How They Dream

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There are times when I need to breathe. Just remembering that taxes me to the limit these days. I feel the fuse getting shorter, the patience wearing thin. It’s not enough just to count to ten. Ten hundred seems a little lacking, too. I want to sleep for days.
Last night was supposed to be yoga. I was in the car, mentally murdering other motorists, hurrying home knowing, nagging I forgot something. Class came to remembrance. Between the bad back, painful promotion, unofficial office relations, public coming into the private, and the everything else, I haven’t had a moment to even think calm, let alone be it. I want to sleep for weeks.
Last night I dreamed of honey, slow and golden. I dreamed of calico cats and birthday presents for little boys. Green tea by the water’s edge. I woke to the sensation of drowning and dark. I want to sleep for years.

“I sleep just to dream her. ” ~ David J. Matthews
“Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hands?” ~ John C. Mayer
“I come to you in restless sleep where all your dreams turn bittersweet.” ~ Natalie A. Merchant.

Believe in Bootlegs

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I’ve never been one to get  too involved with the great bootleg debate. Either you believe in taping or you don’t. Either you see it as a way to share live music or you see it as a way to steal from said artist. Whatever. I know where I stand. My first introduction to boots was my husband. I had just seen Natalie Merchant for the very first time (Le Spectrum, Montreal October 1999). Kisa found “the show” for me and finagled a trade. I had no clue what that meant and was in awe of the idea that everything Natalie said would be mine for keeps in the form of a cd I could listen to over and over again. Her reading of Freddie the Fish in French, her Happy Birthday to Me inebriation, Hey Jack (twice), the swearing – yes, Natalie swears. It was like I was back in Montreal, speaking bad French and sipping amazing coffee. When the cds arrived I could barely believe I could relive one of the best moments of my concert-going life. I was hooked. In my mind, because I was at this show I have a souvenir, a keepsake of a good time. Later I found a show I took my mother to. We had one of the best mother-daughter times I could ever ask for. On the recording I can hear kisa and mom helping me scream for a request… and at the end of the show when Natalie breathes “good night Portland” I know she is leaning down to smile at us.
Fast forward to last night. Kisa found a “secret” show that BubbleGum put on before the release of Continuum. An intimate show billed under a fake name. BG is like Natalie in that he likes to showcase his new songs to an unsuspecting audience, just to test them out. Just show up somewhere and play it out, play it for them. See how it all turns out. I am grateful for the recording. I am so busy the chances of “discovering” a secret show are next to nil. And the chances of BG or Natalie choosing my little town to drop in on is even less. So, having a boot of something I missed out on is awesome.
Here’s how I look at the great debate. If the artist supports taping it’s not stealing. The other angle is this – when I went to see BG I paid $4o (bt) for the ticket. I bought two shirts to the tune of $60 and you can bet I’ll buy every album he puts out from now on. How did this all start? I heard a bootleg of a Jimi Hendrix cover and was impressed. If I hadn’t heard the boot I wouldn’t have given BG a second look. I wouldn’t have spent $100+ in a single night. He gained a fan because he allowed someone to share. With me. 

So, I see bootlegs as a way to capture a I-Was-There moment. I see bootlegs as a way to alleviate that I-Missed-Out feeling. Finally, I see bootlegs as a way to get to know an artist I never would have taken a chance on otherwise. One final word – share the music. If it’s not yours don’t sell it.

36 Children

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36 childrenKohl, Herbert. 36 Children. New York: New American Library, 1967.

I read this one in two days. Not only is it a short book, but it’s a simple read; a good read. As I read it I wondered if anyone ever tried to make a movie of it. Everyone loves those “based on a true story” dramas and this one has all the tantalizing details. Kohl is white and young and thinks outside the box when teaching (think Dead Poets Society). His students are angry black teenagers from wrong side of the tracks (if you can call poverty stricken East Harlem the “wrong side”). Kohl reaches them through creativity, sensitivity and an unwillingness to conform. There’s even romance involved since it was at this time Kohl meets his future wife. It takes him time to earn the students’s trust but…by the time he does his bonus is friendship. The kids respond to him; soon the teaching and learning works both ways between students and teacher. One of my favorite parts was when the kids put together a newspaper and distribute it school-wide. When they receive criticism (narrow minded, of course) they continue to produce the paper. They just don’t distribute it to the powers that be.
Another unique detail of 36 Children that I adored is Kohl’s inclusion of his students’s letters and stories (complete with illustrations). He gives them vitality and personality by including more than his view of them. It’s as if to say “you don’t think these kids are talented? Don’t take my word for it. Read for yourself, then!” There is imagination and intelligence…and potential in every word.
It’s not a fairytale story. It doesn’t have the happily-ever-after ending. Kohl learns that one year with the students isn’t enough. The “System” is bigger than he bargains for and it can easily undo all the good (= trust) he has established. In some cases that’s exactly what happens. It’s win-some, lose-some.

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter called, “Teachers and Teaching Tales” (p 231).

Acting Up

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Who else watched Dave on House last night? I have to admit I’ve never watched an episode of House before and the only reason I watched last night was Dave. Dave and Dave alone. I’ve heard he’s an okay actor (I have yet to rent the kiddie flicks) so I wanted to check him out. I’m a big fan of the man and if you have ever heard his life story you know why. Humility, humor, and heart all there.
House was…well…something else. During a concert Dave will stutter and say silly things that leave me questioning his state of mind. Last night was either brilliant or more evidence that the guy has a screw rattled. He played the part of a savant perfectly. His smiling face was vacant and childlike, scared and innocent. My only problem was trying to separate the musician from the actor. At one point I couldn’t help but blurt out “Oh no, don’t shave Dave’s head!”

Seeing Dave in an acting role was cool. It didn’t make me a fan of House. I didn’t get Dr. House at all. I spent more time wondering if he was always “like that” or was it just this episode? Either way, I watched for Dave.

Ego Checked

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I started a blog this morning about how much I needed a mulligan, a do-over for the day. It was all about me. It started off bad thanks to a bad nights sleep. I should clarify – a bad nights not sleep. If it wasn’t the wind, it was the cat. Both keeping me up, both making me insomniac. Later, I dreamed of Chessie – swept away by a hurricane’s fury.
Maybe overtiredness is howI cut myself opening the mail at 7am. A papercut gusher before my first sip of coffee. Not nice. I still shaken by a cat’s cries drowned by the wind.
Then, there’s kisa…He emailed me yesterday saying, “no gym.  back sorta hurts…” By the time I saw him that night he was hunched over in pain. He couldn’t even stand straight. By bedtime he was reduced to crawling up the stairs growling, “how humiliating!” He didn’t want me to even look at him.
Today started out being a selfish ItsAllAboutMe day. I had a night of insomnia and crazy wind-induced dreams. In the end is was all about taking care of kisa. I forgot about Me, Myself & Moi. Maybe that’s the key – whenever I’m feeling too much Ego, whenever I’m all about Me I’ll take care of someone else.  

rain

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I’m hoping next week is nothing but rain. I have the week off and want nothing but dark skies, gray days. I only know of one friend who adores gray the way I do. I want the rain as an excuse to practice yoga for more than an hour at a time. I learned some variations to sun salutations at Now and Zen Yoga’s flow class. I want to practice the movements for more than 15 minutes. I want dreariness to justify reading ten chapters on the couch, a cup of coffee within my reach. I need to open the darkness, crawl inside and heal what ails me. I’m looking forward to days of solitude; personal vows of silence.

International Campaign for Tibet

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TibetI haven’t been keeping track of the charities that have contacted me but I always notice when the International Campaign for Tibet packet arrives. They always send a string of Tibetan prayer flags that are so colorful and beautiful that I can barely bear to throw them out. Maybe it’s because they are handmade. Maybe because I know paper like this is someone’s livelihood. Whatever the reason I’ve kept three strings of flags so far.
Also included in my packet from ICT is a “letter” from the Dalai Lama. I’m called “friend.” I think I would be a better friend if I write to Richard Gere, Chairman of the Board of Directors, to voice my outrage over China’s behavior. ITC even writes me the letter, the “urgent reply memo,” that all I have to do is sign for the “Mobilization of Tibet.” It goes to the State Department and Ms. Condoleezza herself…

I do believe the poeple of Tibet have a right to maintain their spiritual culture and/or religion.
I do believe any threat to a culture and/or religion is an affront to all.

helfen Sie mir

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I firmly believe that all things happen for a reason. Everything has a purpose in the grand scheme of things. Take yesterday, for example. A coworker called me to say he couldn’t make it to work. Begrudgingly I threw on clothes and went in three hours early. Driving through rain only made me angrier. The roads weren’t treacherous. My 40 minute drive wasn’t hindered by weather. Meanwhile, my coworker took the whole day off because his 15 minute drive was compromised by rain. Rain! The whole day off. That didn’t help my already fiery disposition. Kisa called to “check in” three hours later. His drive to work was the same as mine. He knew I’d be mad.
But, now, 24 hours later I’m looking at the rain differently. If I hadn’t been called to work early I wouldn’t have been able to paint my office. I wouldn’t have been able to leave that same office three hours early. Getting home at 3:45 in the afternoon allowed me solitude, silence. When I first got there I “shoveled” the slush from the walkways and driveways. It was heavy work but I poured my anger into the exercise, relished the exertion. When I finally came inside I didn’t bother turning up the heat, turning on any lights. I didn’t idly pick up clothes,straighten cushions or start laundry as is my custom when I have time to myself. Instead, I stretched out on the couch and in the dying daylight lost myself in a book about a real war. The personal battle of my life faded into the distance as I read accounts of World War I battle. It turns out my coworker gave me 145 minutes of time to tune out.

I called my mother this morning. As I dialed the digits I steeled myself for a battle of a different kind; we don’t always see eye to eye or even heart to heart. I was ready to be defensive and demanding. Always on guard and emotionally gated. Things happen for a reason. I’m glad I called. I broke down and told her every little heartache, every little I-want-to-hari-kiri (seppuku) moment. I let it all out in a flow of faith. I wasn’t electric with anger. I wasn’t raining rants. Calm became me. Heartache turned to homesick and we talked about her upcoming visit. Logistics aside, I need family around me right now. It’s going to be okay. Better than okay. The source of my angst can’t control me forever. Sooner or later things will happen. They will happen for a reason.

Death of the Ball Turret Gunner

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JarrellJarrell, Randall. “The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner.” The Complete Poems.  New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1969. 144.

Randall Jarrell has a section in his Complete Poems just for gunners. While this poem is only five lines long, it packs a punch. Evoking images of motherhood and innocence, twisting to violence and death. It is a journey. The last line so disturbed me. Read for youself and see. For once I will not spoil it by spelling it out.
I will be honest, having never faced any war of a political nature, I looked up turret just to make sure it matched what my mind was seeing. It did. That didn’t make reading this emotional poem any easier.

BookLust Twist: From More book Lust’s chapter on Poetry Pleasers (p188).

risparmi me

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Today I painted my office. Calming barely-there blues and into-the-void-nothing-nothing white. I needed to be swallowed up by the paint and have it spit back out a whole new me, myself & moi. Someone said I was being boring with the brushes. Someone else asked about my blood pressure. Was I surviving the seething? No. Not really. 24 hours and I-Can’t-Come-In-Because-It’s-Raining hasn’t help.
But, painting helped. Somewhat.
What I really want is to be back among the lupines. I want to lay belly down in the tallest of purples and pinks and drink in their scent. Inhale their unconditional love. I want the sun to go down, the fireflies to come out and the diplomatic darkness to douse my fire of fury. I want to hold hands in the descending twilight, close my eyes and talk about houses, hula hoops and hope. Drink wine and laugh about nothing just to laugh outloud.
Just to say we could.
I want to tickle AT and hold SR close, just to be comforted and cocooned by their innocence.
I don’t know if I’ll survive the conflagration in the coming weeks. I am afraid of what my barely contained electric anger is capable of sparking. My hands shake when I think about the voltage of revenge I could unleash. I’ve got it all right here and like I said, barely contained. I fear I might lose control.
I tried running last night and it was a mess. I was a mess. I dropped my music, lost my groove, fell out of step, choked back vomit, and barely made it through 31 minutes. I wanted to sweat more so the tears could come and be camouflaged. Nothing felt right. Nothing is right right now.
Bottom of the barrel: 2.96

Waking to the Reality

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I had bad dreams last night. Bad to the point of nightmare, and scary to the point of DidIReallyDoThat? I woke up not knowing which reality was mine – the night visions or the day truths.  I learned something yesterday – something that has me seething twice as terrible today. My barely contained anger has noWhere to go, noWay to be released…so it bubbles in my brain, thrashes like a live wire. Someone tried to help me with the Where and Way but the suggestion is too benign for how electric I am. Right now.

Here’s the thing. You complained in public. You went outside the We Can Handle This Here and got the There involved. You told your side of the story – never mind how twisted and untrue it all is. You talked so horrible until you were told this would ALL be in the open. Everyone would know what you said. Suddenly, you wanted your mommy. Suddenly, you wished you could take it all back. Sad but true. Sad but you. Here’s what I have to say in retaliation (seething aside). The Gloves are off. You told your tale, we’ll tell ours. Yes, we have stories to tell. Documents and documents of stories to tell. We’ve been keeping track, keeping score. There is a price to pay for going public. Don’t think your dirty laundry is your dirty little secret. We’ll go there, too.

“anyone lived in a pretty how town”

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Cummings, E.E. “anyone lived in a pretty how town.” Poems 1923-1954. New York: Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc. 1954, 370.ee cummings

I’ve said before that sights and sounds are indicative of times gone by. The smell of freesia will make me think of Ruby even though the sprays we bought together are more than 10 years gone. Words work the same way. Cummings wrote about anyones and noones and someones, giving them voices, feelings, life. When I was in college I wrote a story about a Somebody and a Nobody. My professor called it “slickly professional” implying plagiarism to the point I had to prove myself. (Thanks to Cummings I remember this like it was yesterday.) I dragged my Him into —-‘s office and in a trembling, yet defiant voice, announced “THIS is my Somebody.” Did I remind this professor of Cummings with my somebodys and nobodys? I certainly wasn’t as melodic as Cummings! I didn’t write with the same fluidity and beauty, either.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust’s chapter on Poetry Pleasers (p. 188).

Selected Poems 1957-1967

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Hughes, Ted. “Wind”. Selected Poems 1957-1967. New York: Harper & Row, 1974. 13.

Ted Hughes

I trembled at the very thought of this poem. I do not like the wind. Never have, never will. I knew the landscape of Hughes’s words would be dark and terrifying. I almost couldn’t read them. I am more than familiar with gulls bent against the wind, life thrown about; and of houses that tremble to the point of coward. I know of the foreboding, the violence. Hughes not only puts me at the scene. He puts me home.

BookLust Twist: Pearl does no more than include Hughes in her list of “Poetry Pleasers” from More Book Lust (p. 188).