A Litany

This morning I give thanks:

For the two kittens--one gray, one black & white--peeking their heads from between the white picket fence;

For the robin's red breast contrasting with the green lawn;

For irises--dark purple, lavender, large and small--in gorgeous array throughout my neighborhood;

For bright school buses, yellow beacons of civilization trolling our streets every morning;

For children, getting into cars, climbing aboard school buses, backpacks on, hair brushed and shiny, sleepy or skipping;

For my daughter, who invited me on this morning's walk to share in the treasures of the new day.

For all these, I give thanks.

True Confessions

I feel like a pervert. No one told me that one of the side effects of growing older is that the range of people one finds attractive expands exponentially.

When I was first dating, I was only attracted to people my own age. Literally. Anybody even a year older seemed too old for me. But now that I'm in my mid-forties, anybody from twenty on up seems to be in my radar. I'm creeping myself out.

Take Ben Barnes, the hunky English actor playing Prince Caspian in the new Narnia movie. He's dark, brooding, gorgeous, and has an accent. What's not to like? But he's like 25 years old, which is 20 friggin' years younger than I am. I am literally old enough to be his mother. Finding him attractive just freaks me out.

I was discussing this with a friend and she says it's just one of the perks of growing older and that I should just enjoy it. I don't know if I can. I don't know where I got the idea that one can only find people one's own age attractive but I've got that in spades. And it's not like I'm doing anything inappropriate; I'm just noting physical beauty when I see it around me. What's the harm in that?

On the other hand, I can't handle the Victoria Secret commercials with the models who look 17. I keep wanting to throw a robe over them and ask them if their mother knows they're prancing around in their underwear. And it doesn't matter if my husband is in the room or not. It's not that I don't want him looking; it's that I don't think anyone should be looking because they're so young.

So maybe I have a double standard between young men and young women. Or maybe I just draw the line at teenagers. I don't know, but did I mention that IT'S FREAKING ME OUT!

Of course, the youngsters don't find me attractive. The men who scope me out are always my age or older, which is as it should be, yet is still somewhat disappointing. I'm not ready to hang up my sex-Goddess slippers just yet but to have others relegate me to the over-the-hill shelf is just depressing.

It's just as well. It's disturbing enough that I notice attractive men much younger than myself; it'd be much freakier to have that reciprocated. I'd worry about that young man's home life.

So, there you have it: True confessions of an embarrassed forty-something. Maybe there's a support group. I'd go, but first let me finish watching Hairspray; that James Marsden is to die for.

Jazz Hands

I suck. At least, that's what the voice in my head tells me.

Lately, I've had a bad case of the "I'm unsuccessful blues." Author Marc Acito had them, too, and he turned them into a wildly funny book called How I Paid For College: A Novel of Sex, Theft, Friendship & Musical Theater. He also wrote a sequel entitled, Attack of the Theater People. I saw him give a talk last week and he's just as funny in-person as are his books. They are all rather exhausting, though, because the one-liners keep coming and it's hard to keep up.

Actually, underneath all the humor of his first book is a poignant coming-of-age story. He really captured what it was like to be in high school and to be growing up and away from your home yet still under the increasingly resented thumb of the parental units. I sure remember those days and he has captured them perfectly--that longing to be free and on one's own, yet lacking all financial means to make it happen; the friends who matter more than family, yet are casualties of family drama just the same; the yearning to be somebody, anybody, just not the somebody you've been for the past 17 years, but the better somebody you know is waiting to burst forth.

Reading his books reminds me how the bar of success changes from high school--from getting a driver's license to getting a part-time job to getting into the pants of the one you love (today), to getting into a "good" college--to post-college definitions of success as a full-time employed contributing member of society with a house and a car and a significant other and kids and a big bank account and the whole adult life. Of course, not everyone wants all those "adult" accoutrements but what makes for a success in high school doesn't always translate well into adult life. Especially when you want a career in the theater arts.

So, if you want a trip down memory lane, and/or just a good laugh, check out Marc Acito's books, or his website at http://www.marcacito.com/.

Heavy Lifting

I sentenced myself to hard labor in my yard this past week. We were digging out a trench to lay a path and as I was thwunking a pick-ax I thought of all the people over the ages for whom hard labor was their way of life: convicts, slaves, laborers on the railroad, pioneer farmers digging out stumps and rocks so they could plant crops. I've always been a much more cerebral kind of gal and while I took great satisfaction in excavating the trench, I was deeply grateful I did not have to earn a living by the sweat of my brow because it is really hard work!

Physical labor is hard work--there's a news flash for you, but when the hardest physical thing I ever do on a regular basis is mop a floor and I go to the gym for a work-out, it's good to be reminded. I remember reading a study that said that upper middle class people got more exercise than poor people, but then the researchers amended their own study. Instead of only counting going to the gym or regimens like running or biking as exercise, they decided to count in exercise that is incorporated into daily life--like walking to the bus, riding a bike for transportation or physical labor on the job--and guess what? Poorer people got the same amount of exercise as richer folk!

Us white collar folks have to make an effort to move our bodies because our jobs and lifestyles are so sedentary. We're happy to pay people to do the heavy lifting for us. In fact, my perception is that it's a sign of wealth to hire people to do things like garden and clean your house. Why work when you can pay someone else to do it for you? That's the joke around our house whenever I ask my daughter to do a chore and she objects. I say, "You're right, let's let the maid do it." Of course, we have no maid so it's up to us to clean up our own squalor, which I think is an important lesson for every child to learn.

So our side yard now has a path thanks to the sweat of our brow. We came away from that experience with aching backs, sore arms and a bone deep exhaustion as well as a sense of pride in the product of our labor. I'm not sure we're going to rush out and tackle another such project real soon, but it's good to know we can build something with our hands and not just our minds.

My Man

I may not have been able to vote but 56 million others did and my man, David Cook, won American Idol. I couldn't believe it. I thought sure that little David Archuleta--he of the smooth, golden voice--would be this year's Jordan Sparks who also sings beautifully but is a musical lightweight. Soul won over smooth and not that stupid Taylor Hicks "soul patrol" crap. I'm talking substance and depth and nuance--catch Cook's rendition of the U2 song on finals night and you'll see what I mean.

When Ryan announced the winner, I didn't scream or cry but I did exclaim and now I'm just really happy. Music is such a powerful tool to uplift the spirit and enoble the soul and I really am glad to see the better musician win. When I look back over the season at the songs that touched me--which were also the ones I downloaded on my new iPod--most were by David Cook, a couple by Jason Castro, and the only one sung by David Archuleta was Imagine. None at all from the girls. And when you look back at the last night of the show, wasn't David Cook playing with ZZ Top the height of cool? Forget all the flash and glitter of Carrie Underwood's strobe-fest. Just solid, soulful playing of a great song came from David and ZZ Top and that is what music should be about.

So, I can look forward to an album from David Cook hopefully in time for my birthday (hint hint) and you all can look forward to never hearing from me about American Idol ever again. Until next season. Adios, and thanks for all the fish.

When Stars Collide

Did you vote? I tried. The first few times I called I got nothin', not even a busy signal. So I waited another hour and tried again. I called all three of his numbers and they were all busy. I tried again 30 minutes later and got the same result, and by then it was bedtime so I didn't get to place my vote for David Cook for the American Idol finale.

Did you think we were talking about something else? The Oregon primary? Oh, that. Yeah, that was yesterday's post. Been there, done that. Now it's time to talk about something much more important than the fate of the potential leaders of the free world. We're talking the collision of the Davids, two talented young men who are destined to be stars, no matter who wins this television competition.

I must say I was a little disappointed in my man, DC, last night. He was solid, but not brilliant. Little David was brilliant, plus he's cute as a button and much more of a pop singer than DC, so I'm afeard Archuleta is going to bring home the title.

Speaking of bringing home the title, wasn't that boxing analogy the most annoying, overworked figure of speech you've ever heard? Boy did I want to bitch slap whoever came up with that.

So, the final show is a 2-hour fluff-filled piece and I can only hope we're not subjected to the two Davids singing together and doing that silly choreography that has opened every show lately because it is just sooooo lame. I blush for the poor contestants every time. My real dilemma at this time is do I let my twelve-year-old stay up 1 1/2 hours past her bedtime to watch.

I wish I had the strength of character to simply tune in to the last five minutes and hear the results but I don't. I'm going to suffer through all the fluff and hope for some good singing along the way. I'm currently doing voodoo so none of us has to sit through too many retrospectives of the season and I've got a doll that looks just like Paula with pins in a few key places so I NEVER have to see her "music video" ever again.

Keep the faith, people. The hegemony of American Idol is almost over and then we can turn our attention to more important matters. Like, So You Think You Can Dance, on Thursdays at 8 p.m. starting May 22nd. Stay tuned!

Lick Me, I Voted

In my early voting years, the polling places always seemed to be elementary school cafeterias, staffed by the wonderful, white-haired women of the League of Women Voters. Every year, voting in a primary or general election brought on a de ja vu feeling because of the uniformity of the process, no matter what town I was in, which in turn brought on a solidarity with all the voters across all the states who were engaged in the same act of civic responsibility. I felt a kinship with voters everywhere and was proud to take part in this demonstration of American freedom.

Every year, the process in California was the same. I'd look in the newspaper for the location of my polling site, then locate on a map where it was, already feeling proud that this information was so readily available. I had already studied the voters' pamphlet and knew just how I'd mark my ballot. I'd drive and park in the never-crowded parking lot. Still, getting out of my car, there were always several other people arriving as I did and we'd smile at each other, glad to be there. Signs posted on the buildings warned where 50 feet from the polling site began so that last-minute campaigners could obey the law and stay appropriately back. In the suburbs, in the daytime, the line to vote was never long, and filled with senior citizens, students like I was, or young moms.

The portable booths were set up side-by-side, numbered, with blue curtains. They always reminded me of those photo booths I'd see at the boardwalk at Santa Cruz, except that the voting curtains only went down to a person's waist. A line monitor would nod when a booth was free and off I'd go to exercise my right of one person, one vote.

Back then, we voted with pencils and later punch cards, but the action always felt the same: elbows to the side in the cramped booth, a bit of a pounding heart because I didn't want to make a mistake, reading each entry carefully, then making my mark. It never took me long because I was well-prepared and I'd scoff at the people who seemed to take forever, still trying to decide between Candidate A and B. I'd march my ballot over to the long table where the kindly ladies sat overseeing the ballot box. I'd slip in my ballot, receive an "I Voted" sticker and be on my way (a sticker that my husband insisted on calling the, "Lick Me, I Voted" sticker). I'd wear my sticker all day, feeling a solidarity with others similarly branded.

Mail-in voting, like we do in Oregon, just isn't the same. I get no sense of being part of a group of citizens exercising our rights. Instead, I feel like an individual, with individual preferences, mailing off those preferences to God-knows-where in the hope that it will count. In the old days, under the watchful eyes of the League of Women Voters, I knew that not only did my vote count, but so did the fact that I cast it. I stood eyeball to eyeball with those charged with ensuring that the rights of each citizen were upheld and I felt a little taller, a little prouder than I had when getting up that morning. No one cares if or whether I drop my ballot in the mailbox, plus I don't get a sticker.

Patriotism has been linked so much to militarism in recent years that it's good to have moments that remind us that democracy doesn't primarily depend on our ability to defend our borders. Democracy really depends on each one of us, American citizens, who take the time to care about the issues of the day and then, if nothing else, cast the vote that is our right, our obligation and our privilege. So, whether you're mailing in your ballot or driving to an elementary school somewhere, please always exercise your right to vote, and don't forget to wear your sticker. Happy Election Day!

Summer Fruit

Words can't do justice to the lusciousness of summer fruit. First, there's the taste: tangy pineapple, unassuming cantaloupe, sweet watermelon, sensual berries. Second, the color explosion: purple blackberries, red watermelon, sunshine yellow pineapple, orange cantaloupe, green honeydew, red strawberries and raspberries, blue blueberries. What an extravagance of color and taste.

Bite into summer fruit and feel the pliability of the soft flesh, the tender burst of juice. Roll the sensations around on your tongue, relish the sticky remnants on your lips. Go back for more because no one can have just one strawberry, just one morsel of mango. Sybaritic necessity, no longer forbidden, fruit is the sensual gift of the earth's bounty. Enjoy.

Heat Wave

I've been trying to think of cool music for a heat wave and all I can think of are golden oldies. Anything by the Beach Boys. The Doobie Brothers. Billy Joel in a pinch. Even Credence Clearwater Revival. The only contemporary band that I could think of that had the same groove was Los Lonely Boys.

Maybe it's because hot weather reminds me of summer and childhood summers are by definition how summer is supposed to be. So, my thoughts naturally turn backwards when trying to cope with hot weather. I think the music had a different bounce back then as well. Certainly someone musically adept could explain the difference; all I know is that listening to Fergie does not bring on that same summertime feeling.

Food for hot weather is easy: Salads, salads and more salads. Cold grilled chicken. Iced tea. Lemonade. If I weren't dieting, ice cream.

Clothing: Minimal, while in the comfort of one's home. Otherwise, now that I'm pushing middle age, capris or swirly skirts, loose camp shirts, sandals. I knew a girl in college who always wore a bathing suit in hot weather everywhere she went. Practical, perhaps, but maybe just a wee bit strange.

So stay cool, people, put on some Beach Boys and dream about catching a wave.

Scandal du jour

What shall we get fired up about today? The school board member arrested for drunk driving or the pro-life, pro-family married candidate who reportedly impregnated a woman (not his wife) who then had an abortion? Our newspaper is righteously indignant about both but I just can't work up the proper head of steam.

I'm not sure what's wrong with me. I think maybe I have scandal fatigue, a disease I just made up. The symptoms include spiritual weariness, compassion for the human condition and a generalized desire to turn off all electronic devises and go outside. I imagine I'm not the only one suffering from this disease; it is election season after all where hypocrisy and hyperbole reign, where rhyme and reason take a holiday. It's enough to make anybody sick.

Protect yourself by getting regular doses of fresh air, a daily regimen of laughter, frequent hugs from loved ones, and--if you don't have allergies--spend time petting a cat or dog. If you feel the symptoms of scandal fatigue coming on, immediately terminate all contact with the news media and call a friend and go out for coffee or a cold (non-alcoholic) beverage of your choice. Talk deeply about your own lives and avoid all talk of politics and the world situation. Within an hour or two, your symptoms should alleviate and you'll feel like yourself again.

However, do not assume that just because you feel better that you are better and can jump right back in and turn on the news or check online for what's going on. Your system has been under concerted attack for months now, and it's gotten especially virulent in our state these last few weeks as we (finally) head into our primary so you must continue to be vigilant or you might relapse.

Only do what you have to do: Fill out your ballot and vote--BUT OTHERWISE HAVE NO CONTACT WITH THE POLITICAL SCENE. I repeat . . . NO CONTACT. Stop reading Blue Oregon (http://www.blueoregon.org/), turn off the TV to avoid political ads, shut down the computer, immediately throw away campaign flyers, and while taking an evening constitutional in your neighborhood, avert your eyes from lawn signs. If you do all this, you might have a chance to recover your natural joi de vivre. If you don't, you will never regain your strength and will not survive the general election. I've lost too many friends that way and I don't want it to be you. Be vigilant, my friends. Safeguard your health and stay well.

Staying Safe

I've been sick . . . again . . . pisses me off. I hate being sick, not having any energy, not feeling good all the time. I don't do sick well. Usually I try to ignore it. I tried that on Monday and got worse so I took yesterday completely off. Today, doing better.

On another subject, I was talking to my daughter about the terrible earthquake in China and how many thousands of people have been killed. She said, "Aren't you glad we don't live in China?"

It's funny the things the mind will do to help us feel safe. I am glad I don't live in China, and I did not tell her that earthquakes can happen here as well. No place is really safe from natural disaster but why pop her safety bubble. With all the random disasters that can befall a person, it's amazing anyone ever leaves the house.

I read a report that said that people who watch a lot of TV are more fearful than people who don't. TV news and all the drama shows are always full of disasters happening to ordinary people. Soak enough of that into your brain and you'll begin to feel that the world beyond your doorstep is extremely dangerous.

That's why I'm going to curl up on my couch and finish the fluffy romance I was reading while I continue to recuperate. Why risk leaving my house and court disaster. I'll just remember to stay out of the kitchen, which is statistically the most dangerous room in the house, followed by the bathroom (think hot appliances, sharp knives, slippery and hard surfaces, etc.). I'll also remember to check the dryer for lint that could catch fire, avoid tripping over the myriad pets lying about so I don't fall and break something, and skip eating popcorn or hot dogs, which might get caught in my trachea and cause choking. Can't be too careful, after all. Wish me luck.

I'm In The Mood

Some mornings it's just hard to get worked up about anything: The sun is shining, the birds are singing, I got a good night's sleep--life is good. Of course, that sense that life is good is simply a mood, just like it is when I'm cursing at the lame drivers other mornings on my way to drop my daughter off at school.

I've worked hard not to be at the mercy of my moods, to enjoy the good ones, to let the darker ones pass through me without leaving too much of a mark. That's one of things I learned through meditation, to let feelings sweep over me without them taking over me.

Being a Cancer, Cancer rising, it's really hard not to identify with my feelings. They tend to rise and fall quite regularly like the tides and some more resemble tidal waves. Plus, I like being able to feel and to name each one like cherished children. I grew up in a family where feelings were suspect, unwanted guests in an orderly and rational world. Once I left home, I invited every one of my feelings to move in with me and I loved each and every one of them because they were mine and told me who I was. Life was infinitely richer, but also way more chaotic. It took several good therapists, a 12-step program, a spiritual practice, and a loving husband to bring a little balance into my emotional life.

So, on the average days, the days like today, when life is just humming under it's breath, I give thanks for the calm, knowing that this mood, too, shall pass.

Insecurities

I get a pop-up window on my computer that reads, "The following page contains secure and insecure items. Would you like to display the insecure items?"

Hell no! I don't want anybody to know my computer's insecurities; that's private. If she feels embarrassed that she's not as up to date as others, that her chunky monitor can't compete with the new flat screens, well, then by gum she should be allowed to brood without anyone else knowing about. She can't help getting older, that's just part of being in the world, and all her parts work just fine. True, she's not as fast as she used to be, even with the enhanced DSL she subscribes to, and it's hard sometimes to get the video and audio synchronized, and just forget about downloading songs . . . but she can still get the basic job done--Internet access, word processing, email. That's what really matters, right?

If she feels bad that the letters on her keyboard are a little worn down, that's nobody's business but her own. If her circuits ache every time her loved ones take out the sleek little laptop, she hides it well. She just patiently sits on the desktop, knowing at some point we'll get tired of the flash, the glitz, the WiFi in every cafe and come home and turn her on just like old times. She counts on 8-year history we've shared to keep us coming back for more. Eight years is a really long time in technology circles; surely that counts for something.

So, don't pry. Let her have her dignity. Click, "Hide insecure items," whenever you can, and hope the world will do the same for us.

A Blank Canvas

Maybe I'm too old to think that the bare back of a 15 year-old is sexy. Maybe it's the mother in me that thought she looked like a waif out of a Dickens novel who just needed a good home. Whatever the reason, I don't think the controversial Miley Cyrus photo taken by Annie Leibovitz for Vanity Fair is really a pinup shot.

For those of you without the benefit of either the Internet or a tween girl in your house, let me back up. Miley Cyrus is the huge teen sensation of the Disney show, Hannah Montana. Miley acts, she sings, she's cute as a button, and now she's embarrassed because . . . I'm actually not sure why. I think because somebody started calling her picture inappropriate. I'm not sure if that negative judgement was original to Miley or if her fans or parents hit the roof and so then she did, too. Vague references to Miley being a "good Christian" and her being "taken advantage of" have been in the press, so somehow that's all added into the mix of the controversy that to me is a tempest in a tea pot.

To me, the photo appears a work of art, not at all in the category of a Playboy centerfold. I feel a little bit like the poor girl got attacked by Puritans: If skin is showing, sex must be point. That's the philosophy that has women in bhurkas in the Middle East and adolescent boys giggling over Ruebens in the art gallery. I think the photo is a Rorschach test revealing more about the viewer than the subject.

Let's try this test at home. Look at the photo. It's everywhere so you'll have no trouble finding it on the Internet. Now, for our categories:

A) If you're a straight male older than twenty and all you can think of when you look at that photo is that Miley looks sexy--Yuck! You're a perv!
B) If you think the photo represents the media's obsession with sex and that Miley is no better than she should be--Get a life and get laid!
C) If you think the poor girl looks tired and needs a good meal--You're a parent!
D) If you look at the photo and wonder about how Annie got that contrast between Miley's pale skin and her vampirish hair and makeup--You're an artist!
E) __________________ Fill in the blank with your perspective which is art at its best, inspiring thought, passion and controversy--thank you, Annie.

A Love Story

When we brought my cat, Elliott, home from the rescue society he spent two weeks in our bedroom closet, too frightened to venture forth. He'd come out for meals and if I sat really still and spoke very softly to him, but one look at my husband and he'd scurry back into the closet. The rescue people told us Elliott had been mistreated and needed special care. He was only a few months old with big, round, sad eyes, just like the cat in the animated movie Shrek, the one voiced by Antonio Banderas who is so incredibly gorgeous--the actor, not Puss in Boots.

After a few weeks, Elliott was venturing out of the closet and beginning to explore more of his surroundings. One day he glimpsed our black setter/lab mix, Annie, down the hall. "This is going to be interesting," I thought, wondering if Elliott would be as scared of dogs as he was of people. I assumed he would be, and as our dog chased our other cat, I was glad there was a gate between the two species.

Elliott saw Annie and he wasn't scared. Just the opposite. Clearly he had never seen a dog before and just as clearly the thought balloon over his head read, "What is that magnificent creature? She's beautiful!"

That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Elliott is still somewhat wary of people, only condescending to let us offer a few strokes of his long fur before he moves away, but when our dog is around, Elliott is all over her. He rubs himself along her sides. He stands on his hind legs and pushes his head against her chin. He rolls over on his belly in front of her. He lets her clean his butt, which was a really good thing because when he was young he was not all that effective with his personal hygiene.

Now, when Annie is in the backyard, Elliott appears from whatever hidey hole he's been in and starts the rubbing routine. Annie will sometimes stand there, clearly only tolerating his antics thinking, "It's a cat thing." Other times, she pounces on him, rolls him over with her paws and pins him down, all in good fun. It's only when Annie starts humping him that Elliott looks like he'd rather be somewhere else, but good manners requires him to sit through what is so obviously a dog thing. If only people were so tolerant of other cultures.

I think we're all a bit like Elliott, wary of those who might hurt us, yet hungry for love and affection from others, no matter how seemingly unlikely those affections might look to other people. It's important to find someone, or multiple someones, who draw us out of ourselves, upon whom we want to pour our love and affection. Creatures--human or otherwise--need to give and receive love. We need to know we matter to others, that our presence makes a difference in their lives. Love brings us out from behind the hard shell of our ego, which is all about self-protection and self-aggrandizement. Being seen for who we really are and loved for the good and the bad is critical for the development of our humanity.

Otherwise, we'll spend all our time in the dark of our closet, licking our wounds, and that's not good for anybody.

Survey Says!

Do not ask for whom the poll tolls, it tolls for thee.

This is the season of polls. Political candidates live and die by them, the more venal opining in synch with what the latest market research tells them. So, when the phone rang the other day with a market research firm taking a poll I got excited. Here was my chance to influence the candidates by letting them know what the common person thought. Maybe it was an Obama pollster wanting to know what I thought about the Reverend Wright. My heart beat with anticipation.

I was a bit worried though that I wouldn't have time to take the poll because I was minutes away from leaving the house to retrieve my daughter from soccer so I asked how long the poll would take. A very world-weary, knowing voice said that before she could answer that question, she first had to ask me two questions to see if I qualified to take the market research survey.

Qualified! Of course I was qualified to give my opinion. Don't I spout it for free 5 days a week on this blog to anyone foolish enough to click on the link? Who did this woman think she was dealing with, some polite, reticent soul who kept their thoughts to themselves for fear of alienating anyone? Not me. I'm a shout-from-the-rooftops kind of gal. This pollster could count on me to give an honest and decisive answer to the most tricky question.

"Bring it on," I told her.

First question: Was I over 18 years of age?

Whew. A no-brainer. I'd passed the first hurdle. I readied myself for the second question:

Was there anyone in my household who smoked cigarettes?

Really? That was the question? With all the issues of the day--the war in Iraq, immigration, ethanol, global warming--she's asking me about cigarettes? Of course no one in my household smokes! What kind of suicidal idiots does she think we are?

All those thoughts raced through my brain in the time it took for me to say, "No," and the pollster to thank me and get off the phone. Now I understood why her voice was so world-weary, so knowing. She'd been dialing for hours and had yet to find a household where someone smoked. I pictured her, sitting alone in a huge warehouse of a room, all the other pollsters who had questions about the political scene gone home long ago having filled their quota of surveys. My gal sat, head in her hands, black rotary phone pushed to one corner, a lit cigarette perched between the fore and middle fingers of her right hand, the smoke curling gently upwards into the cavernous space. An existential cry of despair leaves her lips, "Doesn't anybody smoke anymore?"

I wished I had her phone number. I would've called her back, made up some story about having tried to quit because of my kid but that I still snuck a smoke when no one was home. I would have answered her questions fully and completely to the best of my ability and she could have gone home, happy in the completion of a successful day, to her terrier, Mufty, who waited by the front door of the apartment for his mistress to come home and feed him and take him for a walk through sidewalks of her city neighborhood, lights winking on in the long twilight before dark.

I Need A Hero

I am so tired of comic book heroes. Iron Man is coming out this summer and I have no desire to go see it, even if it does star the wonderful Robert Downey Jr. I've never seen any of the Spidey movies and only a couple of the Batman's and the original Superman with Christopher Reeves. Of the comic book movies I did see, I liked the heroes best when they showed their human side, their flaws, not their superpowers. That's part of the appeal of The Incredibles, that the super heroes were really just people with families and crappy jobs, when they weren't out saving the world.

I understand the wish fulfillment behind super heroes. It's also the appeal of the magic in Harry Potter--waving a wand and making things turn out the way we want. Every day this week my daughter has said, "I don't want to go to school today; how come that doesn't change anything?" Maybe if we had superpowers or magical abilities, we could avoid class or work and spend the day at the beach or the cafe instead.

The problem I have with superheroes is that life doesn't need people with super strength, it needs people with super patience, super endurance, super loyalty who can stay in relationship through richer and poorer, sickness and health.

We are born to love as we are born to die, and between the heartbeats of those two great mysteries lies the tangled undergrowth of our tiny lives. There is nowhere to go but through (from The Monk Downstairs by Tim Farrington).

I love that. There is nowhere to go but through. Life keeps on chugging and it takes a certain kind of heroism to get up and go to work after tending all night to a baby, or to cook dinner night after night, or to wash the clothes that are just going to get dirty and need washing again. My heroes are those people who stick with their commitments and relationships even when they get hard or uncomfortable (but never abusive) because life is full of slogging through tangled undergrowth which makes the moments in the clearing with the sun streaming down from a blue, blue sky that much the sweeter.

Hope this is one of your blue sky days. If not, hang in there. It will clear up soon.

Reading At The Movies

I'm reading a lovely little novel called, The Monk Downstairs, by Tim Farrington. The story is hopeful and the writing pointedly funny at times. I do love a well-turned phrase. So much about reading a good book is in the timing, I think. The act of perusing shelves--whether at the library or a bookstore--is a bit like searching for a bit of your own soul. We're drawn to the books that need to speak to us, that have something to tell just us in this moment in our lives. Or so it seems to me.

Reading is such an internal experience; words on the page translate into pictures and feelings in our minds and hearts. What we picture and feel won't be exactly the same as another reader of the same book, which is why I imagine book clubs flourish. Some people like to share their experiences with a certain book. Not me. I just like to read 'em.

I used to teach a film & literature class, where we'd read a book then watch the movie of that book, then talk about what was different and why. Since books and movies are different mediums, how the tell stories, and what aspects of stories they choose to tell are quite different--the most obvious being that internal monologues work in a book and don't in a movie because they're not visual.

I've been to a few writing talks lately when the authors are using a scene from a movie to demonstrate a writing technique. I always want to stand up and shout, "No, no, no!" A movie is not a novel and the techniques for writing them are not the same because the experience for the reader/audience is not the same. I don't jump up, though. I sit in my chair and look like I'm taking notes while really I'm doodling.

Besides, I'm a bit of a purist. I love books that are books, that don't borrow from the movies by being mostly dialogue, with quick scene cut-aways and character cues signaled by clothes worn and cars driven. I love books that respect the written word and use language precisely and artfully, with an ear towards rhythm and depth and meaning. I read lots of the other kind, genre fiction mostly, which is why when I come across a well-written book, it's like eating dark, rich chocolate after a diet of white chocolate, which isn't really chocolate at all.

I think I'll go have a Sees.

What are you reading?