looks like rain

getting all gray
might get rain today

and my heart
feels humid

heavy with tears
and unspoken words

is there any mystery here?
oh yes.
there is mystery here.
but you haven't yet
found the door

and now that it's dark and cloudy
it's harder to find it
let alone the knob
or the key

so it's a deluge
and it fills the tub
spilling over

but the clouds
don't disperse

and it's just
the point where
you think it's safe
to go out again

but you get caught
and you get soaked
but you live anyway

july phases

on waxing crescent
you returned
the fireworks
launched just for you
I exploded too

first quarter
waxing gibbous
over too soon

full blood moon
I bled too
unexpectedly
when my heart broke
and my belly ached

waning gibbous
last quarter
felt like a good thing
felt love
felt loved

then off in the east
waning crescent
crisp in the dull wafer
of a new dawn

into that crescent
you flew

to a fertile crescent
far away

my fertile crescent
longs for you

rising darkness
August new moon
my heart is grieving
I dream of leaving
I only want to
wax and wane
along with you

because that's all there is

it hurts so much
to read about
the murder

it makes you
want to
never love
again

it makes you
want to
be so angry
everyday

but
with no love
what is
the peace
worth?

more sketches on bus

drawings from the bus

boarding pass

i hear a plane
dragging through
the atmosphere
getting ready
to land

and hope
that you
are on board
coming home

this love
dangles
such hopes,
from all
the branches
of the trees
and every
star in the sky

I am like you
and unlike you
we are fragments
of a larger whole
an infinite
reality
that simultaneously
draws us out
and gathers us in

you are a
whispering wind
a soft touch
again, and again

I am a full moon
aglow with desire
painting long blue watercolor shadows
across dew drentched lawns

I deliver
my secrets
to the flower beds

and if you heard them
you would know
how the kiss
of your updraft
lifts me

shadows dance and fade
with the breeze
as night turns slowly
into dawn
and all becomes still
and bright

off on high
upon azure canvas
chalky contrails
etch a message;
"miss you"

roofers

hawk on the way to work

the weekend

Went on a trip.
Here are some scenes.







































http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xSA-CWme3pM&feature=related

art expression no apologies

Some one was very rude to me the other day. They hurt my feelings quite a bit. The reason they were so rude is because they didn't respect me. They didn't respect me because I wasn't secure enough. I said I was sorry too much. I guess there might be worse things to say all the time. They said I had "emotional Tourette's." That hurt. I didn't know what they meant really. I went back and thought about everything and in certain contexts emotions are relevant. So it's been winding around in my mind, everything I said and did and emailed. I think I just mistook them for someone that cared and didn't understand that until it was too late. I think I was nervous around them too. I get insecure when I don't know people.

I am going to work on my confidence.

But nevertheless it has made me think deeply about myself and my self image and how it relates to my artwork and the expression therein.

I'm pretty broken down now, but I hope it has an ultimate outcome that is positive.

my beautiful friend

I'm alone

alone
I don't regret

lonely
I do feel
and don't like it

so being alone isn't so bad
but being lonely
is a little bit worse

what's really horrible
is finding you're with
someone you can't stand…
yourself

insanity

I'm a bit of a basket case
I realize this
and wouldn't blame anyone
for steering clear
but for some reason
I felt a connection
so don't be subtle with me
because I think too much for that
[maybe it means this
maybe it means that]
and maybe
I just shouldn't care
so damn much

being happy
and being lonely
are two different things
I'm happy,
but lonely
for someone I can relate to
and it's so exquisite
to talk with you
to hear you and your frenzy
your freezing
your warmth
your mending

what do I know?
only what I guess,
I guess.
and maybe it's just hormones
but I'm feeling really sad
and can't exactly cope
with all the possibilities
inside our words
outside in our worlds
in our guts

but I kind of see a pattern growing
although I'm not an avid gardener
just a farmer...
and I just want to be sure
so I don't throw in a bone
and mess up
the compost

benediction

he's had too much of me already
I can tell.

I'm trying not to let if fall
that dark, dark, veil

but it descends
around my eyes
shades
my blank surprise

but I will try
not to agonize
I will try to hear
a benediction

joie de vivre

I am in love again
in love with joie de vivre
it finds me no matter where I hide
it stalks me
targeting all my weaknesses
turning on my flame
leaving me exposed
and burning
with desire

*verb* to cope

I'm just barely coping
and he wants me to pitch in
to add something of meaning
a memory
a plan




[Main Entry:
cope
Function:
verb
Inflected Form(s):
coped; cop·ing
Etymology:
Middle English copen, coupen, from Anglo-French couper to strike, cut, from cop, colp blow, from Late Latin colpus, alteration of Latin colaphus, from Greek kolaphos buffet
Date:
14th century
intransitive verb
1obsolete : strike, fight
2 a: to maintain a contest or combat usually on even terms or with success —used with with b: to deal with and attempt to overcome problems and difficulties —often used with with
3archaic : meet, encounter
transitive verb
1obsolete : to meet in combat
2obsolete : to come in contact with
3obsolete : match]

spare feelings

it's too late now
you can't keep me from crying
I already cry every night
don't be sparing my feelings
'cause I'm already dealing
with this catastrophe
called love

almost

almost a full moon tonight
almost called to see if you saw it
almost a friendship
but not quite
kind of uneasy
so I dialed, then stopped
then dialed again
but shut off the phone

so instead of calling you
I got out the guitar
and the binoculars

I sat outside
in the director's chair
played some songs
redirecting my fear
while the moon rose
along with a planet

then through the binoculars
I saw Lyra
with its double binary

and the stars were really there
not just almost

and I hoped you'd find
something in me to almost like
or better yet something to really love

inside the lines

yah,
I fell.
real hard this time

and I figure,
it's all for the best

what could come from it but no good.

yah

mediocre
that's me.

can't live inside the lines
they choke me
and not sure where to go
when I'm outside them

school lunch

The next chapters in the book Bird by Bird, were about shitty first drafts, perfectionism, and school lunches. I opened my memories to my school lunch experience. This is what I found there.

the lunch times I remember best are the ones in grade school. Must have been 4th through 6th grade. I had a Fintstones lunch box. It had a Thermos drink container in it that I remember breaking several times.

The lunch my mom made usually consisted of a sandwich in a baggie. The sandwich was peanut butter and apple jelly on Gardner's Softtwist bread. That was our local Wonder Bread brand. Along with the sandwich there was always a Twinkie and a bag of Frito's corn chips (I liked to get the Frito Bandito eraser inside the 6 pack boxes). Inside the Thermos there was usually white milk, maybe once in a great while some Chicken n Stars soup. Lastly she put in the napkin.

The lunch room was strange on its own. I remember it as being mostly whitish gray tiles with these windows on the south side of the wall that looked out onto a grassy part of the playground. If we got there early for lunch, the tables would still be folded up against the walls. They'd stretch them out and down like some big leg of a giant spider. Slowly extending. We'd have to sit on them to get them to fully lower and lock.

I remember the whitish grey Formica tops and bench seats. You'd have to angle your leg just right to get in, and if too many people were sitting there it was hard to get into the seat without making them lean over. I remember one girl in the lunch room particularly well. Her name was Rosalie Jones.

Rosalie was the girl that was teased mercilessly by everyone because she was dirty and smelled. But Rosalie was somewhat pretty behind her shabbily clad exterior. Her teeth were covered with whatever that yellow stuff is when you don't brush your teeth. Her skin had a brownish cast, but mostly because of the dirt. Her hair was matted and greasy. She smelled of pigs. And that is what she said to me, when I asked her; "Rosalie, why don't you get to shower?" and she replied; "We live on a pig farm, and we don't have indoor plumbing."

Turns out Rosalie lived on a farm somewhere with many sisters and brothers. They were poor as dirt. Rosalie did try. Her dresses were cute and she wore white anklets with lace around the top. She had pretty brown eyes that glowed when she smiled. But usually she just kept her head down and mumbled a little if people asked her something.

I saw Rosalie one time after high school, I'd long since moved from Sun Prairie and hadn't seen her since junior high. She was working behind the beauty counter at the OSCO store that used to be in East Towne Mall. She didn't smell anymore, she looked pretty happy. I asked her how she was doing and she said fine, she was going to school. I was so happy for her. I wonder where she is now.

process of progress

I wrote the manicure yesterday and while reviewing it noticed that it was a little long and lacked any punch. I thought I might rearrange the parts and add new things and use the manicure as a vehicle for the story rather than the final scene. But I'm new to writing and I wanted to run it by my friend Carl who is very good at critique. He thought I should use the manicure more too, or hang the story around it, so I figure if we both were thinking that, it might not be a bad direction to explore.

I thought about the reworking of the story some more. I wondered what parts I could add and what to subtract. I felt a little embarrassed for showing it to Carl in such a "diary" style. But then I realized that I wouldn't be able to move on to the newer idea if I'd never written the diary entry. The diary entry was a necessary step in the creative writing process for me. I wouldn't be able to sit back and rearrange the parts, because there wouldn't be any! So viva la diary!

I got to thinking about something I heard Mick Jagger say about his process of writing songs. He said that he writes the prose first. In other words, he comes up with the story, writes it and then extracts the poetry for the song lyric. How wonderful. Why didn't I ever understand this before? I always thought what he said was interesting, but never thought to try to apply it to my creative process.

Then I started thinking about painting and visual art making. I thought that the process I used for writing this new version of manicure could be applied to my art. I basically just make the first version of the piece and that is why I am frustrated. I need to extract from the first experience of the piece something to take to a second iteration. I owe a lot of this to Carl. He told me paintings should be a unique story, my own version of a story. I just want to paint a painting. That was the first insight he gave me. Now there is this one about the process. He seems to understand the creative process very well, even though he claims it is very painful for him to endure. I'm grateful for his candor and all the help and insight he has given me into all my creative expression.

Now I can read the next chapter in Bird by Bird.

pile of dirt

On my way to work this morning I saw a pile of dirt on the sidewalk. As I walked by I saw that the pile of dirt was moving. It was really a pile of ants. It was so cool.

the manicure

My mom went into hospice care on Thursday afternoon, transported on a gurney in an ambulance from the hospital where she had been for the past week. She was pretty sleepy when I first saw her there, tucked neatly into the bed. The room was beautiful, just the type of thing my mom liked, brand new and clean. There was a huge window out to a field where birds flew happily by and you could see a thunderstorm building off in the distance. After I had sat with her a while, she said; "Get out of here!" so I stayed just a little bit longer, and then went home. I took the next day off of work to try to get her settled in.

When I visited the next morning the nurse was in a happy mood, saying my mom was well and they had even seen a fawn grazing in the field outside the window. I entered the room and she was sitting up in the bed eating a ham and cheese omelet and communicating much better than usual. I was astonished. I worried we had made the wrong decision. I tried to talk with her throughout the day, trying to reach her to get her to understand the situation. I told her she was dying. She said; "No!" I explained to her that she had a giant cancerous tumor growing on her liver. She just pishawed me. Then I asked her if she was ready to go be with daddy (who died 6 years ago) and she again said; "No!"

These exchanges worried me very much. I talked to a counselor at the hospice center and they assured me that this rebound was a normal sequence of events, and the resistance and fear I heard in her voice was natural. She was afraid to die. I guess that sounded right to me. Why did I assume she would lay back and go peacefully? Why did I think some fantastic grace would settle on her and she would be sage and complacent about dying. The last thing she said to me was; "You aren't trying to get rid of me are you?" That will slice into my heart over and over forever. I assured her that I wasn't but her eyes blanked out again and she was in that hazy state of oblivion she's seemed to occupy for these last months.

I went home for a while and then came back to visit her later that evening. I'd hoped some others that I had called would have come to visit, but they hadn't. So I stayed until about 11 pm. She seemed to be doing OK, but had started going into a sleepy phase, which the doctor had warned me would happen; "She'll just fall asleep, the liver will start shutting down, and she will just fall asleep. Unless of course she has a seizure, and if that happens, we will try to make her as comfortable as possible. For now we'll give her something for her pain and anxiety." That was comforting, I think.

I returned Saturday morning to see how she was. She was barely conscious and hadn't eaten a thing. I began to be concerned. I decided to go to the nursing home and get her a few things to make her feel more comfortable, a blanket, some photos. My sister was coming later to check mom out of the nursing home and clean the room out. So I drove to Stoughton and back and when I returned with some of her things, they told me mother had thrown up. The began to talk of her decline and told me what to expect. I stayed with my mom until my sister came. I asked if she was staying overnight and she said that she couldn't, she had to work, and it's hard to find someone to work that shift, so she would be returning to Sturgeon Bay that afternoon. They mainly seemed concerned about mom's stuff, and asked me whether I wanted it, or should they just drop it at the Goodwill. I said I'd take her stuff to my house. Then I tried to talk with my sister alone, but her husband who is kind of mean (mean Dean), wouldn't let us be alone, he kept hovering over her. So it was useless to try to be intimate with her. They really wanted to make sure that I didn't leave without mom's stuff, and they even would help me load my car. So I'm getting really pissed. First she isn't staying, and then they're more concerned about getting the stuff out of the car than in mom's condition.

I went out and loaded my car and drove home. I was anxious and couldn't focus. My only relief came in the form of pulling weeds in the back yard. I think I was out there for four hours. My brother called and said he was there with mom now, but would be leaving in an hour. So I decided to go back and see how she was doing, stay for a while and then go see my friend's band play at a local bar. I didn't shower before I went to see mom, thinking I would after. But when I got to the hospice center I found mother in a terrible state. Very out of it. They said she had thrown up again, old blood. They said she had the signs of immanent death, her legs had a bluish modeling, her breathing was labored and crackly, and she was in and out of a very low level consciousness. I couldn't leave her.

I sat with her, and tried calling people to tell them to come tonight if they wanted to see her again before she died. My uncle, aunt and cousin came at about 10 pm. Nick the pastor came around midnight. He had been at the Rhythm and Booms fireworks display and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. But he was sweet and blessed my mom. I joked with him that if she died tonight it would be just like her to go out with a bang.

Her breathing was getting heavier and it was no longer crackly, just a steady draw. After Nick left I decided to try to sleep a bit 'cause I was so tired. So I pulled out the wacky hide-a-bed thing and tried not to listen to every breath my mother heaved. I slept an uneasy sleep for about 3 hours.

I got up when the RN came in at 4 am to check her. He said things were progressing towards her end and that it wouldn't be long. I set up a chair next to her bed and tried to hold her hand through the bed railing. Thankfully at 6 am when the next shift nurse came on she took those down as my mom hadn't moved for over 12 hours. I was grateful to her for that. Now I could easily hold my mom's limp hands, face her and talk to her, telling her it would be OK, telling her that I loved her, trying desperately to inject her with a positive spirit.

I happened to peer out the window and there in the meadow, up on the hill was the little fawn the nurse had mentioned she saw on Friday morning. I tried to show my mom, but she was too far gone to take it in. A moment later, the fawn ran off up the hill, it's white flag of a tail flapping as it leapt over the tall grass.

I dared to go get some breakfast at around 8 as I was beginning to shake and get dizzy from not eating. I hurried back to the room and she was still hanging in there. I ate only half of my meal. The food tasted flat and grainy. It wasn't the cooking, it was the situation, it could have been the greatest meal on earth and it would've tasted like dirt under these circumstances.

I set the plate aside and began to try to be completely in the moment. I drew her picture. I touched her skin. I talked quietly to her, telling her how sorry I was for everything, and how I wished I'd have been a better daughter, and not been such a disappointment to her. Tears mingled with these confessions. And still the heaving breath continued. It is like the kind of breathing when someone is paralyzed and they are on a machine that helps them breathe. The whole chest cavity moves up and the shoulders move up and then the breath is pushed out slowly.

As the day wore on, I started getting self-conscious about my personal hygiene. I called someone to bring me some new clothes so I could take a shower there. I waited for them to come and sat with my mom some more. I was starting to get bored. I hate to admit that, but I had been there a long time just listening to her breathe. The doctor came in and said her heart was beating very fast. He said that was another sign of the end. So I sat and watched and listened. At some point I noticed my finger hurting. It was a bad hangnail. So I rummaged through my stuff and found a fingernail clipper. I clipped off the offending nail fragment and as I did that, I remembered thinking that mom's nails could use some work. She had even asked me to bring her emery board to the hospital, so I thought she might appreciate a little manicure.

I took her limp hand in mine and started cleaning the junk out from under her fingernails. Then I trimmed the corners off and made the nail look nice. I lifted each pudgy edematous and pale finger, taking care to make them look as nice as possible. I looked to her for approval and asked her if she liked it. Her eyes shifted weekly, and I took that as a "yes." I continued with the other hand. I did the thumb first, then the index finger, and on down the line. As I was finishing the pinky her breathing slowed. There was a long gap before the next breath. I looked at her face, there was no expression. There was only silence. My heart started to pound. I was very scared. I untangled myself from the recliner that wouldn't fold back up, reached for the nurse button, pressing it in a panic. No one came immediately. Seconds were like minutes. I went to the hall and looking toward the nurses station, beckoned the nursing assistant to come; "I think my mom has passed!" I said, trying to hold back hysterical tears.

She got up, came around the counter and walked with me toward the door to room 44 where my mom lay. We entered the room and I was surprised to see my mom's chest heave. Another nurse came and listened to my mom's chest. She said; "There's still a heartbeat." There was another breath as I wound around the bed and over the recliner which I still couldn't get to fold back up. The nurse encouraged me to talk to my mom, and to hold her hand and tell her that I loved her. So I did. And that was the end. There were no more breaths. No more heartbeats. No more suffering for my mom.

They let me stay in the room with her for a few more minutes, and I watched as the death pall set into her face. I told my friend Cynthia that it was kind of like watching a sunset, you aren't really sure when it actually gets dark, but you know when night has fallen. And there it was, the night was upon her. The permanence was palpable.

A few minutes later they arrived with my clean clothes. Simon was with them. He cried. The nurses cleaned mom up and Simon was allowed to come in the room, hold grandma's hand and give her one last kiss. Amen.

cock-a-doodle-do!

This morning as I sat drinking my coffee and getting my head ready for the day, I heard a little boy's voice in the other room; "Cock-a-doodle-do! Cock-a-doodle-do!" How cute was that. I just smiled from ear to ear and thought yet again about what a beautiful gift Simon is to my life. Yesterday it was monsters who spun honey webs and built lime walls to trap their enemies. Then there is the incessant questions; "Mommy, what super hero are you?" "Mommy, what mammal are you?" "Mommy, let's play castle!" He and his friend came out of his room yesterday, one wearing a pumpkin costume I made Simon for halloween last year, and one wearing the gingerbread boy outfit I made Simon for a day in school where they came dressed as their favorite storybook character. My heart burst with joy. Real joy! How lucky I am! What a beautiful, beautiful child. I hope I can do him justice and help him launch happily into this miserable world. Sometimes when you are the joy for others, you can never see or experience the joy yourself. But maybe he will. So my little rooster woke me up this morning. He crowed for my attention, my hugs, and my love. I happily complied!

he

there he is
across the room
looking through
his lenses

three days growth
around his chin
he tentatively gazes

so darling, it appears
he drowns in what he wears

not one to pander
he speaks with candor
undaunted by fears

he smiles across the table
and I'm suddenly unable
to separate fact from fable

mother's clothes

My mother died last week. And now it is time to clean out her clothes.
They smell like she did before she died. Kind of like a diaper, with pharmaceutical overtones.

My mom was always very neat. VERY neat. That's one of the many standards of hers I never could live up to. But at the end of her life, the last couple of years, she wasn't getting things clean anymore. Clutter was starting to appear in her apartment. Weeks of dust settled on her precious stuff. Spots on her shirts became common.

She had multiple problems with her health. Many from diet alone. Diabetes for one. Type II. My mom always bragged about how she "never sweat." Mostly because she never moved. Taking care of her in these last years, was like a looking glass into my own possible future.

I gained 70 pounds 6 years ago when I had a baby at 43. Then a series of twisted ankles and knee problems stopped me from getting out there right away and losing it. I have a really bad problem with the Achilles bursa on my right heel and for a year while I tried to repair it I didn't do any exercise. But winter brought record snowfall and I just HAD to go out cross country skiing. It was painful at first, but it also felt so good to move again. I decided I would just start exercising again come what may. So now I am running and biking. I have lost 30 pounds since January. I feel much better, but have a long way to go. I can't worry about what might happen to my heel, because in my view losing that much weight has got to help it heal. (I have it wrapped up today though, it really hurts.) All I can say about this is that my mom indirectly gave me the gift of this fear of ending up like she did, unable to move, unable to walk, unable to think.

So I cleaned her clothes out yesterday. And for me the process involved a lot of hugging of dresses that I remember her wearing, coats, shirts, and scarves. Many had such bad stains I just had to throw them out. But some I hope to make use of in one or two of my homemade bags. They just smelled so weird, not like I remember her smelling at all. She always wore some weird but nice department store fragrances, or something from AVON.

Now there is a stack of boxes next to the front door, filled with clothes all washed and ready for deliverance into some thrift store inventory. The things I kept — jackets and scarves mostly. I don't really ever wear scarves, but I'm going to try to start. Such is the picking over and assessment of things to take and leave from our relationship. Material informing the metaphysical I guess. I'm learning that whether she was trying to be or not, she is a flaming warning signal to me and also a tender kiss on the ear. My broken heart sees it all, and dumbly romanticizes it. My child's heart yearns to have a mother again, someone who truly loves me unconditionally, and untethered.

I went on another lonely run last night. It was hard. The humidity was high and I was tired. It was dark, and as I ran I passed the street lights and they cast my shadow onto the pavement. The shadow kind of revolved around me as I ran past in and out of the little pools of light. First short and squatting under my feet, and then long and stretched out ahead of me. I looked at my contours. I have her body. I am taller, but the shape is the same. So there she was, running along side me, something I could never get her to do in life. I realized she is still with me along the way, sometimes bigger, sometimes smaller, but there, like a shadow, forming the depth of my perceptions of- and into- the world at large.

Those boxes out there cannot contain the demons that reside among the fabric that lies inside. Long after the clothes are clinging to someone else, that smell will permeate the room where I sit, writing and rewriting my past into the future. The presence is like a cat. Sometimes sleeping over in the corner out of sight and mind, and then sometimes it wants something, and crawls up onto the keyboard, typing in its own story.

good-bye mommy. I love you, whatever that means.
November 8, 1927 – June 29, 2008

Crescent moon deliverance

calm in the morning
gray congested sky
humid

last night celestial
cosmic

hum of the fan
backs up the bird songs
an owl
who?

my pillows
are big and soft
they cushion
this heave
of emotion

diffuse light
almost holy
illuminates

a crescent moon
delivered me
into its cradle

and now I rest
finally at ease
in the ephemeral

sensible

I tear at the crystal cobwebs
of profound confusion

they cling to my hands and head
and tug at my skin
as I try to find some sense
some sensibility

the clinging webs
drag behind me
a veil, a train

taking my heart along
into the vast and treacherous abyss of sadness

my steel tongue is now enveloped
with the rust of every bad word spoken to her
every ill will
every mocking agony now squawks back at me
like the clamoring insanity of a jungle cacophony
screaming monkeys and macaws

all in the dark
until the house reaches such a pitch
all I can hear is my own scream
as it echos back at me
mocking me
mocking life and all it's absurd conceit

I try to breathe through the plastic wrap
that covers my mouth
I suck and suck
and still no air
no air

I am no longer allowed to repent
it is too late
I have squandered
all opportunity

I lay rapt
the velvet layers
ensconce
the web
is wound
a truss
a truce
a final peace
senselessly
sensible

you found my switch

meeting again
was like a warm breeze off the sea
your voice a big hug

you kissed my cheek
I wanted to return it
but I was afraid

afraid that if I gave up even one kiss
how ever tiny
I just wouldn't be able to stop

I'd start with your cheek
only to turn back at your feet
and work my way back
in a joyful fit of love

you seem to have found my switch
through all the shit
muck and crap
you found my switch
please keep the map

it's 3:00 am
Oh man
my heart is pounding
I keep hearing things we said
in my head
in the dark
in my bed

and my face hurts from smiling
and my mind reels
with all the if onlys

I couldn't kiss you back
it wouldn't have ended
I couldn't ache more
I just pretended
you were like anyone else

please keep touching that button
don't let this end
who is it harming?
after all, we're just friends.