Dear Sir,
Thank you so kindly for using my strategically placed staging equipment as your own personal coat and hat rack. I apologize that 250 people watched me asked you to remove said items during my stage change. I hope I have not caused you too much embarrassment.
Sincerely,
Your Trusty Stage Manager
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Sorry
Today I decided I am only here to disappoint you.
I have nothing of interest to say and surely won't make you laugh aloud.
The ticks on visits to my blog have strangely been increasing. Once and while I have someone that admits to being a reader. Even when I hear that, I don't really assume a 'regular reader' or certainly not 'an everyday checker'.
But somehow... I average 5-10 hits a day and I haven't posted anything for three weeks. The math suggests I could have disappointed 210 people with no new material, or I suppose one really rabid fan, you freak.
The point is ... I wonder if you've all scared me into writer's block. Either that or I really have nothing going on right now... ha. But in case it IS writer's block. Nervous to write aloud. I am decidedly writing the most boring blog entry ever. Just to get it out there and over with.
There was one nugget of a writing idea I had but never moved on. I'll tell you my moment.
I forget how to be a girl sometimes. Obviously, my line of work aids the forgetfulness. The lack of emotion doesn't help. And when I had short hair, the grooming process wasn't particularly lady-like in length or prep or primp.
Now I have hair again. It's weird to have hair and I tend to forget what it means to possess it in abundance. Apparently, hair gets knotted sometimes, and maybe once and a while needs a brush to untangle the mess. I forgot about how much hair we lose in the shower and the number of ways to get loose strands off your fingers. I wish I didn't have to remember how much it sucks to have one strand of hair fall between your cleavage.
So I wake up one morning, take a shower ... plaster the loose strands of hair on the tile wall. I have nothing but time this particular morning, so I thought I would actually do my hair. I dig out the blow dryer and the flat iron - yeah, a no-holds-barred type of day.
I had already dressed and donned the necklace I am making an effort to wear every day (a task in and of itself for this self-proclaimed failure of a woman). I pop back into the bathroom to commence on the speedy drying process.
I end up burning my neck from the jewelry/dryer combo. This was something I was never taught as a woman. Who knew wearing something metal around your neck would heat to a burning degree by forced air. Jewelry last I guess. I certainly was never taught that. It's amazing that I'm still learning womanly lessons everyday.
So that nugget led my mind to the idea of writing about the "womanly lessons we never get taught". It bounced around in my brain for a bit... and then I realized:
I don't have the credentials to write that story.
I have nothing of interest to say and surely won't make you laugh aloud.
The ticks on visits to my blog have strangely been increasing. Once and while I have someone that admits to being a reader. Even when I hear that, I don't really assume a 'regular reader' or certainly not 'an everyday checker'.
But somehow... I average 5-10 hits a day and I haven't posted anything for three weeks. The math suggests I could have disappointed 210 people with no new material, or I suppose one really rabid fan, you freak.
The point is ... I wonder if you've all scared me into writer's block. Either that or I really have nothing going on right now... ha. But in case it IS writer's block. Nervous to write aloud. I am decidedly writing the most boring blog entry ever. Just to get it out there and over with.
There was one nugget of a writing idea I had but never moved on. I'll tell you my moment.
I forget how to be a girl sometimes. Obviously, my line of work aids the forgetfulness. The lack of emotion doesn't help. And when I had short hair, the grooming process wasn't particularly lady-like in length or prep or primp.
Now I have hair again. It's weird to have hair and I tend to forget what it means to possess it in abundance. Apparently, hair gets knotted sometimes, and maybe once and a while needs a brush to untangle the mess. I forgot about how much hair we lose in the shower and the number of ways to get loose strands off your fingers. I wish I didn't have to remember how much it sucks to have one strand of hair fall between your cleavage.
So I wake up one morning, take a shower ... plaster the loose strands of hair on the tile wall. I have nothing but time this particular morning, so I thought I would actually do my hair. I dig out the blow dryer and the flat iron - yeah, a no-holds-barred type of day.
I had already dressed and donned the necklace I am making an effort to wear every day (a task in and of itself for this self-proclaimed failure of a woman). I pop back into the bathroom to commence on the speedy drying process.
I end up burning my neck from the jewelry/dryer combo. This was something I was never taught as a woman. Who knew wearing something metal around your neck would heat to a burning degree by forced air. Jewelry last I guess. I certainly was never taught that. It's amazing that I'm still learning womanly lessons everyday.
So that nugget led my mind to the idea of writing about the "womanly lessons we never get taught". It bounced around in my brain for a bit... and then I realized:
I don't have the credentials to write that story.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
ART!!!
I think I am finally comfortable enough to claim this beast DONE!!!!
Nature's Graff
Acrylic & Oil Pen on 18" x 24" Canvas
M. Phelps Feb'10
Monday, February 1, 2010
Written in the stars
I've never been a good sleeper. It doesn't surprise me when I wake in the middle of the night. The tip of my nose feels frosty. I bet I could see my breath if my eyes would open. The dark around me is coming into focus. As much as the dark can, at least. The black opens ups to the stars. I can pick out the Big Dipper. The rest of the constellations are lost to me. Some shine brighter than others. But the snakes and frogs glow dimly...
I wish this story involved a sleeping bag and the balls to brave the winter in my new down mummy bag. Nay, she says. I'm in my childhood bedroom.
This house has an amazing way of changing while remaining the same. The walls are lavender. The furniture weird. This isn't my room. But that is my ceiling.
My mother couldn't bare to unstick all that I had stuck to my ceiling in my formative years. Glow in the dark stars in every shape, size and semblance. Every outer space needs amphibian life. A dozen or so glow mid suspension. I mean, really, what's Ursa Major without a neighboring snake?
Now, I wake in the same bedroom a different person. But my life is written in these stars.
My middle school years - my corduroys were big, my t-shirts long, and my hair shaggy. Us girls would find a reason to hit the concrete playground a few blocks over to gawk at the skater boys. One of which was a Florida transfer. Yeah, skater/surfer boy = immediate on/off crushing for the next few years of my life. All that ever came of it was one very intense night of passionate hand holding, but he was the one that started with the stars...
They were already in place. I'm sure I showed him their awesome power under the black light. When black lights were the coolest and I didn't realize how unattractive my teeth looked in front of a hot guy. I don't remember how the conversation started but I remember how it ended. He told me he was my lucky star. He took out the sharpie that every proper skater carries, mounted my blow-up chair and etched a B into one of the stars. His initial.
Over the next few years, most of the stars were lettered.
Middle of the night memories.
Some of these letters were shooting stars. People that burned bright and fierce. They left me ooOOoooing and Awwwwing, following their path with my outreached arm, but ultimately were swallowed by the darkness. My shooting stars hang heavy on my heart. Lost only to the ways of childhood friendships. Still, I wouldn't consider erasing their initial. They earned that spot at that moment in my life.
I have a North star. One that has been there no matter what direction my life has taken.
I've got stars that glow dimly over the years, but constantly. Reliable in nature and easy to find.
Then I have people that are left here. Stuck in the stars. Their memories. Their person. Stopped the day that I moved away from this ceiling. These stars aren't subject to time and change and life... these are the stars that are kept burning by feeling alone. That my heart won't change and doesn't want to.
It's hard to look up at this ceiling. I miss these people. I miss that sentiment. There are so many stories in these stars. But it's pretty cool to have a midnight space age rendezvous every time I come home... if only I still had that black light.
I wish this story involved a sleeping bag and the balls to brave the winter in my new down mummy bag. Nay, she says. I'm in my childhood bedroom.
This house has an amazing way of changing while remaining the same. The walls are lavender. The furniture weird. This isn't my room. But that is my ceiling.
My mother couldn't bare to unstick all that I had stuck to my ceiling in my formative years. Glow in the dark stars in every shape, size and semblance. Every outer space needs amphibian life. A dozen or so glow mid suspension. I mean, really, what's Ursa Major without a neighboring snake?
Now, I wake in the same bedroom a different person. But my life is written in these stars.
My middle school years - my corduroys were big, my t-shirts long, and my hair shaggy. Us girls would find a reason to hit the concrete playground a few blocks over to gawk at the skater boys. One of which was a Florida transfer. Yeah, skater/surfer boy = immediate on/off crushing for the next few years of my life. All that ever came of it was one very intense night of passionate hand holding, but he was the one that started with the stars...
They were already in place. I'm sure I showed him their awesome power under the black light. When black lights were the coolest and I didn't realize how unattractive my teeth looked in front of a hot guy. I don't remember how the conversation started but I remember how it ended. He told me he was my lucky star. He took out the sharpie that every proper skater carries, mounted my blow-up chair and etched a B into one of the stars. His initial.
Over the next few years, most of the stars were lettered.
Middle of the night memories.
Some of these letters were shooting stars. People that burned bright and fierce. They left me ooOOoooing and Awwwwing, following their path with my outreached arm, but ultimately were swallowed by the darkness. My shooting stars hang heavy on my heart. Lost only to the ways of childhood friendships. Still, I wouldn't consider erasing their initial. They earned that spot at that moment in my life.
I have a North star. One that has been there no matter what direction my life has taken.
I've got stars that glow dimly over the years, but constantly. Reliable in nature and easy to find.
Then I have people that are left here. Stuck in the stars. Their memories. Their person. Stopped the day that I moved away from this ceiling. These stars aren't subject to time and change and life... these are the stars that are kept burning by feeling alone. That my heart won't change and doesn't want to.
It's hard to look up at this ceiling. I miss these people. I miss that sentiment. There are so many stories in these stars. But it's pretty cool to have a midnight space age rendezvous every time I come home... if only I still had that black light.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
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!
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!
Thursday, January 7, 2010
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!
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Shallow
Her roots are shallow here.
Like a Sugar Maple.
The stems branch off.
Multiplying as they go.
Right, left and up, but never down.
Unable to sink in.
Trying to grasp deeper for support.
The earth is pushing back.
All she finds is surface.
So she stays there.
Growing out but not deep.
Growing out but not deep.
She's feeling top heavy.
With no means of support for this place she's in.
Shallow, like a Sugar Maple.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Bring It In or Back
It's below cold outside. The sun is beaming though. Bouncing from snow pile to snow pile. I slip my way towards my Toyota and mentally prepare for the morning sit-still-and-freeze-in-my-car thing.
My car starts, which is good. I have no reason to believe that it won't. I can probably still count the amount of times I have started this engine. But for some reason, I doubt it will rev up each time I feel this kind of cold. I don't trust this car. This car with it's cruise control, power locks and strawberry scent. It's the strawberry that makes me skeptical, I think. Doesn't seem trustworthy.
I promised myself, forever ago, that on cold days like this, I will wait through whichever song starts up on the radio. I figure it's a good couple of minutes for the engine to start the warming process. Having music as the time limit somehow makes the wait tolerable for me.
The starter kicks over and roars into Fatboy Slim. I'm suddenly wanting to break my own promise. For some reason the idea of changing the radio station didn't occur to me. Instead, I sit in my own irritation.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hvnHtO6daQM
This song is Milwaukee High School of the Arts. Specifically, this song is the choreographed Step routine I created for Ms. Jordan's aerobics class. I can still picture my knee high kicks and flailing punches. Sexy in my puffy, checked nylon shorts. In navy blue.
I try to shake the image and the song out of my head. 1998 would let me go that easy!
Jan. 1, 2010 - My clothes are all clean. Washed before making the return trip home to the Twin Cities. The cutest little shirts and skinniest little skinny jeans were all available for the picking. For some reason, I woke up in the morning, looked at mountain of clean in front of me and chose a sweater I bought in '98. A gray knit that hardly covers my navel. I haven't worn this sweater in a few years. I'm not even sure why it's made it through all of my textile purgings. Not to mention ... why the HELL would I want to start out my year dressed as 1998!
The last week of 2009 started me on this path, I'm sure. Friends from middle school. Friends from high school. Stories of the 90's. The decade was supposed to jump forward, and I'm pretty sure I took the short bus backwards this time. If the year is 1990 for me, that puts me in First Grade. Oh man... I better find a smaller shirt.
My brain is redirected to Fatboy Slim. After about the 30th "Right about now", I give up on the Funk Soul Brothers and put the car in gear. At least, I have the icy ruts in the road to focus my attention now.
Why the HELL didn't I turn the damn radio dial?!?
"Hi" from 1990!
My car starts, which is good. I have no reason to believe that it won't. I can probably still count the amount of times I have started this engine. But for some reason, I doubt it will rev up each time I feel this kind of cold. I don't trust this car. This car with it's cruise control, power locks and strawberry scent. It's the strawberry that makes me skeptical, I think. Doesn't seem trustworthy.
I promised myself, forever ago, that on cold days like this, I will wait through whichever song starts up on the radio. I figure it's a good couple of minutes for the engine to start the warming process. Having music as the time limit somehow makes the wait tolerable for me.
The starter kicks over and roars into Fatboy Slim. I'm suddenly wanting to break my own promise. For some reason the idea of changing the radio station didn't occur to me. Instead, I sit in my own irritation.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hvnHtO6daQM
This song is Milwaukee High School of the Arts. Specifically, this song is the choreographed Step routine I created for Ms. Jordan's aerobics class. I can still picture my knee high kicks and flailing punches. Sexy in my puffy, checked nylon shorts. In navy blue.
I try to shake the image and the song out of my head. 1998 would let me go that easy!
Jan. 1, 2010 - My clothes are all clean. Washed before making the return trip home to the Twin Cities. The cutest little shirts and skinniest little skinny jeans were all available for the picking. For some reason, I woke up in the morning, looked at mountain of clean in front of me and chose a sweater I bought in '98. A gray knit that hardly covers my navel. I haven't worn this sweater in a few years. I'm not even sure why it's made it through all of my textile purgings. Not to mention ... why the HELL would I want to start out my year dressed as 1998!
The last week of 2009 started me on this path, I'm sure. Friends from middle school. Friends from high school. Stories of the 90's. The decade was supposed to jump forward, and I'm pretty sure I took the short bus backwards this time. If the year is 1990 for me, that puts me in First Grade. Oh man... I better find a smaller shirt.
My brain is redirected to Fatboy Slim. After about the 30th "Right about now", I give up on the Funk Soul Brothers and put the car in gear. At least, I have the icy ruts in the road to focus my attention now.
Why the HELL didn't I turn the damn radio dial?!?
"Hi" from 1990!
Sunday, December 27, 2009
words
I have nothing to say. My lips are rested. My vocal chords strong.
Milwaukee days seem to bring more words than the last. Their sounds come as whispers and blairing TVs. Their intentions prove heartfelt or mindless. Words recieved with laughter and consideration. Words heard or unheard.
These sounds swirl within my head all day long. From the moment I wake to the instant I fall asleep. They can even be heard in those moments between conciousness. Fading softly, slowly and unclearly.
So many words floating around my head. My ears are tired. They are tired from listening, from registering, from trying to avoid, from pretending. My ears are so tired I can't bare to give them any more - not even my own.
"Words are all I have to give to you." If Maja Ivarsson is right, I better start talking tomorrow.
Milwaukee days seem to bring more words than the last. Their sounds come as whispers and blairing TVs. Their intentions prove heartfelt or mindless. Words recieved with laughter and consideration. Words heard or unheard.
These sounds swirl within my head all day long. From the moment I wake to the instant I fall asleep. They can even be heard in those moments between conciousness. Fading softly, slowly and unclearly.
So many words floating around my head. My ears are tired. They are tired from listening, from registering, from trying to avoid, from pretending. My ears are so tired I can't bare to give them any more - not even my own.
"Words are all I have to give to you." If Maja Ivarsson is right, I better start talking tomorrow.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
A phone call from Ma...
6:57PM
I sit on the brown leather couch tucked under the picture window. I don't know how many years of my life I have looked through this pane of glass. Watching nothing. Watching everything.
The living room opens into the dining room. The arched ceilings still hold an impressively done wallpaper job that is older than I am. My mother sits below the arch, quietly minding her own business around the dining room table that's dressed in Christmas Red.
Beyond the dining room, my sister sits in the kitchen on her laptop finishing the loose ends to another semester.
Distracted by football and unused to hearing my cell phone ring... instead I hear my sister's voice call "Mary, you're phone!".
I'm sure I followed with a confused, "What?" and spent a few minutes trying to quickly unwrap the burrito I have made myself into. I come to end of the throw and hop a few steps into the dining room into the kitchen and, finally, into my purse.
I made it before the last ring.
Caller ID - Parents
"What?", I think. "Hello?" is what I said, with my tone upturned.
I hear a voice of a woman. A woman who seems embarrassed by an accidental wrong number. It's the voice my mother uses when she's unsure of herself.
"Nevermind" I hear from a small voice in the next room, which then echoes into my receiver.
I start the laughter before she does.
I'm not sure it's clicked yet for her.
It surely didn't click when she searched the quick dial for my Aunt Mary.
Not quite when my sister's siren went off.
Still not as she watched me clumsily run to my phone.
My laughter flipped the switched. She laughs with me briefly. Within seconds she is back to hitting the call list, hard.
7:04PM
My phone rings again. It is my mother, "Just calling to check in."
I write this as my mom sits in her chair reading her newspaper. She tells me not to write about her and I tell her I love writing about her because I want to keep these moments.
I sit on the brown leather couch tucked under the picture window. I don't know how many years of my life I have looked through this pane of glass. Watching nothing. Watching everything.
The living room opens into the dining room. The arched ceilings still hold an impressively done wallpaper job that is older than I am. My mother sits below the arch, quietly minding her own business around the dining room table that's dressed in Christmas Red.
Beyond the dining room, my sister sits in the kitchen on her laptop finishing the loose ends to another semester.
Distracted by football and unused to hearing my cell phone ring... instead I hear my sister's voice call "Mary, you're phone!".
I'm sure I followed with a confused, "What?" and spent a few minutes trying to quickly unwrap the burrito I have made myself into. I come to end of the throw and hop a few steps into the dining room into the kitchen and, finally, into my purse.
I made it before the last ring.
Caller ID - Parents
"What?", I think. "Hello?" is what I said, with my tone upturned.
I hear a voice of a woman. A woman who seems embarrassed by an accidental wrong number. It's the voice my mother uses when she's unsure of herself.
"Nevermind" I hear from a small voice in the next room, which then echoes into my receiver.
I start the laughter before she does.
I'm not sure it's clicked yet for her.
It surely didn't click when she searched the quick dial for my Aunt Mary.
Not quite when my sister's siren went off.
Still not as she watched me clumsily run to my phone.
My laughter flipped the switched. She laughs with me briefly. Within seconds she is back to hitting the call list, hard.
7:04PM
My phone rings again. It is my mother, "Just calling to check in."
I write this as my mom sits in her chair reading her newspaper. She tells me not to write about her and I tell her I love writing about her because I want to keep these moments.
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