If I were a Jane...

I would surely be a plain one.

My closet hangs neutral (if it hangs at all). Solids outweigh patterns. Cottons beating silks. There is very little flowy-ness. Only a handful of bow ties. Hardly any sequence. There may be a few strappys.

My point is I don't really have a style. I dress for comfort firstly and secondly for comfort. Comfort would probably be the third and forth reasons too. I might accidentally strike an aesthetic chord from time to time. But I surely don't dress for attention, or flare, or flash. I'm not daring. Or hip. Or knowledgeable. Or anything really.

I'm classic t-shirt and jeans. Simple.

That's my preface to today.

Now....



Every good cowboy has one. And any good American would recognize one.

In this day and age, a sighting is followed by a "I like your... wait, what's that called?" Finger snapping coincides this remark. The questioner hopes that the click of their fingers will trigger recognition in their brains. It never does. That sound of boney flesh against boney flesh doesn't have the power we falsely bestow on it.

I said, "It's a bolo and thank you" six times today.

Yes, a bolo tie. I told you... every good cowboy has one.

OK, so my grandpa wasn't herding steer. He was simply a bolo lover. Wore one everyday. One of which I inherited.

The slide on my bolo is a nice big piece of tiger eye edged in gold. A good justification for breaking out the 80's chorus that Survivor made famous. Yes, I continuously look for reasonable excuse for sudden song/dance. "And he's watchin' us all in... the eye of the tiger"

Musical digression. My apologies.

The braided leather end in decorative gold aglets (I may or may not have wiki'ed the bolo tie). As I walked today, the aglets set a gentle, rhythmic ting to my step. This must have been the sound to my Grandpa's whole life.

This bolo usually sits with my other seldom worn but frequently considered jewelry atop my bedroom dresser. I silenced it's taunting today and put the darn thing on.

There's is really only one shirt combo I have ever braved the bolo with. The brown, button up linen. The sleeves loosely rolled to somewhere between wrist and elbow. The tiger eye nestled neatly over the second button. I'm not a first button type of girl.

I have to admit to feeling a little masculine in this get-up. For being a big ol' rock laid in frilly gold, it's the most masculine piece of jewelry in existence. The 'man-bag' to the necklace world. I countered the masculine with a pair of J-Lo Jeans. Don't judge me! I like the stretch!

I think I need to try the bolo with strappy, sequence, barely there tank. Ahhhh... but I'm not a risk taker in the closet. I already got too much attention today just being a cowboy.

Tease Me

Another day. Another shade of gray.

The rain hasn't stopped. It merely changes between the hours. The thunder has rumbled into drizzle. But the streets haven't had the chance to dry.

The haze sticks to every earthly surface. It hovers and won't lift. This film over the city varies in saturation. Today it's nearly white. My eyes feel milky. The tops of buildings remain hidden. Structures built right up to the clouds.

The wet sits in my bones. Filling the calcium deficient holes. So today I try to escape the dampness and end up.... in a hotter dampness.

I trade the 40 degree damp for an 85 degree damp and find myself here.

This damp is better than the one outside this glass bubble. Eighty some degrees and the coat comes off. Here I sit with the smell of lillies over wet pavement.

Really, I am teasing myself. Just as the rain is teasing me. These smells make me yearn for new growth. New green. I want my windows open. I want my skin to feel sun.

But this is Minnesota. Tease me. Tempt me. But I know you'll make me wait for it.

And I'll wait with hope that the blooms will be more colorful or the flowers more fragrant.


This is how I spent my two bucks - Donating to the Tease.

A Day

Beginning with the normal in and out of consciousness starting at 6:00am. I never need to rise at this hour and I wonder why my internal clock is set to it. This morning in particular is soundtracked to the thunder rolling outside my window and the rain puddling the cement below my windowsill.

Three hours of this in and out and at 9:00am, I give into the start of today. I had eaten my way to the edible end of my fridge and tossed everything else. Condiments with expirations dating to the golden years of 2008&9. The Glad bag was a heavy and a stinky one, but a necessary one to test it's claim of durability. We've all got to our part as consumers. I was close to finding a clothing hanger for this one.

I had a morning of serious grocery shopping to do. The kind of grocery shopping that I put my ear buds in for and cruise every aisle. Top down, screaming out 'Money ain't a thang'! It's the type of day to fill the cart and expect to drop at least a hundred dollars. I'll be lucky to get away with less than $150.

Mmmm... the most delicious $130 ever.

After lunch I force myself to take a nap. Since I know I never sleep and have to make use of the void in my schedule.

I head into work and aim to pull up to a meter at 4:00. It's tournament season; the parking is routinely poor. I am surprised that even at this hour, I circle laps not once but twice. I counted out my quarters, surely enough to buy the remain thirty minutes St. Paul requires. I count away the chance to wash my long-ignored work blacks.

My guess is it took me three minutes to vacate my vehicle, cross the parking lot, enter my building, ride the elevator up three floors, head backstage and walk the ramp to my stage door. At the top of that ramp I see something. I see out the third floor window, across the parking lot and at my car. Next to my car, a cop with a green stripey envelope in his hand. Making his move for my wiper blade. Even at this distance. A good three hundred feet hypotenuse, I'd say. I can see his disappointment. For a second I flash 'What the hell?'. Then I realize that I counted out those quarters but I surely didn't deposit them properly. I deserve that one, Copper. You win this time. I suppose I'll contribute to my Monday night street sweeping.

So the first three minutes of my shift were the unlucky ones. Got that out of way. Thank god.

A recital for middle school kids is underway. I change into my concert blacks. I've worn the appropriate and favored outfits into an unpleasant funk. I remain without quarters or the heart to pick 'the blacks' over 'the everyday' for the rare spin cycle opportunity. The last few shows I have pillaged my closet for the reject blacks. The blacks that are gray. Lack pockets. Or too tight. Or too short.

I went with the gray blacks tonight. Pulling them on, I felt something stiff in the pocket.
'Good god', I think. I haven't worn these pants in three years, 'What horribly, disgusting thing am I going to find in here?' I will admit to being nervous reaching into my pocket tonight. Bravely, I go for it. I come up with... two bucks!

For the next person that comes to my house - Will you please go into my purse, find whatever cash I may have and hide it in various pockets of mine? Finding money makes me ridiculously happy.

The show goes on with a bunch of adorably nervous kids and me scrambling to make them less so. Somewhere in there I become the telephone operator, connecting my incommunicado sister with my parents - arranging rides and dinner plans. End of show and I get to make this concert hall a blank space. I got my power tools. I got my muscle. I'm getting dizzy throwing 150 chairs.

Halfway there.

At 9:45 I take a cupcake break.

I collect my soggy ticket at 10:30pm.



Ahhh... life. A day just like any other. We'll do it again sometime, I'm sure.

To an audience member...

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

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.

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

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.

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!

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.

She's feeling top heavy.

With no means of support for this place she's in.

Shallow, like a Sugar Maple.