Went to Wingaersheek. Saw lifeguards. Got cold.





Went to Maudsley. Saw flowers. Got warm.

Lawrencian is the word, I think

Last night's discussion made me want to read more Lawrence. So.....

Beach reading, this morning: Love, Making Love to Music, Cocksure Women and Hensure Men, Sex versus Loveliness, Introduction to Pansies, Pornography and Obscenity--from a book of essays called Sex, Literature, and Censorship.

I almost totally agree with everything that he wrote in these essays--except Cocksure Women and Hensure Men--but Frieda took care of this for me--so I won't let this essay bother me. And I do agree with some parts.

Sex versus Loveliness is my favorite--because of the way L. talks about beauty as "experience, nothing else." If you're not sure what "else" is, take a look at a man or woman in a magazine advertisement, or go to a movie, or watch t.v. If you want to know what experience is, read the essay.

I also like L's defintion of a "lovely" woman (I could paraphrase here, but you should really read the essay) even if in the next paragraph he says, "The business man's pretty and devoted secretary is still chiefly valuable because of her sex appeal." He doesn't mean it like this, really. As if I need to defend him.

As far as the question 'to slap or to kiss' is concerned: a couple of times, in reading, I've wanted to slap him, but I've mostly wanted to kiss him. If he were alive, I think I'd slap him and then kiss him.

And I will say this, though I probably need to read more Lawrence to say so with any true authority: Lawrence loved women. And I love him for loving them. Or is it us.

Blind, or blinders

Yesterday I went looking for a box of dolls. Workshop, upstairs, Dennison Street, under eaves, box that my mother sent at least six years ago when they sold the house. Six dolls. Aidan rejected four of them. One too big. She didn't like the hair on another. And two. Two dolls lost their eyes almost exactly when we took them out of the box. One pair, painted, turned to dust leaving two beige circles where the eyes had been. Another pair on the doll that I had painted, dressed when my mother signed me up for a doll making class, fell back into the baby's head, glass eyes hitting porcelain and making sweet but eerie music as I shook the baby, two black holes where the eyes had been. Two babies going blind in one day is about all that I can take. As if they'd never seen. Never seen.

heart bleed

heart bleed
Originally uploaded by stewingham.

A few flower-like things for you to look at.

Choices

People make choices. About what to say. About what not to say. And when to say. What slips out and what stays in. And how. How much to listen. How much to hear? How much to give? How much to take? About where to go and where not to go. And why. About how to pass time. When time matters and when it doesn't. What is art? What to hang on the wall and where and why. When to create. What to keep and what to throw out? What to read, what to think? When to write. What to watch and what to do. And when. To eat and drink. Where to live? To live? With money or without. Is this a choice? About when money matters and when it doesn't. Friend or acquaintance or foe? Partner or lover or friend or lover? Or is it and? About where to shop? What to buy? When it matters. Why it matters. What is comfortable? What is challenging? When is too much too much? When not enough is too much. When not enough is not enough.

Where and when and why do people have fewer choices? More choices. This country. And another. Where is the line between entitlement and necessity? And why is this an annoying question to ask?

Some people make few choices. Choosing to do nothing is a kind of choice. Some people make choices without realizing that a choice is being made. Some people make too many choices, a choice to make a choice to make a choice. Some people think that their choices matter. Some people hope that their choices don't matter. Some choices don't matter. Some choices do. Some people think. Some people don't. It might matter, but it might not. But I suspect that it might.

Yet another way for me to look at Good Harbor Fillet

At Jane's.

I am at Jane's. Jane is playing violin. Jane is trying to play the fiddle.

Jim is here. Jim is trying to teach Jane to play violin. Jane is trying to play fiddle.

I am here. I am listening to Jim try to teach Jane to play violin. Jane is trying to make Jim teach fidde. Jane is being difficult for Jim. Jim is being difficult for Jane. I am listening.

Jim is talking about being in front of a crowd. Jane is talking about playing from her heart. Jim is talking about what they hear. Jane is talking about what she hears. I am listening to Jim not hearing what Jane is saying.

I get up. I take Jim's violin. I say I how I think it should go. It is somewhere in between. Leaning toward toward Jane.

I bought trash stickers before I came here. I almost bought chocolate. I wish now that I did. I wish I bought chocolate that was salty and sweet. Jane is salty. Jim is sweet. Neither of these things is true.

Two Things

1. Had urge to edit. So I did.

2. Today the kids won. I give.

Mixing It Up

Over the past three or six months I have been downloading music, $0.99 per song, from itunes. 99 cents doesn't seem much to pay for a bit of happiness or reminiscence. And I like being able to download whenever the mood strikes. Maybe the open jam guys play something I haven't heard in a while. Download. Maybe I hear a line from a song from an album that I lost, an album of mine that an ex-boyfriend conveniently kept, a borrowed album, a scratched album. Download. Maybe a song or musician comes up in conversation. Download. Maybe I'm happy when I think about a song. Download. Maybe I'm sad or angry. Download. Reasons not already given. Download.

One might think that with all of this downloading I have spent hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars at itunes. Actually--I've spent 20 dollars. 20 well-spent dollars--cheaper than therapy. And just the other day I decided that it was time to do something with my downloads--like burn them to a cd.

Though I could spend a lot of time writing about what a pain in the ass this process was--M4P format instead of MP3, converting, resaving so that I could illegally record my legally purchased music (Matt O--I should have called you and Tobias thank you for your help), I would rather write about the final result of my efforts, the burned record of my whims and moods for the last six months.

A sampling: some downloads, some previously owned

First song. Let it Be. Beatles. I am not much of a "let it be" kind of person, but I'm starting to learn that in some instances I should be.

Romeo and Juliet. Dire Straits. Because it reminds me of teaching and of student teaching. Love-sick Romeo and sensible Juliet. Or is it the other way around? But who is sensible in the end when they both end up dead?

A Tom Petty cache: Wildflowers, American Girl. Wildflowers for my mother. She likes this song. And I like this song because I'm reminded of my desire to flee. And the reasons that I don't. American Girl and Solitary Man (Johnny Cash and Tom Petty covering Neil Diamond) because how can a man be solitary with American Girl around?

Dirty Old Town. Pogues. Because some day Amanda and I ARE going to play in a bar, the music sounding the way that we want it to. A Pair of Brown Eyes for the disturbing visuals. I'm a Man you Don't Meet Every Day for my brother. Jock Stewart sounds a lot like Jack Stewart and my brother John/Jack is not a man you meet every day. Abigail Belle of Kilronan. Magnetic Fields. For Ireland and my favorite Abigail.

I Don't Really Love you Anymore. Magnetic Fields because the first few lines, "True, I'd give my right arm to keep you safe from harm/And, true, for you I'd move to Ecuador/And I'd keep a little farm/Chop wood to keep you warm/But I don't really love you anymore" always make me laugh.

Lost Cause. Already Dead. Beck. Because these songs are melancholy and beautiful and I like that he wrote them after his break up.

I Wish I had an Evil Twin. Magnetic Fields. Self explanatory.

1-2 Crush on You. The Clash. For Tad. And for all of the crushes I've ever had and all of the crushes I ever will have.

Sweet Jane. Femme Fatale. The Velvet Underground. Everyone's got ego. And though the lyrics may not apply, I dig Sweet Jane. Heard Femme Fatale the other night and it is still haunting me.

Last song. Dancing Queen. Abba. Because everyone's gotta laugh. I laugh when Aidan sings the words. I laugh when I think about karaoke in Japan. I laugh when I think about Monday night. I laugh.

A mix cd can say a lot of things, the ultimate gift from a wooing girlfriend or boyfriend, the I love you baby and this mix tape/cd proves it. I love you so much that I will sit for hours next to my tape deck and my cd player making this mix especially for you (yes--now we have computers that are time consuming in their own way). I will hand pick each song--just for you. When I am listening to this music I will think of you. When you are listening to this music you will think of me. Forever and ever. And ever. Till you break. Or I break. Or the tape breaks.

Tad made me a mix tape once. Titled it: Warning--Clichés may be Hazardous. Also titled it: Jane's Looong Time in the making tape. Side A: Better Late than Never, Side B: All Good Things to Those Who Wait. On the cover he painted a trout--olivey green and salmony pink, mountain peaks extending from crooked mouth to dorsal fin. Leafless tree standing behind fish. Blocks of color--purples, orange, browns. To fade. Opposite side of paper (on accident): watercolor trees painted by Grumps, Tad's grandfather who is no longer living. Didn't think it significant then, but as I look at the tape cover now I see the connection. Grandfather to grandson. I didn't know then that I would live in the same city as the man who painted those trees, that his paintings would hang on our walls. And that 12 years later I would still be able to listen to my mix tape, it not broken. Only the case.

Ahh...to reminisce. To wax nostalgic. To fall in love all over again. The allure, the seduction, the repetition. Ahhh.......the power of the mix--to woo--even to woo oneself. Again. And again. And again.

Windfall

Writing here because I have to tell someone about the envelope that came with today's mail, my husband mostly unreachable by phone. Worried when I saw return address: Internal Revenue Service, math not my best subject. Opened up envelope only to discover that they want to give me money. Seems I didn't take a credit that I could have. Seems they want me to have it--and even sent a form with instructions telling me how to get it. Even sent an envelope with a see-through window and their address. Even sent the correct publication and form. All I have to do is plug in a few numbers and sign a document or two. And they'll send me money. I don't know what to think.

This windfall is not enough to get this country out of a mess in Iraq, but it's enough for some travel, enough to purchase a little sun and a drink or two in some bar some other place. It's also enough to pay the credit card bill, pay for car repairs--which is, of course, the responsible thing to do. But who says I'm feeling responsible? Today.

So what would you do with a bunch of money? Where would you go? Who would you see? I'm looking for answers here--and maybe a little rationalization and justification. Come on. Please make my day. Again.

Another tangle

Takes two to tangle.
But not in knitting.
Order.
Chaos.
Gone.



Please click on image to view bigger size in order to see trash and guy walking by and wires and car and building. Thank you.

Lesson Plans

Teaching.

Struck yesterday while cleaning orange-tinged tub scum off of aqua colored tub and tiles that I need to think about what I am teaching my daughter. Cole, asleep in the next room, didn't hear the conversation that Aidan and I were having.

"Mommy. Can I help you clean the tub?"

"Why of course sweetie. I'm going to put on these rubber gloves because it's what my mom used to wear to clean everything and it says on the side of the Oxy-Clean container that I should use them. I'm going to dump some of this cleaning stuff into this plastic bowl over here and then add some hot water."

"Oh. The water makes it so you can clean?"

"Yes. It helps to make a kind of paste. And then I'm going to scrub with this sponge, though I'd rather use the blue scrubby brush, have you seen it?"

"No Mommy. I'll look for it." She searches bathroom closet, worried that our tub scrubbing adventure might go terribly wrong if we don't find the proper scrubbing appartus. We can't find it.

"It's o.k. honey. I'll use this sponge."

"Mommy. I see that you scrub like this. And like that. And then like this."

"Yes A. This is how I scrub a tub. We'll let it sit for a while and come back later to rinse."

"Why?"

"Because then I won't have to scrub as much. And that's how I clean a tub."

"Oh."

My daughter now knows how to scrub a bathtub. Should I be proud? It might serve her well some day. But in the greater world of what I consider important knowledge, scrubbing a tub is not something I thought I'd be teaching my daughter how to do. Instead, I want to be teaching her how to speak her mind (don't think this is going to be a problem), that some people/men are rats, that some are in-between, some very good and that she needs to be able to tell the difference. And I want to teach her what to do if some man/person is behaving in a particularly rat-like way. I also want to teach her that I am not a man-hating feminist; I am a feminist who questions patriarchal systems and how they affect women. And being a feminist is NOT a bad thing, except when people don't understand the definition. I want to teach her that some women go to work AND run a household and that it can be done, especially if she carefully selects her partner--in the event that she decides to find a partner. Because living on one's own does not have to be as lonely as some say. I want to teach her that some women choose to stay home and clean tubs and write about it into a computer, and that she can have a life outside of cleaning tubs and that it's o.k. to want to do something more than clean tubs. I want to teach her about choices--the choices that she has and the choices that she doesn't have. Why she has more choices than some and fewer choices than others. That there is beauty in the world. And love.

Wondering how to go about doing all of this. Wondering how--as Aidan and I peer into tub noticing build up of white residue across the tub bottom and along the sides.

Challenge

I have a challenge for all of you teachers out there, be you past, present, or in-between. You teachers who want to be challenged, who want to think. Here it is:

Write a lesson. An argument. Pick something you might teach in the next week if you were teaching and write what you would like to teach about it. You have a double block on Friday and if you post before then I'm sure the class will be prepared. And you never know when you'll run into one of our readers....

I've thrown the glove. Any takers?

Writing through

Had another lost in airport dream, can't reach final destination, this time--San Luis Obispo, California. Was flying with Liz, friend from Salt Lake City since fourth grade. She has four kids now and a house four times the size of mine. Not much in common anymore, except the once a year that we get together, usually when I fly out to SLC to attend the Mormon wedding reception of one of my sisters. We never run out of conversation, though, able to transport ourselves back to the best friendship that began in fourth grade and continued until I got out of SLC at 19. BFF signed at the end of all notes written must mean something because even after years, changes, Liz is easy to be around--I like this about her.

On our way to SLO from SLC we somehow ended up in New York City, dreams often not making sense in the ways that we think that they should. We finally found someone to help us and he seemed to not know what he was doing, his first day on the job, or a strange obsession with numbers. We decided to wander the airport ourselves, looking for a monitor with our flight number and departure time. We couldn't find one, Liz thinking that our plane must be too small, unworthy of having its information placed on a monitor. After much wandering, maze like, we found a small, comfortable office. Oversized chair like the one at Lone Gull. Window with light streaming over woman's shoulder. She was talking on the phone. We waited and when she finally hung up she said, "Sorry. You've missed it."

If I were an expert at analyzing dreams, which I'm not, I would say that I'm conflicted. As if this isn't obvious when reading my posts. So much time, in dreams, spent trying to get on planes to go somewhere else. The fight I'm fighting in these dreams: How does one stay when one wants to go without feeling guilty for wanting to go, but not really wanting to go--only for a little while if it means that I can come back and only because going is what I've always done. Definitely love kids. Definitely love husband. Definitely conflicted.

I don't necessarily want to be unconflicted, but I do want to be the bare tangle of branches that I've recently been photographing. I want to be free to grow whichever way, but in the end I want to make sense. A kind of ordered chaos. I want to be something beautiful, perhaps in a fleeting way--like Andy Goldsworthy's art. How can it be done? More importantly, how can it be done without getting on a plane?