Archive for February, 2006
big love
Feb 28th
StoryCorps is a national project to gather the stories of people – everyday people – around the country. This project brings people together, usually loved ones, to record the stories of their lives. A recording is made to CD and, if desired, sent to the Library of Congress. This project is putting a face on the United States of this period.
Two of the stars of StoryCorps are Danny and Annie Perasa. Danny spoke of his love for Annie with such eloquence and depth that it moved millions of listeners to tears.
This is a man who made sure that his wife knew she was loved each and every day of their life together. From writing love notes to her each morning to recording his voice at the premier StoryCorps booth in Grand Central Station, Danny was the epitome of a romantic.
Sadly, Danny passed away last Friday from cancer.
I think, though, that he left a legacy. He has inspired many of us to voice our love and appreciation for those around us. He has also given me encouragement that, maybe, there is a Danny out there for me.
slightly cracked
Feb 27th
“A true friend is someone who thinks that you are a good egg even though he knows that you are slightly cracked.”
~ Bernard Meltzer ~
I’ve been thinking about friendship a lot lately.
I don’t have a lot of friends…not people I can call up and tell my stories to or people I can hang out with.
I think part of this is because we moved so much when I was a kid. My friends were my family. They were the people I turned to when I wanted to talk, when I needed to cry, when I wanted to do something.
The problem with that is that my brothers, the closest people to me, are much more social than I am. They make friends easily. They like to socialize. So they have a lot of friends.
I only have them.
And that can be lonely.
Then they both got married – to their best friends, no less. Their marriages are the kinds that we all wish we had. They truly, even after 15 years together, enjoy one another.
While both of their wives welcome me into their homes, they are no longer “my” family but I am now “extended” family.
For me, though, they are all I have. And I’m sure that is a lot of pressure to put on people who have lives of their own.
But where does a person turn when she doesn’t really have anyone?
some boys are born to wander
Feb 26th
american life in poetry: column 048
by ted kooser, u.s poet laureate
Every parent can tell a score of tales about the difficulties of raising children, and then of the difficulties in letting go of them. Here the Texas poet, Walt McDonald, shares just such a story.
Some Boys are Born to Wander
From Michigan our son writes, How many elk?
How many big horn sheep? It’s spring,
and soon they’ll be gone above timberline,climbing to tundra by summer. Some boys
are born to wander, my wife says, but rocky slopes
with spruce and Douglas fir are home.He tried the navy, the marines, but even the army
wouldn’t take him, not with a foot like that.
Maybe it’s in the genes. I think of wild-eyed yearstill I was twenty, and cringe. I loved motorcycles,
too dumb to say no to our son–too many switchbacks
in mountains, too many icy spots in spring.Doctors stitched back his scalp, hoisted him in traction
like a twisted frame. I sold the motorbike to a junkyard,
but half his foot was gone. Last month, he cashedhis paycheck at the Harley house, roared off
with nothing but a backpack, waving his headband,
leaning into a downhill curve and gone.
First published in “New Letters,” Vol. 69, 2002, and reprinted from “A Thousand Miles of Stars,” 2004, by permission of the author and Texas Tech University Press. Copyright (c) 2002 by Walt McDonald. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.
crossing
Feb 25th
Plans change. Things move on. I’m crossing over to a different way of thinking about my life and the things that happen within it.
I won’t be going to Vancouver, unfortunately. It is unfortunate. My friend changed his mind and asked me not to come.
Sure, I could have gotten a hotel room and still gone by myself but I would have thought about the “what-ifs” the entire time.
And another friend said I could stay with him and we could have “fun” without any of the difficulties of trying to build a relationship. But you know what? I think I have more respect for myself than to do that. I know myself, too. When I do those things, I hate myself for it. I feel cheap and used and I don’t want to feel that way about myself.
So I’m being proactive and doing something for me.
I’m going somewhere I’ve always wanted to go and doing things I’ve always wanted to do.
It’s not Vancouver but it holds great appeal for me.
I’m going to our nation’s capital, Washington, D.C. I’ve always wanted to wander around the museums and walk around the city taking photographs. It’s a photographer’s dream, I think.
So I’m going to do that. I’m going to go and have fun.
And if any of you happen to live in the area and would like to have dinner or lunch some day, let me know. I’ll be there between March 16-25.
made for walking
Feb 24th
I’ve always loved the Nancy Sinatra song, “These Boots Were Made For Walking”. I don’t know why but it is one of those songs that I’ve always loved (and I don’t even own it – weird as that is!).
She sounds so strong and sure of herself in the song. I wonder if she felt that way when she ended relationships. I wonder if she was always sure of herself when she walked away. Or was she strong enough to say “enough”?
I think it could be an anthem. Heh. Albeit a retro anthem.
You keep saying you’ve got something for me.
something you call love, but confess.
You’ve been messin’ where you shouldn’t have been a messin’
and now someone else is gettin’ all your best.These boots are made for walking, and that’s just what they’ll do
one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.You keep lying, when you oughta be truthin’
and you keep losin’ when you oughta not bet.
You keep samin’ when you oughta be changin’.
Now what’s right is right, but you ain’t been right yet.These boots are made for walking, and that’s just what they’ll do
one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.You keep playin’ where you shouldn’t be playin
and you keep thinkin’ that you´ll never get burnt.
Ha! I just found me a brand new box of matches yeah
and what he know you ain’t HAD time to learn.Are you ready boots? Start walkin’!
propogating positive thought
Feb 23rd
I was working out yesterday afternoon and I was really enjoying myself. I was on a new machine, I was feeling good on it, I was realizing that I was getting a great workout on it, and the adrenaline rush that was giving me a high. In addition, I was listening to one of my favorite groups, Indigo Girls, on my iPod and I was having a hard time not singing and dancing as I was working out.
I was feeling really, really good. It was a positive experience.
I got off the machine and went to get the disinfectant to wipe it down and a guy comes up to me. He says, “You looked like you were having such a good time. It was making me smile.”
That made me grin like an idiot. Heh. Feeling good is infectious. It breeds and propogates. We share it with someone and they, in turn, share it with someone else.
But the same is true for sadness. Or loneliness.
After that euphoria, I went home and got some sad news. Some news that, at first blush, hurt my feelings deeply.
I was in tears most of the night and didn’t sleep well. It was a fitful sleep.
When I got up this morning, I wanted to shoot off an e-mail, questioning. I wanted answers. I wanted to understand what was going on.
What I realized, though, is that none of that really matters. And my feelings aren’t as hurt now as they were at first thought.
I’m going to be okay. I will survive this minor setback and move on.
art
Feb 22nd
I am interested in promoting my photography at a local coffee shop. That’s where I’d like to hang my first shingle, so to speak.
This particular coffee shop hangs the works of people all of the time. I’ve seen a wide range of artistic endeavors taking place there – from projects from the local high schools to senior citizens’ works (and everything in-between). I want to hang my works there for a few reasons: 1) It’s a small venue; 2) It’s local and, therefore, may be more willing to hang a local’s work; 3) It gets great traffic.
I’m intimidated and don’t know how to to go about asking though. I wouldn’t even know where to start. And, to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure if my work is good enough to hang anywhere. I like it but there is no accounting for my taste.
I live in one of those communities where art is spelled with caps. It is not simply art, but ART.
I live in one of those artsy communities where people take art seriously. We have galleries all over town. We have photographers who shoot for major magazines living here, who have traveled the world to get that perfect shot for a layout. We have world-renowned published writers and painters and sculptors living here.
For a small city, this is an artists’ enclave.
So for someone who knows that she isn’t a professional and may not have the same skills as others, it is intimidating.
How do you break in? How do you know if your work is even good enough?
storm a-brewing
Feb 21st
I feel like I’m waiting for something to happen, some grand, huge thing – just to happen.
I don’t know what it is. I don’t know why I’m waiting but that’s how I feel. Like I’ve put things on hold just because something may be coming up.
I feel like I’m going through the motions – living life just to live it until that big thing happens. I go to school. I go to work. I go to the gym. I hang out at home with Dakota. I go out with my nieces and nephews.
But these are things that are happening while I wait.
It’s there, on the periphery…haunting me, telling me something is coming.
And it’s not a bad thing. It’s an exciting thing. That much I can feel. But I don’t know what it is.
And this is odd for me. I’m used to rushing out and embracing new things, not waiting for them.
It’s frustrating.
It’s annoying.
It’s jarring.
I want to know what it is.
nostalgia
Feb 20th
As much as I embrace change and love looking forward, there are parts of me that absolutely love tradition or wish I had lived in a different age.
This morning as I drove into work, I was listening to Morning Edition on NPR and they were interviewing Maude Maggart. Maude is the older sister of Fiona Apple. She is also a singer but doesn’t sing pop or rock songs. Instead, she sings Irving Berlin, 20s & 30s American Standards, and Cabaret.
Her voice is like honey. She brings to life a whole different era that most of us have only heard about from older relatives or have seen in movies.
She has a presence that makes me wish I had been alive during those times so I could have heard more of the music.
You can listen to samples (and they are long samples) of her CDs on her web site: Maude Maggart. You won’t be disappointed.
holy cussing
Feb 19th
american life in poetry: column 047
by ted kooser, u.s poet laureate
The poet, novelist and biographer, Robert Morgan, who was raised in North Carolina, has written many intriguing poems that teach his readers about southern folklore. Here’s just one example.
Holy Cussing
When the most intense revivals swept
the mountains just a century ago,
participants described the shouts and barks
in unknown tongues, the jerks of those who tried
to climb the walls, the holy dance and laugh.
But strangest are reports of what was called
the holy cuss. Sometimes a man who spoke
in tongues and leapt for joy would break into
an avalanche of cursing that would stun
with brilliance and duration. Those that heard
would say the holy spirit spoke as from
a whirlwind. Words burned on the air like chains
of dynamite. The listeners felt transfigured,
and felt true contact and true presence then,
as if the shock of unfamiliar
and blasphemous profanity broke through
beyond the reach of prayer and song and hallo
to answer heaven’s anger with its echo.
Reprinted from Southern Poetry Review, Vol. 43, No. 1, 2004 by permission of the author. Copyright (c) 2004, by Robert Morgan, whose most recent book is “The Strange Attractor: New and Selected Poems,” Louisiana State University Press, 2004. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.
