Sunday, November 30, 2008
I've been haunting the puter all day, trying to get at this last post of the month, clicking on to check a little Facebook here, lurk a little Twitter there, making some notes, impatient to get it writ.
Thought, "how can I write the day before I lived it?" So packed our bags (we leave Fox Lake for downtown Chicago tomorrow), played a silly princess board game with Mia that she loved, took my walk, cleaned up, fed the girls, cried a little over the Trib story of tomorrow's 50th anniversary of the Our Lady of the Angels school fire, alternated sunshine and clouds.
Ninety-two children and three teachers died in the smoke and flames at the Catholic grade school on Chicago's West Side the afternoon of December 1, 1958.
One eight-year-old boy who escaped the fire that day grew up and became a pianist, singer and songwriter. I thought about posting the video of one of the beautiful power ballads Jonathan Cain co-wrote, a song I first loved when I was 18, but I couldn't help giggling at the band's goofy choreography, perfect 80's clothes and the growly-bear hands he makes playing an invisible piano. Steve Perry's emotional commitment is undeniable, though. Still a gorgeous song, as is Cain's "Faithfully." Look and listen for yourself on a walk down Memory Lane here and here.
Here instead is another song from Cain's pre-Journey career as keyboardist for another group I loved in high school, The Babys.
In other music news, Bobby and Julie are playing at the MCA in Detroit on Friday! Hey Michigan! Check it out!
More sun, more life:
Thanksgiving Day Mike told us more stories about creating the set for Obama's election night speech. They had a week of long construction days but couldn't start on the lectern, you know, that really important wooden stand sprouting the microphone that the president-elect will speak into? Because the Obama handlers were saying "There's a lectern he used in Berlin that he really likes. We're trying to track it down." So they built the stage, the set up for the stately line of flags, carpet, the whole deal, they were down to the wire, the handlers kept delaying til nearly the day before. Mike and crew finally threw something together, X-rayed bullet-proof steel liner and all and we thank them for it!
Here's a cool recipe idea from Bobby – Take out all those stray jars of condiments next time you're cleaning the fridge, all the half-used chutneys, salsas, hot sauces, (Bobby said he wouldn't use mustard, but I would), ketchups, vinegar (with discretion), honey bears, and so on and throw them in a pot and simmer them down to a BBQ sauce. No recipe, just dump in what you have and add some plain tomato sauce for balance. I wonder if pureed pickles would work too…
Thanksgiving night, after the kids were put to bed, we all watched a DVD of a History Channel show, Cities of the Underground, that Mike and Christina had brought us. The episode about Paris went to the catacombs where stacks of countless anonymous bones had become artwork, retaining walls. "Augie would love this," Julie said. We talked of the death of Epic Soundtracks and the preserved bog people that fascinated seven year old Augie.
Mary Schmidt today says, "One of those weird things that happens the longer you're alive: You start to think of everything as breathing, and if you're listening you notice when the breathing stops."
I click onto a blog written by a woman fully aware of her impending death and I read the last post she wrote before she died in October. I am awed being this close to one who looked into the light of the face of death.
I have no summarizing statement today for my writing exercise during the month of November – it's back three days ago.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
We walked the half mile trail that traverses the marsh, a thick brush layer, the fairyland tamarack forest, the open water center of the bog, then circles back again. At the platform overlooking the center, Julie observed, "No ducks or geese in this water," because the lack of drainage and the sphagnum moss here keep both the water and the surrounding soils acidic. That's why the flora here is unique, the tamarack trees and the carnivorous pitcher plants, but I got the creeps wondering what kind of strange acid-loving amphibians were sleeping below the surface. The floating boardwalks sat still on the frozen marsh; no bouncing or swaying today. Julie had heard the walkways kept sinking so this was the seventh version. We had fun imagining the six sunken decks below our feet.
Bobby wanted to walk some more so the six of us, Bobby, Julie, Julie's sister Amy, little Augie and Mia and I, started down a wide trail that began next to the parking lot. The big wooden sign at the trailhead said 2.75 miles; I pictured we would walk a while, then turn back for lunch.
The sky was bright and clear; the wind cool but gentle. Sometime during the hike Mia decided she didn't want to wear a coat and ran around happily in her sweater. We've been to the bog in four seasons now and I'm continually amazed by it beauty. The colors this day were muted browns but for the brilliant blue of the sky, some red berries on a treeless branch, purple thorny vines I suspected were blackberry, the bright Christmas green of moss on fallen logs.
Mia and Augie chased imaginary "hissy geese" and each other, ran, faltered, skittered, collapsed, begged to be carried, then jumped up and ran off all over again. When Mia asked for a lift, I promised I would give her one once we found a log to use as a step. The next few feet we spied one, cut as short as a stepping stool and just the right height. The world provides, except when it doesn't. She leaped on my back from her launching pad and immediately insisted on being put down because there was another gigantic log to climb on. Julie was a little tense because she was still carrying the little "bog boots" that Claudia had kicked off when Bobby had taken off her up on his shoulders. They had gone up ahead out of sight. "She'll be fine," I said. "When they get to the parking lot she can sit in her carseat." The pipe-dream of a brief stroll had disappeared.
We could see the barn-like visitor's center from our pausing spot on a ridge on the far side of the bog. Below us was the marsh we had walked through earlier. Behind us was a steeply sloping hill of tall golden grass that hit the sky at its bluest. I think we were about half way.
Mia was wearing pink glorified ballet slippers that carried thick soles of mud when she stopped to glop through a thick patch. I was in no mood to contradict any fun she was finding. "Doesn't that feel funny on your feet? When it's springtime we'll come back and you can walk barefoot through the mud and wiggle your toes." She hadn't complained in a long time nor asked to be carried. Augie and Julie were behind us when I spied what looked like piles of fluffy milkweed on the ground. Shed dog hair? Lost fur mittens? No, you know what it was. I did too, and if we had to have a circle of life moment, this looked like just about the cleanest way - dead rabbit reduced to soft little pom-poms with the teeniest bit of bloodless skin. We called out excited to Augie and talked about what might have happened. A few steps up the trail, I spot a rounded packet with a dull coppery sheen on the trail and we had more to talk about regarding bunny. Good thing Mia has been studying the human body at Montessori; we could use the word "intestine" and the kids didn't seem frightened at all.
In the distance I could see a stand of white-barked trees. Birches? Probably big sycamores. We had stopped our talking. I caught up with Mia rather than asking her to wait or slow for me. Way back before the dead rabbit, even before halfway, she had whispered, "This is horrible," but I wasn't sure she was still thinking this. It felt so good to walk next to her, wondering out loud why some trees were wrapped at the bottom in chicken wire, noticing that the swishing of the brown oak leaves under our feet sounded like rushing water and their smooth lobes looked like the fingers of children's gloves.
We were tired. When we passed a lookout platform, Mia didn't even want to climb the five steps for a different view. She waited while I took a pee that steamed on the leaves, then around the next bend we heard Bobby's "yeah! You did it!" "Julie and Augie are right behind us," I told him, said hi to Amy waiting with Claudia on a bench and went to the car for a miniature Crunch bar and a few mouthfuls of pink vitamin water. We scavenged the remains of Mia's school lunch from Tuesday, an apple and some carrots, on the drive home to Thanksgiving leftovers.
Friday, November 28, 2008
We had smoked salmon on bagels, fruit, two quiches Randy made yesterday (perhaps suspecting that he would stay up til 3:00 am with Bobby watching a Planet of the Apes marathon alternating with a commercial laden Godfather II and so be unable to do much of anything this morning), Christina's left over cornbread cranberry muffins and her mashed potatoes now fried up and enjoyed all over again. These mashed potatoes, I got to tell you. Christina said she used shallots and sage and butter and cream and some grapeseed oil, but there must have been something magic too - amazing.
Actually, "amazing" was a word we used a lot last night, from describing the extravagant and earnest musical compositions for hire created by Rodney Eskelin to trying to put our finger on the experience of Julie's sister Amy's persimmon cognac cake. But if last night was amazing, this morning was lovely. The extended breakfast ebbed and flowed, as mimosas were concocted and a pomegranate split (Christina showed us how to whack it with a wooden spoon beforehand to loosen up the seeds), until it felt like a couple of meals, first and second breakfasts perhaps, or post-breakfast brunch.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
I'm grateful for my husband who puts up with my shit and who brings home the beautiful red coat that keeps me warm on a long walk to clear my head.
I'm grateful for forgiveness.
I'm grateful for every day I have with my daughters, who make me happier than anything.
I'm grateful for time alone.
For every moment I have had with those I love.
For funny emails from my cousins and nieces.
For the sweet curve of the walkway that takes me out east toward the lake, away from the shade of the trees and houses around the girls' school and back into the light of the setting sun.
I am grateful for Julie and Bobby, their kids and Julie's sister and Christina and Mike and maybe another couple friends of Julie on the way here today with too much food and all their stories to celebrate the day and drink too much and spend the night and make me laugh in the morning even with the pile of unwashed dishes and not enough sleep or Tupperware.
I'm grateful for the resilience of my marriage and the power of thought and language to hang on to his last squeeze of my hand before sleep and the good medicine of a tight hug and to meld this persistent love into "resilience" rather than squint at it and see evasion, denial, or avoidance of the rough patches.
I'm grateful for two kind counselors giving it the old college try and being only a phone call away.
I'm grateful for wise and calm professionals tenderly teaching my children.
I'm grateful for the stuff of this sweet old world, the pleasures of beautiful yet comfortable bras that seem the product of aesthetic engineers rather than seamstresses, of Smashbox's Photo Finish lipstick in a browny-pink color called "Exquisite," of my brown Merrells with sheepskin lining that Dear Husband also selected for me, of Mapquest when you need it and of the sweet burst of pomegranate seeds.
I am grateful for every single phone call from my dear brother.
I am grateful for everything Aunt Ruth and Uncle Phil were able to give me. Happy Birthday, dear Ruth!
I'm grateful for kind strangers, for the quick communion that springs up with new acquaintances and for persistently loving old friends.
I am grateful for the persistence of love.
I'm grateful for the reviving power of long walks and how each step loosens the tangle of my thoughts and gives me the idea, "Straightening out the spaghetti doesn't make it taste any better."
I'm grateful for a holiday to celebrate this abstraction of gratitude which goes where? but back to ourselves, giving us back as much pleasure and balm as we send out.
And of course I am so very grateful for you, my dear readers. Thank you so very much for reading.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Dear friends, Family, visionaries, stalkers, wiseguys, seekers & beatniks (and everyone else) ~
I LOVE Thanksgiving because it is the day officially celebrating gratitude. How satisfying is that? For me, hugely so.
Now I could take the political spin on Thanksgiving's origins and deconstruct the revisionist history that still stains our moral and societal culture but I am going in a more macro direction.
Gratitude is a very powerful state of grace. Instead of focusing on what you don't have or what is wrong or missing in your life, try saying or writing a list of everything that is righteous. Understand I am using that word in a more colloquial fashion.
Every night before nodding off, I do the list. Sometimes during the day when I am stuck in traffic or waiting in line at the grocer's, I do the list. Sometimes when my foot in giving me pain and I am fighting impulse to feel like a victim, I do the list. When I am feeling lazy or ineffectual.....you get my drift.
I promise you this: If this is not a practice you have tried, please give it a whirl because I know you will feel greater peace, lower your anxiety, decrease your depression, feel more compassionate toward others AND yourself, feel healthier, smile more and be able to listen to Kenny G without grimacing (oh, sorry, that's just my issue).
It's all about perspective my friends. We live lives of enormous richness and comfort. In so many ways. If you have any doubts about that, let's take a trip somewhere where life is more marginal. We don't even have to leave the US.
So enjoy your day. And know that one thing I am so very grateful for is your fabulous friendship! You all bring me joy, teach me things, prompt me to expand my consciousness (mostly without the use of pharmaceuticals and/or botanicals), harrague me politically, delight me remembering things we have shared that I have forgotten and being there for me when I need help or just a pal.
your pal, sal
Fear's the way we die. It's not a right. It's not productive. It doesn't really protect us at all. Let it go. Fear diminishes every particle of our being. Let it go.
William Faulkner wrote that the past is not dead; it's not even past. (As recovery on the Gulf Coast continues, Faulkner's words are perfectly apt).
Check out my blog: www.queenoftheplayground.blogspot.com.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Spinach ball hors d'oeuvres
Crudites and dip
Triple cream brie, crackers
Ratatouille (good hot, even better cold)
Zingerman's bread carried from the source by Julie's folks
Whipped sweet potatoes with cardamom
Carmelized shallot and sage mashed potatoes
Green beans with roasted portabello and shallots
Plain old corn from a can (Randy insists)
Brined (in apple juice, herbs and salt) and roasted turkey
Apple cake (in loaf pans)
Some'in cute from Lovin Oven Cakery
Split pomegranates, pretty little pears
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Alan Stock, the CEO of Cinemark Theaters which owns 413 movie theaters across the U.S. and Latin America, donated $9,999 to California's YES on Prop 8 campaign. The passage of Proposition 8 stripped the right to marriage and all its accompanying civil rights from same-sex couples in the state. Why the odd number of Stock's donation? Amounts of $10,000 and above are made public record.
Last night a crowd of more than two hundred gathered in front of the Evanston Century 12/Cinearts 6 movie theater, owned by Cinemark, to protest Stock's contribution to institutionalized discrimination and ignorance.
Randy and I had planned to take the girls to an early show of Bolt, but I couldn't cross the picket line. I won't describe Dear Husband's face as he ascended the escalator with the girls. I stood in the 32 degree cold for a while, reading the signs: "Gay is Good" in a biblical font, "Joseph Smith is Gay" under a foppish picture of the Mormon founder, "Your Movie Date Supports Hate," "H8" on a red octagon.
I joined the line. My voice sounded strange in my ears for a moment or two, but call and response sucked you in, chanting, "Boycott Century," "What do we want? Equal rights! When do we want it? NOW!" "Hey Hey, Ho Ho, the CEO has got to go!" Two plastic bucket drummers kept up the beat. A couple of panda bears marched and posed for pictures. Good-natured police cracked the occasional smile as they steered the circling marchers away from startled passersby rushing to catch their showtimes. Leaflets listed alternate theaters for all the shows playing.
Logic and intellect demand our support of this equal rights battle, but deciding to step into the march had a measure of emotion for me too. Walking behind a couple holding hands caught the chant in my throat. The rainbow flags on high posts waved dramatically under the lights of the Century marquee.
Andy Thayer of the Gay Liberation Network spoke to the crowd, "The corporation who owns this theater said, 'we can't control what our employees do,' well, I had a couple of responses. One, your CEO is not just another employee - he's the head of your firm. Secondly, how would you feel if your CEO went around donning a white sheet or denying the Holocaust? Would that be acceptable to you?" The crowd roared, "NO!"
At Thayer's suggestion, the group turned to the north and marched to the Northwestern Campus, three blocks to the east. Protestors called out to groups of students on their way downtown, "Don't go to Century! Rent a video instead!" Light-flashing police cars stopped traffic at intersections, but once the group reached the university's iron gate at Chicago Avenue and Sheridan Road, an officer with a bullhorn announced the school was private property and the continued march would be trespassing. Thayer rallied the group again with stories of this very intersection being blocked for three days by Vietnam war protesters in the '70s and the plaza of the Rebecca Crown Center, through which we had just walked, ringing with the voices of Nelson Mandela and anti-apartheid protestors in the '80s.
The crowd moved south on Chicago Avenue, our chants being taken up by anonymous voices from apartments and dorm rooms above. We turned west on Church, passing shocked and smiling faces behind the windows of Chipotle and Blue, the new sushi restaurant at the Hotel Orrington.
The group that returned to Century had lessened in numbers but the spirit was still high. We were joined by a Harajuku girl (you can see her blue and white outfit in the photo above) and a brunette Marilyn Monroe in bright orange heels, with a gold handbag and headscarf against the chill. A woman drew cheeers when she yelled, "Hey, we stopped someone! They turned away from the door!" A man on his way in offered sympathy but argument: "Cinearts has a history of showing and supporting gay and lesbian films that the mainstream movie theaters won't play." An older woman, a pretty bubbe-type with her husband and another couple, stopped to ask me what the story was. "What a hypocrite," she said when I mentioned Cinemark profiting from gay and lesbian films. "We just saw the best movie," she went on. "Slumdog." "Oh that's suposed to be great!" I replied. "Best movie of the year."
By 8:00, the protest sign were being placed in a neat pile on the sidewalk and plans were made to regroup and warm up at Seattle's Best. The drumming stopped. A few protestors stood talking in groups, signs still held high. A Streetwise vendor who had stood at the doors all night started calling out, "Enjoy your movie! You can't mess with God! Your arms too short to box with God!" A woman with a "Christians for Love and Equal Rights" sign quietly conferred with him and his call turned again to "Streetwise!"
I didn't have a hat but my coat was warm. The marching had kept my feet warm, now I needed to jump a little to keep the blood moving. When children started leaving the theater, I knew Randy would be out soon with the girls. He pulled up across the street with a shake of his head and the girls described the movie to me on the way home.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Clear out five rooms, including the basement.
Pack for six weeks of winter weather, Florida weather, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's. Consider, then abandon the wild ideas to pack the turkey brining bucket, the mini Xmas tree, my hard drive, heels for hubby's office party, books I won't read, my poor neglected orchids, the girls' ballet slippers and gymnastics leotards. Don't forget the camera and the address books for the Xmas cards I still believe I will be writing.
Get the plastic sheeting from Ace Hardware to cover the rest of our stuff. Don't forget the zippers that allow me to dive back in for Something Important while the Eastern Europeans are sledgehammering away around me.
Freecycle everything in sight.
Wrangle Nora into a bath. Comb the hair of the thrashing children OR Pull up some last traces of creativity and transform the bathroom into a beauty salon with the hair combing hidden between the hand massage and the crayon pedicure.
Grimace at the camera at 3:30 for the goddamn family portrait.
Turn the preschool newsletter into a November AND December issue, saving yourself some heartache next month.
Plan tomorrow's NaBloPoMo post: "Synecdoche, New York. Thumbs up."
Take "before" pictures of the soccer field the girls constructed in a corner of the bedroom with an empty packing box for the net and of the reading nook in the closet that just happened when a box of books was thrown in next to the little chair.
Thank goodness for the cardboard box that the girls are transforming into a robot with crayons and spare toilet paper antennae-tubes. Even though I could really use that box for the bathroom towels.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
The feeling is something akin to Panic, but without the painful zap of fear. Not quite Manic because I'm moving slow and steady, but barely getting enough done. What my head is sharing with those rabid states is the distortion of what needs to be done NOW - it's like a funhouse mirror where the fact that the cleaning lady threw out a bag of old hangers that I was going to return to the dry cleaners takes up an inordinate amount of space in my brain while the pesky little realization that there is an entire half of a basement to move out of the way of the heating/cooling people is only a tiny toe at the bottom of the bulbous body of worry about the preschool newsletter.
Saturday's photo session will be right in the middle of our last minute shuffling of beds and bureaus and boxes. When I booked the family portrait a few weeks ago, the woman on the phone telling me that she would be charging my credit card with the entire sitting fee THAT VERY DAY disquieted me only a bit less than her "you could wear some jeans or chinos." I do not like Jeansor Chinos on my body; I do not own any and her casual comment sent me reeling into irrational thought tangles of the kind of manicured, high-lighted content mother that the camera will be looking for and failing to find.
I've earned myself a little talking-too.
My car is filled with the nasty-sweet smell of new paint off-gassing - My car is fixed!
We're going to be living out of suitcases for the next six weeks - We have safe and comfortable places to stay!
The children won't be going to school very much til the new year - We will be exploring new places and learning new things!
I'm running out of pouts...
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
From Join the Impact.
President-elect Barack Obama has made some important promises to the LGBT community. We have to make sure he follows through. What better way to do it than to send him a friendly little reminder? Here's how...
BUY A POSTCARD:
It would be great if it had the name of your city or state on it, but feel free to get creative.
WRITE THIS MESSAGE:
Dear President-elect Obama,
Please repeal D.O.M.A.! All Americans should have the right to marry. Thank you in advance for advocating for the civil rights of your LGBT citizens.
Your City and State
MAIL TO BARACK OBAMA:
President-elect Barack Obama
Presidential Transition Office
Kluczynski Federal Building
230 S. Dearborn St., 38th Floor
Chicago, IL 60604
1. Help spread the word. Forward this email to your friends, family, co-workers and neighbors
2.Send a postcard to Obama every day until 11/28. Take a photo of you mailing your postcard and post it here.
3. Stay active in the Join the Impact network. Add your opinions and ideas, and help plan upcoming events.
JOIN THE IMPACT!
LET'S SEND AS MANY POSTCARDS AS WE CAN BEFORE THANKSGIVING!
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Because he took your casual comment after getting all fired up over Justin and Beyonce on an SNL writing break to serious heart and you are delighted he did but he neglects to tell you about the 6:00 am alarm for his 7 something meeting and how he likes to hit the snooze repeatedly.
And you find out at noon after you finally finish your long argument about black and white and hoping someday to be able to tell the kids, "that's a way that people used to categorize each other. We don't think that way anymore. People are much more complicated," that Diversity Day will not be Tuesday after all.
But no regrets, no worries. Because everything in a world that makes possible my two cuties all bundled up in their ski hats and new gloves so warm and pink-cheeked that I can't stop looking at them is okay by me.
Monday, November 17, 2008
2. The final look Jonah Hill gives his best friend Michael Sera as he descends the mall escalator at the end of Superbad moved me nearly to tears.
3. I stayed up way too late two nights last month watching Mask and Sex, Lies and Videotape, each for the umpteenth time.
4. I never could get into the "brilliant but cancelled" series Sports Night and Arrested Development. This makes me an idiot. I don't care. All they did in Sports Night, as in West Wing, was walk up and down hallways, talking fast. Fast and witty doesn't always equal true and funny, you know.
5. When the ATM ate my card that night, I smashed my front passenger door backing furiously out of the stall. And my language was choice and the kids were in the car. Today we dropped the car off at the body shop and got a rental minivan. Such not the same experience as picking up a rental in a tourist town. Our van wasn't vacuumed and Gabe the Enterprise guy said goodbye with, "There's a quarter tank of gas. Just return it empty. I waived the gas for you." Thanks a lot, Gabe. He was quite the tool. Slicked back hair, quick talking, "No problemo," and when I was looking for a trash can for a wrapper, asked, "Garbosh?"
6. I haven't watched the last episode of John Adams yet. I can't bear to, really. After reading the McCullough book, I dread his daughter's mastectomy, his wife's death, his regrets, his death.
7. I'm considering quitting this NaBloPoMo thing. I have a lot to say, but I'm a slow writer so the posts are taking time I need for packing, research, preschool newsletter writing, child tending. And the only work I've done on the book since October is one interview that I still need to transcribe. And write the thank you note. Ouch.
8. One of my favorite pieces of clothing is a blue sweatshirt I bought at Whole Foods on a unexpectedly cold day last year. It's soft and comfortable and has the WF logo over the heart. The kind of sweatshirt the employees wear. Randy laughs at me when I put it on. The guy who sold it to me at the customer service desk barely blinked, but I thought I felt him wince.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Randy tivoed Sweeney Todd for me (my husband is no fan of musicals so this gesture of thoughtfulness make me smile and wonder if the opposite of paranoia is the belief that the entire world is working for your good will and happiness and is that called optimism and wouldn’t it be great if one in four Londoners had those kind of delusional thoughts?) but I was a little reluctant. It looked unrelentingly dark (and of course it is but for one funny fantasy scene at the seaside) and I'm no fan of horror films (which it really is, especially the last awful ten minutes) and although I do love Johnny Depp, it's not enough to watch every toss-off he's done. But it's Sondheim.
And now I can't get those songs out of my head. "Johanna" has got to be one of the most gorgeous pieces ever written for musical theater. Beautiful, beautiful melodies that go in unexpected places and soar over the vile subject, a serial killer and his evil (urk) pie-making accomplice.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Later on, when she lay down shivering in the warm night to sleep, she spoke out loud to Richard. She said, "How could you?" For he had somehow permitted himself to be removed, had left a space between them so vast it was impossible to measure and therefore seemed no space at all.
She slid her hand across the sheet to his cold, smooth side of the bed. And even if he had been resurrected to lie next to her again, holding the length of her against the length of him, even then she might have pulled back long enough to say, "How could you?"
You see footage of a building being demolished. A colander in the grass spilling the end of the season cherry tomatoes. A man with a pipe on a porch swing, looking into the lens. And black. Lots of black. Now that I think about it, I guess I could have overlapped the pictures and the sound instead of letting the audience sit through silence during picture and black during sound. Duh.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
2. How does the golden rule work for masochists?
3. Why do some moisturizers sting? I know, I know, it's the alpha-hydroxy acids or whatever are supposed to strip off the layer of dead skin under which hides the glowing, younger you, but why still call it moisturizer? It's acid. It takes your skin off.
4. Why is anyone still making bubble bath that gives girls urinary tract infections?
5. What's with Paul Newman and all his wounded women costars? Since Newman's death last month, I've been thinking about some of his best roles and noticed a common theme. Piper Laurie's doomed lame alcoholic in The Hustler shares a few moments of happiness with Newman's Fast Eddie before self-destructing. The Verdict's Lindsay Crouse cries piteously on the stand in her Irish brogue, "I just wanted to be a nurse..." Newman's wife Joanne Woodward is the stifled and frustrated Mrs. to his uptight Mr. Bridge - you can see her heart break wide open here. Hud has housekeeper divorcee Patricia Neal.
Was it that Newman chose roles of such complexity and depth that they required equally interesting women foils and partners? Did his natural sensitivity, that could not be hidden even in roles of apparent clods like Hud, bring out the vulnerability in the opposite sex? Or is it a sign of his generosity that the actor chose projects that offered the opportunity for his costars to create amazing performances?
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
What else to do then, but... send in a contest entry. I haven't written fiction in a long time, but I had the cutest idea to make a story entirely out of noun phrases. The deadline is not for three weeks but I could tweak this thing to death and not change the basic idea so here goes. After Valentine's Day, I'll be free to send it somewhere else, too.
There. And with this post, I have accomplished something else today.
Monday, November 10, 2008
In my ebullient mood, I can't help seeing a political allegory as brave protagonist Paper Girl, played by spirited Alexis Rogers, goes out to the world and brings color, music and voice back to her white sisters.
The show is geared towards children two to six years old and the cheers and yelled comments ("Blueberries!" called Nora, long after the request for "things that are blue") and unpredictable laughter of the kids made the show more free-wheeling and fun than your typical production.
Through November 30. Use the code SAVE for discount tickets through next weekend.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Randy picked her up on Maxwell Street, the old Maxwell Street that is, the 120-year-old open-air flea market that has since been shut down by the city, reopened in a prettier incarnation, and shuffled around to its current location in Little Village. Who knows what Chairy had seen by that time. She had a nice shiny spot right where most heads would hit the back and when Randy brought her home, his cat hated the thing. She would hiss and spit at it - a mystery until Randy ducked down to see a little rat face looking back at him from the lining below. Yes.
Just that much is making me kind of sick so I'll skip the awful story about how Randy and his friend disposed of the little passenger.
Now finally, finally, when we are ripping apart our second floor, the chair's time with us has come to an end. I can't say I'm not a little bit sentimental myself - you know how I get. Cause Uncle Phil sat here as he watched Randy and I get married in the bank and Mia toppled over and cried and grabbed for her Santa hat in this chair while I tried to take her first Christmas photo. But we've got the pictures to prove it all so I'm moving on.
Before our last move I called the great organization HOME (Housing Opportunities & Maintenance for the Elderly) for the furniture we didn't want to bring along. Please check HOME out if you are looking to get rid of some household items in good shape - they do great work. I may call them again, but I think I'll have to come clean about the little friend.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
But zowie! Those tickets are kind of expensive. Here's help. Use the discount code SAVE to get $8 off the kid price and $13 off the adult ticket. Don't delay. The discount is good through November 16.
We've seen Chicago Children's Theater productions of Go Dog Go in Grant Park and The Selfish Giant at the Field Museum. Both were amazing in totally different ways - Dog was a wild, reeling, funny and fun musical circus while Giant created a tiny, amazingly intricate world with one musician/narrator and one puppeteer.
And this time to write. I needed this time to wrote. Thanks Randy, for taking the girls to Madagascar 2. I would have loved to spend the time with you and the girls but I think my head would have exploded from all the darkness (I have actually had to get up and leave the Chicago Children's Film Fest show AND halftime at the Backyardigans matinee - something difficult and claustrophobic for me about sitting still in the dark during daytime) and the sound of David Schwimmer's voice.
So I'm much better. The two-day headache that took various forms - a cone-shaped drill boring in from one ear, a heavy hand over my left eye and temple, a fine searing line across the skull - has retreated, leaving relief and gratitude. I think it was the symptom of a brief cold I picked up Thursday morning at the otherwise excellent Off Campus Writers Workshop meeting with attorney Amy Cook, former literary agent and writer for the Writer's Digest's "Ask the Lawyer" column.
Amy was funny and wry and had a wealth of information and patience for lots of questions about copyright (People, I wanted to say, it's yours! It belongs to you! Just put your name in the header and you're fine. Save your $35 and send it to Doctors Without Borders instead of copyright.gov! But that's why Amy was answering the question, not me. That and her degree and experience and stuff.)
Amy's tips that I found most helpful/new/surprising:
1) When writing non-fiction for periodicals, consider offering a sidebar of 100 words or so. You could be paid extra.
2) Believe it or not, Amy thought there were good reasons to self-publish. I've always thought this was the impatient or easy way out, but she pointed out that for writers with a built-in audience or who want total control over their work, self-publishing may be the way to go.
3) In a book proposal, offering "special editorial features," such as interviews, sidebars, charts, graphs, maps, indices, glossaries, etc. is a plus.
4) The two most important sections of your book proposal (more important than your chapters!?) are your analyses of the audience/market and the existing marketing and sales opportunities for your book. "This is what the agent/publisher will look at first," said Amy.
In your target audience analysis, agents are actually looking for concrete numbers. You can find specific stats at the library - ask the librarian about fans/users/members/groups connected to your topic. Get subscription numbers from related magazines. "My book will appeal to readers of ..."
Even before target audience numbers, the sales opportunity portion of your proposal is of the utmost importance. How will you sell your book? How will you give talks, write columns on your topic, connect with radio stations and bookstores, create a website, blog, get mentions in media outlets, get endorsements...
5) For fiction manuscripts, be sure to mention in your queries that IT"S DONE.
6) If asked for a synopsis, keep it to one page; write in the present tense and the third person even if the novel is not; smoothly integrate character sketches and their motivations, conflict and the conclusion.
Amy brought along some publishers catalogs that publishing houses will send out with their sales staff to bookstores and libraries. They were a fascinating look at the inside workings of the industry and how book are sold to the people who sell them to the public. The punchy, distilled language used to describe the books for sale was a great lesson in creating hooks.
Also: Duotrope's Digest is a great marketing resource for short fiction and poetry writers. It's "a database of over 2275 current markets" that is updated continuously. You can browse or do sophisticated searches for publishers of your work.
Amy also had some really interesting tips on contracts. I'll add those later here or in another post.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
I woke up yesterday morning singing Nina Simone and feeling so good.
It's a new dawn/It's a new day/It's a new life.
But the joy is tempered by the bewildering passage of California's Proposition 8. My only consolation is that our baby country will need to learn the lessons of civil rights slowly. One giant leap forward, one sad step back.
Monica/Julie sez: Check out my baby unicorn, carved from mammoth ivory, perched on a cloisonne strawberry.
Please join me & Julie in welcoming our friend and master jeweler Jonathan Johnson to Chicago for his first exhibition in USA. He is a remarkable artist we've met while touring Germany; he made pendant necklaces for our entire band based on his interpretation of our music, and made the unicorn pendant you see attached for Julie. He has an (obviously) eclectic and far ranging taste in music and is making a series of pieces for musicians he appreciates. He also designs jewelry for his own clients as well as for the German fashion house Herr Von Eden. Even if you are not interested in jewelry, please come check out this show; they are actually small beautiful wearable sculptures, impeccably made and with a sly sense of humor. I hope to see you there!
Opening 6:00 PM Reversible Eye Gallery, 1103 North California Ave / dance party to follow with DJ Logan Bay, DJ Jonathan Johnson & DJ Bobby Conn
Of course, knowing Bobby and Julie, this may be an elaborate joke. Mammoth ivory? Or it may not.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Randy took a break from the grueling schedule of his latest stevia sweetener commercial to walk down to the Grant Park party.
Here's his take:
I got within two feet of him. Well, at least the t.v.
I'm back at work now, but I had to go to the park.
It was an amazing scene. A combination New Years Eve, a Bulls win, & the excitement of being a child on Christmas.
I not only drank the Kool-aid, I chugged it, spilled it on my shirt, slipped on it, then licked it off the ground.
When I realized I wouldn't make it into the staging area, I wandered over to the Hilton, where after experiencing the most depressing party ever, the Illinois Young Republicans celebration, i found a local dive to watch the speech at.
The owner was kicking out a reporter with an exchange of "It's a historic night", followed by a "Fuck you, leave us alone," when I slipped in before he locked the bar's door.
I hadn't allowed myself to think that America could make the right choice, until now.
It truly is a "new day in America."
Jordan was there, and so was Alma. Great reading for those of us who cheered and wept from the couch.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
It's an emotional morning. The colors of the leaves and the sky and the light will break your heart. We turn on the TV just in time to see Senator Obama casting his vote with his wife and little girls. The Trib describes yesterday's funeral of Darnell Hudson Donerson, Jason Hudson and Julian King. Fantasia sang "Your Grace and Mercy."
The girls scream in agony over an unshared toy. While trying to jump into my arms, Mia lands on the hard plastic Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine and wails over her bruised foot. She turns clumsy when she's stressed, so my reprimanding or urging her to hurry turns the occasion into tripping, falling, bumping, crying, yes, she'd like the Boo Boo Bunny, yes, she needs it wrapped in a towel cause it's too cold, no, she doesn't want to sit in Mommy's lap right now. It's a lesson for me every time. I have to forget all about the time and Nora's ice skating lesson in ten minutes and the tights and my wallet I can't find which means I won't have the photo ID they need at the polls and Mr. Fraulein's loud vacuuming downstairs. And just sit with her and be amazed once again at the spherical tears that fall so fast from her eyes.
But Joanna Babysitter is here to help and she miraculously finds my wallet and gets the girls separated and at peace. To lighten my mood I put on flowered kneesocks, a short pleated skirt from a company called Skunkfunk and my favorite blue hoodie. I know I should dress my age, Tim Gunn, but you know those ladies in the purple and red hats? I'm just getting an early start.
Randy had a half hour wait at 6am; we walk in easily at 9. All week I've been having cousin fears to my husband's dread of jumping if he gets near the edge of a roof. I imagine my hand pressing the wrong lever while I watch in horror. But none to worry - the right names are the first on the list - Cynthia McKinney? Look at all these names - who knew? Some other time I'll tell you about my Aunt Susan's run.
Now all we have to do is wait.
Mia looks at her book while waiting for me to finish the ballot.
Monday, November 3, 2008
"This is a long shot but I once went backpacking with a very cool girl named Cindy Fey, she was from KC, it was the early 80s. . . I think it was in Wyoming, with the Girl Scouts . . .".
Damn, some people are good with names! Her face in her Facebook profile picture, posed next to two little munchkins, was familiar. Even more shocking was that I knew exactly where to find her - upstairs in Nora's room, on the top shelf of the bookcase, in the photo album from my 10 day trip to National Center West on a Girl Scout Wider Opportunity in 1982, the summer before my senior year. Girl Scouts from all over the country and the world came to Ten Sleep Wyoming to backpack for 10 days in the gorgeous backcountry. It was so much fun.
I remember seeing an entire rainbow arcing across a hill and going to a rodeo and camping in a grove of birches and laughing so hard I peed my pants. Really. And watching an educational film about hypothermia where you get to guess which hiker collapses! And making a nasty dinner of freeze-dried tuna and green beans because somebody (me) neglected to pack the mushroom soup that would have made it all palatable. And beautiful, beautiful country.
Rachel remembered that I would go to a high spot every night to watch the sunset, while she was too exhausted to do anything but collapse. She may be thinking of this day, when my tentmate and a girl I'm pretty sure was named Mary Pat clambered up what seemed like a nearly vertical canyon wall. Look at those little green squares behind them - that's our campsite!
Here's me on the trail. Somebody get me a scissors. Do not say a word about the shorts. I know. And if you look carefully, you'll see the bitchin custom pads that Uncle Phil made for my backpack straps out of strips of orange carpet.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Or as Brenty used to say, No Mo Faux Po Mo in So Ho, Mo Fo!
In a fit of Almond Joy fueled sugar frenzy and at the cusp of the two hours between the girls' bedtime and mine, when the air feels full of possibility, I signed up for writing a post every day this month. "Signed up" doesn't mean jack shit, except in my own mind, but I'm hoping this can loosen me up a little since I have plenty of half written posts that don't get put here cause there's an essential linking ideas just out of my grasp.
I hoping this is good for the book too and if the news of the girls and the house reno and the changing leaves is not enough, I can write updates on the slow slow progress of the pages I can't wait to finally turn over to an agent's eyes.
Wish me luck and I wish you the same. As always, thanks for reading. Much love.