Animal Issues

Three posts in one day. There oughta be a limit.

From Gloucester Daily Times. Thank you Amanda. I needed this after my Bush rampage.

A man drinking liquor in front of an adopted bird at an Essex Avenue home was the source of a domestic dispute reported around 9 p.m. Tuesday.

The man's live-in, ex-wife called police because he was drinking liquor in front of their bird--which she said he is forbidden to do because it makes their dog mad.

The ex-husband told police he drank a couple of nips in front of the bird but he didn't smoke his pipe in front of it. The woman agreed to return the bird to the shelter the next day. Police did not file any charges for the incident.

Buying Pansies

I'm good and riled. Should probably wait until later to write. Nonetheless.

Please, other mothers, anyone with your carefully formed arguments. Help me out here. Because this is going to be a rant. And rants are not always carefully formed. I will not be offended if you find fault with my rage induced logic and will be grateful if you create clarity where clarity is lacking.

Knew that he said it a while back, but actually hearing him say, "promote culture of life" in car, over radio invoked and released an inner rage. Six hours, two phone rants and two person to person rants later I continue to be agitated.

Mr. Bush. What the fuck do you mean when you say "culture of life"? What is it and how have you created it? By waging war in the name of God to stop one "very bad man" not in possession of weapons of mass destruction while the majority of the world looks on in horror at the ties you've severed, at the blood bath you've made. Does promoting culture of life mean making false links between Sadam Hussein and terrorism so that a shitload of folks will sign up to give their lives, in essence, saving yours? They die so that you may live. And you ask them to do it. And they listen to you because you are the fucking president.

Sidestep the deaths you've caused, in the name of life. Keep a brain dead person in a persistently vegetative state alive for 15 plus years, in the name of life. Stick your legislative penis into a woman, control her body, control her life, in the name of life. Refuse adequate funding of stem cell research, in your opinion the not entirely formed alive, more alive than those whose lives depend on this research. All, in the name of life. Who the fuck do you think you are? God.

The man talks about respecting life, keeping a brain that is dead alive and in the next breath talks about fighting terrorism (with the lives of men, women, children), waging war, without fully understanding terrorism or war. Or war on terrorism. And the plan. Send anyone who will listen to his message about fighting for freedom, capturing bad men, doing the right thing. Sign em up and send em over. He's not the guy who has to pull the trigger, toss the bombs. Not the one who has to comfort the crying mamas who have lost their babies to this war, to his fight, personal and holy as it is. Easy to talk about promoting culture of life when you don't have to deal with the persistently vegetative state of those who return, when they come back more dead than alive.

I can't make sense of it. Ranting to Kim T in the parking lot of Wolf Hill. "Where are they?" she asks. The ones who speak out about these kinds of things. Where is Gloria? Where is Hilary? "Where am I?" I ask, little political action on my part since pushing stroller up McMansion driveways, door to door in New Hampshire, Republican stronghold.

I'll tell you where I am. I am buying pansies. Because it is spring. And I don't know what else to do.

New

How to explain the giddiness when I received the phone call? Screaming to Pogues on way to Portland?

Why to notice pale yellow of marsh grass? Warm white of snow. Blue of water. Light dancing.

Why to feel sense of calm? Burst of joy? See beauty that is mother who gives birth. Feel ache that is father missing baby.

Happy sorrow.

A smile? Some tears? Kiss. Purring. Perfection. Made up of imperfections.

How to explain my gratitude for being part? My love for you.

Spring is here. And with it an understanding that sometimes there's no need to explain. But need to notice. And to feel.

Welcome new life.

Trying

Trying to make a new start with the new season.

Trying to concentrate on the phone can't seem to old distractions new distractions can't even hear what's on the line.

Trying to catch up on what fell though catch up around the house with papers and laundry and floors and rooms.

Trying not to define myself in terms of other people. Trying to let them know when I do.

Trying to take care. Trying not to say what the fuck.

Trying to believe spring is coming.

Chance

Timing. Aidan to preschool. 9:00 a.m. To town. Look for place to park. One space left in metered lot. Coin in. Stroller out. No plan. To bank. ATM being serviced. Think about cashing check. Too hungover. Too lazy. Door in my way. Guy starts talking to me about my kid. To my kid. ATM finished being serviced. Money out. Across street. Sit to table. Guy from ATM sitting at table next. Bagel for Cole. Order two eggs scrambled. Toast with butter. Potatoes. Coffee. Cream and sugar. Cole shakes head. I shake head. Cole laughs. I laugh. Food comes. Can't eat. Feed eggs to Cole. Yellow and rubbery. Ask for box. Waitress says, "Not hungry?" Think about explaining. Waitress says, "We need spring." "Yeah." Woman enters. Recognize her. But where? Ah. Kindermusik. With Lily. She joins her husband, guy from ATM. Get up to leave. Guy says, "Excuse me." "Yes?" "We taught our girls sign language. Over a hundred signs. It's a good way to communicate." Cole in stroller. Coat on. Hood up. Walk towards coffee shop. Cool air. Droplets of rain. Blowing. Feed Cole toast. Recognize man crossing street with cup of ?, white paper bag. Silver car. New? Pulls away. In door. Backwards with stroller. Small today. Out. Walk one way. Turn. Walk another. Spill. Choose path by bank. Red brick. Black truck. Patriot guy. Three in front. Talk. Kiss baby. Cross street. Into car. Drive away.

Two people I am most thinking about. One after the other.

Running in dream through day. Thinking about timing. A little earlier. A little later. Is it what we call chance? Unpredictable with no assignable cause? I'm not sure that I agree.

Pagan rituals?

Bad, bad mother

In a matter of minutes, and I mean minutes, maybe even seconds, my baby got upstairs where I found him playing with electricity, blankets in the humidifier, magazines in the toilet. Downstairs. Serrated knife from counter top. "MOOOMMMY, Cole is playing with a knife." Why wasn't it pushed all the way back? Blame husband. On to trash picking. Now he's eating peanut butter cup eggs. My breakfast. In celebration of Easter. At 8:23 a.m.

This is a warning. Don't ever leave your children with me. And if you do, better not do it on a Friday even though Friday is the day I am supposed to be wearing my mother hat.

Recovering

Easter is a strange time of year for a recovering Mormon.

Thanks for the posts.

Words

A few days ago I received a note thanking me for a note that I wrote. I haven't been able to shake it. So, as is becoming habit, I have decided to write about it in an effort to let go.

The sender of the note lost her oldest son to a car accident some months back. I felt and continue to feel connected to this lovely woman who deeply bonded with my child, this bond evident every time I walked into Aidan's classroom, every time I spoke with her about my child, about her own children. Three boys.

When I read about the accident in the Times I cried. When I saw her at the place for funerals I cried. I couldn't think of anything to say. Or if I could, I couldn't get it out. Which of course made me want to write something. What to say to someone who is grieving the death of a child? The death of anybody?

As is often the way, I am reminded of a discussion that I had with a group of seniors while reading The Joy Luck Club, Amy Tan. There is a chapter called "Half and Half." Chapter 7. Rose, 14, and her father, mother, two sisters and four brothers, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and four-year-old Bing go to the beach. While Rose is supposed to be watching Bing he wanders off along a wall to watch his father fish. A fight between two brothers breaks out, Rose's mother yells for Rose to stop the fight, the fish is caught and Bing disappears into the water. Rose's mother spends the rest of the day and part of the next morning waiting for Bing to return. A last ditch effort, throwing her own mother's ring into the water. He never does return and Rose's mother loses faith in God, her Bible becoming a support for a wobbly table leg.

This story opened up discussion of a lot of things, but mainly how our culture talks or doesn't talk about death. We discussed faith and God and what to say about death and dying to people who believe in him, in heaven. And what to say to people who don't. And what to say to people who haven't decided what they believe. There was one student, in particular, who profoundly changed the way I talk about death. Her brother had been murdered, 18 years old, and I realized as she let loose with some of the well-intentioned but ill thought out things that people wrote and said to her shortly after he died that it matters, what you say to someone about death, about loss. Words matter. It sounds silly to say. Elementary. Nonetheless, I feel the need to remind myself that one needs to be careful how one says things. But not too careful.

Which brings me back to my friend. Most days I don't believe in God, but I somehow knew what to say to someone who does without compromising my own beliefs. I at least knew enough about what to say for her to write me a note in which she thanked me for my words. A sincere note, one that I can't stop thinking about. It's important to say that I couldn't have written the words on my own. To my former student, though you probably have no idea that your words had such an effect on me, thank you.

Please

Tad has informed me that we need to change the name of this blog to "Friday Mom." Puuuhhhlease post. Thank you.

Place

I went looking for pictures to take, again. I have almost no idea why I have become obsessed with Good Harbor Fillet, the old building. Maybe because I walk along the boulevard nearly every day and there it is. When I arrived people were having a picnic in front of it, looming, white, graffitied with blue sky in the background. I couldn't get enough of it. Then I found the fence and the tangle and the red. More color.

I walked in and around the fort, it feeling not like Gloucester to me. Did anyone know about the playground? And does anyone know what will happen to the big, white building now that GHF has moved to Blackburn Industrial Park?

Interesting to me, this seaport with its money and lack of money, a purposeful or purposeless combination of beautiful and ugly. I think I have fallen in love. With place.

Crazy with Memories

Had another dream. More fighting about religion. This time it was about my refusal to reasphalt a perfectly decent parking lot near a Mormon temple. They wanted black, black, black. Hot black asphalt soon to paint with bright white lines for parking between while people with temple papers went to temple. I can't go to temple because I don't have temple papers. I don't have temple papers because I drink sinful brown beverages and have unclean thoughts and I don't go to Mormon church and I don't wear garments (special underwear that I know nearly nothing about). And I can't go to Mormon temple weddings, including three sisters, because I don't have temple papers. So why would I want to help with the asphalt project? And for some odd reason I knew exactly how to pave a parking lot.

Trying to figure out where this dream came from, beyond the obvious. A few years back when a sister was getting married my mom and I were asked to clean a street, as in scrub with soap and brush and hose with sprayer nozzle. This is where cars would park for the wedding reception and god knows one needs a clean streetway on which to park a car. Heaven forbid a reception goer see dirt on the street. I have not been able to let the memory go, though I wish I could, my perfectly coifed mother and not so perfectly coifed I scrubbing, hosing, soaping asphalt. Removed oil stains left by cars. Removed shit left by birds. Removed mess left by mother nature. And the funny thing is that the man who asked us to do it talked about it having been done before at ward house parking lots (group of Mormons living in same area going to church at same time=ward, house=church) . People actually clean parking lots. With chemicals and water. I can't get over it. And I can't get over the fact that they wouldn't let me in the temple to see my sisters marry. And I probably never will, hence the dream.

And I'm not sure whether or not to post this cuz today I don't want to offend. Some people want a clean street, a clean parking lot. Just not what I would choose to do. And my comments have nothing to do with me loving or not loving my sister and brother-in-law, because I do love them. As crazy as it sounds, I'm trying to rid myself of some of my memories by writing about them and then posting them here. It helps. It helps someone who is crazy with memories, I guess.

Clearing things up

After yesterday's post I couldn't get baptism out of my head. I started wondering whether or not I'd made up the part about sins and removing them from an eight-year-old. Yes, there is such a thing as Mormon guilt. Then I found this and it cleared things up for me. I want everyone to know that The Articles of Faith have been set to music so that big words like transgression and remission and atonement and ordinances and paradisiacal are easier for people, especially little ones, to remember. I know that I still remember them. Maybe I'll sing for you some time. And then things will become clear for you too.


THE ARTICLES OF FAITH
OF THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS

History of the Church, Vol. 4, pp. 535–541



1 WE believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost.

2 We believe that men will be punished for their own sins, and not for Adam's transgression.

3 We believe that through the Atonement of Christ, all mankind may be saved, by obedience to the laws and ordinances of the Gospel.

4 We believe that the first principles and ordinances of the Gospel are: first, Faith in the Lord Jesus Christ; second, Repentance; third, Baptism by immersion for the remission of sins; fourth, Laying on of hands for the gift of the Holy Ghost.

5 We believe that a man must be called of God, by prophecy, and by the laying on of hands by those who are in authority, to preach the Gospel and administer in the ordinances thereof.

6 We believe in the same organization that existed in the Primitive Church, namely, apostles, prophets, pastors, teachers, evangelists, and so forth.

7 We believe in the gift of tongues, prophecy, revelation, visions, healing, interpretation of tongues, and so forth.

8 We believe the Bible to be the word of God as far as it is translated correctly; we also believe the Book of Mormon to be the word of God.

9 We believe all that God has revealed, all that He does now reveal, and we believe that He will yet reveal many great and important things pertaining to the Kingdom of God.

10 We believe in the literal gathering of Israel and in the restoration of the Ten Tribes; that Zion (the New Jerusalem) will be built upon the American continent; that Christ will reign personally upon the earth; and, that the earth will be renewed and receive its paradisiacal glory.

11 We claim the privilege of worshiping Almighty God according to the dictates of our own conscience, and allow all men the same privilege, let them worship how, where, or what they may.

12 We believe in being subject to kings, presidents, rulers, and magistrates, in obeying, honoring, and sustaining the law.

13 We believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, and in doing good to all men; indeed, we may say that we follow the admonition of Paul—We believe all things, we hope all things, we have endured many things, and hope to be able to endure all things. If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.

JOSEPH SMITH.

A rose by any other name...

I'll give you a thousand dollars that I don't have if you can name the source of the following names: Sunny Daze, Sparkleworks, Glitter Glide, Loope-De-La, Forsythia, Desert Rose, Merriweather, Starbeam, Crystal Lace, Gem Blossom, Peri Winkle, Valenshy, Skywishes, Sunset Sweety, Beebop, Rainbow Dash, Pinkie Pie, Silly Sunshine, Silver Song, Tink-a-Tink-a-Too, Blossomforth, Amberlocks and my personal favorite, Triple Treat. I'll give you a clue: they aren't porn stars. And if you have a daughter, you should be very, very worried.

Baptism by Fire

Eight is a magic number. If born into the Mormon religion. It is the age at which God and a few other men with special powers unavailable to women remove sins one has committed prior to the age of eight. I'm trying to think. Sins before eight. That time I stole a quarter from the pile of change sitting on top of my father's dresser. Wishing my hair could be as blonde and luxurious as Tiffany's, my next door neighbor with five brothers and sisters. One day they came to take the furniture and when I next saw Tiffany she was living in a hotel where I was offered filet mignon for the first time. But it wasn't the kind of filet mignon that you might be thinking about, the hotel not as luxurious as Tiffany's hair. Or that time that I wished my brother would die because he swung at me and hit with a metal baseball bat. Or that time I said dammit. Or that other time that I said shit. And liked it.

And then the sins that I didn't know I had committed. Complaining that I had to go to church. Three meetings on Sunday--one hour each--while other children played outside. And then after church, no recreating. Must think about God all day. Must not spend money. Must not use electricity (some folks were actually this obsessed with not spending money on a Sunday). I know that before the age of eight I wondered whether or not God existed, the ultimate sin for which I must be cleansed. Bad, bad, bad eight-year-old.

My sins. Black stains. On my soul. Lifting, one by one, as my shiny seal-like head emerged from the tepid baptismal waters. Floating on chlorine and a prayer and my father's words, as he was the one who baptized me, ultimately relieving me of the weight, the dirt. Both of us wearing all white, polyester, in front of friends and family. I was once again pure.

Getting into the head of a very literal eight-year-old is easy. Sins one day. Gone the next. Do not sin. Do not sin. Do not sin. Do not ever sin again. Clean. Clean. Clean. All white. Dirt gone. New. Shiny new.

But then it happened. As much as I tried to be his sunbeam. "To shine for him each day. In every way try to please him. At home, at school, at play." I sinned again. And now "Jesus don't want me for a sunbeam." And there was a black stain. And another. And another. And then I started to lose track of the cleanliness that had been me and the blackness took over. And I tried to get back to the minutes following my baptism. The banana cream pie at Marie Callendar's, my special day.

It has taken me nearly 26 years to realize that there is no going back to baptism. At least this one. And more importantly, why would I want to? And most importantly, eight-year-olds don't sin. At least the eight-year-olds I know. They sometimes lie and steal and covet. They sometimes wish that someone would die. Usually for a good reason. But sin?

Eight is a magic number for me. Eight is the age, whether I knew it or not, at which white became black and then beautiful grey the color of hair. Perhaps eight is the age of my first real breath. Of fire.

A Contest/Please Enter

Hey James. Your lunch break?? Argh! Argh! But seriously, I really appreciate the comments. I needed them. To remind me that it's o.k.--maybe even productive-- to see the world in this way. Sometimes it doesn't feel so productive, with it being winter (March) and all. And Mike. It warms my frigid heart to hear that you like the dumpster picture.

In fact, I'm feeling so warm and generous that I am going to offer anyone who can properly name locations of all pictures a Guinness or two (or a Coke or something). No cheating (clicking on the picture). Please send entries to stewingham@hotmail.com. Good luck to you.

Things Green

Yesterday I went for a walk around town in rain in search of anything green. As Tad will tell you, this batch of photos is not particularly inspiring. Which leads me to ask: Must a good photo inspire (Do people use this verb any other way--as in inspire sadness?)? Can't a good photo elicit a respectable amount of disgust? Some might say, "But who wants to feel disgusted?"

A topic for another post on another day. Until then, I leave these photos to inspire, to disgust, to nothing, which may be something too.

Well Hellllllo (with intonation) Bloggers

Beth and KimT. I'm so proud. And Amanda. You know that I love to read your stuff. So more please. All of you.

Another Dream

Woke up this morning thinking that I must sculpt with butter. Not a refrigerated stick of, but a soft, warm mound. Need to squeeze it between my fingers and see what I've got. Need to touch milky fat and see yellowy shine. Stars! I rival you with my mess of shiny goodness.

And Tad says, "You know what Freud would say." And I say, "Can't a ball of butter be just a ball of butter?" Now really.

Traveling by Train

Riding a train is one way to see America. The wanderlust in me is attracted to the curve of the train, the all aboard, the uniform of Amtrak. I like leaving an old place and arriving somewhere new--even if I have been there before. I hate seeing people off, for this reason, to be the one to stay. Since the age of five I have wanted to go.

And so I have been the one to go. Mighty adventures. Train. Plane. Ship. Canoe. Feet up and over peaks. Beneath the water, a memory of my father diving into Blue Lake (I think it's called) near Wendover. Driving across smooth, salty lake bottom to a warm hole of water in early spring. Later we'd dive near Santa Barbara and Catalina together. And then with friends near Malaysia where I'd see ocean bioluminescence for the first time, my first night dive.

I think about my dad and his love of firsts. He claims they are getting harder to come by in his old age of 61. I think about what he has passed on to his daughter. The want of things new, maybe to pass the time. Maybe to keep the time. There is a difference.

When Tad and I had been married three years and I had been teaching one year, I planned a solo train trip cross country, stopping in places to see friends and family. Amy and Sam's Philly. The Steele's of Raleigh, NC. T. Lee's Austin and her igneous batholith and Tad's birthplace. UCSB, my alma mater. San Francisco and Jason and wine and bridges and redwoods. Truckee, CA to see John and Sarah and Puddy, Emerald lakes and mountains with snow. Salt Lake City, a four hour drive and a three or four hour backpack to Burntfork, a first that never stops being a first. That's how beautiful it is. Last stop Boulder, CO to remember why we don't want to live there (though the landscape is stunning) and to visit little girls who aren't little anymore. Long stretch to Boston and then Gloucester.

I remain struck by the beauty and the ugliness that is this country. By backyards of America, rubbish and rust. Colorado evergreens, muddy iron peaks, a train that can get through rock. Long stretch of river, the hypnotizing rhythm of a moving train.

It is in the height of need to wander that I think about my train travels. The novelty and the familiarity. The getting out and away to return feeling renewed. I need a good train trip about now. I need to eat bad food and listen to people hacking and snoring. To realize that an Amtrak train can hardly be on time, so why wear a watch? I need to look into eyes for the first time and hear stories about how they met. Hear stories about where they are going.

I need a good travel fix. And Dad, like you, I need firsts.

When I'm Up

For a day's journey into winter
I borrow
the verticalness of it
to hunt for green (flower)
hungrily hunt for light
search for words
to carry us
up.
I'm fine
to alight on this side of things
with wings.



Happy birthday Tad.

If I Had an Evil Twin

Don't read this post if you haven't finished Lady Chatterley's Lover and want to or if you were hoping for happy.

So much I liked about the book, but not the ending. Seems right for Connie to leave Clifford and Wragby. Seems right for Mellors to divorce and have trouble in the process. Seems right for Clifford to become a child fascinated by Ivy Bolton's breasts. Seems right for Connie to have a baby. But Mellors pathetically waiting for Connie to show up at the farm? The letters and the longing and the idea that they would want to be together? Perhaps brilliance on Lawrence's part that there is no meeting of the two in the end, as if to say who ends up together anyway? and all the while a reader may be expecting her to show.

Blame March funk for the cynical tone, if you want.

Or maybe it's my evil twin writing and I forgot to tell you. Difficult even for me to know what I really think. Trying, trying to write my way through it.

Advice to self

Self medicate with chocolate and caffeine. Instead of beer (too early and by self) or cocaine (it might be habit forming).

Realize that snow will end and that it is no more interminable than the darkness of my mother's womb.

Stop trying to be reborn.

Don't beat self up for feeling depressed. Even if that has been the way all along.

Understand the repercussions.

Look for religion in all of the wrong places.

Lie down and let sun curl up on back.

Don't think about Iraq.

Get dressed. Do something with day.

Don't wait.

Choose not to make a choice.

Enjoy the exquisiteness of an unexpected moment.

Gather up essences and then let go.

Weave self into tapestry.

Remember that an image is a snippet of time and circumstance.

Write to not have to think. Write to not have to feel. Goes for taking pictures too.

Write to think. Write to feel. Pictures too.

Notice details.

Let people care.

Give love.

Receive. All of the definitions.

P.S.

Watch Buffy and laugh.

Take self less seriously. Selfish, not selfless.

Some things funny to me

Cole, one and a half, walking the house looking for mess. "Mess," he says pointing. "Mess," he says again. "Mess," after tipping two toy baskets. "Mess," after dumping orange fish crackers on floor and stepping on them. "Mess."

Aidan listening too much to what I say. Music spilling out of one speaker. "Mommy he just said, 'I wish I had an evil twin.' Did you hear what he said? Because I know that you like what he said. He said, 'I wish I had an evil twin.'" "Mommy?"

playing Boggle at bar, DANger signs (and that I ended up with them), highway to heaven and stairway to hell, bounces well, married! with children, Also...we are not cute...and Jesus bubbles that I never wrote

poems by Grammas and Cook, formerly known as Portahh

pieces of a poetry slam, chicken, Chicago, emergencies, steel, poets, but not love. Don't write about love (unless you are getting laid), or body parts or statues, but maybe incense. With editing.

funny how sometimes nice can become ice, the n somewhere else

The Last of the Gates

The Last of the Gates
Originally uploaded by KitschKat.

I almost hate to post someone else's picture, but....after reading Amanda's post...... Gates. Train? Reflection. Orange. I've been thinking about her images and how they might have looked.

If you want to view more "gate" pictures (beautiful, in my opinion), click on this picture, then click on THE GATES (set).