we’re not afraid of the big, bad wolf. so we’re building our houses with sticks. one of the funnest summer projects, ever!
when i was little, i had this imaginary world i would go to before i fell asleep. we lived in the trees of a thick forest, and there were bridges that stretched from one tree to another. i miss that place.
Every man wants to be settled, but only insofar as he is unsettled is there hope. (Ralph Waldo Emerson)
shortcake, dimples, kiki, at the "real" lake
She was poorly behaved yesterday, at a bridal shower. She did not want to sit and socialize. She did not perform, smile, or give affection appropriately or on command. And she screamed like a pterodactyl if she was not allowed to watch the hockey game (what? whose kid is this?) being played in the adjacent ice arena. Then, after a while in the hockey rink, she screamed when i wouldn’t let her climb all over the bleachers. So, I took her outside to continue her screaming.
I stood on the jogging trail while she threw a fit at my feet. My eyes followed the too-perfect curve of the artificial lake, and i compared the identical rows of too-perfect rocks where the water met the too-perfect grass. The windsurfers and canoers looked plastic. Imperfect, sweaty people passed us by, most of them smiling at the tantrum-ing toddler. Above it all, loomed the ugly power plant, which Shortcake noticed was making clouds.
The screaming eventually became whimpering, and the whimpering eventually became silence. I thought she was asleep on my shoulder when I heard her addressing the seagulls.
“Duckies. Not birdies? I hold him.”
I set her down so she could pursue the flock. She exaggerated a tiptoe, whispering “I’m just like you, birdie. Come back!”
She picked up white feathers, and after studying each one, held it up to the seagulls.
“Here you are, birdies.” The ugly creatures continued to evade her, but she followed them—north, then south, then north, again and again.
“Here you are! Here is your feather.” Defeated every time, she would eventually wait for a gust of wind, hold the feather up to the sky, and let the wind take it. And she would laugh.
We missed the gift opening. She did not finish her cupcake.
I’ve just done all of this, too: the tantrum, the whimpering, the silence. There are changes afoot, and uneven currents in the air. A dear friend has just blessed me with some red hawk medicine, with the reminder of the hawk’s sharp vision, its awareness of interconnectedness and the highest Intent, and its ability to see beyond what seems to be to what truly is. Yes, I do believe it is just about time to feel that wind.
It happens in a pattern, becoming almost predictable. The girls do handstands, their legs sticking out of the water in a V. There is a large splash, then a small one, over and over again, everywhere. Most of the mothers try to cover their feminine curves with clingy wet fabric. There is sunscreen and waterwing-ing and squealing and running and splashing and jumping and eating and sitting and sculpting and scolding. It is all so random and recurrent that it is balanced, and the entire place is drenched with visible, audible, palpable chaos.
Surrounding the man-made lake, mirroring the vibration, the leaves tremble in the wind, and the clouds above them, and the stars above them. I notice the pockets of space between swimmers. I listen for pockets of space between sounds. I consider the imperceptible space between molecules. I breathe and feel the same stillness within me, despite the warring emotions and thoughts, despite the trembling atoms and all the chaotic processes that keep me blinking. I laugh when suddenly the loud speakers begin to play “The Space Between.”
I think of meditation, of stillness, of how it remains among the chaos and the noise, this pervasive stillness, this infinite silence. And then I think of the following song, because of the lyrics: “we are all notes in this eternal song / god plays his flute, we all dance along,” and its overall reference to meditation. The dance and the stillness, all superimposed, it makes me feel crazy (CRAZY!), in a good way.
(This also embarrasses me to think about because dammit, now every time I think of Trevor Hall, I will think of the concert on Friday night. The crowd was awful and really small, the music was wonderful, but I was so moved beyond reason that I offered Trevor a dread bead as he passed me in the hall on his way out. I mean, what? Why is that OK? From my nappy dread to yours? Because I feel the words you sing, and we have matching hair? This is when maybe the ego could have stepped in and helped me save face? But no. It did not. And Trevor looked at me, raised a finger dismissively, and said “one second…” and then did not come back. And so now I am going to stop talking about Trevor Hall, for goodness’ sake. Right after this blog post.)
from mesa verde
by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice-
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world, determined to do
the only thing you could do-
determined to save
the only life you could save
(p.s. no. i am not running away… not today, at least. i just found the poem to be thought-provoking.)
it all started like this, torrential rain in bursts, and the compulsion to fully experience it.
and then he said this, and i couldn’t not write it down.
and then she remembered how fun chalk is when the pavement is wet.
and so did he. 
and let’s just say we were deeply moved.
and then:
and then:
but i'm glad i didn't.
tri-x in mamiya c330 tlr
today, i sever the connection to my inner Wisdom with my own hands.
the Places She leads me, i cannot go because i am weak.
the Light She shows me, i cannot embody, because i am weak.
the River She floods, i cannot swim, because i am weak.
the Truth She sings, i cannot hear, because i am weak.
the Fruit She offers me, i cannot taste, because i am weak.
this threshold of Knowing is crossed, and so perhaps when i return, the door will be propped open.
but i know i will not return. i will search my whole life for that elusive gateway, and will not find it.
today i gather scraps of shed skin, and paste them to my face, because i am stupid.
because i am weak.
today i think of Orpheus, and plant seeds in my garden—let them be the Brave ones,
now that the frost has passed.
(but even Orpheus looked back.)
today i recognize that a bird in my backyard has called out,
(as i write this, shortcake says, “look, mama! a bird!”)
like a reminder of Morning,
and that i chose sleep, as did you, because we are weak.
(did you?)
this is not Bravery. this is not receptive Stillness. this is not bold Foolishness.
this is not silent Power.
this is smallness. because i am weak.
(does anyone have any chocolate?)
i’ll add a few inspiring, though not “pretty” links now, to completely contradict everything i just said:
a poem about dancing. yeow
i’ve always wanted to photograph people in the shower. check out this series. yeow.
in case you missed this on my facebook, yeeeow again:
We were lagging, and as I snapped this picture, Mowgli said, “Oh no, Mom! We have to catch up! We are so far behind!”
I turned the camera off and hoisted Shortcake to my hip.
“And it’s all my fault!” he cried. “Because I keep doing things!”
“Like this!” He stabbed his walking stick into a patch of mud.
“And this!” He crouched down to pet the soft moss on a large rock.
“And this!” Exasperated, he hopped onto a fallen log and balanced along its length. Then he looked up at me, his hands upturned, with pleading and helplessness in his eyes.
“I know, babe.” I said, understanding perfectly. “I know.”
The Four. Holga, tri-x 400. Obviously.
What’s so amazing that keeps us stargazing?
And what do we think we might see?
Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection,
the lovers, the dreamers, and me.
from The Rainbow Connection, written by Paul Williams
My Kiki is not a soft, frou-frou girl. She likes loud rock songs and music she can dance to. So, imagine my surprise when I learned that she had been listening to the Sarah McLachlan version of this song on her iPod! Whether it’s the voice or the chords or the elusive meaning, I don’t know, but it moves her. The other night, I played the youtube of Kermit rockin’ the banjo for her, and we laughed. But also, dammit, I got all choked up. What is it about this song?
She wanted to understand the meaning, and I fumbled through an explanation about journey, Mystery, self-expression, connection. Drawing from a rather entertaining fire-and-brimstone vs. Love-and-Light facebook exercise in tolerance this weekend, I told her that we can’t help but walk individual paths, as we each live and experience every moment differently. But at the same time, we are all trying our best to understand the same Thing, whatever we call It, however we respond to It. We know there is beauty and magic, and it is the collective vision of everyone’s unique Truth that . . .
I’m totally lying. This is so much better than the bullshit I gave her. I’ve gotta write this down. Or just ask her what she thinks it means, because that would all go over her head.
Anyway, is this not a fan-cussin’-tastic photo (if I do say so myself)? It is the Spring of the Holga. I’ve just decided.
(p.s. yes. i’ve heard voices.)
Waxing moon, crazy me. Just last night I told m’girl that I have two kinds of crabby: waning moon (woe is me) and waxing moon (everything! now! must!). She said, “the moon is waxing, right?”
I stay up too late, trying to desperately attend to all of the inspiration that speeds around my head. Sometimes I feel like a pack of hyenas upon myself, scavenging whatever is left, whatever we can get from the dead carcass of me.
The other night, around 10 PM, I felt tired. There is this wise zen-like woman in there somewhere that whispered, Burnout, love. This is burnout. Rest your body and your mind. You have all the time in the world. Take care of you. And probably, also, she said ommmmm.
But the loud, obnoxious one said, Burnout’s a stupid FUCK! A bitch I don’t have time for! A poor player that struts and frets her hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more! I’m not sure why Shakespeare was brought into it, but the loud one won, and I developed some film.
I just can’t help but like that bitchy one. She brings me things like this:
all 3 photos: tri-x 400 pushed a stop in mamiya c330 tlr
