Monday

I know that Monday can be a sucky day for people. So many songs about it.

But here is a reason why I do like Mondays.

Welcome Beth

Welcome Beth. I just noticed your name up there. Hope I haven't scared you off.

Please do post. When you feel like it.

My Week in Thank-yous instead of Fuck-yous

1. Thank you for sending me a Hallmark e-card (when you care enough to send the very best) to tell me that you're pregnant. It inspired fuck.doc, a work of which I am proud. I'm proud of the anger. I'm proud of the love. I'm proud that I can do both and feel good about it.

2. Thank you for sending a thank-you note lacking any real emotion. It made me realize that things are not o.k. and that they probably never will be. And that it's not our fault.

3. Thank you for calling me to yell at me for caring about you. What else to say but, "I need you in my life. I really need you in my life. Could you please come up with a plan?" And you wanting to talk through the desperation of the binge. It made me realize that having a relationship with a drug addict is difficult, if not impossible because we can't get past the haze. We can't get past all of the memories created while high, created while not high. It made me realize that the problem is bigger than the problem. It inspired a post to this blog. It opened doors that had not been open before. Thank you.

4. Thank you violin guy for mesmerizing my daughter and for being just enough on this side of things for me to want another lesson from you.

5. Thank you Gerrit for standing in the doorway with your hat askew and your coat puffy, eliciting life. Thank you Patrick (I think it was Patrick) for pointing this image out to me. And thank you for explaining to me the difference between solstice and equinox. I needed to understand.

6. Thank you Amanda for every time that I am with you reminding me of what the point is. Especially the point about pictures. My mother taking them to feel, or not to feel, but in the end, rendering herself dead.

7. Thank you Mike for getting me thinking about my mother and pictures in the first place. And for sending that picture of The Clash for Tad. Of you in adoration. People do have heroes. See #1.

8. Thank you Susan for not being afraid to dive in.

9. Thank you Greg for drawing that bear in the bathroom. Thank you Lucy for drawing a picture of Emmett crying.

10. Thank you Tad for trying to understand. Understanding my need to write fuck.doc. Immediately. Understanding a need for beer. More beer. Monday night at the bar. Understanding that it's o.k. to not understand.

11. Thank you Cole and Aidan, always, for showing me what's possible rather than what's impossible.

12. Thank you for reading this ridiculously sappy post.

13. Thank you thirteen. For being lucky.

And thank you Aidan for covering the upstairs floor and your brother with water while I was writing this.

Lost...

Went to New York. Went to see The Gates. Took pictures. Lots and lots of pictures.

First pictures of The Gates. Then of people taking pictures of The Gates. People painting The Gates. Pictures girls hovering nearby as a crew filmed a v-jay at the Gates.

Then pictures at the Zinc Bar: Abigail with Anne Waldman.

Then pictures of orange in New York. To complement The Gates. An orange bag in the trash. Orange graffiti on scaffolding. Orange newspaper boxes. Orange sale sign. Orange stuff in a store window. Orange signs. Orange bars. Orange painted on the sides of a ramp. Orange Valva resturant. Orange hats. An orange teapot in the trash. Sonny's Florist awning, orange. Orange sign: Last Week of Sale! in a firework burst. Homeopathis foot care sign. Orange sign for tools in the window of a hardware store, with reflections from spools of wire. Orange rectangle in the middle of a blue and yellow door. The orange jacket of a man near the MoMA, him making a funny face at me.

And pictures at the MoMA: Abigail with Jim and James in front of a boy playing piano. Abigail and Jim wandering through paintings and sculpture. Jim telling Abigail about Jackson Pollock. Abigail and Jim and OOF! Jim in black and Abigail in white in front of black and white pantings.

Finally the orange hand telling us not to walk in front of Radio City Music Hall, an orange blob of light in the darkness with lines of moving light around it.

Lots of pictures. Some very good. Some very sweet.

Hook it up, download pictures. Go online to check email. Somewhere in the middle there computer freezes, freaks out, shuts down. Ten minutes later when I finally get it back up most of the pictures are gone.

Funny to have it happen while I am reading Jane's post about pictures. I got mad at my camera, wanted to hurt an inanimate object. Then got to thinking about pictures and taking pictures. About noticing things to take pictures of. People. And orange. And friends. Without the camera I wouldn't have noticed so many of those things. Wouldn't have enjoyed the hours of walking so much.

Moments, moments that matter. Real things go away. Pictures are sweet and they can be real but they are not the point. They are not why I do things. Tried to remember quickly the pictures that were lost so I wouldn't rely on them to remind me. Writing is more my style anyway.

My baby girl is kicking around on the floor. Jim is doing well in New York. Barring any major art heists those paintings will still be there next time. There will always be orange in New York. There will always be Don't Walk signs. And poetry readings. And the early pictures of The Gates are around to prove that they were there. Funny though that those too aren't going to stick around.

There is one set of pictures that were there still, pictures I took thinking about my father and his love of trains. Abigail on her first train ride, looking out the window at the rising sun.

Missing You

There are windows. Spaces of sunlight or moonlight when we agree to let people in.

How to explain a shut door and then an open one? How to explain a connect? How to explain memory? Or an image that is a thousand feelings mixed up with a thousand colors.

My mother takes pictures. Thousands of them. Probably billions. I sometimes wonder about her obsession. To find the perfect image. If she takes just one more maybe she'll capture the feeling and she won't have to keep looking.

But the kind of feeling that she wants to feel can't be captured with a camera.

It's elusive, mystical, magical. And it comes in through windows, with moonlight and sunlight, when we are least expecting.

Fun

What were you doing in 1983 when Cyndi Lauper's voice pervaded and invaded the beings of pubescent girls everywhere?

I was a 13-year-old girl. Living in Salt Lake City, Utah, looking for a good time. Because girls just want to have fun. Download from itunes for $.99.

Some things don't change.

And then, some things do.

Soup as Therapy

Rinse one pound of dried white beans, picking out any stones or debris. Use the yellow collander because it is yellow and that is why you bought it. Save your silver collander for less important jobs. Set the beans in a large pot, cover with two inches of water. Bring to a boil, remove from heat and let stand, uncovered, for one hour.

While beans are soaking watch Arena Football. Get confused every time they say AFL. Chuckle when they make Bon Jovi jokes. Start impossible sweater while nursing.

Drain beans. Put crying baby in backpack. Heat 2 tablespoons of olive oil in a large pot. Chop two onions, put in pot. Add two more onions. You like onions. Return to football, leaving onions to cook too long. When the onions are just starting to burn remember they are on. Add four cloves of garlic, chopped. No, make it eight. Turn the onions and garlic down to avoid further burning. Stir, staring into pot, while thinking about your mother. Call mother to avoid guilt. Continue stirring, happy to have talked to her.

When onions and garlic are soft add 1 quart of water and 5 cups of chicken broth. Add the first liquid slowly, enjoy how it melts the burnt onion sugar off the pot. Remember the smell of Onion Soup. Add a bay leaf and a couple tablespoons of rosemary. Add a rind of romano cheese. Grate a little cheese into the soup for good measure.

Simmer for however long it takes to for you to do something else. Take the baby upstairs and nurse. Put her down for a nap so you can have a moment alone to complete the soup. Think about family while tearing kale from its ribs. Tear one pound or so into bits. Wash, plunging your hands into the cold water.

When the beans are just tender cut six carrots. Consider circles, then cut into half circles to complement the shape of the beans. Throw in the pot. Cut one pound turkey kielbasa into semicircles. Arrange carefully in concentric circles in a pan to brown. Construct speech to family member while watching the fat and moisture rise to the surface of the meat. Start turning with metal tongs. Change to chopsticks for the smooth warm feel of the wood.

Stuff kale into the pot. Watch as it starts to collapse on itself as it is softened by the heat. Place the browned kielbasa on top of the kale and watch it slowly fall into the pot. Brown remaining meat in hasty batches. Add to soup.

Leave soup on low. Invite a friend over. Clean quickly. Make popovers to make up for the lack of crusty bread.

Sit, enjoy.

A question, and it's not pretty and it's not pink

When you call and leave a message on someone's cell phone that says, (pleads) please make contact with someone so that I know that you're alive and they don't return the call, should you presume that they are dead? Spiritually, emotionally, literally (with or without the usage problem)?

Two churches and broken city hall

Three Churches

In the early hours of this morning I vividly dreamt of churches. Three of them. With my mother and two sisters. We were in the process of visiting to join.

The first, a very real place for me though I have been inside only once, Sacred Heart Church in Lanesville, my father-in-law's church. We entered and it was strangely empty, stripped of all religious paraphernalia and I wondered how, because yesterday I had read about Roman Prybot painting the inside of the church. How to remove paint quickly and without marking?

Our voices sounded dull in the coldness of the room. Dead it was, as if people had never lived there, sung there, worshipped there. God was not there and I'm not sure whether or not he had ever been there. I suppose for some, he had.

As we drove away I noticed the rectory light, soft and dim. I pictured a priest inside, but not Father Bullock. He had his feet up and was drinking a cup of Earl Grey, tea bag still in cup, cup resting on saucer, saucer resting upon the darkness of his exhaling chest. Where does a priest go when a church closes?

Next we visited a large, foreboding and hideously square church. It reminded me of the Pentagon. It was dark, grey and the people inside were hushed and faceless. I looked up and could not see the ceiling. The sterility and the familiarity of it all frightened me and we immediately left.

The landscape changed and the weather too. We came to a place that could have been New Mexico. Stucco, adobe, color and wildness. Sun and light. We entered to music and sat near former Mayor Tobey, slapping his thigh to the beat and grinning. The music upbeat, perhaps rock and roll by Amanda's definition, ended and the revelers boarded a train to another room. A large room with Mellors, Lady Chatterley's lover, standing at wooden podium similar to the one I inherited from Heather and had come to live in room 1209 at Gloucester High School, until that room was taken over by ROTC.

Mellors, at the podium, about to deliver a sermon or a homily. Are they the same? It was wild, the way he moved in and out of dialect. Less concerned with what he was saying and more concerned with how he was saying it. Tobey, Mellors, a train, colorful Latin American artwork, rock and roll. Absurdity. And I loved it.

It is important to say that this dream ended with fighting. Outside of the church, loud and colorful, my mother, my sisters and I disagreeing over what church is. They were offended by the spectacle of it all. And all the while it was the spectacle that made me want to stay, to see what would happen next.

A few things: I actually had this dream, though I did include two or three artistic embellishments. Recently I talked with Amanda about church, with Heidi about church shopping. Sacred Heart closed and John, who has been going to this church since he was six, has to find another space to be. Yesterday I saw Bruce Tobey in the library and asked about Emily, a former student and his daughter. I read about Sacred Heart Church in the GDT. I spent two hours at coffee shop with Lady Chatterley's Lover and I ate sweet Italian chicken sausage for dinner (Tad thinks it was the sausage). I also have issues with religion. As if you didn't know.

And to think, I don't need Freud or my therapist to psychoanalyze me. I think I can interpret this one myself.

Before they Wake

Recently realized that the problem is bigger than I am. Bigger than his choosing to use or not to use. Bigger than her returning to a desperate situation, three innocent bystanders in hand and tow. It is as big as the current generation and past generations and future.

It is silence. It is shame. It is approval and disapproval. It is about being who you think they want you to be instead of who you should be. It is about adherence to rigid dogma, difficult to reconcile in context of this greater world. It is about repressed passion, and a need to cast off the ugly cloak of religion in exchange for spirituality.

The irony is that they--with their make-believe attachment to tolerance--have allowed me to become me. And that which I despise about their silence, inability to act is the core of my creation. So when I get angry and rail against them and their beliefs, their determination to let things be, I realize that I rage against the powers that made me.

I hereby give myself permission to stop living in both worlds. Straddling no more.

An epiphanic moment that day on the phone with the therapist from McLean. An understanding that the problem is beyond the scope of me, and perhaps beyond the scope of them. The answer seems to be to live. To ache. To create.

Take back the night. Before they wake. It is the best that I can do.

Cool and uncool

Is it really (as in super) uncool to talk about how Paul Shandley should be cut some slack as part of your old-guy-in-need-of-a good-fuck acoustic music schtick, or am I the uncool one here?

Is it cool to talk to a guy named Hayes? Kicked out of naval academy? Who notices sunflowers? Loved Amanda's grandmother? And is the same age as BenC?

Is it cool to ask the waitress if she'll send Dan over to the table?

Is it cool to make plans to drink with our bartender/waitress person?

Is it cool to arrange for fiddle lessons with violin guy while husbands are at Social Distortion?

Is it cool to call Mike on cell phone, in bar, and ask him to come and ward off creepy guys?

Is it cool to be subtle? Not so subtle?

Is it cool to buy hot nuts from the hot nut machine?

Is it cool to wear a sparkle shirt? That's brown?

Is it cool to use the word cool? Or is hip the cool word?

Is it cool to have this much fun blogging?

It's probably not cool to ask what's cool and what's not cool.

Does it matter?

I know it's not cool to do the fuck face as much as fly does.

It is definitely cool to buy a drink for a mother of an eight-month-old who had had her "worst day ever." And even cooler when she kisses Amanda on the forehead and leaves the bar happy instead of crying, which is how we found her, seated at our corner table, when we arrived.

Mormon underwear

For those of you who have asked about Mormon garments, you know who you are, you might want to visit this blog: www.dooce.com. If you don't find what you are looking for, you can e-mail "The Dooce." I think she'd be happy to answer your garment questions.

For those of you desiring to understand my Mormon upbringing, my unconscious decision to rebel against the religion and then my very conscious decision to leave the fold, you might want to check it out.

For those of you wanting a good laugh, I hope you find her humor as wonderfully irreverent as I do. Though if you don't, that's o.k. too.

Cheers.

Pinked

Hearts and Candy

Valentine's Day, and Abby has a new tooth. A tooth!

Hearts and pctures, Valentines. I didn't make any yet this year. I am hoping this doesn't mean I won't. I don't get much done on time this year.

Made truffles this afternoon, espresso and dark chocolate covered with chai and white chocolate. Marbled the top for fun. Made reservations and wrapped a present in orange ribbon, a la Christo.

Home early, James asleep on the couch and Abby watching the washing machine. Happy Heart Day.

Feeling Pink

Woke up this morning thinking about pink. The sort of sickly color, like Peptol Bismol. Like the color of the skirt that I bought the other day. But I like this skirt. It is covered in women wearing hats, walking dogs, having tea. Women.

Because it has been too long since my last Marshall's spree, or shopping experience of any kind for myself, finding something to wear with my pink, lovey skirt proves challenging.

Brown stockings. Black stockings. Bright green stockings. And on top. A sweater that my mother-in-law brought as gift from Spain. Or a hand-me-down from my sister. My friend's sister. Every thing in wardrobe green and brown. Red for summer and white. But white isn't color. And black does not make me feel the way that I want to feel.

So I settle on green. Pilling. Sleeves slightly short from imprudent tumble in dryer. Pink Peptol Bismol with bright green stockings.

Three pairs of shoes to choose from. Brown clogs (for everymother), red shoes that are not as cool as they think they are. Bulky Sorels from days spent living in Utah, Colorado under much snowfall. Happy to have them for this Gloucester winter, for walking to the bar.

I choose red.

I look in the mirror. I'm a sight, but I'm not going to do anything about it. I look at my three-year-old in her stripes, stripes and stripes. She wakes up, sometimes, wanting to dress like the sky. Or a rainbow. Or a flower. And I think--Why do I have to be three to dress how I want to dress. Why does it matter?

I look at Aidan and try to ignore my desire to shed my skin, to wear brown. To hide.

Aidan, not doing anything, gives me what I need.

Skirt with women wafting pink, I leave the house.

Cleaning

Woke up from no sleep. Too late, car snowed in, baby grumpy. Needs sleep. Won't sleep.

Kitchen messy, dishes everywhere. Kitchen table: brass hooks, irises, newspapers, Sponge Bob cookies. Books, yarn, needles, hammer. Dishes. Floor: newspaper, paper bags, plastic spoons. Cat toys, baby toys, twine. Screwdriver. Radiator: Cooksbooks, wooden tray, cat.

Neighbor outside shovelling. Consider selling body for snow removal.

Wash dishes in new heels. Ignore cut on toe from moving bookcase. Clean counter holding baby. Put baby down. Pick baby up. Drink coffee. Make more coffee. Put baby down. Crack eggs. Pick baby up. Sing to baby. Clean table. Put baby down. Flip eggs. Pick baby up. Pour coffee. Add cream. Eat with baby.

Nurse. Put baby down. Pick baby up. Nurse. Repeat as needed.

Living room a mess from last cleaning. Papers to be filed, clothes to be folded. Coffee cups and water glasses. Wash pillow covers. Wash cushion covers. Wash exersaucer seat. While nursing. Vacuum floor. Put baby down. Pick baby up. Repeat.

Consider lunch. Talk to mother-in-law. Put baby down. Put on music. Put on Christmas lights. Move monitor. Turn heater on. Back away. Slowly. Close door. Sit down. Type.

Eating ice

discovering ice
Originally uploaded by stewingham.

Can't believe that it has taken me this long to post a picture of my baby. Bad mother. Bad, bad mother. Mala madre. Mere de merde.

Thursday Mother

Feeling edgy today. Almost all of the definitions. Not enough sleep. Probably has something to do with acoustic night, but not Fly.

Talking about what it means to be selfish. To be mean. How other people see us. Funny how we see ourselves.

Cole and Abigail, two beautiful children sleeping through the edginess, hand in hand. He found hers and she held on. Difficult to separate them.

Glad to know that it is o.k. for mothers to cry. Even on a Thursday.

Oggie Bendoggie

This post is for Oggie, wherever he is, and for the person who wanted to hear about letters.

I met Martin, also known as Oggie Bendoggie, the summer that I thought it would be a good idea to work in Alaska. Took a week to drive the stretch of highway known as the Alaskan. In April, at times, the highway so desolate that folks carry spare gas in their cars. Camped in places beautiful and ugly, ugly as in guns firing right outside of our tent. Beautiful as in complete and total loneliness, with sunlight lasting longer than we are used to.

Martin, Tad and I and a bunch of other people worked for the devil, also known as ARA. Tad has a hat from those days that used to say Denali Park Resort. He changed it while under influence of the devil to Denali Park Rot as we often found ourselves wishing that one of the most beautiful places on earth would rot in hell.

Martin worked as a breakfast busser and I worked as a breakfast waitress. If anyone ever tries to convince you that waiting breakfast shifts might be better than waiting dinner shifts, don't believe them. But you're probably not that stupid.

Martin was one of the worst bussers I have ever met. He took pride in being "worst" busser and this I admired. I also admired the children's artwork that he collected from the few tables that he bussed. He plastered these charming creations across the walls of the Jewel Box, a bussing station with a lovely overlook of Denali, the mountain (not going to call it McKinley for someone who never even visited Alaska), and far, far away from management's busting of his ass for not doing his job.

One of the things that I remember most about Martin is his obsession with Robert Creeley. After winetasting one night, required by our employer, we went to his Denali Park Rot suite to discuss literature. Started talking about Creeley. And then reading aloud. Poem after poem. Until the buzz wore off and it was time for me to go home, not to worry about walking in the dark when it doesn't get dark.

I'd like to say that it was a mutual interest in Creeley that sealed the friendship, but it was really a mutual love of Boggle. And a lot of spare time. Martin, Tad and I played a ridiculous number of Boggle games that summer, Martin so sneaky and clever with short words that we'd never heard of. He was a Boggle master or genius or something like that.

Over the course of the summer Martin became interested in a woman, I've conveniently forgotten her name though I did like her. The thing that I remember most about this relationship is the letters. Daily, and before email as we know it, Martin would compose a letter to his love. Things silly. Things honest. Things erotic. To the Denali Park Post Office, with stamp. In day or two or three she would respond. To the Denali Park Post Office, stamp. Mailed to Martin's Post Office Box, same building as her post office box. This went on for nearly a summer until it became clear that the two should move in together. Towards the end of summer they found a lovely, secluded spot to live for winter. It seemed that naturally the letters would stop as Martin got to know his love in a new way. And they did. And the two were happy. For awhile. But one day when I asked Martin how he was doing it came out that he missed the letters. He missed the ritual of writing them. He missed sending them. He missed choosing the stamp to place on the letter. He missed checking his mailbox, waiting, anticipating a reply. He missed opening the letter. Reading things silly, things funny, things honest, things erotic. And he missed thinking about what he would say in reply.

So the letters began again.

Martin and I kept in touch for about a year after working in Alaska together. Letters, of course. I don't know where he is now. I wonder sometimes and when I read or hear a Creeley poem, I always think of him.

Nostalgic

Since finishing One Hundred Years of Solitude I have been nostalgic. For books read when I was only half of me. Poetry found. For places. Her hair. His eyes. And hungry for colors.

Cleaned Henry's bowl today. Our Betta fish the color of a pool of water I once saw in Costa Rica or maybe in a dream. Scraping away algae the color of my sweater and remembering Alaska. Using a baby bottle brush to clean the plastic seaweed. The same brush that I used to clean bottles for my first baby, though she didn't use them much. Caught between Scylla and Charybdis, so the saying goes. I tell my students (former) though most of them haven't heard it. And what to tell self? Let go. A sunlit ribbon of seaweed, greens and blues and golds and purples making its way to the surface.

First

First date without the baby, first time left without ma or da. First time sitting through an opening act wondering if baby is sad. First time coming back to find her asleep First time sleeping away from home.

Daddy, according to A

Daddy, according to A
Originally uploaded by stewingham.

Every time I look at this portrait it makes me laugh.

I hope it makes someone else laugh too.

walking toward camera

walking toward camera
Originally uploaded by stewingham.

Luring KimT.

Hide and Seek

Yesterday we did not leave the house until two in the afternoon. Not because I didn't want to, but because my child would not put clothes on her body. At three years old it is almost impossible for me to force her into shirt and pants. Shoes are out of the question. And anyway, using physical force does not feel right. Feeling pretty desperate, I offered a bribe. Vanilla milk from the Lone Gull. Stickers from Fun Among Us. A peanut butter chocolate cookie from Trader Joes. Not accepted. I offered to play the counting game. "How long will it take for you to put your left leg into your spotted pants?" "Your big toe into your rainbow spotted sock?" She didn't fall for it.

Head to head. Eye to eye. Nothing giving.

I am a girl who needs to leave my house at least once a day. I know this about myself. I need to see people's faces, their eyeballs, their drama. I needed out and my three year old would not cooperate. And then it came to me. In a fit of desperation. After much begging and pleading. Of course. Hide and seek, but with clothes. And the rule is: every time you find an article of clothing, you MUST put it on then and there. She agreed.

Pink cherry blossom shirt hidden on top of the pretty bed pillows sitting on top of the radiator that never go on the bed because I hardly ever make the bed. Shrieks of delight. Shirt on.

Brown courderoy polka dotted pants hidden in the bathtub. Check.

Pink and blue striped socks. A clue. "What does Cole wear on his bum?" "Diapers. Oh, the socks are in the diapers." More laughing.

Downstairs. Red and blue boots purchased on sale at Mark Adrian, but coming apart where the laces tie, hidden underneath purple ballerina skirt that Jeff's mom made as a party favor. Both on.

Coat hidden behind the books. Clue: "What do you like to do the most?" This took some time, but finally. "Oh. Read books." Check.

Funky pink and green Nanny hat, with spikes, hidden in the sunflower basket conveniently located on the porch close to door. Check.

Total time to play game: about 10 minutes. Better than kicking and screaming. Yes, but. How long can I keep this up? And should I keep this up? Do most children put their clothes on when asked, or even bribed? She is headstrong, like her mother. In search of fun, like her mother. And she'll probably be tired of this game in a week, like her mother. Sometimes we wonder where our children come from, but for me it is clear. Aidan is my daughter. I only have to look at myself to see this.

Most days I think I am up to the challenge that is Aidan, but I'm really going to need some help from you Amanda. You are creative and not afraid to challenge back. This is what Aidan and I need. Also hoping that you'll post soon so this blog doesn't become entirely about me.

beautiful