progressing

The Curds of Love

It's in the laundry folded

and the dishes put away

in the arms I know are waiting

at the end of a long day

in your downy hair and skin

in your scratchy stubborn chin

and the way, when I begin to sing,

you always jump right in

it's your lips on mine each morning,

and your hands on me at night

it's in your gentle nature

but especially in your fight

in your freckles and red hair

and your lack of underwear

the scent of bike grease on your neck and ears

the way you fill a chair

from how you look in glasses

to how you've learned to cook tofu

There's something monumental

in the smallest things you do.

Some works in progress..

It's been a while. My art appears to be stacks of laundry at this moment in time. Actually, I have a few paintings going in the basement right now, but I don't want to post anything until I've got a finished product. Maybe a show is in order. With Jesse's help, perhaps I'll get my art out there again. (He's my biggest fan.)

But first, Puerto Rico...

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

We were supposed to have prime rib for Christmas dinner, but instead we went to Waffle House. It was one of a series of holiday surprises - like our first flight from Vermont to North Carolina getting canceled, our second and third flights getting canceled (but not till we'd made it to JFK), and then learning that the next available flights to Raleigh would not depart till after the holiday.

One very expensive "economy" car rental and 30 hours later, we managed to crunch/slide/will our way up the un-plowed mountain road to our cabin in the woods. The sun was just starting to glow from behind the mountains, and my family awoke to meet us. It was almost like a Folgers commercial except that we went immediately to bed, and when we woke up there was much better coffee.

It was a wonderful week of playing in snow with my five-year-old nephew, sitting in the hot tub watching the waterfall, and playing board games with my fantastically wacky family. Then on Christmas morning we all awoke to find that... the power was out! Although Santa had visited us and left plenty of presents, he did not find it necessary to leave us a generator or any means for cooking, flushing the toilet, or otherwise maintaining civil society.

We hit the road. And about a half hour down the mountain, we understood the reason for the outage. For about a hundred miles of our drive, everything was encased in ice. The trees - bent over tapping at each-other, collapsed into the snow, or splintered into a thousand pieces across the road, and power lines of course - drooping and swaying with the weight of the frozen rain. It was a scary, but magical ride.

And that's how, three hours later, we ended up at the Waffle House outside of Greensboro. If you've never been, then imagine a Denny's - but more casual. We had to split up into groups as the House was apparently quite popular on Christmas Eve. Not with Jewish waffle-lovers as you might think, but with teenagers who'd just escaped from familial festivities, weary travelers like us, and even a few families wearing their finest, obviously out for their traditional and much anticipated Waffle House dinner.

Our waitress couldn't have been more than 19, but she yelled our orders for waffles, hamburgers, and hashbrowns out with the authority of a thirty-year-old. She made sure my nephew got his waffle within five minutes of sitting down, entertained his requests for ice in his water and ketchup for his waffle "when I was a kid, all I ate was ketchup, just straight out of the bottle, and I turned out fine," and chatted with us about children - she had 2 of her own. She didn't seem bothered to be working on Christmas, or the fact that she was just starting her life, had two kids, and a job at the Waffle House.

She just did her job, and did it very well. I imagined her going home late that night (she told us she was on till 3 a.m.), checking on her sleeping babies, counting her tip money out and placing it carefully in a jar. Then she would clean up the dinner dishes, perhaps do some laundry, slide into bed for a few hours and wake up the next day to do it all over again. It sounds kind of depressing as I write it all out, but she had one of the nicest smiles you've ever seen.

Here's my holiday wish: that our Waffle House waitress gets everything she hopes for. And as for me: I hope that in the coming year I can be more like her. Taking what life gives me and making the best out of it. Doing my job well, listening to the stories of the people I meet, taking care of my family, and loving that I get another day to do it all.

The Night Before Friday

Twas the night before Friday,

And all through the place,

Not a creature was stirring –

At least not John or Grace.

The squirrels were all scuttling through their wall-nests with care

And as John pointed out Grace had lured them all there.

Well, I'm sorry, she said gruffly

I stopped feeding them last fall.

And I think it’s your smell that they like best of all.

The two were all snuggled quite warm in their loveseat,

And one (you guess who) had the stinkiest stank-feet.

When they spied the table, filled with notes from their friends

With photos and tales of the places they’d been.

So what should we write? Was the question at hand

Compared with new babies, our life’s pretty bland.

You got a new bike – said Grace to McMurry

Plus you shaved, so your face isn’t quite so very furry.

Hey - you shaved your legs – he replied – that’s momentous;

Four months ago, though. Hey - is that brittle they sent us?

And quick as a flash, the task was forgotten

As the two stuffed their maws with the candy they’d gotten

I wrote this last year, but it still fits just right.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Something new.

Summer

is a laughing child in a small plastic pool

on wet grass that will soon scorch to yellow,

too long to be cut with the push mower.

A shrieking kid standing by

bandaid flapping in the damp breeze

sunburn pulling lips down,

hot tears evaporating into the bright cloudless day.

Summer is the smell of banana boat lotion and the warmth

of my hair against the back of my neck.

Cheap white wine mingling with ice cubes,

sweating it out in a jelly jar with Fred Flinstone's face.

running across wet grass

falling, slipping, laughing then screeching because

summer means not holding it in

summer is the beginning of all things.

Summer is a rash from the lifejacket that rides up with the strap

and pancakes for dinner and sleeping without blankets

towels that never quite dry

and living on sun.

Summer is made of days that don't end.

Hours made of minutes made of seconds that

tick tick tick between blades of grass

standing upright and tall

Fragile, transparent and so green.

This is a simple drawing I did of my daughter by the baby pool in our backyard.

The Understanding

It wasn't the first time the plate had been empty, but by god it would be the last.

Harold surveyed the empty expanse of tin, then glanced up, cocking his right eye toward the big house. They were in there all right. All four of them. It was their morning feeding time. They like to sleep well past the rise of the sun, then awake with a rousing hubbub, all their wired items ringing, shouting, and clanging at the same time.

Now they were seated in the large glass area, around the communal platter. Eating gargantuan amounts of mushed up something-or-other. Well, wasn't that nice?

Harold bent his knees, and lifted up off the plate, off the pedestal, and with a few flaps landed on the railing outside the glass. They didn't notice. They rarely did, so consumed were they with the cacophany of their own lives. The small ones banged metal instruments on the wood, singing their terrible, mocking song. The older ones chittered to their young, cutting their feed into small pieces, but allowing them - grotesquely - to digest it all on their own.

Harold hopped a bit closer down the railing, tilted his head so that the other eye now glared in toward the large female. It was she who was in charge of his plate.

Every few days or so, she could (usually) be counted on to bang open the hatch to their dwelling, carrying sacks full of food which she placed into metal cannisters, then stopping by Harold's plate with a handful of seed.

In return, it had been established that Harold would live out the winter in the giant oak tree nearby. He often sang for the family, when they ventured outdoors. Complicated songs that he spent hours composing, melodies which bespoke the coldness of the season, the beauty of the dying sun, and - GODDAMN IT! Was it so hard to remember his seed?

Harold hopped up and down on the railing a few more times, fluffing his feathers a bit, but they did not turn to look. Desperate, he launched at the glass,managing to get several good beak taps in, his toes scratching for purchase on the cold, smooth surface, till he landed in a heap at the bottom.

Harold stared up at the blue sky, unable to move. His heart beat loudly in his chest, causing his whole body to quiver.

Bang! The hatch had been opened, and soon, Harold saw the family's faces, hovering over him. Harold lay prone, waiting. Gathering strength. The adults twittered to each other, while the fledglings leaned in closer. Harold grew nervous.

But then the youngest, a male, gently laid a flat object near Harold, nearly as big as the bird. It was food. It smelled of seeds, and grains, and berries. It was round and flat, and Harold nibbled at it. It was delicious. Like a million perfect seeds had been regurgitated into a fluffy cake by his own mother herself, god rest her soul. Harold ate.

That afternoon, as Harold sang his sunset concerto toward the family's wooden nest, his metal tray full to overflowing with seeds, he wished he had another of those lovely foodcakes.

But he never did.

Here is an old drawing that I did when I lived in Chicago.

It's November

again.

Bare branches stare through windows and

outside people walk; footsteps on cold concrete

so loud without leaves or sun.

The furnace is on but cold seems to linger

in corners and just under the floor

I run a bath.

The sound of water as it rushes

luxury of pulling out salts, oils, trashy book.

Heat envelops

I dip my head under

feeling it all the way to my follicles, to the insides of my ears

then emerge, breathing in steam,

drape the washcloth over my heart

and escape to a mystery not my own.

Too soon, drafts of the house draw warmth from the bath

water turns tepid

and I'm left shivering, knees to chest

cold wetness dripping down

Not ready to get out yet,

and still so cold.

Well here it is. The first art post to our old zine, Wee. My husband and I recently lost our baby in utero during the eighth month of pregnancy. This was a drawing that came out of our sadness.

Noel

Inscentsced

My nose tingles, my lips are turning numb, and my whole body itches. No, I’m not coming down from some awesome party drug, or battling the swine flu… I’m dealing with perfume at work.

You see, I’m one of those people who can’t tolerate many chemicals, including cleansers, cosmetics, glues, and especially — especially — including perfume.

My coworkers know this. I’ve had to “come out” to them in a mass email. So why do they continue to torment me?

Are they just heartless? Do they really think that their need to “smell nice” is more important than my well-being? Or do they just not believe that their liberal dosing of Jean Nate causes my eyes to swell and throat to close up? Do they think I’m making this crap up, so that I can send out emails about myself — do they imagine that I get a charge out of that?

As I’ve written this, a slow ache has started behind my nose, crept up over my face, and is now traveling down into my shoulders where I know, from experience, it will settle for the rest of the day — or perhaps even week.

But let’s not talk about me. Let’s talk about her. Sitting over there, ten feet away, radiating scent-waves throughout the entire room. Why is it that so many people literally bathe themselves with scent? It’s not at all uncommon that one can walk into an empty room, and still smell the past occupant. That isn’t how it’s supposed to work, people. Your scent is supposed to be a surprise that someone picks up on as they lean in for a kiss, not a trumpet announcing your arrival.

And here I am, the canals in my ears swelling uncomfortably, my neck and chest turning red, and I’m expected to suffer through this for eight hours while this woman reeks me out from ten paces away. Except that even after eight hours, my pain won’t end. The headache doesn’t end, the skin reaction doesn’t end, and the muscle aches — as I’ve mentioned — can last for days. Surely, this isn’t fair. But what to do?

Al-Zarqawi Shot Dead in "Iraq War"


One of Al Quaida's main honchos has been eliminated in yet another publicity ploy to get us behind the president. Bush's people have really put a lot of eggs in this basket, occupying not one but two headlines on the Yahoo homepage alone.

Of course I would feel slightly more impressed if I actually believed any of this war.

It's time I share with the masses what I've known in my gut for a long time now - that the Iraq War is a sham. I don't just mean we were led into an unjust war for made-up reasons - no - I mean it's 100% completely staged.



Think about it people - when was the last time you went to "Iraq"? Exactly. That's because it doesn't exist. "Iraq" exists only in the backlots of Los Angeles studios. It is the brainchild of a joint venture between the White House, Fox Media and Kentucky Fried Chicken, and it's purpose is to bolster support for the president, put us into a state of fear so that our civil rights can be eroded and just to generally spice up prime time news. (The KFC link is still being proven at this point, so I'll just leave that bit out)



Why do you think they chose a desert state, people? Why are there so many deaths there all the time? It's gang warfare, alright. But they ain't "Arabs".



Here is an exlusive photo, taken by one of Weezine's crack sources.
According to that source, the green man featured, "Al Greenfada"
was to play the villain role which ended up going to Ari
Shmechdel, whom you may know as "Al Zarquawi". Wise
choice, I think. Puppets are just too loveable to play villains.

Of course, now that Ari's character has been written off, we may be seeing more of Greenfada after all.

One of the outcomes of this whole bamboozle has been the upsurgence of money in Hollywood. With thousands of out-of-work actors finally bringing home steady pay, the studios being paid millions in hush money, and just the general "trickle-down" economics of the area, the whole film industry has been thriving.



While this was initially thought to be a bonus, (romantic comedies being the number one method of oppression in America), an unexpected result has been the ability for some of the studios to take some bigger risks. Like Brokeback Mountain. George Bush was recently overheard complaining to Cheney, "But Uncle Dick, you didn't never say they'd be 'lowed to make homo movies!" Cheney then bitch-slapped the president and sent him to bed.

Okay, I know that for some of you this is going to be a lot to digest. Undoubtedly, you've already been completely taken in by the whole media blitz, much like the original "Moon Landing" or "Baby Jessica in the Well".

And to those of you, I say simply - You're welcome!

UMMMMM . . .

Has anyone ever read the label on a bottle of Dr. Bronner's Magic Soap?


I did.

We're going camping soon and I think you can use it for dishsoap but just wanted to make sure. Instead of instructions though, there's a bunch of stuff about God and how we should all follow the Moral ABCs, which apparently include using a lot of soap.

Here all this time I thought my camp soap was non-denominational but no, Dr. Bronner's is very passionate about the "All-One", which sounds suspiciously like the diety worshipped in Walter Kirn's latest book, Mission to America.*



And it isn't just a little mention either. The entire label is filled with this teeny-tiny print that I bet most of us have never bothered to read before, and I'd say 90% of it is spiritual. Here is just a little sampling:

"Who else but God gave man Love that can spark mere dust to life! If you can teach each unforgiving minute, the Moral ABC that unites all mankind free, come hell, hate, ban, you'll enjoy God's spaceship Earth and do great work within it, and which is more my son you'll be a Man! A Man! All-One!"

I mean, this isn't just your regular loopy Christian stuff, this is like some Tom Cruise shit. Which is why I like it.

Stop by the comments section and wash your hands - we're giving out free samples of Dr. Bronner's Hemp Almond today.

* Walter Kirn is a gifted writer and I am not saying he stole this idea from the soap. Though it would be funny if he had. You should read his books, and decide for yourself.

A BEAUTIFUL MESS



What the hell is up with all these copycats lately? I'm not just talking about fashion (though obviously that bitch on the left should've gone home and changed). No, I'm referring to something much closer to my heart - plagiarism. It's becoming a national phenomenon, like avian-flu anxiety or those pink Uggs from last winter. And I'm beginning to find it just as disturbing.

At first I thought it was funny, with that spoiled Harvard brat getting caught and then trying to lie her way out of it. I mean, it's "chick lit" after all - one of the main requirements is to be as generic and redundant as possible.

And I just found it sad when this guy at school stole several poems to compete in our dinky little school poetry slam. (Taking second place and walking away with a candy bar - which should have been MY candy bar!)

But then it happened to me.

It was unintentional, and the guilty party didn't even attribute the work to herself, (which as it was my writing obviously was a wise move), but to someone else. Who knows how she got mixed up - I'm sure there was no malice intended whatsoever, and in some ways this makes it a pretty mild case of plagiarism, though still, it hurts that I get no credit for the work whatsoever.

Incredibly, the woman who did this is an author herself.



Then Friday at work I open up a letter accusing one of our contributors (I work at a small literary magazine) of plagiarism. It was just a few lines of a poem,

Like a party dress
the night
fell at her feet
in a beautiful mess . . .

Or something like that. And I don't even remember who the authors' were, so in a way I'm plagiarising right now. (Except that nobody reads this).
Could this have been accidental? Maybe.
Maybe not.
Could several people have had the exact same image take form in their heads? Why not? Or, more likely, could one of the authors have gotten the line so embedded in his or her head they started believing it was their own?

Plagiarism, upon closer inspection, is no black and white issue. Like when I did my study on censorship, I'm finding it can be a very small, very personal act. Like repeating a joke, getting a laugh, and then forgetting to credit who it came from. No big deal, right?

What about describing something a certain way, like "She's as dirty as Paris Hilton"? Does this warrant a footnote? Or what if you're one of those really annoying people that quotes whole passages of things when the mood hits you?
Like maybe you're sitting out on the deck, sipping your pink Zima on ice and suddenly you're all

"So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay"

And then everyone else is like "wow, that's really beautiful man". And maybe one of them knows you're quoting Frost but two of them don't. Is this plagiarism?

It's a slippery slope, you know? I'd love to know what you all think - any personal experience here? Any ideas?

Sorry for the delay - I wandered into the comments section of The Daily Header and lost a couple days. The last thing I remember Smellrat was asking if I wanted a Helen Keller. Anyways, here's the poem that won 3rd place in the highly prestigious Vermont College Poetry Slam.


It's So Easy

feeling superior when
you live in this house.

The haze of strong pot
grown in closets, with love,
fills our livingroom where I know
loose-jeaned boys will sit through the night.

Moose barks at one who knocks at our door.
Shaggy hair will not hide
his mediocre dreams.
Condescending, I know.
But it's true.

They laugh too loudly at Caddy Shack
and at all the wrong times.
Cypress Hill fills the background
and they mistakenly think,
you can tell by the way that they sit,
that by listening they have become cool.

It's so easy to sit here
silently mocking
their narrow lives that fit
so nicely
down the mouth of a bong.

And here I sit
with my own friend
this screen.

We whisper like gossips over coffee
me in my ratty pink slippers and she
in her plastic and glass
who always understands me
and always laughs.