“THAT DOESN”T MAKE IT RIGHT!! JUST BECAUSE YOU SAW IT AT POTTERY BARN DOESN”T MAKE IT RIGHT!!!”
Jenny L. was an odd creature who once licked us both at the Redeye and gave us Mono…but the girl had a point. SPM
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Swinging Toward Change
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
So. The ice on the river began to rot eight days ago, breaking up two days ago under the persistant influence of the sun. Buds are beginning to swell and the air no longer has a fetid chill to it.The windows could be thrown open to flush the last bits of fusty air from the corners of our apartment and the Scary Neighbors were out in full force and full volume.
They take all of their troublesome elements from one young man who yells at passing cars and at us every time we enter or leave our own house. He has the skankeddiest hair I have *ever* seen, and no sense of dress whatsoever; he seems to think that any jersey-hoodie-white-sneaker combo is good enough. Sure. To be buried in. Maybe.
(I have begun to notice a striking similarity between this guy and his yelling at passing cars and the way dogs chase moving cars and bark. I wish the guy next door would get just a little closer to the dog's behaviour. Some dogs get too close to the car and get clipped, you know, and that's not always a bad thing.
Anyway . . . he and his buddies blared music from the cheap speakers of the hoopty-mobile in the driveway next door and sauntered down the block to our corner harassing all and sundry that happened to pass, with one exception: Today was the first day since the cold set in that the special-crazy old black lady walked by the house pushing her shopping cart full of dead baby dolls and talking to herself. Hoopty Crew & Co. gave her all the sidewalk she wanted and said nary a word. There must be something powerful buried under all those dead baby dolls . . . . I wonder if she does parties. . .
And then - just at 6pm - all of the bells in all of the old spires that bind in our strange bit of world began to ring out the end of the day. That's when I remembered that nothing is so bad that a little time and the right word or touch won't put most of the shine back into things.That's when I begin to feel sorry I spent so much of the day in a slump . . . .
1:12 AM -
SPM
So. The ice on the river began to rot eight days ago, breaking up two days ago under the persistant influence of the sun. Buds are beginning to swell and the air no longer has a fetid chill to it.The windows could be thrown open to flush the last bits of fusty air from the corners of our apartment and the Scary Neighbors were out in full force and full volume.
They take all of their troublesome elements from one young man who yells at passing cars and at us every time we enter or leave our own house. He has the skankeddiest hair I have *ever* seen, and no sense of dress whatsoever; he seems to think that any jersey-hoodie-white-sneaker combo is good enough. Sure. To be buried in. Maybe.
(I have begun to notice a striking similarity between this guy and his yelling at passing cars and the way dogs chase moving cars and bark. I wish the guy next door would get just a little closer to the dog's behaviour. Some dogs get too close to the car and get clipped, you know, and that's not always a bad thing.
Anyway . . . he and his buddies blared music from the cheap speakers of the hoopty-mobile in the driveway next door and sauntered down the block to our corner harassing all and sundry that happened to pass, with one exception: Today was the first day since the cold set in that the special-crazy old black lady walked by the house pushing her shopping cart full of dead baby dolls and talking to herself. Hoopty Crew & Co. gave her all the sidewalk she wanted and said nary a word. There must be something powerful buried under all those dead baby dolls . . . . I wonder if she does parties. . .
And then - just at 6pm - all of the bells in all of the old spires that bind in our strange bit of world began to ring out the end of the day. That's when I remembered that nothing is so bad that a little time and the right word or touch won't put most of the shine back into things.That's when I begin to feel sorry I spent so much of the day in a slump . . . .
1:12 AM -
SPM
Monday, March 5, 2007
A Sickly-Sweet Poem.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
(by e.e. cummings)
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;
only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
What was he going on about!?
A woman?
A man?
A loved child?
I am not certain,
but I have thought,
I have wondered,
I have decided in reading that he writes of hope because it is what is needed at the moment.
Not that life is so harsh, but understanding and wisdom can be so scarce and so many things happen that shoudn't. . . and so many are not happening that should . . . I have decided that the poem is about hope and, odd or not, this is what hope looks like to me.
somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
(by e.e. cummings)
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look will easily unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;
only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
What was he going on about!?
A woman?
A man?
A loved child?
I am not certain,
but I have thought,
I have wondered,
I have decided in reading that he writes of hope because it is what is needed at the moment.
Not that life is so harsh, but understanding and wisdom can be so scarce and so many things happen that shoudn't. . . and so many are not happening that should . . . I have decided that the poem is about hope and, odd or not, this is what hope looks like to me.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
May, Mabel, Doug and Me: Column for the Bay City Times
I spent a good part of Mother’s Day at the Bay City Players for the second weekend of “Meet Me in St. Louis”. Susan Meade was there - lovely as ever – in her crinkly gold silk blouse, distressed-and-deconstructed-pearl-and-lace-encrusted jeans, and unfaltering smile.
We sat behind a Queen-Anne-legged table chatting and offering season tickets to anyone who glanced our way. Into our triangle drifted an apricot-coated little lady with white hair being led past by her daughter.
They paused in their passing and Little asked of Susan in the slightly tremulous voice that is proof of a full life, “Did you know me?”
Without waiting for any reply beyond our politely interested facial expressions, Little's mouth set into a quietly certain smile and answered herself: “You knew me.". Susan said looking into Little’s eyes with a similar smile, “Yes.”
As the daughter led her away, Little said with an urgency that made me listen very carefully: “My name is May.”
Then she was gone, but my day was altered and I was minded of other little ladies. Other mothers. Other children. Other urgencies. And Mabel.
Mabel was a ninety-something-year-old woman who lived at the same nursing home as my Great Uncle Sol (a cousin, actually) in South Dakota. The main difference between she and he was that, while my family were there to visit him, no one came to visit Mabel.
I passed her in the hall as I set out on a passing-the-time exploration and – for some reason known only to her Alzheimer’s and herself – I was recognized as and assumed to be a boy named Doug.
I never found out if Doug was a nephew, son or grandson, but I did learn a great deal about him as Mabel reminded me of things any self-respecting Doug should have known.
Doug and I apparently had the same ready laugh. Doug played baseball and the piano. Doug loved chasing fireflies and climbing trees. But, most of all, Doug was deeply, wholly unforgettably, unreasonably and lastingly loved of a woman named Mabel who seemed to remember very little beyond that love. For some reason not to be found, I was where he should’ve been, and – for a while – I was alright being a boy named Doug.
I stopped to chew on this for a bit backstage at the Players in Bay City and realized that May, Mabel, Doug and me were linked by time, sympathy, empathy and humanity and that everything living will age, fade, falter and eventually be forgotten, but old is not dead as long as one is remembered.
SPM
We sat behind a Queen-Anne-legged table chatting and offering season tickets to anyone who glanced our way. Into our triangle drifted an apricot-coated little lady with white hair being led past by her daughter.
They paused in their passing and Little asked of Susan in the slightly tremulous voice that is proof of a full life, “Did you know me?”
Without waiting for any reply beyond our politely interested facial expressions, Little's mouth set into a quietly certain smile and answered herself: “You knew me.". Susan said looking into Little’s eyes with a similar smile, “Yes.”
As the daughter led her away, Little said with an urgency that made me listen very carefully: “My name is May.”
Then she was gone, but my day was altered and I was minded of other little ladies. Other mothers. Other children. Other urgencies. And Mabel.
Mabel was a ninety-something-year-old woman who lived at the same nursing home as my Great Uncle Sol (a cousin, actually) in South Dakota. The main difference between she and he was that, while my family were there to visit him, no one came to visit Mabel.
I passed her in the hall as I set out on a passing-the-time exploration and – for some reason known only to her Alzheimer’s and herself – I was recognized as and assumed to be a boy named Doug.
I never found out if Doug was a nephew, son or grandson, but I did learn a great deal about him as Mabel reminded me of things any self-respecting Doug should have known.
Doug and I apparently had the same ready laugh. Doug played baseball and the piano. Doug loved chasing fireflies and climbing trees. But, most of all, Doug was deeply, wholly unforgettably, unreasonably and lastingly loved of a woman named Mabel who seemed to remember very little beyond that love. For some reason not to be found, I was where he should’ve been, and – for a while – I was alright being a boy named Doug.
I stopped to chew on this for a bit backstage at the Players in Bay City and realized that May, Mabel, Doug and me were linked by time, sympathy, empathy and humanity and that everything living will age, fade, falter and eventually be forgotten, but old is not dead as long as one is remembered.
SPM
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Passover
First night of Passover tonight. It was snowing last year and raining this. I think I prefer the whiter, colder version.
SPM
SPM
Wednesday, March 8, 2006
"I am going to beat you with a penny and eat your little dog."
Kendra is one of the irregulars (as in personalities) that frequent the coffee house at 810 Saginaw Street. Kendra is . . . special.
She learned rather abruptly last year that the bubble of my personal space is larger than that of most folks. Large enough to accommodate Glenda, Good Witch of the North. Hoopskirts and all. Kendra also learned that attempting to enter said space without a permit can be dangerous.
She plopped down nearby and announced that she thought her new shampoo made her hair smell like coconut. "Doesn't it smell like coconut? Here, smell," and she leaned forward to let me 'niff.
I said no and attempted to move a way, and she kept offering the top of her head. As she swooped forward again, I thumped her stiffly on the head with a giant English penny (c. 1798) that I usually have in my pocket and happened to have in my hand. She withdrew rapidly with her eyes watering.
Her head may or may not have smelled of coconut, but it certainly sounded like one. Kendra learned that, while most American airspace is still unprotected, some patches are simply not safe to cross unannounced.
She looked at me appalled and asked, "What was that?!" I told her it was a penny for her lack of thought.
I am pleased to state that we have moved beyond issues of smell and space and now chat amiably about the pieces of writing each is working on without incident.
The other day we sat on the stoop of 808 Saginaw Street where we use to when it was my stoop and played with her Chihuahua, Abbie.
While sitting there a biddy in drove up in a minivan named Montana and prompted a discussion on the topic of old ladies named after states. It was surprising how many are out there and interesting what effect being named after a large piece of dirt seems to have on the personality.
Also while sitting there, the UPS guy crossed the street toward the coffee house and us with a package on his shoulder that kept him from seeing that we were there. As he approached the curb he paused, giggled and hopped gleefully into the massive puddle of water caused by the warmth of the day winning out over the snow on the street. Then he went into the coffee house to deliver his package.
I played with a dog, met a minivan named Montana, and witnessed a grown man giggle and hop into a puddle. Such were the gifts of the day.
SPM
She learned rather abruptly last year that the bubble of my personal space is larger than that of most folks. Large enough to accommodate Glenda, Good Witch of the North. Hoopskirts and all. Kendra also learned that attempting to enter said space without a permit can be dangerous.
She plopped down nearby and announced that she thought her new shampoo made her hair smell like coconut. "Doesn't it smell like coconut? Here, smell," and she leaned forward to let me 'niff.
I said no and attempted to move a way, and she kept offering the top of her head. As she swooped forward again, I thumped her stiffly on the head with a giant English penny (c. 1798) that I usually have in my pocket and happened to have in my hand. She withdrew rapidly with her eyes watering.
Her head may or may not have smelled of coconut, but it certainly sounded like one. Kendra learned that, while most American airspace is still unprotected, some patches are simply not safe to cross unannounced.
She looked at me appalled and asked, "What was that?!" I told her it was a penny for her lack of thought.
I am pleased to state that we have moved beyond issues of smell and space and now chat amiably about the pieces of writing each is working on without incident.
The other day we sat on the stoop of 808 Saginaw Street where we use to when it was my stoop and played with her Chihuahua, Abbie.
While sitting there a biddy in drove up in a minivan named Montana and prompted a discussion on the topic of old ladies named after states. It was surprising how many are out there and interesting what effect being named after a large piece of dirt seems to have on the personality.
Also while sitting there, the UPS guy crossed the street toward the coffee house and us with a package on his shoulder that kept him from seeing that we were there. As he approached the curb he paused, giggled and hopped gleefully into the massive puddle of water caused by the warmth of the day winning out over the snow on the street. Then he went into the coffee house to deliver his package.
I played with a dog, met a minivan named Montana, and witnessed a grown man giggle and hop into a puddle. Such were the gifts of the day.
SPM
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Eskimo Kisses
Eskimo Kisses
S.P.M.
Tuesday, February 21st, 2006, 8:43:03 p.m.
I noticed
as I walked up Washington Avenue
through the night
and toward the old theater
that my neighborhood
was sleepier than usual.
There were few people
and fewer cars
on the street
with it’s thick coating of ice.
An unusual brand of near silence
filled the city's empty spaces
Making things quiet as a "hush"
into personalized declarations.
Every ice-covered branch and twig moved silently
and stiffly
making tiny
(eerie)
crystalline sounds
as they tried to rub together
like a chapped hands in the dry wind.
I was left with the impression
of something between
the tinkling of a music box
and the crackle of glass
just after
an automobile accident.
It began to lightly, very lightly snow
and a single flake
(barely cold enough to exist)
fell on the tip of my nose
and tickled a bit
as it melted.
I looked up into the falling flakes and grinned
because
that touch
reminded me
of my childhood
and the way
my mom
was so fond of giving
Eskimo kisses
when I was small.
SPM
S.P.M.
Tuesday, February 21st, 2006, 8:43:03 p.m.
I noticed
as I walked up Washington Avenue
through the night
and toward the old theater
that my neighborhood
was sleepier than usual.
There were few people
and fewer cars
on the street
with it’s thick coating of ice.
An unusual brand of near silence
filled the city's empty spaces
Making things quiet as a "hush"
into personalized declarations.
Every ice-covered branch and twig moved silently
and stiffly
making tiny
(eerie)
crystalline sounds
as they tried to rub together
like a chapped hands in the dry wind.
I was left with the impression
of something between
the tinkling of a music box
and the crackle of glass
just after
an automobile accident.
It began to lightly, very lightly snow
and a single flake
(barely cold enough to exist)
fell on the tip of my nose
and tickled a bit
as it melted.
I looked up into the falling flakes and grinned
because
that touch
reminded me
of my childhood
and the way
my mom
was so fond of giving
Eskimo kisses
when I was small.
SPM
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