Now that it’s nice enough outside to go for walks . . .
. . . I’m embracing the learning opportunities presented by signs.
Posts Tagged ‘That Neighbor Chick’
Signs
March 18, 2010Sitting, Waiting, Not Wishing
March 3, 2010
35mm delta 3200 scan
While editing my steaming pile of NaNoWriMo the other night, I came across this sentence: “I hovered in the silent tension between my prayer and the hope for an answer.”
I applauded myself for one good sentence (thank heavens) in a sea of trash. Then I read something a friend had written, a similar sentiment of waiting and of prayer.
It is an interesting place to be suspended. And it is not actually comfortable. It is the place between winter and spring. March 3rd. It is the place before abadoning hope, the place before you realize what you’ve known all along, the place before the un-answer. And I’m not entirely sure what to do here.
So I’m just waiting, hands crossed in my lap, feet swinging. And I don’t even know for what.
frivolous nonsense the second
January 28, 2010“STOP! THIS FRIVOLOUS! NONSENSE!”
This is how it began, my mild obsession with those two words, hearing them shouted in a strained voice by Mrs. Blue. Actually, she did not shout. Ever. It was more of a slight and painful elevation of her perpetually monotone speaking voice. Those of you who remember her, who were also students in her English class, or who knew her as my ex-boyfriend’s mother, know exactly what I’m talking about. (You also know that she has a different last name, but I’m trying to be somewhat coy here, people.)
The poor woman. She was probably trying to inspire us with Shakespeare or Camus or Emerson or Thoreau, forgoodnesssake. What kind of numbskulls could remain uninspired by such genius? A bunch of stupid teenagers, that’s who. I was passing a note, someone was making pretend obscene noises, and someone else was farting for real, and she snapped. God! I would have, too! Except my f-word would not have been “frivolous.” Hers was.
“Stop this frivolous nonsense!” she cried said. Oh, the poor dear. It really pains me now to think about it. I feel guilty, of course. But mostly, I feel, as I felt then, pity. I remember the silence that fell over the room. I remember thinking, I hope I am never ever as miserable as that woman. I also remember thinking, what the heck does “frivolous” mean?
friv-o-lous [friv-uh-l uh s] : –adjective 1. characterized by lack of seriousness or sense: frivolous conduct. 2. self-indulgently carefree; unconcerned about or lacking any serious purpose. 3. (of a person) given to trifling or undue levity: a frivolous, empty-headed person. 4. of little or no weight, worth, or importance; not worthy of serious notice: a frivolous suggestion.
So I looked it up, and decided that frivolous actually was important. I decided that if I did not include plenty of frivolity in my life, I’d end up as miserable as Mrs. Blue (who, by the way, made the most delicious rhubarb pie, was the first person to really encourage my writing, and was a genuinely beautiful person beneath all that monotone).
I fight with that conclusion, with my love affair with all things frivolous. I talk to myself when it comes up (which is often). Why are you crocheting a doily? Because it is fun. But you have more serious things to do. True Art is serious and important and has a capital A. But, look! It’s turquoise! It is still a fucking doily. What if we call it a mandala? Because it goes in circles? Loser. Stop this frivolous nonsense.
And, so, aha! There you have it. There is this young bratty kid inside me that comes to poke around when big important philosophical intellectual spiritual Artiste is around. And she’s like, wheee! Let’s do something pointless. And so sometimes, I do. I don’t know if it is the wrong thing to do, an evil distraction from some grand vision. But I simply cannot take myself so seriously when there is this inner wild child bouncing around, begging for frivolous nonsense.
And so I honor that inner brat by making this frivolous print my first etsy listing. Also, it is yours if you contributed to this frivolity.
Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
tidings of authenticity and joy
December 15, 2009
neighbor kid #2. digital
I don’t know what I’m doing today. I can’t think straight. Shortcake has a cold and is screaming all night and much of the day, and not realizing that she is two. And heavy. So there isn’t a lot of sleep happening. When I held her on my shoulder for her nap today, I wrote a post and then deleted it. It was about authenticity. It was a load of bullshit.
I feel like a baby, who in one moment throws a temper tantrum about . . . whatever . . . mittens, applesauce, and then, in an instant, is fully immersed in joy.
It’s only appropriate, though, really. It’s all paradox. All of it.
Sometimes it is this, only this (for two days now and counting):
******i tried really hard here (and failed) to embed some audio i recorded today of shortcake screaming and crying. so in its place, just scream and cry for a while. thank you******
<—And sometimes it is this. Pure, authentic joy. *edited to add: this isn’t shortcake!!!!*
whatever.
the point was, really, just to show you this really cute picture.
snow day
December 9, 2009i’ve got this one blog sitting in my “drafts” folder.
it is self-indulgent and pathetic and whiny.
it says something like, “what if i don’t want to do this anymore?”
because i kinda don’t right now. wanna do this. anymore.
but actually, that is just nonsense today.
because it’s a SNOW DAY!
and who in the world can be self-indulgent and pathetic and whiny (which i think should be spelled whinEy, but spell check disagrees)
on a SNOW DAY?
this neighborhood crew will make a fort come rain, shine, or snow. it is all about the fort.
shortcake watches out the window. she thinks snow is “yucky.”
what about this picture does not say “Wisconsin?”
and of course, black nail polish is a post-hot-cocoa necessity. for some reason.
i’ve got really cute kids.
p.s. i’d like to dedicate this post to my mom. watch for her comment, i’m sure it will be entertaining.
Now I’m Creeped Out. And Fickle-er.
September 10, 2009My neighbor was over the other day, and (wonder of wonders!) found a toy on the living room floor. She tossed it to me and said, “Hey! This looks like the title of your blog!”
Creepy. Why am I so creepy? Instead of shrugging it off as another weird-thing-Jodi-says, I took a picture of it.
I’ve been trying to elude the fact that “And Her Head Popped Off” is, perhaps, a creepy name for a blog. To me, it is just that silly dandelion rhyme/game. You know, Mama had a baby / And her head popped off, in which you pop off the top of the flower with your thumb. I always assumed that the “her” referred to the mama, not the baby. The baby? No, that is disturbing. Why would the baby’s head… *shudder* …nevermind. My version is much less creepy, right? We mamas are always talking about “losing my mind” or “going crazy” or “don’t know where my head is today.” Not creepy. Benign. Silly. Clever. Un-creepy.
Dammit, though. Now I’m creeped out. So I google all things heads-popping-off, and I feel even worse. Nobody knows whose head we are talking about here. This pisses me off, because I could diagram the damn sentence and show you. Mama is the subject! Mama’s head pops off! But more people are in the it’s-the-baby’s-head camp than the it’s-the-mama’s-head camp, and this is a Democracy, after all. As the last straw, google directs me to the lyrics of a rap. The title: “Mama had a baby and his head popped off.”
So. The title, at first, symbolized my struggles with the motherhood/creativity balance. It reminded me of dandelions, which I love for their ordinary beauty (no comments from the neighbors, please), the humble bouquets from my kids, and, of course, wishes. Now the title is just creepy. And it’s a rap.
Which sucks, because it only confirms my fickleness.
Vomit And Poo
August 27, 2009a.k.a., excuse yet another nonsensical rant, and, why i give a shit.
–>digression, before I have even started (is that possible?): it irks me that some people find words for natural bodily functions, like the aforementioned S-word, to be offensive, but have no qualms about using racial slurs or words like “retard” as insults. This digression brought to you by… a self-righteous jerk on Twitter that I’ve just unfollowed.
I am a bit embarassed about my previous post. This feeling has me thinking that I should have kept my thoughts under wraps, and waited until I could present them in a nice, orderly fashion. This was just like… blahhhflubbadubbawonkaboo. I made my point, or at least, I clarified that I am not pregnant, which was my intent. But I feel like… I dunno, I guess it’s like when someone comes to visit your newborn baby for the first time. You give her a bath, probably, and put her in her cutest outfit. You at least don’t hand her over to your guest with a diaper full of meconium and a face full of breastmilk spit up. Which brings me to…
Vomit (regarding the rant)
So, I’m sorry. All I did was vomit at you. My dear friend Crumpet, who I keep around especially to listen to her speak British English in her pretty pretty accent, uses this analogy. She will call, occasionally, to spew the random things that simply must get out: motherhood rants, frustrations, gossip news, etc. When our conversation has ended, she will say, “thank you for letting me vomit all over you.” Vomit sounds so much prettier with an English accent, I swear.
And now, I think I am making it worse! Like that time when I was a kid, and I was sick, and I ran down the hall to throw up in the bathroom, except I didn’t make it to the bathroom, and puked on the tile, but kept running, so I slipped on it and fell into it and just continued to puke all over myself. Yeah, it’s like that.
Let’s move on, shall we?
Poo (Why I give a shit.)
In regards to my recent “motherhood and creativity” obsesssion, you’re likely wondering: Is this just some pitiful mommy chick, feeling pathetic and noncontributive? That should just put those offsprings in daycare and get a friggin’ job? Or take a watercolor class at the senior center? Is she trying to make herself feel important? Because she knows what an f-stop is and has ink and a sketch pad? Or is this simply an excuse? A justification for laziness? As if a knitted hat can cancel out a mountain of dirty laundry? Yes you are. (Wondering.)
And yes I am, occasionally, feeling all of those things. But those insecurities are not the driving force behind this motherhood/creativity thing. Really, it is its own force. It just keeps flooding my brain. I let it, though, because I think it’s important. I give a shit because I think it actually matters.
However ambitious it sounds, I think it matters for my kids’ future, and not just my daughters’. I think it matters for all of us, and not just my fellow mothers. We are trying, as a society, to right our many wrongs. We are scrambling to fix, save, or cover it all up. We have laws, solutions, formulas, organizations, charities, ideas, philosophies, plans. These are good things, though empty, many formed from good intentions and pumped with masculine power. And, aye, there’s the rub…
There is a significant lack of feminine power: creativity, receptivity, intuition, depth. {And I mean feminine power, not to be confused with “girl power,” that bitter battle cry that has women yearning for equality with (or worse, victory over!) men in a man’s world, on man’s terms. But I think that will have to be another post…} It seems that what is absent (or at least on hiatus) in this story is feminine power, which I believe is, at it’s heart, creativity. Perhaps I have a different definition of it (mm-hmm, yet another post), but in this culture, the word creativity seems to border on cutesy, silly, frivolous. Really, creation is a powerful force, the essence of… well, everything. And it’s available to us—and through us—all; especially, I think, as mothers.
So, yeah. It matters.
That Neighbor Chick and babe, tri-x, Mamiya 645AF (negative scan)