow that mythology to influence the removal of someone's human rights?lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-90619981063158905732008-10-16T17:58:00.000-07:002008-10-16T18:03:15.928-07:00Nathrop<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5D_ehpkg-NAg6j9DmBhzXcmUWsF-8GZuOI8QsSDDt6GzFLS7oMr0sch5qkqs1E-lE2QtZ-tnbJty0vkIx-G_y6wxn0ZqmaNWCqrQLPeCBMkYL0m_f9FKOl2r0u4ZpxwwYYu39Gg/s1600-h/IMG_3977.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5D_ehpkg-NAg6j9DmBhzXcmUWsF-8GZuOI8QsSDDt6GzFLS7oMr0sch5qkqs1E-lE2QtZ-tnbJty0vkIx-G_y6wxn0ZqmaNWCqrQLPeCBMkYL0m_f9FKOl2r0u4ZpxwwYYu39Gg/s400/IMG_3977.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5257921597227492418" border="0" /></a><br />Yep, it's true, I wrote a poem, my first in years. Enjoy.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It’s so quiet here, it’s loud.<br /><br />That highway sound? Wind in pines. Maybe a touch of river. The high note.<br />Aspens shaking off their bling with a rattle. A yip in the distance.<br /><br />Imperceptible snowflakes bite your fingers with a tinny pop. So icy,<br />They burn like a needle dipped in a candle flame’s<br /><br />Dance<br /><br />But not long enough for it to hurt more than my lover’s spiny beard<br />Against my parted lips.<br /><br /><br />The yip is now a cackle, rising<br />From mezzo to screeching soprano in a round of shrieking hoots.<br />Hyenas have more dignity. Coyotes put low rent porno flicks to shame.<br /><br />Behind, the house groans and hums. Refrigerator clicks into a purr, heater rattles<br />A rude cacophony lobbying against the symphony outside.<br /><br />But it is warmer.<br /><br />Chalk cliffs draped in a thick fur wrap of dusty clouds, transferring Colorado<br /><br />Into<br /><br />China<br /><br /><br />I step away, fumble<br />With my camera for a useless<br />Snapshot,<br />Then return to find them gone. Moved on to caress Mt. Princeton beyond, to tickle Cottonwood canyon whose warm waters still rise like steam from my skin.<br /><br />I am the lone witness to an infant storm.<br /><br />Warmer calls.lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-53115494412949747842008-08-18T19:04:00.000-07:002008-08-18T19:05:31.538-07:00Food for Thought<object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ek3jAkx9m10&border=0&rel=0"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ek3jAkx9m10&border=0&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="350"></embed></object>lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-62068844861150587192008-03-13T23:40:00.000-07:002008-03-13T23:55:31.036-07:00Accidental Mash-UpsWe're listening to <a href="http://www.kurtandersen.com/">Kurt Anderson</a> interviewing <a href="http://www.susansontag.com/">Susan Sontag</a> on PRI's <a href="http://www.studio360.org/episodes/2008/02/29">Studio 360</a> podcast with <a href="http://denveropenmedia.org/">Denver Open Media</a> on in the background on teevee. They're playing <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=icB7_Lh_M-w">A Charlie Brown Christmas</a>, for some reason. <br /><br />You haven't lived until you've heard Susan Sontag's voice coming out of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucy_van_Pelt">Lucy Van Pelt's</a> mouth. <br /><br />Truly sublime.lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-83941374307224131812007-11-04T01:18:00.000-07:002007-11-04T01:19:54.563-07:00There's one image that has stayed with meI found the puppy hit on a dirt road, while out riding my horse. He was still breathing, just panting, really, but couldn't move. The image that stays in my head is of his staring eye, with dirt and gravel stuck to it...if he didn't have it in him to blink, he just wasn't going to make it. The thing I can't fully remember was shooting him -- it's possible that an adult did, but in my memory it's always been me. It was horrible, but by that time I'd seen animals I loved bitten by rattlesnakes, found them rotting under a tree when they didn't come home from pasture, watched our cow frozen over in the lake all winter long when she fell through the ice...you kind of wind up with this frontier view of reality. It's almost less painful to kill it than to watch the suffering.<br /><br />I think I was much tougher as a kid than I am as an adult. It's all that therapy -- I was pretty damned shut off to anything as messy as feelings. I was one of those girls that would kick your ass if you pushed me. My family life was pretty shitty and tense, lots of passive AND active aggression going on. At that time, I think my parents were both having affairs, they barely noticed what I did. I could get on a horse and be gone morning 'til night, no one ever noticed. It was a beautiful kind of freedom in a way, but came with the heavy knowledge of absolute vulnerability. <br /><br />Don't get me wrong -- I think my parents were fundamentally good, but seriously fucked up at the time. Oddly, my brothers' memory of the family is like an entirely different family -- they're 7 & 8 years older than me, so they remember happier times. <br /><br />It's freaky, but I sort of related to the whole Harris / Klebold anger when they shot up Columbine. I was alienated enough to fantasize about horrific things happening to my peers, but thank GOD I didn't ever seriously consider acting on it. I wasn't crazy, at least. <br /><br />And I'm also thankful I got therapy before Prozac was so in vogue. I honestly think it saved my life. Having someone to be accountable to every week was almost a new thing. I would have OD'd on some damned substance, or crashed my car speeding, or done some other self-destructive thing until I was dead, at that point. <br /><br />Wow, where the hell did all that come from? Can you tell I'm bored? Babysitting a rave, which, luckily, I get to do from my studio...but the night after an opening, I just don't feel like workin'!<br /><br />Only four more hours....lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-59736613285474407752007-07-07T15:16:00.000-07:002007-07-07T15:17:22.620-07:00Just saw Michael Moore's Sicko<span style="font-family:sans-serif;font-size:85%;">Truly an amazing piece of work. Seeing the 9-11 rescue workers in Cuba was heartbreaking, as they were finally getting decent medical care that they were denied at home. And for THAT, our ridiculous gov't., in all their "wisdom", is investigating Mr. Moore, and very likely may press charges.<br /><br />Michael Moore has a way of making us laugh at this horrible stuff on the way to the truth, and for that part I think he may probably earn an Emmy. But this film is much more important than that, and the powers that be just don't want to talk about it, because in the end, we are getting SCREWED. Everyone has these horrible experiences with the insurance industry, either themselves or through friends, so it's really hard to refute this film in any way.<br /><br />The one thing I wish he'd spent more time on is the tax issue, the difference between what we and countries with national health care, because that's what the opposition will most likely talk about. It's a myth, though -- the difference in tax structure often isn't that different, a few countries pay a bit more but mostly it's just that we choose to spend our money invading countries that aren't a threat to us as opposed to taking care of our own people. It's shameless. Michael Moore asks the question "Who are we, as a people?" And after this film you really do wonder. We need to start making some noise; things are really wrong.<br /><br />I lost a friend to liver cancer a couple of months ago. He went down in about 4 months from diagnosis, all because he didn't have health insurance. He had had hepatitis C for years, untreated, then couldn't afford any kind of real treatment once they found the cancer. One of the big ironies is that 8 years before, this man had been the CEO of a big oil company, and had walked away from it all -- his family, his job -- because of mental illness and depression. He had spent that 8 years on the street, and just recently had fallen in love and been putting his life back together. He had made it his mission to educate every artist he knew about how to financially plan, how to be smart about their choices. Amazing, beautiful, smart man, who would still be alive if not for corporate greed.<br /><br />This movie should be required viewing for us all.</span>lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-24179894861080099352007-06-19T23:26:00.000-07:002007-06-19T23:28:37.941-07:00A Sweet Bug StoryWhen my best gallery ever was still open in Santa Fe, I used to go down and stay there for a week or so when installing a show, or sometimes just for fun. They had a lovely room above the gallery for the artists to stay in, and you could sit on the roof and smell the pinon and burning hickory from the restaurant next door. It was kind of magical.<br /><br />I became very good friends (still am) with one of the owners of the gallery, T. She and I were having a swell time hanging my show one night, drinking wine late into the evening and talking up a storm, when her adorable neighbor -- who had just moved in to open up a gallery behind hers -- joined in. P. was this lanky ex-skate-punk opening up a photo gallery in one of the alleys behind Canyon Road, and there seemed to be some chemistry and sparks between them. We stayed up 'til the wee hours getting a little drunk together, and while I felt a bit like a third wheel, I didn't really have anywhere else to go.<br /><br />T., who had lived in Santa Fe for years, was telling an incredulous P. and I about these bugs called "Children of the Earth" that looked like a fetus from the top. We were all laughing, but P. & I refused to believe it, and accused T. of exaggerating. She described them in detail, but we just couldn't see it.<br /><br />The next day, while T. was out running errands, I sat and watched the gallery. P. came in carrying a small jewelry box, and looking disappointed that T. wasn't there. Then he said, "Well, maybe it's better that you're here and she's not...do you think she would be totally weirded out if I gave her this"? He lifted the lid, and mounted carefully on cotton with T-pins were the very same<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jerusalem_cricket"> "children of the earth"</a> bugs we had doubted the night before. I smiled at him and said, "Any other girl would be weirded out...but T? She's gonna LOVE this."<br /><br />And she did.<br /><br />I think it's one of the most romantic things I've ever seen in my life.<br /><br />And I was really happy to get the opportunity to tell that story at their wedding. Best toast ever.lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-41777712007601703382007-04-20T22:08:00.001-07:002007-04-20T22:08:32.663-07:00Why are we still surprised?<span style=";font-family:sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >School shootings are becoming commonplace, almost. The only thing that shocks us is that each is more horrific, more brutal, than the last.<br /><br />I think we vastly underestimate how alienating this culture is to anyone who is different at all. The recent shooter's words in the video speak to class difference, and mark my words, there is a LOT of simmering anger in the "have-nots" that can and will explode if not dealt with in some way.<br /><br />The U.S. used to have a "war on poverty", now it's more like a "war on the poor". Our culture is jamming consumerism down people's throats, and at some point, we're going to vomit it up. If you watch MTV, (and kids do), the message is constantly hammered home that you are NOTHING if you don't have the look, the bling, the car.... People like Paris Hilton are famous ONLY for being rich (it can't possibly be her looks and talent, after all), and all the rhetoric against the poor makes it seem as if it's their fault. We have a sick culture, and a sick culture is bound to breed sick individuals.<br /><br />When Columbine happened, the earliest reports were saying that Klebold and Harris were "killing jocks". Even then, I said, "well, THAT was bound to happen, eventually". I was never shocked, never surprised, except maybe that it didn't happen sooner.<br /><br />I don't know, maybe my perspective is skewed because I was violently teased in school. I was spit upon, I was beat up, I had my head smashed into a piece of concrete. Why? Because I was different. Because I was smart, and liked to read, and didn't care about anything but drawing and horses. Maybe because we weren't as rich as the kids I went to school with. (And probably, in part, because I look Jewish, and in the uber-white suburbs of Denver, that was enough.) I learned early on to hate rich kids and jocks, too. I WAS that emotionally disturbed kid in high school, and I DID have liberal access to guns. Luckily, I never confused my fantasy life of revenge with real life, but who knows what could have happened if I were more mentally unstable? I look at these kids, and think, "that could have been me". Everyone focuses on hating these kids that do the shooting, but no one focuses on preventing the next one. No one looks at the root cause, or sees it as a societal problem, all the focus is on the individual. </span>lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-1172732706195929822007-02-28T23:04:00.000-08:002007-02-28T23:05:06.206-08:00ay-yi-yi....trying to change my evil ways before I make MYSELF physically ill. <br /><br />My big problem is, I'm neither strategic or tactical; I'm just not a planner. Life happens to me and I say yes to all of it. I've always been that way, sort of a "follow whatever opportunity comes your way" philosophy. The problem is, now there are too many opportunities, too many charities, too many people wanting a piece of me all the time, and I have no ability any more to say no, I lost it somewhere along the way. I'm trying to learn, but sometimes opportunities are too good (or too fun) to turn down. <br /><br />Case in point, right now: I'm in the midst of a residency, in this little war with the CSO staff, and have 3 incredibly difficult projects on my plate. Also still trying to wrap up the end of the gallery and prevent my business from completely falling apart in my absence while I'm off being an artist. The residency (and the 200 piece installation I'm trying to complete for it) is finished when the show opens March 15, I'll post more about it later when it isn't midnight, if I get time. Okay, THAT I knew about, but then two weeks ago a prestigious new curator called and wanted a piece, which of course, was promised to someone else, so I STUPIDLY told him I was in the midst of creating a similar but much larger piece (which was true, but I had barely begun), so he really, really wants it and I cave. Then the paper fashion show only started organizing and contacting the designers with dates a month ago, and as last-year's champs how can I say no to that? You see how it happens. Last night was the mayor's award for the arts; the place I have the residency won, so of course I organize all the kids to do a painting demo, because I'm asked, and of course it was a blast and an honor (and got my work in front of some very important people), and I'm not saying no to that, of course! And on...and on....seriously, I am leaving stuff out. <br /><br /><br />Phew...okay, sorry, didn't mean to vent. But jeez louise, I am freakin' stressed right now, and I really only have myself to blame. MUST SAY NO AT SOME POINT!<br /><br />If you're still reading this (and seriously, a part of me hopes you aren't), thanks for letting me blurt that all out, I needed to.lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-1172597380677608702007-02-27T09:26:00.000-08:002007-02-27T09:29:40.690-08:00wot a slacker!I know, I know, haven't written anything in a while since the depressive past few posts. I'll try to get back to it. In the meantime, please enjoy this short and charming tale of how Squish and I first met:<br /><br />Okay, how me and the hubby met: I was in choir in college, so in spite of being in the art department all the time I knew a lot of musicians. During a break in a 4 hour evening snooze-fest of a class, I walked into the hallway and started talking to one of my buddies from choir who was also in band, and he was talking to the first trombone, who was kinda cute. When my friend asked me how the class was, I doubled up my knuckle and dug it into my nostril in the universal mock-nose-picking gesture, and said, "it's like this", grinding my knuckle into my face, crossing my eyes, and pretending to drool. Future hubby / first trombone player apparently found it adorable. <br /><br />Instead of asking me out like a normal guy, though, he asked where I was showing my artwork, and I told him I was in a show that weekend, and maybe I'd see him there? He mistakenly assumed that I was asking him out on a date, and left depressed when I hadn't shown up. I showed up late because I had mistakenly assumed that when I asked the guy who I thought I was dating (mixed signals, I thought he was gay, now he's married to the girl who introduced us but I KNOW he's gay) and he brought another girl. <br /><br />Somehow it all worked out, and eventually future hubby actually asked me out on a real date.<br /><br />To which he showed up drunk, after another girl tried to prevent him from going out with me because SHE liked him so she spent the afternoon getting him all liquored up and tried to hijack him and take him to -- of all things -- a GRATEFUL DEAD show. Ugh! <br /><br />So, he shows up in his Dad's giant car, and proceeds to try to put my bike in the trunk, almost destroying it in the process, and I said, "maybe I'll drive". He had free tickets to Edward Scissorhands, so we went, but of course we both knew EVERYONE there (he worked at the local hipster record store, I worked at one of the only good nightclubs), and I was completely mortified, since he was not a smooth drunk. <br /><br />By that point, I was just enduring the date, trying to survive until the end, at which point I would be able to furtively avoid him in the hallways the way I did any number of other guys. But in the middle of the movie, when Anthony Michael Hall said, "I'd give my left nut to see that", something happened...future hubby yelled out, "Your left one?!" apropos of nothing, and the front four rows whipped around to see the heckler. At that point, I was hooked. <br /><br />So, that's the adorable and completely illogical story of our early attraction to one another. Inexplicable, no? Why ask why?lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-1165717916291389902006-12-09T18:30:00.000-08:002006-12-14T19:11:47.640-08:00I am sooooo not into Christmas this yearIn fact, every time I hear an x-mas song in a store (and really, can you enter a store without hearing an x-mas song?) I find myself gnashing my teeth. I feel downright resentful this year that I have to pretend I'm interested in a holiday that I've never much cared about, but especially in light of what I've been going through lately. I am just too sad to give a damn about Christmas this year, unfortunately, and I'm not one that's good at going through obligatory motions.<br /><br />What galls me, though, is this expectation from people that you <b>must</b> get into the "Christmas Spirit". I swear -- if you are the least bit honest about the fact that you're not feeling the cheer, people practically try to badger you into it. I actually screamed at my Mother (a certifiable loon when it comes to all things holiday) that I just don't give a rat's ass! I think the reason suicides go up at this time of year is just the damned <i>pressure</i> to participate in fake cheerfulness. <br /><br />I'm NOT cheerful right now. If I were, given what I've been going through, I would think there's something wrong with me. Meeting others' cheerfullness demands has not ever been high on my agenda in the first place, but this year in particular it's making me extremely testy. In fact, one particularly pushy and insincere person was going through the whole, "come on, what's wrong with you, everyone loves x-mas" routine with me, and I almost relished the look on his face when I said, "well, actually, one of my best friends just commited suicide". He had no idea what to say, and beat a hasty retreat. I hope it teaches him some compassion, where do people get off trying to tell others how they should feel?<br /><br />Sorry to be such a grinch. But thank you for allowing me the room to vent.lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-1164694418692423352006-11-27T22:08:00.000-08:002006-11-27T22:13:38.703-08:00elegy.we all just wanna know<br />why?<br />how?<br />when?<br />so many questions, not a<br />single<br />damned<br />answer.<br />each new theory a kernel<br />of hope, but no more<br />guaranteed<br />of correctness<br />than the last<br />or the first<br />or the next.<br /><br />can't you reach out,<br />somehow<br />past everything<br />past the grave<br />that isn't even there<br />to visit?<br /><br />you wouldn't be there, anyway.<br />you would be<br />here<br />are you?<br /><br />your silence<br />is<br />an unavoidable cruelty<br />althought the one certain<br />thing<br />is that you<br />did not<br />intend for it to be.<br /><br />or did you?<br />unending<br />questions.<br /><br />no answers.<br />ever.<br />anywhere.lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9055118.post-1163972413831893412006-11-19T13:39:00.000-08:002006-11-19T16:58:39.736-08:00PillsAnd here I thought my anger at pharmeceutical companies couldn't get any worse. <br /><br />I feel incredibly lucky that years ago, when I went through a 2-year bout of severe depression, it wasn't fashionable to dump pills on the problem. My therapist held out pills as the stick, not the carrot -- as in, "if you don't improve, I will put you on anti-depressants". It was a powerful motivator to deal with my problems through talk therapy. I think the current trend towards prescribing medication so easily and quickly means that many people never get to the root cause of their depression and learn to fix with it. Any coping skills I have I learned in that time of my life, would I have tackled the hard issues if I was medicated? I don't think I would.<br /><br />I know dozens of people on Prozac, literally dozens. It's a shortcut panacea. We have pathologized pain to the point that no one wants to deal with having any, but nothing good in life comes without a little pain. The hardest thing is watching people struggle with these medications instead of the real issues causing their depression. B. wanted off the pills, and struggled with finding a balance between a level of pain he could tolerate and the level of medication he could handle, for as long as I knew him. Would the outcome have been different if he had been encouraged to feel his emotions and struggle through unencumbered by mood-altering substances? I wonder.lynnxehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18079164761403659917noreply@blogger.com1