My Boyfriend Rain

I love the rain,
And he likes me
Lulls me to bed so patiently
He fills my senses
With sweet scents and
Calming sounds so pleasingly
He tells me how to wash away
A day, today or everyday
Let go, he says
Then shows me how
To let it roll
Roll and roll and roll away
He waits for me
To give up for him
To close my eyes
And give into him
With breath like that I can't resist
Not as his soothing sounds persists
To sleep, he says and I obey
Its time to roll away this day

Never Enough

We all do it
We try harder than we should
We stay longer than we ought
We give more than we've got

So...
When we become exhausted...
When we end up broken hearted...
When our dreams have died...

Why can't we walk away?

Instead we
Stay broken hearted
Stay chasing dreams
Stay where we never should be

We stay at the chance
of Hope
of Love Rekindled
of Passions Found
of Dreams Come True

Because... because... walking away... is giving up. Giving up on where it all began.

So I find
myself hanging on to possiblity
myself broken hearted longer than I ought to be
myself choosing pain for it's potential

Enough should probably be enough
But somehow ... it never is

Something and Nothing

Maybe I'm just looking for a reason to write or maybe an exhibit actually got me....

Beyond knowing that Charles Allis had a factory in Milwaukee and was an art collector, I don't know much.  The mansion, Charles' home for seven years turned library turned museum and historic site, housed a variety of displays - some his, some not. Though his life was brief within these walls, one exhibit trapped him in this time, this place.

His bedroom was dark. The shades drawn on an already cloudy day. Musty as old houses always are. 100 years of smell in one place. A simple, minimally furnished room. The bed. The fireplace. A few steps to the center of the room and I realize there isn't much to look at. In my periphery I catch a change in light within the attached bathroom behind me. I spin. All seems normal. Again, I take to the center of the room and look towards the mantel. It's hardly seconds before I sense movement again in the same place there was nothing. I can feel it behind me. This room is not about what's there, rather what's not. He's here. He never left.

Startled. A crashing tin sounds the empty room. Loud. The sound rings bigger than the room itself. It's behind me again. And I spin to nothing again. No matter where I am there is something and nothing behind me. The sounds bring me to a derelict factory. Perhaps, Charles own plant devastated by modernity. Run down and forgotten as most factories exist today. Between the echoes of clanging metal, in the silence I hear the machines waiting for life.

He's here and he's bothered by what has come of his livelihood. His ghost has seen today. His ghost has brought today to this room. It haunts him while he haunts me. There's a draw to the bathroom tub and I can't help but feel like he died there. I feel like I could die there. Swallowed by the past. My chest is a little tight and reality seems far away.

It doesn't take long to put the exhibit together. Built-in surround system with localized sound effects. The bathroom light mocked by a projector behind frosted glass creating subtle and sudden changes in the environment. Just enough to make you second guess your sanity. Even knowing that though - I had a moment of being caught in the whispers of the past and the promise of an afterlife, and it kinda creeped me out.

More info: Charles Allis Art Museum

Peanuts on a Plane

It was a holiday. The kind of holiday that family congregates and reminisces. I realize that could be any holiday and I suppose that’s why I can’t tell you which one and won’t attempt. Memory serves no indication of location or season, so I’m sticking with “It was a holiday”.

As all familial conversations do, the topics circled and circled and finally landed on travel. I’m sure an aunt was nervous about how her stomach would handle her upcoming cruise, which might have led to the conversation about various methods of vacationing. To this day, I have never vacationed on the water. Cruise ship travel is foreign to me. I might have said that aloud. It’s all together possible that my confession caused another aunt to admit to never having boarded a plane.

But here, here is where I remember. I remember that whatever holiday with whichever aunts (there are many!) in whatever roundabout way of conversation led me to telling them all about the first time I was ever on a plane.

My first flight was MKE to Jamaica with a friend’s family when I was a freshman in high school, in a thunderstorm no less, but that was not the story I told them. I told them the story of the first time I was on a plane. A different story all together.

I remembered being at a very young age, I’m talking pre-school young. I remember walking onto the plane and being greeted by friendly flight attendants. I remember fastening my buckle and how big it felt in my tiny child hands. We had peanuts, I definitely remember that. But this is where my memory ends.

Probably at the sound of my voice and the shape of my story, my mother’s ears perked up and she yelled out across the room to call my bluff. You see, my mom knows that we weren’t the kind of family to travel by plane. Ever. To anywhere. We were always a family of five driving a minivan with a pop-up camper in tow. The thing is... I know this fact too, which is why it came out of my own mouth as uncertain memory. It didn’t make sense. I’ll admit that and my mother thought she caught me. I could tell by the gloating excitement nestled under her tone. The words she yelled out, the words I could hear excitement poking through, were “Mary, you were never on a plane when you were little.”

I shook my head, maybe even slapped my knee and insisted that I had. I described again and again how much I remembered but that I didn’t remember going anywhere. It’s not that it was because we went somewhere and I have a failed memory (though this story may not disprove THAT theory), it’s because we really didn’t go anywhere. I remember we boarded, ate our peanuts and left.

I may have been red in the face at this point, persisting with my mother in front of my 900 aunts as they watched in disbelief. After all, mothers would know whether or not their 3 year old was boarding a plane alone. Minutes (feeling like hours) into my insistence, my mother’s face finally went soft. Her eyes sparkled the sparkle of recognition. She then told me about a daycare teacher that used to take us all on really cool field trips. She realized my memory was one of them.

I think about that memory now and it saddens me a bit. How travel has changed in 20 years, there’s no way a three year old today would be able to sit and eat peanuts on a plane to nowhere. More importantly, that a three year old would never have the opportunity twenty years later to disprove their upbringing to their very own mother.

 Today, I also can’t help to think ….. Which old family friend arrived at the airport that day that my daycare provider just had to pick up mid-shift, kids in tow? “Field trip” Right….

Wait, there's anatomy in my Easter basket

Soaring

Dam Square Reaper

In all the books, they tell you to go to Dam Square to people watch. It's a beautiful day - 55 and sunny. People sit along the fringe. Most town squares are filled with street performers, musicians and magicians alike. Not today. Today it is five morbid costumes standing on milk cartons. The reaper, two V for Vendettas, a sad clown and a hell raiser type. No one approaches them, nor do they engage the passing by. Instead they each just stand there, on their crates being morbidly ignored.

*sigh* the life of a ghoul.

Bested by the Bixi

So I may be a nerd...

Ok, maybe just a failed nerd.

Failed because it took me over two years to successfully acquire the most powerful nerd-tool available. Last month, I finally earned my St. Paul Public Library Card. An important merit badge of nerd-dom.

But when I finally get around to 'going' there, I 'go' all out nerd... with my new free license to knowledge.... What did I check out on loan?

Travel books.

NERD!

Travel books on a then-upcoming trip to Montreal. Internet searching is painfully slow here. But a book! A glorious book! I can take that along in my travel bag. I won't even start in on how useful the pocket sized, folded, waterproof map will be!

I spent a good week skimming those pages and geeking myself up.

My legs hit French colonized soil. The book only came out while I was afoot in the city. Pointing my toes in the right direction. That little laminated piece of illustrated city - sooo useful. I knowledgeably walked that whole freaking city.

Once Steph joined me our strides carried us down to the Vieux-Port (Old Port) in Vieux-Montréal (Old Montreal) along the Fleuve Saint-Laurent (Saint Laurence River). Yes, that is all the French I learned. 17th Century building span the waterfront of the Old city. Towering behind that wall of history is modernism in full force. G-Force even. Glass ribboned skyscrapers lurking behind the Roman Catholic figures lining the Port. As all rivers do, the St. Laurence seemed to run forever. We needed a better way to cover further ground.

All throughout Montreal, you see these:

Commuter bike rental stations. The Bixi. Directions in French, of course. I searched my photographic memory (exaggerated for the sake of the story) for flashes of the Bixi. I vaguely remembered a blurb saying something about them being $5 for a half hour, but that $5 can get you a whole day of riding if you manage to check in at one of the stations within that 30 minute limit. Of course, that article was in the book that I left on my living room table, not the book in the bag that straddled my aching shoulder...

We're women of the gambling nature, so we put all our money on my vague flash and let it ride...literally. We start shoving credit cards into the French machine and pushing any button that leads to anywhere. At one point the screen reads $250.00. The four eyes between the two of us grew wide for a second, but the trust was deep and the idea was grand. Continued to button mash until a receipt printed with a numeric code at the bottom.

Bingo. Punch in our code. Rip our bikes from the rack. And ROLL!

The Bixi stations are whizzing by on our right as the river dictates our route on the left. Well, as fast as anything can whiz when you are riding a 70 lb. tank of a bike with 4 inch tires. The stations flew too soon and frequent. We ride into our 20th minute and realize the trail is starting to look less 'commuter' and more 'leisure'. We start wondering where and when we may see the next station.

You see, despite it's appeal to foreigners, Montreal's Bixi is not a tourist system. As we pushed all those buttons and tried to decipher the giant red sign that flags each station, we realized one thing: There's no map. There is no way of visually identifying where this program takes you. A huge red sign with a big blank back to it. Perfect for a starred map of the city. But no. We had no point of reference. We also had no idea what would happen if we didn't make the 30 minute limit. Was that the context of the 250 dollar amount we saw stated in foreign text?

This was my brain at the 23 minute mark:

Hmm, another tunnel up ahead.

The trees are growing more dense.

I think the last Bixi was 3 minutes ago.

Uhhh... when is the next one?
I can't see one!

This is starting to look kinda rural....

Is that red thing....? Nope, not a Bixi sign...
Maybe we should turn BACK.

How long would it take us to turn around?

AHHHH it's minute 27!

My voice in my head was quivering, so I finally let my uncertainties vomit aloud. Steph's head was doing the same. We both just spent the last 10 minutes panicked, unable to enjoy the view. Some leisure ride! We decide to turn around and huff it to the sure thing we passed 4 minutes ago. Well, at least as much as one can huff it when you are riding a 70 lb. tank of a bike with 4 inch tires!

I spot the red flag of a sign and as we near..... The entire Bixi rack is full minus one spot! We strategize in quick, sharp tongues as we dismount our Bixis. She got her bike first and is less one minute than me, so if she checks in and then checks out really quick... I can follow suit. Fast forward button mashing!

We end up making the time crunch but our nerves are so shot, neither one of us are ecstatic about the idea of continuing on. BUT now we are stuck! The option of checking both bikes in at this location isn't possible with only one slot open. We forge ahead with no direction and diminishing fun. The sure bet would be to point our front wheels towards downtown. That's where we head.

An hour and a half time spent and we ditch our bikes at the first station we see with two stalls. We walk away knowing that our feet won't stress us out. Good old, reliable feet. And then we laugh.

We laugh at how great the idea was to explore a foreign city via bicycle. We giggle about how pedal commuter friendly this city is and how badly we wanted to be apart of that. We chuckle about how we thought we were figuring out this French system in our own stupid, American way.  But mostly, what got us to the point of tears was that we were bested by the Bixi. Somehow an idea that had so much potential for fun turned into the worst, most anxious moments of travels together.

The day continued on and ended up with us at a bar late a night with a friend of Steph's playing tour guide. The host had a short walk home, which left us to our own means of making it across town. We had learned the hard way that although bars stay open until 3am, the city metro latched the revolving doors at 1am. In a 2am moment of brilliance we both thought.... the Bixis! We thought we'd give it another shot since the money was good all day. We had the relief of knowing there was a station directly in front of the Chateau Versailles. We commit to that plan and start walking her friend home with the promise of seeing some stations along the way.

I see one, hmmm... Wierd, that's empty. There was a soccer game that night maybe everyone rode them out of downtown drunk? Another! Empty. Third? Empty. Just our luck... it must have been Bixi maintance night. Every single Bixi in the city had been collected as we downed beers while taxadermied ostriches loomed overhead.

DAMMIT it's 3am and we were bested by the Bixi's AGAIN!

So you'll understand why my heart jumped to my throat when I saw this driving home last Wednesday:

THE BIXIS ARE COMING!

And then on Thursday:

THE BIXIS ARE COMING!

THE BIXIS ARE HERE!

....at least MPLS' got a map: http://www.niceridemn.org/

Oh and I ended up with a big nerdy fine of those travel books.... what an idiot!

Happy Birthday to me!

And so the story goes…

It was 25 years to the day I was born. By some stroke of luck, I had my birthday free from work for the first time in… forever… or since I started working… or maybe just since the last two years. The only downfall of this dream scenario was that in 2008 my birthday fell on a Wednesday. Hardly a day for others to come out and play. I had a single meeting tying me to the following day. With a day and half off it seemed to be the perfect opportunity to get the heck out of town for the night.

The plan: I’d head to Duluth for the night. Stop at some state parks along the drive. Stay in a kickass hotel. And I’d go it alone.

I went through the proper protocols. Single living always makes me feel like I should tell another human being when I am venturing out alone. I call ma. I don’t really know what my Wisconsin mother could really do, but somehow I know that it’s the kind of information that Mother’s are privy to.

I tell her my birthday plans. Mom’s DANGER-DANGER-dar beeped into life immediately. “Mary, you know it’s bow hunting season,” she warns. “Actually ma, it’s gun hunting season here.” Then I added, perhaps stupidly, “And they just lowered the killing age to ten.” I probably should have kept that one to myself. The frantic beeping was drowning out my own thinking.

Now, Mom is nervous, which makes me consider the threat. I know hunting isn’t permitted on state ground, but I also know that bullets don't just stop cold at territorial borders.

My second attempt at explaining my birthday plans fell to the ears of the stage hands at work. The same grizzly men that are overly protective of me. They’ve done their share of hunting and have their number of stories. After some pushing back and forth, I end up promising I will wear blaze orange.

Really?

Blaze orange isn’t a flattering color. I don’t have any blaze orange in my wardrobe. But I know where I can find some...

The stock pile of t-shirts from festivals my work puts on was picked over. Luckily for me extra extra large and obnoxious orange aren’t hot commodities. Perfect. Sorta. My brain was still grappling with, “I’m going to wear this?” I knew that it’s November weather and for the purpose it was serving (the not-getting-shot-at purpose), the giant size would fit snugly over my winter jacket.

And voila!




We have embarrassment.

I’m starting out my birthday as a humongous orange mass! A nickelodeon blob!

I actually doubted whether I could commit to the ridiculous nature of this, despite the sensibility of it all. I walked away from my van without my orange initially. I hiked down a hill and looked to the other side of the river. The non-state side of the river. God Dammit. I promised. About face.

I head back uphill and pulled the biggest shirt I have ever owned on, inside out, over my Columbia jacket. I would have been fine existing as an orange blob in my solitude. It was when I crossed paths with people donning their brown flannel and black Carhartts that turned my face a shade resembling my attire. Sometimes, I felt the urge to apologize to them. I don’t know what for. Mostly, I wanted to blurt, “My mom made me.” In reality, each time I could barely muster eye contact and felt their smirk against my skin.

It was not all for naught. I did hear some popping along my hike. I told myself they were trees falling in the forest. Lead trees exploding with a sudden burst of energy … that brought comfort.

That first stop was Banning State Park. A park that’s overlooked and underappreciated. I had never heard of it. The terrain carried some of my favorite things – water front, ruins, and rock face. The photo I am painting (still in process) was taken here, among others.





A few hours spent in the flurries and I was north bound again to Duluth. Driving towards the whirlpool suite I booked for half price at a water park resort.

I’m good at treating myself.

The water park was birthday embarrassment – round two.

My thinking while packing:

I am going to a water park alone. No one to impress. I’ll bring the more sensible one piece Speedo. That way I don’t have to do the nipple check that bikini water play requires.

This was the reality of the situation:

I am hit with humidity when I open the doors. Like entering a bar, I quickly sweep the location and survey my options. Searching for a comfortable place to put myself. I realize the huge room is divided in two. One side for the under 4 years old group and the other for the others. Without a youngster, I can hardly justify sitting under the raining daisy. As much as it may tempt me.

My territory has been reduced to half. The non-baby side houses a lazy river, a couple giant tube slides, and a rock-formation-waterfall-hot-tub of sorts. I commit to a location – the lazy river. Just as a bar, I’m finally settled in my location and can finally take in the people around me.

Shit. This is awkward.

I’m sitting in a tube in two feet of water. Flat chested and nerded out in my Speedo. And I keep circling past these college age dudes posing as life guards. I suppose they really are life guards, but for most of us... in an emergency, we can just stand up. I’m circling, in my black tube … not having a frolicky exchange with friends. Not splashing and laughing. Not telling jokes. Just circling. Flat chested. On one of my rounds I consider the slide. I decide I couldn’t bear being caught by the dude below.

There isn’t even a regular swimming pool here. Were I able to do laps, this would be a lot less weird. I head for the hot-tub, where the other young people and parents have paired up. Somehow I became the creepy dude with the hairy chest that just sits in the whirlpool and looks at everyone else, or worse, closes his eyes! I couldn’t take it anymore. I gave up and thought the whirlpool in my room, a glass of wine and free cable sounded a hell of a lot better than this. I couldn’t stop laughing at myself. At how fun this idea was supposed to be and how not fun those moments turn out.

I woke up to a beautiful sunrise over Lake Superior. Stopped at Amazing Grace Bakery & Café, then started south. I had to walk into a work meeting at three o'clock. I had plenty of time to stop at one more park along the way. I get off the highway and steer towards Interstate Park. The park is divided by Hwy 8, just off the heart of Taylor’s Falls. It’s a beautiful park, butting right up against civilization. All the bathrooms and outhouses were closed for the winter. Seclusion was out of the question, I had a choice to make… I ended up crouching mid-hike, and as I peed I watched the stop lights change from green to yellow to red.

Happy Birthday to me!

A Painting Story

I sit on my laptop and see this image in the background. I lay in bed without sleep and see this scene. I wrestle with waking up in the morning and this is what is before me.

It's one of my favorite photographs. I actually have a story to go with this photo but am exhausted from uploading all these files on my tortoise Internet connection. Patience is taxing. Perhaps I will get to the story tomorrow.

What I love about art is the process. All parts of the process. The dreaming, the developing and the doing. I'm fascinated by other people's process too. I love digging through friend's trusted artistic tools. I love seeing art in it's many stages. Museums are usually received with the repetitive question of "how the hell did they DO that?".

Within the first few hours of 2010, I dug through my closet for the 18 x 24 canvas that has been collecting dust for a few years. It's been ages since I've sat down to paint. Apparently, that was how I'd start the year.

As I said, the photo is one of my favorites and I always felt the framed 8x10 on my bedroom wall just didn't do it justice. Whether taking the image into my own, untrained, unpracticed hands DOES do it justice, is another thing all together. Here's to trying.

Photos taken intermittently. There's a point in the middle that I became lost and unsure of myself... it shows. But I recovered, I hope!

The painting isn't quite finished, but is close. I still have some windows to fill out and some detailing I want to get in but I feel like it'll be days before I decide what to do there.

Thought I would post these now so people can stop reading my sad poetry.

























Click on the photos for a larger image.


























































Final product and story to be along soon..... stay tuned!

Eight Degrees

It’s eight degrees out of doors.

This degree keeps people wrapped in blankets on their sofas. Warm drink in one hand and remote in the other. Generally, there are two groups of people willing to brave this Fahrenheit at night. The first have dependencies on nicotine. The remaining are pet owners. Both of which are being brought out into this cold by a force outside of themselves.

It’s eight degrees and instead of staying in, I am running out.

The sun has already set here. It may be closing out on California by now. I can’t count on the sun’s rays to warm the tip of my nose - the only exposed skin that the sun may have warmed.

I head just far enough out of the cities for the sky to open up to the stars. The cold is beautiful.

My Petzl lights the way. Swaying back and forth with the rhythm of my stride. Bobbing in and out of the weight of my jacket’s hood. My warm exhale turns instantly to smoke before me. The beam of light catches the swirls as it leaves my body.

The combination of fog and light show convinces me KISS will spring from the next snow bank. I have the spectacle, most live performances lack, unfolding naturally before me. Moving strobe lights and fog machines. I considered dropping the red night-vision lens down for added affect, but decide that is a little too heavy metal for my mood.

It made for a dramatic hike. Could have also been an amazing horror film, but I didn't say that… since I know my mother will check her e-mail in twenty days and reply with a motherly voice of concern telling me all the things that could happen to me hiking alone at night. DANGER! DANGER!

A few have been here before me. Sparse tracks scatter over last night’s snow fall. Out of love for all the skiers in the world I avoid the nicely packed double lanes and stick to the fresh powder. The resistance feels good against my legs after a month under physical restrictions (I’m not breaking the rules; I’m sticking to the lower half!).

My breath gets heavy.
My heart gets fast.
My chest grows so warm that I can no longer feel the eight degrees.

My iPod remains in my pocket with the ear buds coiled neatly around the frame. Music follows my everyday. My career, my home, my car are rarely without. Naturally, I always reach for the mobile music when setting out for a hike, but I have never brought it out. From the very first crunch of my pink NorthFace boots, I know I will not be plugging my ears with the Swell Season or the Shostakovich that defines my everyday.

I love these sounds.
My breath.
My weight.
My pulse.
My existence within the sounds of the river’s current not yet frozen over, within the noises of the remaining winter wildlife, even within the faint sounds of civilization.

It’s eight degrees outside and I remember why I am willing to brave the weather and hike in solitude. It is my meditation. Here, my brain silences my everyday. All I notice is my body and my being.

And... maybe the occasional KISS concert...

I caught the Swears

All day at work, a co-worker and I kept telling each other to "Stop fucking swearing!" Our profranity has flown off the wall - out of control. We fuel each other's verbal fire. Swearing is contagious and I caught the bug. I've been spending my days in the company of foul mouth men. So it was inevitable, I've become a bit of a cussin' sailor myself. For some reason, especially in my writing, profanity just feels sooooo good.

After an afternoon at work swapping back and forth "Try Saying..." jokes (started by an E-mail  Forward chain and exagerated by our own imaginations....)

Example:

TRY SAYING: She's an aggressive go-getter.
INSTEAD OF: She's a f__king bit__.

TRY SAYING: Perhaps you should check with...
INSTEAD OF: Tell someone who gives a sh__.

TRY SAYING: He's somewhat insensitive.
INSTEAD OF: He's a pr_ck.

Laughing all day at that and this is what I came home to - an e-mail from my mother in response to my post yesterday "Why?Oh NO!". Read below for a mother approved version of my previous post. Editing credit to Mommy Dearest:


*********************************************************************************

To: Mary
Sent: Tuesday, Sep 15, 2009 at 6:14 PM
Subject: RE: [Marymeant] Why? Oh, NO!

Oh boy…be careful at the concert and watch your language….see below for a completely edited revision.

Love

MOM

-----Original Message-----

Sent: Monday, September 14, 2009 at 7:32 PM

Subject: [Marymeant] Why? Oh, NO!

These are the thoughts that keep me up at night.

Bored with Internet Explorer, 400 Blows, The Weakerthans, and A Dud Avocado, the only other reasonable thing to do was sleep. I crawled into bed around 10:30 thinking of my much needed rest before the 14 work day ahead of me. Lying there, with one knee pulled up to my chin, waiting for sleep… I had the most horrible realization.

I really do spend a lot of time thinking about music – What I might find next. When can I buy tickets. Those lyrics to that one song. Album release dates. Shows I’ve seen. Shows I can’t wait to see.

Last night, the normal musical excitement was twirling around my brain. I was sooo stoked that one of my favorite bands, Why?, was coming to town again. I bought my single ticket ages ago. I already told work they are going to have to hire a union stage hand to replace me for the night. Life stops for Why?. Period.

Amid all this excitement there is back-story. Remember the excitement though. Never forget the excitement!

(if I had video capabilities I would insert a Wayne’s World Flash Back transition … here)

Early in the year I was set out to meet new people. I joined all these clubs (only to realize I don’t need any more middle aged friends) and succumbed to an online dating site. The listed favorites on people’s profiles were often conversation starters.

For one guy in particular, the contact initiator was the fact that both of us were Why? fans. The guy was nice enough, but a pussy CAT who wouldn’t ask me out and I was too on the fence about him to be the aggressor. E-mails went back and forth and then started to slow with time… and umm... interest... After about a month, I would randomly get e-mails telling me I was the coolest person he knows (we hadn’t met, dude, you have no idea how cool I am!). He repeatedly sent strong language my way that may be flattering if deserved, but this was completely undeserved and, quite honestly, constructed fantasy.

Needless to say … I got totally weirded out. Really fucking amazingly weirded out! The less we talked the more persistent he became. Even after my attempts to sever the conversation, he continued stalking me multiple times a day and sending me e-mails telling me he missed me (I’m not sure how you miss someone you’ve never met?). I ended up blocking his account. This protection method is troublesome. They can stop him from contacting me, but they can’t stop him from visiting my profile and jerking off to my face every night ? doing perverse things to himself. That was graphic and insensitive (YES!!), I apologize, my mom would not approve … she would edit my text. But that's what it felt like ... invasive.

That was months ago and long been forgotten. Fast forward to last night.

These are the thoughts that keep me up at night:

“Yay, I’m going to see Why?”

“It will be so awesome”

“Too bad it’s all ages”

“I am going to dance and dance”

“Maybe there will be eye candy there”

“FUCK!!!!” OMG!!!!!!!!!


 

My long been forgotten was just remembered!

He knew I went to the last show. I know he’s as big of a fan as I am. I hope he doesn't hope to see me there. The Triple Rock is hardly a place for hiding. There’s nowhere to run from a guy that thinks you are the coolest in the world. OH NO!! After all these goings on, I peg him to be the type that would come over if he saw me … especially if I’m there alone! If I’m there alone, he probably won’t ever leave! He’ll think he’s doing me a favor by giving me his company.

SHIT! I can’t watch this show in the ladies room! I CAN’T!

If memory serves me correctly his profile specs put him at a height less than my own. What if he can’t see and wants to sit on my shoulders! This is bad news. Nothing good can come of this!

I’m so bummed! My over the top excitement just climbed piggy-back onto outright terror!

The potential for catastrophe is too great … I gotta find myself a date to this show! RIGHT….DO IT!!!!!!!

--

Posted By Mary to Marymeant at 9/14/2009 05:18:00 PM AND EDITED BY MOM 9/15 AT 6:10 pm.

Drawer Dropping

Kamie went on to say really nice things about how beautiful nudity is. But within all that fluffy, hippie talk she adds:

“The heavy women looked really beautiful because their folds are really nice.”

Their folds? I don’t want anyone looking at my ‘folds’. I can buy the fluff. The warm, fuzzy talk about natural phenomenon, organic feelings and infinite beauty is almost enough of a reason to get me nude in front of a bunch of strangers. The naturalist mentality makes insecurities seem silly. Why would anyone be staring at me when they are there for their own self-nurture?

But then you have this lady getting quoted in an article about the bathhouse I may be entering next week talking about people’s folds. You are looking too hard if you are finding folds. I really don’t want anyone thinking how nice my folds are.

The idea came up for my trip to Seattle next week to spend a day at the Olympus Day Spa with my sister and her friend. The spa offers robes for the saunas and steam rooms but nudity prevails in all of the pools. I’ve put a lot of thought into this vacation activity option.

Really, the combination of strangers, siblings and nudity is a weird world to eagerly agree to. I think I could get naked in front of strangers and I think I could be naked in front of my sister. But somehow combining the two weirds me out. I feel like I would be more embarrassed to be embarrassed in front of my sister and that’s just downright embarrassing.

Take sibling nudity. Sure, we’ve changed in front of each other over the years, but when is the last time we just hung out naked? I’m pretty sure we both could fit in the bathtub (which seemed like a swimming pool to us) and we were probably busy decorating our chins with bubble-beards and shaving them off with our index fingers. My other sis said maybe we should get the hard part out of the way. She suggested a Wednesday night pre-nudity pubic hair party. This is not what I am going to Seattle for … a pube party Wednesday and naked fest on Thursday, with my sister no less. Oh boy.

As for the public part. I can do naturalist in nature. Skinny dipping, nude beaches … not a problem. The idea of being in a civilized facility with everyone naked is not the same to me. Do you talk about the weather when you meet naked strangers? What is appropriate nudist conversation?

Think about when you go to hotel. You are all excited about the fact that they have a whirlpool that’s open until 2am. You enter the glass doors, the chlorine hits you first but the second thing that you notice is there are 4 people in the whirlpool. Four people seems a little crowded, no? So you stand there and weigh your options. You could get in the cold deserted swimming pool and pretend that’s what you came down for at midnight. Or you can squish in next to some women and fake relaxation. It’s awkward being close to strangers, partially exposed and trying to publically enjoy the heat, warmth and pressure on your skin. Now take that same moment and take away the partial modesty. WEIRD!

Oh lord, this is a serious thinker. We’ll see if I drop my drawers.

Swinging Image

I write this with a sweaty back and, I’m sure, a helmet line pressed into my forehead.

A burst of spontaneity went unfilled this weekend. On my way into work on Thursday I realized there was nothing on the books holding me to the Twin Cities. This is one of the last weekends I will be enjoying in the way other people enjoy weekends; free from work for a full two days. Making the mistake of looking at my work calendar, I realized the next time I’d be getting home to Milwaukee would be Thanksgiving. My drive into work made me toss hygiene away and embrace an impulsive nature. At the end of the work day I was planning on heading east on 94 instead of my usual west. All the while debating which family member's clothes would fit me the best.

With a call home… I was basically told I am annoying for springing it on them. So I headed my usual west. Sad. Still … not much on the books for obligation or entertainment.

So I thought I’d take a bike over to Minneapolis for the LoLa art crawl. LoLa is cutsie for League of Longfellow Artists. I have always loved open gallery exhibitions. One of the few things I miss about Brew City (the city itself) was their Gallery Night in the Third Ward. A brisk summer night walking from gallery to café to private studio to restaurant back to gallery always made for a great night. Longfellow is a residential neighborhood settled along the Minneapolis side of the great Mississippi River divide. It’s hardly a spot for warehouses and massive studio space. I wish it were. Those were always my favorite stops. Process attracts me to the nitty gritty studios over the polished gallery. Within those paint-splattered walls, there is evidence of their craft - pieces nearing completion and some in their infancy. It’s a chance to compare artistic notes and make a mental inventory of the supplies and tools that clutter the shelves. I’m always secretly hoping to find a brush that is sitting in my bin at home or a brand that’s familiar. As if I have something in common with people that are actually good at art.

The most beautiful thing I saw today wasn’t listed on the yellow laminated map that guided me. It was somewhere in between the red star I had just left at 38th & 42nd and the red star I was set out to find on 39th & 39th. Along my walk I was coming up on a corner lot with a decorative swing at its edge. The kind of swing that is often ornamental and seemingly unused. The kind of swing that goes along with the shrunken wooden benches and is nestled between oversized planters.

This swing was different.

This swing supported the weight of a man with his back to me. A man in a black top hat with his ankles gingerly crossed, rocking himself with his toes. The grass beneath his feet was worn as if he’s been there before. I could hear the slight, familiar creaking of the forward and back motion. I got nervous as I got closer. I got nervous at the thought of seeing his face or hearing his voice in the form of a casual hello. Part of me wanted to know if that swing was being sat on with a smile or a frown or a simple contemplative indifference. But more of me wanted to hold that image the way I approached it. So I turned. I turned to let my imagination get the best of me. I turned at the fright of a beautiful idea crashing into a jarring reality. I turned at the hope that for the rest of the day … I will be wondering if there was even a man there at all.

Choking

It is a little piece of you that I know, but don't know, but think about, and then it all makes sense and I love it,

and you.

I hope my sister doesn’t kill me for quoting her.

I’ve had this blog for a couple years. Prior to this month, only a meager handful of writings made their way into the cyber world. Those writings were mostly results of crazy, weird days. The kinds of days that make you want to talk really, really fast about. Chances are I couldn’t get anyone on the line to tell anyone … so I wrote about them, somewhat discombobulatedly (I like it, don’t judge my word invention).

I took to the old school variety of pen and pad for a few trips and realized how much I missed words. My college education was words. I was good at words. I wondered if I still was. Travel seemed easy to write about, especially independent travel where my only company was the pen itself. But now my trips are done … so I am left with everyday nothingness that I am trying to make into something.

The point is, when I started writing routinely I received the e-mail above from my sister. With every posting I put up on this silly, unread site … I think about that e-mail. In a way, it was one of the nicest things anyone has said to me. I remember getting a little choked up when I read it and every once and while I go back to it to choke again. There is something about exposing yourself and hearing something like that when you’re standing there stripped. I learned that somehow this thing that matters to me matters to someone else. Weird.

I’m choking (I’ll play it off as on my own spit, that’s more my style).

Love you, Bri.

An Elementary Reflection

Housesitting without internet has made me use my computer in a new, old way. I was going through the various pathways that all these writings are saved in and during my consolidation or re-organization I came to a few old writings. That made me laugh. I loved reading them again. So I will post a few of those. Sans internet I have also started getting my pen and paper writings onto the QWERTY. Those should be soon. I'm going to try to post something every day. Some new, some old, some bad, some not bad. Anyway, this one makes me happy.

An Elementary Reflection


The other day I saw a sign posted that read “Lost Dinosaur” – the writing, so fresh and new to the world, detailed a lost friend. A penny reward was offered for rescue and recovery. At the time, I smiled and thought how great my life would be if my adult worries only entailed lost dinosaurs.

Fast forward a week until today – an 80 degree afternoon that I fortunately had free from the grips of employment. I take my 10 speed out for a spin around the lake. While flicking my bell as I pass a rollerblader on the left … the sound of nostalgia sets in. I am reminded of my pink childhood bike adorned with streamers and, of course, a bell.

How far is my life from adolescence… really? I refuse to accept that the only similarity is my child-like figure.

Last night, like most nights, I got to be a part of an eccentric production – bright lights, music, ball gowns and a captivated audience … a scene that originally materialized on my parent’s front porch. Maybe those hours of home video footage are more than an embarrassing glimpse of my past ... instead the endless film reel serves as a humiliating prelude to my future.

On this near perfect day, the place I choose to etch my thoughts is not a café to brew up sophisticated reflection with the help of a tall vanilla latte. Instead, I sit, where most early memories start … in the grass, under a maple, watching nature and human nature alike. Although, in youth I would probably be bossing around my friends (not unlike the kid screaming behind me today) to play the games that I wanted to play and, of course, initializing the “NOT IT” vote.

Staring at this notepad (very diary-like in size) I realize that the poster’s script is not unlike my own. His hand shows he’s unused to the circles and lines that draw our language. My chicken scratch, however, is from knowing these shapes so well that I no longer dwell on their appearance, my attention focused on their content. My sister would tell you my writing is actually due to the thumb wrap I never unlearned. None the less, the surfaces (of poster and pad) share an uncanny resemblance.

I could go on to say that the message on the flyer is simply a cry to find a lost companion and that this cry never refrains as life persists … but I’d rather keep this 80 degree day sweet, not sad.

My 8 year old brain and my 24 year old brain still thinks that marriage, family, careers, and the rest of adulthood are eons away. I wonder how long that ignorance with hold true …