a sprig of hope

I was very down about my mom, and feeling all small, so I went for a walk on my lunch. The aroma of lilacs was in the air, I went over to a bush and picked one sprig to bring back to the office, hoping it would help cheer me. Then I sat at this little half circle planter that faces the arched foot bridge over Campus Drive near where I work. The sun was warming me, and the scent of the lilacs soothed my soul as I sniffed back the tears that welled up as I processed all this mom stuff.

I decided to take a little walk around the block, so me and my little lilac sprig hiked up the arched walkway. I stopped near a pine tree that was reaching over the railing, as if to shake my hand, so I touched it. I saw its tiny new branch sprouts still had their papery amber hats on. I pulled one off and let the wind take it out of my fingers. Then I looked at that beautiful light aqua green tuft of new branch. It was so soft and beautiful. I brushed my hand across the branches before I began along my way again and the air was filled with powdery ribbons of pollen or spores from the tiny pine cones this tree displayed. So I shook it some more. Soft buttery yellow smoke spilled into the air. Some body was coming, and I didn't want to get sent to the happy home so I reluctantly moved on down the spiraled stairway to the road near the Stock Pavilion.

I love that building. I thought about checking the doors and going in to explore, but something told me the doors would be locked so I sauntered on. As I passed people, it made me feel more comfortable to put the sprig of lilacs up to my nose, covering my face. I felt sheltered, as if no one could hurt me anymore. The ordeal with my mom yesterday left me feeling small and vulnerable. I think there was a transference of sorts of her vulnerability to me. I was her advocate. I felt I'd failed. So putting just the least of this barrier between me and anyone felt better than not.

I turned the bend toward the streets that pass the building where I work. I crossed all the busy roads where the cars seem like they're trying to hit you. I looked up and was in awe of an absolute drama of cloud formations above me. Backlit by the noonday sun, a low hanging cumulus cloud cast grey and above an azure blue sky with wisps of sirius clouds stark white and frozen high in that backyard pool of heaven. I saw my number three bus turning the corner and was thinking it must be 12:03. I'd hoped I wasn't too late getting back. Just about then, a young woman stepped out of the building where I work and turned down the sidewalk towards me. She had very light blond hair and a petite frame. She was wearing white pants and a pink shirt which brought out the pink of her teary eyes.

As she approached me I felt such a solid kinship with her at that very moment in time. I felt that she and I new the teardrop, no matter why it was shed, and we could forever share that cosmic second. Like a cataclysmic event, but not disastrous. Just human, gentle, and warm. So I looked at her and I said; "Hi." and I reached out and gave her my fragrant sprig of lilac that had comforted me the past 15 minutes. Hoping that it might comfort her, knowing a hug would be way to weird. And she took it and didn't miss a step walking to her car. I hope she's not allergic.

I felt kind of like I was passing a baton in a relay race of sorrow. But I really hope it brings her heart some comfort. Not only its beauty, but that some stranger might be sensitive to her pain and be bold enough to step over the line and give her a gift of comfort in a non-threatening way. Pink crying eye, to pink crying eye. Woman to woman. Human to human. Soul to soul.

my mom

my mom has cancer.
Yesterday we went to the hospital to biopsy the tumor to see if it was treatable.
She looked so rough. She looked so vacant.
Folded up and vulnerable.
tiny and diminished

ducklings

I just helped save some baby ducks from being smashed.
(or at least I like to think I did...)

There was a bunch of cars stopped, for no apparent reason, and I cussed them out and then saw why.
There was a mother duck and her 10 or so babies trying to cross Monona Drive at rush hour on friday night.
about 4 of the babies made the jump up the curb to the sidewalk, but several of them were bunched up against the curb trying to hop up, but they just couldn't make it. the light was red. So I jumped out and tried to herd them up onto the sidewalk. of course they were scared of me and started to scatter. then two of them were too far away from the mom and got disoriented and hopped back onto the road. dumb ducks. anyways, by the time I saw that I was back in my car, but the mom came and got those little babies up onto the sidewalk after much drama. they were so cute. and they were doing that little peeping noise. probably screaming in duck, but it sounds so cute to us giants. they were so soft, I tried not to touch them so I just ever so lightly tried to give them a little boost up the curb. boy did my adrenaline kick in. And before the light turned green, the mom had all her ducks in a row. If only I could be so lucky.

connected

I had to say good-bye
before it got awkward

before I ran out of any interesting banter
and we just sat there trying to remain connected

of course I didn't want to give away the fact
that I could've just remained there in silence
listening to you breathe

I could've just stayed connected
in silence
way past appropriate
on into tomorrow

Genius Monster

if I could show you a bit of genius in a monster
would you take the time to watch it and try to see what I mean?
Or would you be afraid that the monster would devour you whole?

I just want you to stop
and try to see the monster
there on your living room floor

monsters it seems
are hungry for our dreams
but sometimes they're not monsters at all

they are just our own imaginary beasts
who stand between us and our true self
the one who knows how to be brave
the one who knows how to create

I can see your genius monster
he's there inside your heart
he's growling like you've had nothing for lunch
and it's way past supper time

he wants to be fed, that hideous thing
he wants to eat all of your dreams!
So stare him down, you've got nothing to lose.
stare him down or you're dead

monsters take off all their clothes and dance naked in the rain
but tell you it's not something for you
monsters don't like to be silent, monsters think for themselves
then tell you to be quiet and do what they say

but the monster is a genius, he knows just who to choose
and you'll never know he's there until
you desire to grow, or create, or venture
from your shadowy hole of self-doubt

I'll show you this genius monster
If you can bare to look
this monster that shares your name

what this monster doesn't count on,
is that you're as much of a genius as him

Notes from the Lorax

I had to park my car on the square the other night when I went to a show. It was the night of the African Children's Choir at the Overture, and it also, just happened to be Earth Day. As I was walking from my car toward the Overture Center, something seemed strange about the walk. I couldn't feel that warm comfortable feeling that I usually get walking around the square. I started noticing that there were some trees cut down. Then I noticed that it wasn't just some trees, it was ALL the trees!

The trees are gone around the outer parameter of the capital square. Sure, they're replacing them with new ones, but the old ones were very large and arched over the walkway in a cathedral like way.

They needed to upgrade the look — we don't want the tourists thinking we're not worthy of their money! So now we have black enamel drinking fountains and road signs and elaborate marble fountains that look like they're from some wild Tim Burton meets David Lynch movie. Amazing Narwhal horns with lighted tips atop the fountains and everything!

So crazy and chic and decadent. I wonder how much it all cost. Yet we can't fund a homeless shelter, or food pantries.

But the birds like the fountains, and isn't that all that really matters?

neatly appointed

the petite, neatly appointed woman
with everything in its place
so neat, so tiny,
so measured and controlled
so inside,
so inside him
and he inside her

why can't I go in there?

I'm incapable of that kind of love
that neatly appointed
everything in its place kind of love

she is like a Bach invention
perfectly synchronized and harmonic
I'm like an Ornette Coleman improv
dissonant and chaotic

my love is sloppy
clumsy and willy nilly
it's here and it's there
it's outside wilderness survival love.
does that make it less sincere?
does that make it less valuable?

she is so neat
so tight
so right
and I'm all wrong
floppy
and out of place
loud
big
baggy
and unkempt.
that's me
that's my love too.

I love the wrong person
at the wrong time
I love them for all the wrong reasons
but does that make my love all wrong
all out of place?
does that make me all wrong and out of place?
hap hazard
alien
distorted
and
worthless?

Maybe even I prefer Bach.


(Bach Invention #4)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ORyJS6r6_n4

(Ornette Coleman: Dancing in your head)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=72SVN9sO4P4


(fun video with Glenn Gould in NYC)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eEtmifxrdsw&feature=related

sketch on bus

stacked

her loves are stacked like pancakes
crushing the china plate
pressing the ornate pattern
and hand painted designs
right into the table top
spoiling the dust jackets.

then the boomerangs
and the starbursts
erupt into sonnets
with a little decay
and some clip.

but the pronunciations
are articulated
with a touch of reverb
and the names
have all been changed
(to protect
the innocent)

he sits by the camp fire
playing his guitar
with the pools of cool blue moonlight
dancing around his steel-toed Red Wing work boots
and an empty case of Old Style cans
(cause it was the most he could buy for the money)
the crumpled empties lay about
metallic folds glisten
in the amber firelight
forming constellations in the sand

the chord patterns progress
under his clumsy inebriated fingertips
and the melody melts
like butter under the hot syrup
of his lust and her loneliness
and expectations
stalled, unexpectedly
somewhere on the desolate highway
out on the Indian reservation
where the howling resides
and the berries are bitter,
but brightly colored

Bambi meets Godzilla

Sometimes I'm Bambi
Sometimes I'm Godzilla

workbench

if I could sit in a planter and grow roots and shoots and sprouts,
I would.


















man in the doorway down the hall

you slow me down
you coagulate my paint spatters
into an image of hope

you balance incongruent junctures
between my inside head
and my outside head
but only for a second
while I imagine your form
silhouetted
and amorphus
expanding and contracting
with each step
in perspective
through sunlit doorways
reflected off a stark expanse
of black vinyl floor tiles










http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fkmNqyUSrFw&feature=related
more philip glass...

Shoebox Theatre

Simon's Shoebox Productions Presents:
The Alien and the Robot Meet the Farm People in the City.

Act I
Scene I: Outer space. The alien is jettisoned from his home planet. [seems like the Superman story]
and meets a robot and an astronaut floating around in outer space too. The astronaut takes them to his home planet (earth) and they go to the city.

Scene II: The city: They see a taxi and a bus. People are afraid of the alien... and he smells.

Intermission: we go eat lunch.

Act II

Scene I: The city: The alien and the robot run away from the people just before a catastrophe occurs somewhere uptown.

Scene II: The road: The alien and the robot are lost and trying to find their way to the farm where the robot thinks he's from. they come across a castle with a moat and a dragon. There the king and queen with glow in the dark crowns make them some soup.
They meet the knight. But then the dog comes and tells them where the farm is so they have to leave.

Act III

Scene I: Home at last the robot feels safe and tries to make the alien feel at home. But when the alien eats the cow with the pink spots, the robot decides to make the alien take a bath. The soccer ball sun goes down, the ghost moon comes out and they are left sitting in the barn drawing plans for a space ship.

[Simon had names for everyone, but I can't remember them all... gorgol the alien or something... blut the robot. Here he is making wonderful things and flying around in his imaginings.]

































































































the director in a more pensive moment, just before curtain time, wondering if he can actually pull this all off.

MmmmM!

intoxicating spring

I went for a run last night and came home drunk. Drunk on the fragrances of spring.

The magnolia trees were completely covered in blossoms and the smell that floated around the area where they were was overwhelming. The beauty of the night was so profoundly springtime. As I ran past the trees I fully expected a satyr to bounce out and offer me some wine. No such luck though. I just kept on course and ran through the cool night air.

Just as I got home a storm was starting to brew. I got to sit and listen to the thunder and rain while I drew and made stamps -- for me, absolute heaven! I went to bed and snuggled down in the covers, breathing in the cool and damp night air. I fell asleep fast as the sound of the rain calmed me.

I woke up this morning and it seemed as if I'd just shut my eyes a minute ago. I drove to my parking spot by Olbrich Gardens on John Street. On my usual walk down the long sidewalk to Oakridge where I catch the bus, the beauty of spring was broadcasting in all its sensual majesty! My buzz returned. The smell of newly mown grass floated across my nose. A robin hopped along side me as I walked, eyeing me suspiciously, as if I were going to try and steal his eggs. I took a deep breath, inhaling the fragrance of rain cleaned air through my nose. It was definitely full-tilt, pedal-to-the-metal spring! MMMMmmmMM!

Once on the bus, we passed by the Wednesday Farmer's Market just off the Capital Square, it was so abundantly adorned with flowers that I thought we were passing through a rainbow. There were people everywhere, setting up booths and barricades, hosing down the sidewalks, and unloading stuff from the back of box trucks to stock the restaurants that line them, all kinds of activity. What a morning!

Rachel Corrie

The play "My Name is Rachel Corrie" was performed in my neighborhood this past Saturday. The actress who played Rachel was Brittany Jordt. She did a great job. If you ever get a chance to see this play, do it! Not just because it is a touching journal of a young woman's individuality, not just because it is a profound testimony to the power of one voice, and not just because it is an artful window into catyclismic human atrosities, but because it will move your soul into another level of being. You will see that we all have a voice and it is incumbent to use it in a unifying song for justice and peace. Rachel invites you from beyond the grave to stand up and take action to help stop a war crime from progressing any further. Accept her invitation and get up and out to speak out and fight as hard as you can, anyway you can for change in US policy towards Israel-Palestine.

["This has to stop. I think it is a good idea for us all to drop everything and devote our lives to making this stop. I don’t think it’s an extremist thing to do anymore." -- Rachel Corrie]

http://english.aljazeera.net/NR/exeres/F5F4EAD1-712F-45A3-8E0C-ECD4F5B71B73.htm


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8X4-VtkriKY&feature=related


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MsfJGIbJfPQ&feature=related



[Click on the images to see them larger... sorry about the blurry one, it's the best I had.]

[Excerpt from Rachel Corrie's Email..]

"You asked me about non-violent resistance.

When that explosive detonated yesterday it broke all the windows in the family’s house. I was in the process of being served tea and playing with the two small babies. I’m having a hard time right now. Just feel sick to my stomach a lot from being doted on all the time, very sweetly, by people who are facing doom. I know that from the United States, it all sounds like hyperbole. Honestly, a lot of the time the sheer kindness of the people here, coupled with the overwhelming evidence of the willful destruction of their lives, makes it seem unreal to me. I really can’t believe that something like this can happen in the world without a bigger outcry about it. It really hurts me, again, like it has hurt me in the past, to witness how awful we can allow the world to be. I felt after talking to you that maybe you didn’t completely believe me. I think it’s actually good if you don’t, because I do believe pretty much above all else in the importance of independent critical thinking. And I also realize that with you I’m much less careful than usual about trying to source every assertion that I make. A lot of the reason for that is I know that you actually do go and do your own research. But it makes me worry about the job I’m doing. All of the situation that I tried to enumerate above—and a lot of other things—constitutes a somewhat gradual—often hidden, but nevertheless massive—removal and destruction of the ability of a particular group of people to survive. This is what I am seeing here. The assassinations, rocket attacks and shooting of children are atrocities—but in focusing on them I’m terrified of missing their context. The vast majority of people here—even if they had the economic means to escape, even if they actually wanted to give up resisting on their land and just leave (which appears to be maybe the less nefarious of Sharon’s possible goals), can’t leave. Because they can’t even get into Israel to apply for visas, and because their destination countries won’t let them in (both our country and Arab countries). So I think when all means of survival is cut off in a pen (Gaza) which people can’t get out of, I think that qualifies as genocide. Even if they could get out, I think it would still qualify as genocide. Maybe you could look up the definition of genocide according to international law. I don’t remember it right now. I’m going to get better at illustrating this, hopefully. I don’t like to use those charged words. I think you know this about me. I really value words. I really try to illustrate and let people draw their own conclusions.

Anyway, I’m rambling. Just want to write to my Mom and tell her that I’m witnessing this chronic, insidious genocide and I’m really scared, and questioning my fundamental belief in the goodness of human nature. This has to stop. I think it is a good idea for us all to drop everything and devote our lives to making this stop. I don’t think it’s an extremist thing to do anymore. I still really want to dance around to Pat Benatar and have boyfriends and make comics for my coworkers. But I also want this to stop. Disbelief and horror is what I feel. Disappointment. I am disappointed that this is the base reality of our world and that we, in fact, participate in it. This is not at all what I asked for when I came into this world. This is not at all what the people here asked for when they came into this world. This is not the world you and Dad wanted me to come into when you decided to have me. This is not what I meant when I looked at Capital Lake and said: “This is the wide world and I’m coming to it.” I did not mean that I was coming into a world where I could live a comfortable life and possibly, with no effort at all, exist in complete unawareness of my participation in genocide. More big explosions somewhere in the distance outside."

Audrey III

Feed me.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ouLiQ7KhmYU&feature=related