A Week in the Life of a Fundraiser

Wednesday last:
- Get lost in Camden, NJ on my way to the Philadelphia airport
- Arrive just past 4pm, in time for boarding without luggage, but must check my luggage because of new carry-on restrictions, get on later flight
- Staff announce that flight will board fifteen minutes later than scheduled
- An hour after "fifteen minutes later," no staff anywhere to be found, flight has disappeared from all boards, I decide to pee and grab a snack, all within 100 yards of the gate
- Twelve minutes later, I return and discover my flight boarded and left...bumped to later flight
- New flight delayed one hour
- Board flight, sit on runway for an hour, learn we have moved up to 30th in line for takeoff
- Arrive in Boston at midnight

Friday last:
- Arrive at Logan Airport, check bags for flight to Phildelphia and connection to Birmingham
- Arrive at gate, discover Philly flight so delayed I will miss connection, switch last minute to flight via Charlotte
- Arrive in Birmingham, discover my bags are in Philly

Yesterday:
- Leave Birmingham, AL at 2pm for Atlanta, GA - should take 2.5 hours, but torrential downpours and no visibility delay journey, reschedule planned dinner appointment with prospect for next day
- Traffic stops one mile from hotel, spend more than an hour getting to hotel
- Hotel at 3340 Peachtree Road - water main broken on street, traffic barely moving - another 30 minutes to travel final block, and then 3330 Peachtree Road, 3350 Peachtree Road - where is 3340?
- Call hotel, get directions, water main flood prevents me from following them, spend 30 more minutes getting back to the turnoff
- In right turn lane, really, really have to pee, can see the hotel, begin to turn and crunch
- Look left, see SUV slowly removing rental car's side view mirror, closest place to pull over is my hotel, I know a bed waits for me, but I can't go to it
- Call Hertz, wait for police, 1.5 hours later, I arrive in my room. It's well past 9pm. Seven hours for a 2.5 hour trip.

Today:
- Discover that my normally flawless staff assistant made an error on my itinerary, have accidentally double booked myself with rescheduled appointment, re-reschedule appointment, get myself on later flight home
- Great day of visits, likely new money for Tufts, nice people
- Arrive at airport with time to spare for 9:45pm flight, complete accident report with Hertz, have time for cup of ice cream
- 9:15pm - flight has no pilot, they are looking for one, new 10:30pm scheduled departure
- 9:45 pm - we've lost our flight attendants and still have no pilot, 10:50pm scheduled departure
- 10:00pm - post this blog entry before laptop dies

A New Season

I was just looking at this picture from last March's annual end of winter polar bear swim, and pondering the impending change of season at home in New England. The urge to burrow creeps closer, and down comforters begin to beckon...Labor Day was our first harbinger.

The Labor Day breakfast for my parents was amazing and strange. Maine's governor, John Baldacci, joined our table for a while, catching up with my dad, and listening attentively while my mom spoke to him about affordable housing in the state (one might even say she lectured). Governor Baldacci, Congressman Tom Allen, and the countless state legislators and other state government officials who were present are why I have never been able to internalize the idea that career politicians are smarmy or power-hungry by nature. I grew up around some of the most altruistic, principled, dedicated public servants, and continue to believe this to be the norm.

Strange to realize that my parents drew the biggest crowd that this annual event has had in years. Strange that my mom brought Maine's Labor Commissioner to tears with the remarks she made. That my dad's poetry prompted a standing ovation. What would it be like to see my parents through eyes other than my own? I got a sense of that last week...

So Proud of My Parents

Look what Bob and I get to be a part of on Labor Day:

This year, the Southern Maine Labor Council will hold a Labor Day breakfast at 8:30 on Sept. 4, to honor union activists Kathy and Frank Kadi.

Kathy, a member of the Maine State Employees Association (MSEA) , was the first Maine president of the Congress of Labor Union Women. Frank has been a long-time activist with the Service Employees International (SEIU) union and American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees (AFSCME) .

There will also be music from the group “Nine to Nine,” featuring Senate President Beth Edmonds. As well, Ralph Fasanella’s painting “Red Sky,” a photo essay of working people by Guy Saldanha and labor painting by area schoolchildren will be on display.

Photo by Carlos Fernandez.

Fishing For Squirrels

This site is hilarious.

Learning to Swim (3)

Curled up, leaning over you, my head against your chest, ear pressed to hear your heart. Peaceful, then struck by the thought I love this heart…I want to reach down, grow fangs, feast on it, consume it completely. Then wonder, who thought that? Has Margaret Atwood as writer qua writer possessed me? Is this love? Desire? Indicative of a disorder?

I think of it for a day, desperate to write it down but never with pen and paper in hand until now. Now, seated across from you at this Tibetan restaurant. Me with my hot lime, you with your lime soda. Both of us tired and cranky, a little mad at our belated friend who has yet to join us for dinner. Both anticipating being even more tired.

“You’re going to write now?” you say, sounding uncomfortable, as I uncap my pen.

“You don’t seem to want to have a conversation with me.” I retort.

“Don’t do that.”

“What? You seem tired and hungry. I’m not upset, I just don’t want to sit and stare into space wishing I had something to do. So I’m writing. Let me know when and if you actually want to converse and I’ll happily converse. Until then, I’m writing.”

Writing about you and how much I wanted to devour your heart last night, that is.

Hillary in 2008

A few friends have recently told me, Hillary might win the primary, but no way will she win the general...I beg to differ...

From Time:

And there is plenty of encouraging news for her in the latest Time poll. More than half of those surveyed -- 53% -- said they had a favorable impression of her; she registered higher than the other most familiar names in the potential Democratic field, Al Gore (49%), John Edwards (46%) and John Kerry (45%).

Clinton does best against McCain
Her negative ratings (44%) were lower than either Kerry's or Gore's. In hypothetical matchups with the preseason GOP favorite, John McCain, Hillary is the only big-name Democrat to make a real race of it, with McCain edging her by just 2 points among registered voters. By comparison, McCain would trounce Kerry by 10 points and Gore by 9.

A Year of New Adventures

I'm really excited about a new project I've taken on and would love your help!!

A Year of New Adventures is a blog dedicated to people having new adventures. Each week for the next year, we will take on a new adventure in common, posting comments about our experiences.

Adventure can be anything and everything. Trying food you’ve never tried, writing a love letter, submitting something for publication, singing in public, or participating in a new athletic activity. It could even be meditating or praying for longer than you’ve tried meditating or praying before.

Sometimes we all get “boxed in” by who we think we are and what we think we can do. Adventures – big and small – reconnect us to our sense of play and wonder. If every person moved through the world filled with play and wonder...well, that would just rock, and anything would be possible!

Today marks the beginning of Week 1, and it would be great to have you along for the ride!! I request the following from you:

1. Visit A Year of New Adventures. Find out what the first adventure is and participate!
2. Send me your adventurous ideas. We've got 51 weeks of adventure to create!
3. This week, personally tell at least one other person about A Year of New Adventures.
4. Forward this e-mail to people you know who like a little bit of adventure, or could use some in their lives.

By October 31, at least fifty new adventures will have been had and commented on by blog participants!

Love and peace,
Lauren

Learning to swim (2)

“This is the BBC News Hour…” blares the cheap brown clock radio next to Jody’s futon. She makes a noise, some sort of grunt-sigh, as she realizes she has been snoozing for an hour and that it is already 9 am. She wakes up, trying to ignore the extremely loud British woman intruding on her sleep while at the same time straining to hear the morning’s top stories. After a few minutes she rolls from her right side onto her back, reaching up and across her body to turn the volume down. The clock now reads 9:06. She needs to get up, but her down comforter feels so much better than just about anything else in her world, so she entertains a brief morning ritual instead.

In her mind, Jody runs through the list she is trying to compile of different ways to earn a living without leaving your bed. Sleep studies…not a sure thing, she had read that some sleep studies require subjects to stay awake for long periods of time, to study the effect of sleep deprivation. That sure wasn’t what she wanted.

Mattress salesperson…on slow days it would be great, lots of time to rest on the most comfortable and expensive mattresses in the store, mattresses even more comfortable than Jody’s own, which was not bad. But selling mattresses would be torture on busy days, she pictured herself running around a store, helping customers who didn’t know what kind of bed they wanted, only that this one was too firm and this one too soft. On busy days the mattresses would only taunt her. Beds everywhere, but not a single place to rest.

Jody has blond hair and green eyes. Not that you would know by looking at her. Right now her hair has blue tips and magenta roots. It rises from her head in little spikes, hundreds of candle flames growing out of her head. Medusa with short hair. Her eyebrow is pierced, a small ring resting just beyond the corner of her right eye. It has only been pierced for about a month, though she spent three or four years thinking about it. Same thing with her hair. Up until a month ago, it fell to her chin, always blond, never quite curly, never quite straight. But now she has spiky flaming hair and an eyebrow ring.

I'm so happy today.

That's all. Also, I love you. Your glorious imperfections and playful underbelly make me giddy. If you were standing here next to me, I'd be giving you a giant hug.

A little bit of navel-gazing

What a variety of reactions people in my life have had when I've told them about reconnecting with Keith, a man with whom I fell in love and had a brief affair in Scotland at age 20! Reactions range from complete understanding and the assumption that of course Bob knows (he does and truly, he supports it) to isn't that dangerous? and you haven't told Bob have you? and my [boyfriend, husband, partner] would never be okay with that. One person explained to me how weird it was and how unlike other people I am. It also seems to stir something up for folks. One friend was inspired to get in touch with someone who had been similarly important to her when she was living in Australia in order to seek closure (she got it).

I chatted with Bob about this yesterday afternoon. He called long-lasting and and very close friendships my special talent. I think he's right. If I love you, I love you for life. And most of the time, if I love you, you find yourself surprised by some of what you're willing to share with me about yourself. And surprised by what I'm willing to share with most people about myself. You can assume that you will remain very important to me and that if we see each other after a period of absence, I will have a delighted squeal and a fierce hug at the ready to say hello.

Loving the people I love is the most important thing to me. When I work to be more effective in the world, what I'm really working on is loving well. My tendencies toward competition and wanting to be right, my fears of looking stupid or failing, these get between you and me. So I'm committed to something else. Who I am is not these things. Who I am is being in love with each of the people in my life. Which, incidentally, makes being with Bob that much more spectacular.

Happy Birthday to Me!

Saturday, August 12, is my 28th birthday. Which means, clearly, that I am quite old.

I have a birthday request: I request that you post a comment telling me what one new experience you will try this year that you've never tried before. And tell me how much you love me. :)

Dear Oven Mitt,

Thanks for keeping us safe.

Gratefully,
A Lot of Skin Cells

Skin care - an unusual post for me

Finally! I have found a skin care product (or in this case, products) that work for my skin and actually represent an improvement. Seriously, my face is sweetly soft and blemish free when I'm using this stuff! It doesn't dry out my skin or leave it heavy and oily. Eau Thermale Avene Gentle Milk Cleanser and Gentle Toner. You want some.

A feather bed and a digital camera

It seems that our house is a good transit/storage facility.

One friend asked today if he could send a digital camera my way from one country so that I could send it along to his paramour in another country.

A few hours later, a different friend asked if he could send us a feather bed to hold onto, until he can pick it up when he is in town for his buddy's bachelor party. Apparently plans include putting sticky stuff on the groom-to-be, then covering him in feathers.

The next two may be better than the last two...

What's possible for the next few years:

With fewer than 100 days left before the Nov. 7 election, certain assumptions can now be made, contingent upon the absence of a cataclysmic event. First, the political climate will be extremely hostile to Republican candidates. Second, while Republicans benefited from turnout in 2002 and 2004, this time voter turnout will benefit Democratic candidates. And third, the advantage that the GOP usually has in national party spending will be significantly less than normal.

The Cook Report is a non-partisan, online analysis of electoral politics.

Learning to swim (1)

Guard rails capture my imagination as I am driving down the highway. Ani Difranco croons and guitar picks through my radio while I sing loudly “Just the thought/Of our bed/Makes me crumble like the plaster where you punched the wall beside my head…”

Your imagined tattoo makes its way into my mind, and I picture you, your shirt off, the small of your back with some note of kanji, some symbol implying peace or Buddha. A dragon, maybe, was that what you said? I can’t recall any longer.

I’m stopping for mangoes by the roadside, wondering how this Iowa farm stand got its hands on such sweet dripping tropical moments.

My speakers are a bit old. So, too, is this car. The music hums through my seat, bass buzzing through muscle and spasming through capillaries. Maybe my heart will beat in time.

Running across the plains, I keep looking for ocean. Sweat takes the place of salt water. I miss my mother's lilacs, but I haven't spoken with her in more than seven years. I can hardly call her now just to tell her that.

Photo by Laszlo Ilyesl

Have you had your miracle this week?

This week, I got...

The beginning of a friendship with my first love, whom I have been unable to contact for the seven years since I left Scotland and lots of related giddiness.

Reminded of all the reasons I am madly in love with my husband:
- He appreciates my wildly off-key singing and I appreciate his;
- Even though we are both always completely and totally free to be ourselves at our unsexiest, we're still totally and completely turned on by one another;
- I can't let it go...he once ran a mile from his house to mine in order to let me know about a rainbow outside that I just had to see;
- When I'm in his arms everything is stillness and being and love; and
- He has trust and support for me and our relationship in such abundance that I am overwhelmed by his generosity of love and spirit at this moment.

Effortless ease around my money, my food, and my body. I've maintained a commitment to choosing healthfully in these areas for the past six weeks. And seriously, this week, I got it as effortless.

The possibility of infinite love and every having every adventure I dream for myself. Also, I got the possibility of every adventure you dream for yourself. Go ahead. Dream one up.

Dear Summer,

You may be feeling a bit unloved right now, so please know, you are my perfect other. Your sleepy air and thick evening light hold me just right.

Lustfully,
Wild Roses in Bloom

to sleep soundly

to sleep soundly, a woman must welcome her visitors by choosing poetry that will sing to their particular tongues and she must laugh clearly enough to break the fog on a cold, humid evening. she must eat heartily so that deep flavors settle across her body and anyone who kisses her can taste them. she must trail her fingernails against her own palms and quiver at the feeling of her own touch.

to sleep soundly, a woman must encircle the moment of crystal waking that comes just before her evening journey begins, but then let it pass, without clinging or grasping. she must shout her argument only when poetry or the sky is at stake and then she must do so from her belly, with the weight of the world’s children coloring her breath.

to sleep soundly, a woman must breathe maple syrup on snow each fall and salty ocean lips each summer. the lilac smell of her own sweat should cause her to burrow into her own writing.

to sleep soundly, a woman must forget herself while she makes love, forget the word physical. she must extend into her own limbs and scream and moan and touch herself and her lover without noticing whether the lights are on. her arms must open freely with no need to hold her heart against the fear that it might fall from her chest.

to sleep soundly, a woman must put down her work. she must lie down in a quiet room with daisies and chrysanthemums and quiet the lights. she must touch herself sleepily while the moon wanders into her room and she must say, finally, this is where i will rest.

Dorothea Lange

This beautiful, beautiful woman is Dorothea Lange. During her lifetime, she was a photographer, a pioneer in photojournalism. After years of running a successful portraiture studio, she gave it up after attending a workers' street rally and concluding that what she photographed was out of sync with what mattered. Relying on friends to help her care for her children, she traveled throughout middle America, documenting the camps of Dust Bowl refugees, photographing sharecroppers and migrant worker families. She shot worker strikes and rallies, and later photographed the forced evacuation of Japanese-Americans to internment camps after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. She viewed her medium as an opportunity to bring the human condition into full view. The more I read about her, the more I fall in love with her.

Dear Lighthouse,

Pinned as a postcard above my desk, you tempt me.


Wandering,
Wayfarer

Walden

I'm swimming up to about two miles now, and even putting my face in the water! Much easier than the mile and a half of doing the crawl with my head above water...Friday afternoons, Saturday and Sunday mornings find me happy at Walden, and very often with Deji and Goulder (also pictured here), Rachel (photographer friend who took the photo), and Mike.

Pond report from last weekend: the water is still very high - it looks like we'll have underwater benches for the rest of the season - and Friday's thunderstorm left the shore a bit muddy. The water is warm and luxurious now, though, from all this hot weather, leading to pruny fingers all weekend...

Dear Hum,

You are perfect and pulsing slightly. Restful and alive, subtle and constant. I can hear you.

Quietly,
My auditory sensors

More on Money

Well, it turns out that I have a persistent sense of doom and gloom about financial affairs that is truly out of step with reality.

I thought that I was pretending to be on top of our financial affairs hiding that I'm not at all. It turns out that I'm pretending to myself that I am "behind", "inept", "hopeless" when it comes to money. In fact, Bob and I have saved more than 5% of our total lifetime earnings. This number will only grow, given that early on, we did not save at all. Given that neither of us started our adult lives with a trust, or gift of seed savings, I'd say that to be 27 and 29, and have already saved 5% of our lifetime earnings is pretty damned good.

(Inner voice snarling: "don't say that. someone might read it and know more than you and be able to tell that you don't have a clue. you don't know that 5.75% is actually good. you're just pretending to know that it is!")

So. Given this Landmark Education seminar I'm taking on money, my main task is creating a possibility in the area of money that I can live into. The idea is that the way you are with money is the way you are in other areas as well. Clearly, I am insecure and self-doubting in the area of money. Guess what? I'm that way in other areas as well. So...

The possibility I'm creating for myself and my life is the possibility of security, adventure, and abundance.

Sounds pretty good, huh?

Outside

Last weekend I:

- Sea kayaked in Lane's Cove, Gloucester with Discovery Adventures
- Slept on and off for six hours on the beach
- Was charged $0.39 for oysters, shrimp cocktail, tuna and veggie skewers, fish chowder, a glass of riesling, a glass of port, and a rather large ice cream cake dessert
- Partied with gay boys at a very schmancy home where I was handed a glow stick and a drink with a blinking red ice cube
- Didn't wake up to make a 6:30 am swim at Walden
- Hiked Wantastiquet Mountain, got pretty sweaty, and encountered a lovely view of Brattleboro
- Swam, first unsuccessfully then later successfully, against the current at a relatively fast moving part of the Connecticut River
- Learned what happened to the rhinoceros, and about an affair involving tomorrow and blue booty

I am tan and peaceful and happy and loving the world outside my door. Anyone have any ideas? How can I make fundraising into an outdoor adventure?

Money

It's been a little while since I was here. Probably has something to do with loving my job so much and no longer needing something with which to distract myself during the day.

I've been getting curious about something of late - how and why people awaken to their own philanthropic spirit. Being a fundraiser and all, I get an inside view of the various attitudes and approaches out there. Philanthropy is a real window into how someone feels about money, God, family, responsibility. Actually, it's often a window into how an individual values herself.

A personal for instance - I like to be thanked and acknowledged when I make a gift. As much as I hate to admit it, part of my motivation in being philanthropic is looking good. I want the people around me to know that I do my part. This is not all there is to it, but that desire to have outside validation is definitely present when I make a gift.

I'm taking a seminar about money right now. One of the first homework assignments asks participants to give away some amount of money that feels like a little too much. And part of the instruction includes not sharing that it is part of homework assignment with the person who receives the money.

My first and most immediate thought: I don't know how much to give away. I once gave someone $50 because there was something she really wanted to do, and I wanted her to have the opportunity to do it. That, at the time, felt like a little too much, but I continue to be glad I did it. Funny - everything I said earlier about how I am with organizations and gifts doesn't seem to apply when it comes to personal gifts. I didn't have any desire to hold my friend accountable to the $50 I gave her. Once the money left my hands, I was done.

Back to "I don't know how much to give away." I don't. Often, I cannot decide how much I can/should give to charity or political candidates. I give more generously than others I know in similar and better financial situations, and feel committed to it, but also second guess myself along the way - maybe this is too much, maybe I'm being irresponsible to myself and my husband. On the other hand, I know I could actually afford to give more away. How do I quantify my commitment to something through money?

I sometimes feel the same way shopping. Like the decision of affordability is somewhat arbitrary. There are so many choices when it comes to spending my money. I ignore the big things I really want - a house, interesting travel - because it is easier to spend small amounts of money very regularly on expensive groceries and eating out in restaurants.

Oh God, They've Reproduced!

As my co-worker Mari Anne said.

Blessings of our new apartment

My new found love for an insect chorus. Clicking and crickets herald evenings here. Bob was shocked when I told him that until now, I'd never lived in a house that had crickets at night.

This room. Forest green walls, open windows, a desk, a cozy daybed, books and more books.

Privacy. Rooms whose walls go all the way around their occupants.

A porch light within my control.

Tomatoes in the garden.

Light.

Comment spam...

Who knew? I sure didn't. Sadly, I've gone ahead and turned on the word confirmation feature for comments...because we all get enough e-mail about penis enlargement, we don't have to read about it on our friends' blogs as well...

My morning...

This morning:

Bob and I got into a silly argument before I dropped him at the T.

I went to vote and was criticized very vocally by the poll workers for using the wrong entrance. Then they couldn't find me on the books despite the fact that I have voted in every municipal and other election of the past several years. Then they found me and again very loudly reprimanded me for failing to send in my city census. Then they announced loudly to the room that I was a registered Democrat.

Stopped into the Danish Pastry House to buy a cup of the chili powder hot cocoa listed on their board, only to be told that they had no cocoa.

Got to my office, sat down, and began to do some work. My co-worker Paula walked into my office, not realizing that anyone was in here, and let out a blood-curdling, ten-or-so-second scream when she saw me seated at my computer.

And it's not even 9am yet.

Six Feet Under comes to a close...

Warning: spoilers...

The last episode of Six Feet Under begins beautifully and unusually with a birth. And ends with the deaths of each central character. Nate's death earlier in the season brings his remaining family the gift of living. I sobbed for the final fifteen minutes, stunned, and thinking about the value of hardship in my own life, and the pleasures I forget to enjoy when I refuse to let go of them. Lessons only, and then we move on...

After a weekend of moving, my thoughts come out a bit jumbled. Need to sleep soon. But will head to this evening's rest aware of the wonder that Bob brings into my life....

Tom Cruise is Nuts!

A new favorite link, courtesy of down-the-hall-Rich...

John Roberts on Abortion

From the AP Wires...

"We continue to believe that Roe was wrongly decided and should be overruled." — Roberts, in a 1991 Supreme Court brief he co-wrote for the first Bush administration, while he was principal deputy solicitor general.

"The statement in the brief was my position as an advocate for a client." — Roberts, explaining the brief during his 2003 Senate Judiciary Committee hearing on his nomination to a federal appeals court.

"Roe v. Wade is the settled law of the land. It's a little more than settled. It was reaffirmed in the face of a challenge that it should be overruled in the Casey decision. Accordingly, it's the settled law of the land. There's nothing in my personal views that would prevent me from fully and
faithfully applying that precedent, as well as Casey." — Roberts, during the confirmation hearing, when asked for his own views on Roe v. Wade.

That's all great. But here's the tricky part: unlike lower level judges, Supreme Court justices don't just accept that the law of the land is settled. Sometimes they do the settling. And the resettling. And then make some more tweaks. The media's persistent refrain seems to be that Roe and abortion rights are not truly at risk in the context of our next Supreme Court justice. Just this morning on WBUR/NPR someone said so. Wake up!! These rights are exactly what is at stake. What's left of Roe that hasn't been eroded by Casey and Webster may not be here long. I imagine that in just a few short years time, we'll have to rally our slumbering sisters and resurrect the Jane Collective, to connect folks with legitimate providers. I think we're in for a bumpy ride.

Last comment: I'd like us all to remember back to the Gore-Bush election. Ralph Nader's refrain was that the two candidates were no different. Here's the difference, Ralph. And even though most days, I'm pretty rational about Ralph, and don't blame him...Today, I'm blaming Ralph. Thanks a lot.

And we all fall down...or at least I do...

So...something's got my right ear confused. Little tiny particles of calcium are rubbing up against the little tiny hairs in the canal, telling my brain that I'm in motion. But then, my brain looks around, realizing that no other motion sensors are telling it the same thing. The result: my eyes go a little possessed and I get really, really dizzy. And this, folks, is called benign paroxysmal positional vertigo. BPPV, or benign vertigo, for short. Could last a day or two or twenty. Could come and go through the years. And that folks, is what I know. I can also report increased instances of the hiccups and a strange twitching sensation on my nose. I think these are unrelated, though.

More Walden rumors...

Setting the Record Straight about Carp:

so, here's the official story: 10 years ago, someone let some japanese koi fish go in the pond. 10 years later, there's 4 of them: 2 orange, 1 white, 1 black. the black one is the biggest, but the hardest to see. and at this, the lifeguards held out their hands about three feet wide. great.

A New Rumor from Joellen:

two very small alligators have been spotted in Walden Pond, the result again, of dumb people introducing them.

From Multiple Sources:

snapping turtles abound. i myself have yet to see them. but if they differ from joellen's mimed version (picture a silly girl, wrapping her lips around her teeth, muttering, "myar-myar-myarym" while chomping air and spitting a bit), i might not recognize them.

What Have You Heard?

Dreams...and games.

So...my new therapist is kinda into Jungian analysis as a supplement to her overall approach. I'm intrigued...

The only recent dream I recall at the moment was from this past weekend. I purchased two games I've been wanting - Bohnanza and Frank's Zoo. I didn't remember the dream until I was in the store The Games People Play, purchasing the games the day after I had the dream. Couldn't recall this during my lunchtime session, but I'm not sure it was the type of thing she was looking for. Gonna have to start writing them down. Which would be interesting on its own.

By the way - I'm a big fan of both games, as well as the store from which I bought them. I encourage you to check 'em out. Don't know yet whether I recommend Jungian analysis. I'll keep you posted...

Attack of the Giant Carp

Walden Pond...a lovely place for early morning swimming in the summer. A few weeks back, my friend Marissa and I had exactly this in mind. Little did we know...

Still yawning from our too early rise-and-shine to avoid the summer crowds, we wade into the still kinda chilly pond water. We swim slowly, chatting about kids' names and marriage and pregnancy cravings.

Marissa's never swum across and back, but we're halfway across and decide to go for it. We've stayed close to the side shore, in case one of us gets tired. We pass a family, sitting and fishing, and say hello.

Just beyond the family, the far shore is in sight. I'm excited, accompanying Marissa on her longest swim and making my season's first trip across and back. When suddenly...

"What the hell is that?" I shout, seeing a moving orange figure twenty yards ahead. Marissa stops. We tread water. It's a fish, we decide. "It's gigantic," Marissa hollers. We're laughing, and whooping. We're also nervous and feeling mighty silly, so scared of a fish. I mention that it looks like something out of a Japanese fairy tale. He stays directly in our path for several minutes, then starts to swim toward the middle of the pond. We go forward.

Then stop. Abruptly. Our forward motion has brought the fish back. Now we begin debating in earnest...do we go forward, or do we go back? It's just a fish, we say. True. But the fish doesn't seem to want us to go near it. The shore is in sight. But, that fish is gi-normous.

Marissa screams. "It's coming toward us, it's coming at us!" I scream, too. We're both doing a lot of screaming and flailing and laughing and more screaming. I begin furiously swimming the crawl back toward our home shore. After creating comfortable distance, I stop and turn, seeing that Marissa is still back there, screaming and shouting, the carp circling her.

"Swim," I yell.

"I'm trying, I can only dog paddle," she hollers back.

We're still laughing and whooping and generally nutty. She catches up to me, narrowly escaping the carp's pursuit. We can't stop laughing and talking about the fish attack. Marissa notes that up close, the fish was the size of her leg. It seemed that way from a distance as well. She says at least it wasn't a snapping turtle. She's really afraid of those.

We pass the fishing family on our way back. We tell them our tale. Marissa notes that "we screamed like little girls." And I have to admit that she is right. We ask if they've ever known fish to attack. The dad tells us it sounds like a carp. And the mom says that we don't need to worry about the carp, but notes that there are snapping turtles in the pond, and suggests that we watch out if we see one of those.

More on Katie...

Today marks a first - I agree with FoxNews:

The real loser in all of this? Why, Katie Holmes.

In the last few weeks, her agent and manager have been dismissed, and a really great, much-coveted film role — that of Edie Sedgwick — has been taken from her. The producers of "Batman Begins" already have said she won't be back for the sequel.

Katie Holmes and her latest fiasco

I only just found out that Katie Holmes actually dated Joshua Jackson for two years while Dawson's was still on the air. Tom Cruise: major step down. A brief investigation determined that he who shall forever be referred to as Pacey is refusing to comment on little Joey Potter's latest goings-on. David Spade, however, felt free to do so, noting that "it feels like we're being 'punk'd."

I know, I know. There is something seriously wrong with me, given that I'm quoting USA Today and writing about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes on my blog. If anyone can help me, please, tell me how to recover.

Dear Muscles,

I appreciate how much you do. I did something crazy last week. In one day, I agreed to complete a sprint triathlon in August, a half-marathon in October, and the Boston Marathon again next April.

I promise to show up if you do...

Cautiously optimistic,
Lauren

Dear Spring,

Thank you for arriving so soon. Did you receive my letters? I've missed you.

Laughingly,
Summer's Sun

President's Fitness Challenge

I came very close to letting the entire month of March pass without so much as a bleep posted on my blog.

Bleep.

I am running anew. Training for, gasp, a timed mile. No race. No competition. No daunting goal.

Picture this. I'm 8. Ronald Reagan is president, and I'm politically engaged enough already to know that he's bad news. My least favorite of his policies: forcing children, such as myself, to run a timed mile once every year as part of the "President's Fitness Challenge." Pull-ups, a weigh-in, and other tests are part of this as well, but I dread nothing more than the timed mile.

This year, I think maybe I've underestimated myself. So...My mom wakes me up that morning, smelling somewhat of the cigarettes she still smokes in the house, despite the frequent requests from me and my dad to take it outside. I eat breakfast and make my way to school, dressed in gym clothes for Tuesday and the Fitness Challenge. Classes are fun, I love playing with batteries and light bulbs in science.

I look up and realize it's almost time. Mary complains that she's not sure she can finish the mile. Even though Mary never really talks to me, I make secret plans in my head to be her friend, figuring that she'll want to talk to me once she realizes that I'm just as slow as she is.

We get to gym class and head outside. We'll have to run around the school eight times. Our gym teacher, Mr. Neil, has measured the distance with a round spinny thing attached to a stick. Right now I hate the round spinny thing attached to a stick, because eight times around the school seems like a lot, and Galen keeps saying that a mile is no big deal, but this seems like a big deal.

We line up, and Mr. Neil yells "Go!" The boys take off very fast, and a few of the girls do as well. I start running, and try going as fast as I can. Almost immediately, everyone has left a handful of us in the dust. I resolve to stick by Mary, and Samantha, and Katie, not to fall behind them. Because if I do, I realize, I'm going to be last. Mr. Neil tells us our time each time we pass him. I've run around the school four times, and some kids have already passed me twice. Mary, Samantha and Katie seem to be holding up okay, but my side stings like nothing I've ever felt. I can't get enough air into my lungs - I keep trying to get taller, to make more room, but it feels like I'm drowning.

Two words run through my mind: This hurts. Again and again. This hurts. This hurts. This hurts.

I give up. I start walking. As I round about my fifth, sixth, and seventh laps around the school, the group of finished kids grows. They are resting on the grass, in the sun. I keep walking, except during the times when I pass them. I've heard that finishing in eight minutes is really good. Ten minutes is fine. Twelve minutes, well, that's slow. Except the thing is, it's already been more than twelve minutes.

I finally finish. Somewhere around fifteen minutes. I'm last. Mary finished long before me, and later that afternoon she makes fun of me for being so slow. So much for our new bond.

Fast forward. I'm nine, then ten. Both years, Mom and Dad, knowing how miserable this experience has been for me, generously write me a note, trying to get me out of the timed mile. It works when I'm nine, much to my great relief. But when I'm ten, no go. I'll save the full story of that year's mile for another time, but needless to say, I finished feeling just as humiliated, and was teased even more than I had been before.

So. Now I'm twenty-six. Married. Trained for a marathon last year - finished all of my long runs beautifully, running the whole way. After months of winter training, finished the marathon itself on an 85 degree day - that took some walking. From time to time, still find myself replaying elementary school and the Fitness Challenge in my head.

Except recently, I had a revelation. I was lying in bed, remembering the humiliation, and wishing that President Reagan hadn't been such a cruel man. Then I gratefully remembered that I am an adult now. An adult who learned how to train. And well, if I'm feeling embarassed that I can't run faster now, I don't need, or want, a get-out-of-gym note. In fact, that's the last thing my parents should have been giving me back then.

What I needed then, and have now, was a training schedule and some encouragement. So. Bob made me a schedule, and now it's my job to stick to it. I started two weeks ago. In eight more weeks, the kid in me is hoping to run the fastest timed mile of my life. With the adult in me there to cheer her on.

Wish me luck.

(BTW, the Fitness Challenge is still around, but a little different these days...http://www.presidentschallenge.org/index.aspx if you're interested...)

In my imagination, I'm very suave. Well-dressed, 'put together' as my grandmother would say. My hair is free from split ends, I'm svelte, and have well-defined, attractive upper arms. My conversation skills are impeccable. The names and work of contemporary poets are always on the tip of my tongue, but I'm equally well-versed in the classics. My sense of history is specific - names and dates easily lend support to my general understanding. When I write, it is always with insight. People read it and feel compelled to comment, to say, I've been there, it felt like this, or wow, that was lovely to read.

My imagined version of me is much easier to ascertain than the real one. I never know whether I see clearly when I look in the mirror. During meditation, I return again and again to the me sitting on the cushion, breathing, experiencing physical sensations. Sometimes sitting, I feel trapped. Like a metal cage has sprung up inside my skin, my veins filled with wires. Then I remember, I've chosen to sit here for this period of time. Whatever itchy sensation on my nose or back, whatever tightness in my throat or abdomen, whatever heat and burning in my eyes, so what? Just sensations. Innocuous until I react to them like a caged beast thrashing and foaming at the mouth to escape my own body.

Swedish Chef Translator

Trunslete-a unytheeng intu Svedeesh Cheff. Oor Jeefe-a, Felley Gurl, oor Peeg Leteen. Cumpleements ooff Rena... Bork Bork Bork!

Translate anydin' into Swedish Chef. What it is, Mama! Or Jive, Valley Girl, o' Pig Latin. 'S coo', bro. Compliments uh Rena. Sheeeiit...

Translate anythin' into Swedish Chef. Or Jive, fer shure, Valley Girl, fer shure, or Pig Latin. Compliments of Rena...

anslateTray anythingway intoway edishSway efChay. Orway iveJay, alleyVay irlGay, orway igPay atinLay. omplimentsCay ofway enaRay...

Davis Square

Goldenrod fingers of hay on brick,
windy pigeons ascend moving small mountains,
iron masked statues watch and I catch closely

their shifting limbs, slipping eyes.
Sun and shade cast definitions –
your hands half-covered in uneasy sunshine,
calm inside the shade,

its restless inhabitants scuffing, shuffling, limping and dressed in green
wool or workpants, footsteps track through the haystacks,
our voices looking like that man in the leather jacket,

tired, a little overworked
and sitting to breathe
a moment or two
before vanishing.

Fried Twinkies

Preface: I hate Twinkies. They're gross.

Last night Bob, Deji and I felt unsatisfied half-way through a Celtics game at the Fleet Center. We surprised ourselves when we up and left. I think we surprised our other friends who were there with us, too.

Trudged through Boston's still snow covered streets toward Deji's automobile named, I think, Kenda. There was too much noise and even though he repeated her name three times, I never quite heard. But pretended to, because it seemed rude to make him tell me again.

On our way, we passed Anthem on Portland Street - Deji happily exclaimed, "Fried Twinkies! This is the fried twinkie place. Remember? Miranda and I told you about the Fried Twinkies!!"

Given the absurdity in my belly from an evening that Had Not Gone As Planned already, I said, "Let's get some," feeling that Fried Twinkies were destiny or salvation. Bob wanted home and Deji looked back and forth wondering what we would do. We compromised, and Deji, Bob and I walked in, dressed for a basketball game, not a downtown restaurant. Stopped at the hostess station and inquired, "Can we order a fried twinkie to go?"

"Of course. Just order at the bar." And that I did, gleefully repeating, "Fried Twinkie to go, please!" I clearly enunciated the exclamation point. A few minutes later, I took my fried twinkie to go and we went.

We made it home in time for Everwood and I popped open my styrofoam Fried Twinkie holding to-go box. Two Fried Twinkies! Both covered in fresh cream and ripe berries. Swooped my spoon down and bit in. Bit into sweet warm solid gooey sweetness so divine I swooned and devoured my Fried Twinkies quickly.

Fried Twinkies rock.

A pop culture post - The West Wing

You know Josh Lyman? Bob and I just found out this weekend that Brad Whitford's brother attends our church. We're very excited in that we share space with someone who knows someone even though we don't know either of them sort of way. Brad/Josh has donated several items to our church's auction, including signed boxer shorts. This means he's even better than I knew - his brother is UU, and I think he might be, too...

Grrr. Homophobia and the US Department of Education.

There are some good things to be said for Margaret Spellings, Bush's new Education Department Secretary. Back when they were both single, GW reportedly asked Spellings out on a date, but she brutally rebuffed him. That sounds about right. Also, Spellings was once asked on C-SPAN for comment on census data that showed a decline in the traditional family. Her response? "So what?" She said that there are "lots of different types of family" and noted that she herself was "a single mom." Finally, she replaces Rod Paige, who was the worst Secretary of Education this nation has seen.

That said, some of her first acts in office make me shiver in cold anticipation of what's to come. She's pissed at PBS. She's actually pissed at PBS and a bunny. An animated bunny with his own TV show, Postcards from Buster. Buster travels with a digital camera, giving kids a chance to see different people, places, religions and ways of life. Produced by my own hometown station, WGBH, the show is part of a larger program that receives some of its funding from the DoE.

It seems that in his recent travels, Buster took a trip to Vermont. He learned about maple sugaring, farm life, and - this is what upsets Spellings so much - met two lesbian couples who were getting a civil union. This incensed Spellings enough to demand that PBS remove the DoE's seal from the credits, notify member stations of the controversial nature of the episode, and refund the DoE for the costs of producing it. She also warned that the DoE will be clearer about its expectations for future programming.

PBS has decided not to distribute the episode. They claim that it's not because of Spellings' recent actions. I don't buy it. I am, however, proud of my local station, WGBH, which plans to air the episode in March and will be making it available to other stations.

Here's the thing. Today, 37 US soldiers died in Iraq. Over 1,400 US soldiers have died to date. Over 10,000 wounded, a number that leaves out vast numbers of soldiers suffering mental illness or trauma. According to some estimates, as many as 10,000 more Iraqi civilians have died. But somehow, men marrying men and women marrying women continues to register as a problem for people. I don't understand. My not-understandingness is so physically heavy that I wish I could find plainer words to explain - I don't understand. It's a bunny showing kids lives that may be different or similar to their own. Some kids have gay parents. The bunny isn't saying, look, the gay parents are good. The bunny isn't saying they are bad. The bunny just says that they are. That this is a fact of our lives in 21st century America. The bunny's not wrong. Why, oh why, do the conservatives want to deny and deny and deny the facts of people's lives? And why is PBS taking the politically expedient route and agreeing to denial?

We harm a child of gay parents when we say, 'as a society, we will not acknowledge your existence.' We harm our society when we deny the truth and experience of any one child.

This sucks.

Favorite memories

These are some of my favorite memories - if you're reading this, I'd love to know one of yours...

My earliest memory. I am perhaps two and my mother has just finished giving me a bath. She scoops me from the tub into an endless ribbon of terrycloth and wraps me up in the towel and her arms. I am enveloped and warm.

Shooting the shit with Austin and commenting on the superfluity of something he has said. Then wondering if superfluity could be a real word and hoping it is because I like the way it feels to say so much. Like an icy tube for my tongue to slide down. He insists that it cannot be a word. We head for the dictionary - Merriam Webster online. It's a word and I win, which makes me feel smart and sassy and fluent.

No one time, but every time, I find stillness, resting my ear on Bob's chest and listening to the thump of his heart. I try to feel my own heart beat and his at once, and wait for those moments when they are in sync.

Driving up the coast of California with Karen, two unlikely campers. We're so rested and there's so much ocean. Every morning we wake up and watch the surf, eat an apple or some cereal or a peanut butter and banana sandwich. We pack the tent into the car and travel north. Stop for expensive lunch and nap on the beach. Drive further north. Eat an apple or some cereal or a peanut butter and banana sandwich for dinner and watch the surf. Sleep, carried along through the night on the waves that I can still hear three years later. Talking and singing and laughing so much. My favorite conversation that week was repeated over and over. "I'm full." "Me, too." "But we've only eaten half an apple." "But I'm so full." "Why are apples so filling?"

Sitting in my dingle - a dormroom in a suite that is meant to be a double but has only one resident - double single, hence, dingle - sitting in my dingle, junior year of college, revising poetry madly, finding that small pieces of poems I'd written over the previous three years all went together into one poem that actually described something the way I wanted to describe it. That they worked together to convey the sweetness and fulfillment and not-enoughness of sex, and the way I felt while I pulled the lines together was a miracle. I love the resulting poem, but not as much as I loved the feeling of letting it happen.

Letting Laurie cook me pasta for dinner senior year. I'd be somewhere in our apartment and suddenly, she'd say the magic words, "I'm making pasta for myself, do you want some?" And I'd hobble into the kitchen and talk to her and keep her company while she cooked pasta for both of us, sauce and all. And that pasta always tasted better than any pasta I've ever cooked for myself.

Same with chamomile tea and white rice. My friend Bill graduated from college while I was still a sophomore in high school. I used to take the bus from Portland, Maine to Boston to stay with him on weekends. He was a broke recent grad and rarely had much food in his house. He would make me white rice with butter and salt for dinner and together we would drink chamomile tea. I'd never liked white rice or any kind of tea before this, but I've always felt that anything freely given should be gratefully accepted. And I've often found that I enjoy things I normally wouldn't in such situations. That's what happened at Bill's apartment. To this day, chamomile tea and plain white rice are among the strangest of my comfort foods.

Swimming in the post-tropical storm surf on the Jersey coast with Bob last summer. Falling over ourselves as the waves flowed back to sea and the sand sunk us down and confused our eyes.

Rambling on again

Sail the sky with a clever boat and dash free of cramped quarters. Give me a nickel and cradle the goat. Grow your beard longer than your eyes and see further into the stars. Grab your coat. Let's go. Come with me around and around and through these awful woods. I'm graying skin and baggy bones, given over to oldies tunes on the radio. Spinning my lessons into wooly woolen artifices and keeping the flames warm not cold. I'm growing skinny with weariness grabbing berries from the poetry. Giving me warm fuzzy warnings every time I come close. Where is my Huck Finn? Where did he go? Is the camper packed and ready? We'll drive for miles and get the munchies.

Laurie and I have a date to write on February 18 - I'm taking the day off from work just to write!! I'm so excited...By the way, the above was just a blind free write. I actually have no idea what I just wrote down and really don't care whether it's good, bad or ugly. Just felt like brain dumping for a moment or two to break up the workday...

The Creek, re-lived.

Bob gave me the third and fourth seasons of Dawson's Creek on DVD for Christmas. I watched the twenty-three episodes of season three between Friday night and Sunday night of this past weekend. So happily. And so engrossed. Dawson's, Sex and the City, the Sopranos, movies with Dermot Mulroney, Reality Bites, Dirty Dancing, French Kiss...I have a fixation that feels abnormal. Or perhaps the word 'involvement' might be more appropriate. When I watch, I absorb the fictional characters' emotions and feel them myself. Perhaps because in middle school and high school I had so few real relationships to invest in, I learned to feel them through movies. Or perhaps because it's my escape - my version of Bob's video games. Probably explains the origin of my melodramatic perceptions of the Events of My Life, particularly when I was still in college, that angst/joy-filled time for us all. I don't know. All I know is that last night, when I got to watch Pacey and Joey fall in love all over again, I felt like I was one of them. I also felt like a big, silly, dorky gal. But I was okay with that.

Oy Vay.

Well, it's been a hell of a weekend. Some bad, some good to come out of it, and a whole lot to sort out. Raise your hand if you knew that I was a great big ball of codependence. I didn't know. Seriously. I didn't. But I'm starting to and I'm feeling like there is light at the end of the tunnel. That maybe, just maybe, I can learn how to breathe the day in fully, exhaling without fear. That grudges can give way to forgiveness. I've become this giant sponge, absorbing everyone's emotions and blaming them for it - secretly believing that I can save the people I love from themselves. This weekend I began to get a firm grip on myself. It's time to wring myself out and figure out how I'm feeling. A slogan I found that amuses me:

Expectations are like resentments in escrow.

Massachusetts Liberals Have Highest Family Values

In case you hadn't heard, Massachusetts has the lowest divorce rate in the nation: 2.4 per thousand.

It would appear that us blue folk know how to keep our families together better than those bible thumpers elsewhere. Yes, today I'm feeling the snooty Northeastern yuppy liberal in myself. And yes, as a married, snooty Northeastern liberal yuppy, I'm feeling pretty proud of my roots and a little bit "nyeh-nyeh" toward the red states.

On its way out: 2004

I thought I would take a moment to reflect on the steps forward and back in 2004...

Forward
All of my gay friends can finally get married - at least in Massachusetts. Hopefully sometime soon the state and feds will change other laws, like the tax code, so that my gay married friends will actually have the same rights that Bob and I enjoy.

For the first time in memorable history, the Dems outraised the evil ones for the year. Yipee. Crazy liberals are finally putting their money where their mouths are.

I finally settled down into a job that I will likely hold for more than a year. That's pretty darned exciting. Caveats aside.

Bob has a fantastic job that he loves and just got an 8% raise. We like that.

Our friends and families are generally happy, healthy and well.

Not so forward - in fact, downright cruddy
Bush won. A lot of other states decided that they should codify gay-bashing even further with hateful anti-gay marriage laws. And my abortion rights magic 8 ball keeps telling me 'my sources say no'. People my age are dying or becoming injured at an obscene rate in a war that may or may not end in the forseeable future.

So that's my 2004 analysis in a nutshell. My little bubble is okay, but whenever I think beyond that bubble, I get kinda queasy.

2005, I hope you've got some good news up your sleeve.

Joshua Jackson AND Patrick Stewart

* Sigh * I'm embarassed to say (though not so embarassed that I won't post it online) that I love both of these two men. And now they're appearing on stage together.

The Apollo Theatre will play host to David Mamet’s two hander A Life in the Theatre, starring Patrick Stewart and Joshua Jackson. Rather fittingly it’s about a veteran actor teaching his craft to a younger newcomer – Stewart has appeared in numerous West End outings whereas Jackson, best known for Dawson’s Creek, is making his West End debut. The last time we saw Patrick Stewart on stage was in 2003 when he headlined Ibsen’s The Master Builder - quite a contrast to Joshua Jackson, who has not appeared on stage since he was eight. The play is directed by regular Mamet director Lindsay Posner, who has attracted such celebrities as Matthew Perry, Minnie Driver and Julia Stiles.

In other ridiculous Lauren celebrity news, I saw Matt Damon last weekend at The Burren in Davis Square. I have now mentioned this fact at least three dozen times. Also, have you seen any of the promos for that silly-looking reality show about the "real-life" princess looking for a wealthy mate? Apparently, she is my friend Debbie's roommate's ex-girlfriend. Karen, I hope you've enjoyed this pop culture post.

Raining

At work, not exactly recovered from my 3am bedtime last night. A coworker was a little bit rude to me a few moments ago, but instead of getting upset, I just sat quietly at my desk, closed my eyes for a few moments, and realized how soothing the sound of the rain outside and the hum of our lights can be. My hands feel a little tingly and the moose are definitely getting quieter. The rain deposits on my window make it look like that funky corrugated glass, the kind that is sometimes tinted green. It's a bubbly window.

Stillness and tacos don't seem to be a matching pair. Did I mention that I was up too late last night?

Of Moose and Me

My stomach is filled with what my co-worker D'Arcy calls "dreadsies." I call them butterflies. But really, they are big, bellowing moose.

I'm in the midst of one of those weeks, or months, or lifetimes, where I am procrastinating and procrastinating until it might catch up with me. Years of experience tell me I will get my act together at the last minute, finish everything in a stellar manner, and move on. But I wish that I could

1. Let go of the tension in my body cause by this slacker/manic worker cycle;
   
2. Actually get out of the cycle and just be on top of things from day to day; or
   
3. Suddenly discover that I have a trust fund, don't have to work for a living, and suddenly have as much free time to just be with people as I want.
   

At the moment, these three things seem equally and painfully unlikely. So I will just plod along with my moose, and feel good when I come up for air in two weeks.

GWBush on the $200 bill...

This got my day off to an amusing start.

GREENSBURG, Pennsylvania (AP) -- Charges have been dropped against a woman who paid for clothes with a fake $200 bill that featured President Bush's picture and the serial number DUBYA4U2001.

Ding dong the witch is dead!

I particularly like the opening line of a CNet News story on Ashcroft's resignation:
John Ashcroft, who was a proponent of encryption and privacy as a U.S. senator and a champion of expanded Internet surveillance as the nation's attorney general, resigned on Tuesday.

I thought a brief retrospective on Ashcroft's tenure as the Attorney General would be appropriate:

• Singing a lovely song.
• Boasting of his conservatism, he once said that there are two things you find in the middle of the road: "a moderate and a dead skunk." He added that he did not wish to be either.
• Losing to a dead man.
• Vigilantly ensuring that nude breasts everywhere will be covered.

gregarious gossamer...

what gregarious gossamer, we three
imbibing autumn at nearwinter’s table
gold cheeks akimbo rolling up surprised laughter

If Elshaday is reading this...

an audre lorde poem that spoke to me way back when...

Afterlove
In what had been a pathway
inbetween
our bed and a shared bathroom
broken hours lap at my heels
reaching my toothbrush
finally
I see
wide valleys filled with water
folding into myself
alone
I cross them into the shower
the tiles right themselves
in retreat
my skin thrills
bruised and battered
as thunderspray splatters
plasma on my horizons
when no more rain comes
I cast me out lightly
returning
on tiptoe
shifting and lurching
aginst my eys
plastic curtains
I hung
last December
watching the sun flee
through patterns
spinning
always and never
returning
I spiced my armpits
courting the solstice
and never once did I abandon
believing
I would contrive
to make my world
whole again.

Open Auditions

Calling all skeeterdogs for sidekicks
or highjinks or a game of jacks!
Your doors must be well-kept, your noses
orange or green.
No marmalade monologues, please.
You must arrange a smorgasboard between
the hours of Tennesee and Texas and come
unprepared for flapjacks on toast.

We will have a sandwich to celebrate
meeting our greatest handyman Gustav-
he's missing a few jacks don't
hold it against him
his game's pretty good anyhow.

Movement will be required, jigs
are always a plus and oh
you must sing in the key of Saskatchawan.
No sad sepia can enter without
shorting the circuit, so
I suggest you leave your jacket
at the door, better yet, under the bed!

We're looking for new enigma and
curtain call will be at 7pm last Tuesday night.

Davis Square

These streetlamps are strange -
I can barely tell them apart from trees
casting their autumn yellow light
illuminating passing traffic in A-Minor. Goldenrod

fingers of hay on brick, windy
pigeons' launchings moving small mountains, iron
masked statues watching and I
regard closely their shifting limbs, small motions

of their eyes. Sun and shade casting
definitions - your hands half-covered in uneasy
sunshine, you and I quietly obersrving the calm
inside the shade, its restless

inhabitants scuffing, shuffling, limping and dressed in green wool,
or workpants, footsteps track through the haystacks, our voices
looking like that man in the leather jacket, tired, a little
overworked and sitting to breathe a moment or two before wondering.

This is the place where trees are centered in granite mandelas.

You, the Apple Peeler

I think of apples
when thinking of you,
apples,
peeling apples
slow
spirals, descending
unwinding, white
fruit unwrapping
to its sweet
core or myself
undressing
red ribbons
or maybe yellow
green scarves
slowly
falling
continuous motion,
a blade -
your sharp fingers -
deftly
working its way
under wrapping
skimming
surface coverage,
sometimes
sinking teeth
into wet fruit.

Hamilton Fish

Singing moving from main street movie
theater bookshop barbershop
kisses and full moon daydreams
this prelude to my vagabond days
will take me west on 34 rolling
country music over
amber and tan
driving fast, past
a building called Actors' Colony
and I wonder how
long ago the actors settled
this country alongside Quakers
whose farms are on my next left.
Can't stop - I'm coming to the crossing.
I want to know what's over the Hamilton Fish Newburg Beacon Bridge.
Keep driving.

Green Tea

The pad of his thumb circles
the freckle above and
to the right of my navel, spirals
of grass woven hair fall on
faces looking into sun,
limbs golden glow
green tea taste familiarity and
soapy flannel smell, his lips
tongue on the small of my back, baby sweet
kisses of sleepy Sunday
mornings, crawling through green melon, dripping
lush scoreror's bounties, aching
hungrily climbing his limbs
enveloping sweet smell
of sweat seeking his thights.

This is the easy part, I think,
as our chests find familiar
rhythms over and over again.

Homecoming

Step carefully, the earth here is more rugged than you
and my memory is wrapping itself into the soil
right alongside the earthworms. This familiarity,
the rusty brown fertility and the smell of dirt and leaves decomposing, is home.

Follow me past this gnarled twisting trunk -
just there, sit down and look up through the leaves and twisting languid limbs.
See how the sun has seperated into visible rays
that filter down into your eye,
how gently the wind pushes the branches?
I was here for years.

The kitchen is through this door -
the knob still feels ready to slip off into my grip.
How empty and ready for life this room is still
muted grey walls - unassuming and adaptable observers,
equally regarding first kisses (and our kises), Sunday dinners,
threatening fathers who wield themselves
with more authority than they could create.

We follow this hallway as far
as it goes and here - this whitewashed room
was where I could never sleep. Let me
turn out the too-bright lights then
look at the ceiling, how I arranged the stars,
Leo was above my head at night. Sit down
beside me, I just discovered this mattress
isn't as uncomfortable as I remember.

Sleeping now, I am swimming through today,
through this house, this tired splintery home,
still angry at its vacancy, this rundown shithole,
and still missing my invented memories.
I lean in
as I roll over
touch your chest to my lips,
then my ear.
Listening to your steadiness
and finally today I rest.

Thoughtful comment about Christian conservatism

I am an ex-Southern conservative.
Open Letter to the Democratic Party.

I'm not one who thinks we lost on the moral issues. I don't think our party needs to move right toward the center, or sound more manly. I really, truly believe that we lost because we proudly talk about how much smarter we are than everybody else, especially the everybody elses who live in the dreaded Red States. I do it, too. Growing up in Maine I knew truckdrivers and troopers and folks who cleaned toilets who understood our political system better than most of my "educated" friends. These folks also understood what it is like to live day-to-day without the overwhelming sense of entitlement I feel and most people who went to upper tier colleges and universities feel. And I think that there is something very fundamental in any person's psychology - if a group of people tell you that you're foolish, you probably won't like them very much, even if liking them appears to be more in your self-interest than not. Because it's hard to believe that it's in your self-interest to side with people who clearly do not respect you.

to sleep soundly

to sleep soundly, a woman must welcome her visitors by choosing poetry that will sing to their particular tongues and she must laugh clearly enough to break the fog on a cold, humid evening. she must eat heartily so that deep flavors settle across her body and anyone who kisses her can taste them. she must trail her fingernails against her own palms and quiver at the feeling of her own touch.

to sleep soundly, a woman must encircle the moment of crystal waking that comes just before her evening journey begins, but then let it pass, without clinging or grasping. she must shout her argument only when poetry or the sky is at stake and then she must do so from her belly, with the weight of the world’s children coloring her breath.

to sleep soundly, a woman must breathe maple syrup on snow each fall and salty ocean lips each summer. the lilac smell of her own sweat should cause her to burrow into her own writing and she must let the jewel in her belly shine.

to sleep soundly, a woman must forget herself while she makes love, forget the word physical. she must extend into her own limbs and scream and moan and touch herself and her lover without noticing whether the lights are on. her arms must open freely with no need to hold her heart against the fear that it might fall from her chest.

to sleep soundly, a woman must put down her work. she must lie down in a quiet room with daisies and chrysanthemums and quiet the lights. if crying, she must observe her body’s sensations without declaring a meaning or wondering if they will keep sleep at bay. she must touch herself sleepily while the moon wanders into her room and she must say, finally, this is where i will rest.

Ten People

Another writing exercise - enjoyed this one quite a bit - describe ten people you know using only one sentence. I cheated on a few, using more than one sentence, and didn't post them all.

A science teacher who is more comfortable letting his students play with mercury than a Ouija Board, Mr. Zanoni tunes into Rush Limbaugh’s radio program as religiously as he attends Mass and questions the idea that his grandfather was an ape.

He walked for hours with the girl, assuming he would probably get laid, but not so wrapped up in that outcome that he couldn’t spend the time comfortably, thinking to himself that it was good to just be.

She felt flaky keeping her secrets, and even flakier when she mentioned them. People hoped she would be a certain thing to them, and so she was. She would rather slice off pieces of herself and give them away than disappoint.

Dancing felt like mania to him and women were like liquor locked away. He had to consume them as quickly as possible, without letting anyone discover how empty they were becoming.

When a frizzy-haired waitress at Denny’s ate Matt’s pecan pie, vacuumed the table at which he sat, called Matt ‘pigboy,’ and threw Matt and his friends out of the restaurant, he defended her, declaring that she must be joking with them out of fondness.

She was a thirty-year old woman who fooled me into believing that she was a natural blonde who didn’t smoke.

He ran just under a mile to tell the girl to look up at the rainbow.

Writing Exercise: A Supermarket in California

One writing professor I had frequently gave us an exercise in which we would convert poems we liked by authors we respected into templates for our own brainstorming. I decided to do this tonight with Allen Ginsberg's "A Supermarket in California." Text of my page plop first, then Ginsberg's wonderful poem after.

A Playground in New England

What memories of you I have today, my ghosts, for I wandered down hallways under fluorescent lights with a dry throat gulping at the woolen plaid skirts.

In my playful wishing, and seeking to hide, I went to the primary colored slide swing playground, whooping and hollering your names!

What games and what gaiety! Fathers and daughters playing tag! Sandboxes full of friends! Whispering on the monkey bars, laughing not at me! – and you, blue frog, what were you doing talking to the shy girl?

I saw you, my ghosts, children, lonely little beets, shuffling outside the perimeter and eyeing the others.

I heard you sighing at each: Who will talk to me? What place politics? Are you my Love?

I wove under and above the ringing streamers of giggles following you, and followed in my imagination by a celebratory circus.

We rode down the winding slides together in our silly reverie, faster, our hair whipping against our faces, and never going home for dinner.

Where are we going, my ghosts? The sun sets in an hour. Which way do your sheets blow tonight?

(I touch my face and think of our fantastic height on the swings and feel absurd.)

Will we dance all night through these dim halls? The faces don’t change, combinations don’t work, we’ll all be lonely.

Will we run dreaming of the lost childhood of slumber parties and Halloweens past a quiet man brushing his teeth, home to a still backyard?

Ah, sweet apparitions, fading lights, what childhood did you have when you were ravens, calling out loud, and rejoicing in the sound of your own voices?


A Supermarket in California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.

We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?

(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)

Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.

Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?

Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

- Allen Ginsberg, Berkeley, 1955

Especially for Karen

The Apprentice is one of those shows I wish I could ignore, but just can't. Donald Trump's decisions frequently strike me as inconsistent, lacking in regard to group dynamics or leadership skills, and utterly absurd. I watch the show, and I don't like him. I don't like what he stands for, or the role that people like him play in business, pop culture and the American landscape. The disciples with which he populates the show are equally appalling, not least in their utter devotion to him. It's painful to watch. But I watch anyway, completely wrapped up in the drama, politics and psychology of the game.

Why?

Uh-oh. Bad news. Writing this post just sucked me further into the show. I went looking for the show's url and I discovered that a season one favorite, Heidi, writes a weekly online commentary about the season two happenings. It's great, as is she. In that, 'I can't believe I think this is great' kind of way. Oy.

New Pro-Choice House in MA!!

From a NARAL Pro-Choice Massachusetts communique:
Amid this national defeat - believe it or not - I do have some good news. On Tuesday, we elected a pro-choice House of Representatives for the first time in our state's history!

What year is this?

Wait, am I confused? Are we actually in year 2000?
(CNN) -- A majority of Americans polled said they were hopeful that President Bush would do more to unite the country than divide it, a CNN/USA Today/Gallup poll found.

Moving the country to the left

With a full night's sleep (11 hours!) and this mydd post, I'm feeling inspired this morning.

...When conservatives are 33% of the electorate, and liberals are only 21%, we start twelve points down in every campaign. The solution to this problem is not to move to the center and take the left for granted. The solution to this problem is not to simply energize the base so completely that our activism and energy alone carry us over the top.

...We have to define liberalism according to positive semiotic frames. We have to be willing to take these frames to every corner of the nation, and run candidates in every single race in every single district (preparation for which begins today). We have to be willing to spend tens of millions of dollars not to win elections, not to help "worthy causes," but simply to sell liberalism.

...in 2008, we could become even more active and do even better on the ground, but still lose because we have kept shrinking...we can only win by moving the country itself to the left.

*Sniffle, sniffle* Kerry's concession

Listening to John Edwards introducing Kerry's concession speech right now. Feeling called to step up in the coming years. Frustrated by yuppie world's vocal contingency - some folks are throwing up their hands, announcing their anger at John & John, blaming them, blaming the Democratic party, announcing that they will never vote again, or will never vote for the Dems again.

The Democratic party is not a sports team. Candidates are not players. They didn't lose this election; WE lost it. Every single one of us. It is our job to advocate for the candidates we support, not just by showing up, but by writing checks, getting involved and working as hard as we can. The folks on the right seem to get this. The labor unions and working class voters on the left get it, too. What makes it such a tough concept for "educated" suburbanites? Folks who wear the word "progressive" like it's an alternative fashion statement?

Kerry is speaking now. He sounds gracious and statesman like as always. I am tearing up. I haven't felt so devastated and emotional about an election since the 'Contract with America' mid-terms during Clinton's presidency. Though I expressed uncertainty in the days leading up to this election, underlying my comments was delicious optimism that I haven't felt in quite a few years. I'm not yet ready to let that go. I don't think any of us should.

'Don't Mourn, Organize' - A Must Read

From the Daily Kos:

....It’s tough on the psyche to be beaten.Throughout our country’s history, abolitionists, suffragists, union organizers, anti-racists, antiwarriors, civil libertarians, feminists and gay rights activists have challenged the majority of Americans to take off their blinders. Each succeeded one way or another, but not overnight, and certainly not without serious setbacks.

After a decent interval of licking our wounds and pondering what might have been and where we went wrong, we need to spit out our despair and return – united - to battling those who have for the moment outmaneuvered us. Otherwise, we might just as well lie down in the street and let them flatten us with their schemes.

Pretty much how I'm feeling.

Visibility in NH and damned good polling methodology

Liz, Bob and I outside a New Hampshire poll. According to Liz's double counting of smiles, nods and hand gestures, we are winning in NH. 53 - 7 at the last count that I remember. We held large signs and did the can-can, making ourselves a hit with the older voters and even getting our picture taken by the Gilford Steamer, Gilford's local paper.

Eminem - Election Video

If you haven't seen this yet, it's worth a try. Eminem finally won me over. And, he made me cry.

Yaaargh!

Woke up just before 6am to get ready to go to NH for the day. I thought I was nauseous before. I wasn't. NOW I am nauseous. The jittery nervous atoms are having a wild dance party in my tummy. Liz will be here soon to pick us up - glad to be doing something with a productive outlet today. Don't think I could successfully do much other than Election Day stuff today anyway...

Musing on procrastination

Why is it so much easier to finish something after it is already late? Any thoughts?

Fairness and accuracy?

http://freshair.npr.org/day_fa.jhtml?display=day&todayDate=10/21/2004

Last week on Fresh Air with Terry Gross, Jimmy Carter mentioned that prior to the his debate with Ronald Reagan in the 1980 presidential race, George Will stole Carter's debate briefing book from the White House and used it to rehearse Reagan. Fairness and Accuracy in Reporting has an article from 2001 about this incident - apparently Will was on the airwaves immediately following the debate, talking about how well Reagan had done, and never mentioning his role in the campaign. He has acknowledged the incident but never apologized. And they say liberals are morally corrupt.

http://www.fair.org/media-beat/010308.html for the FAIR article.

Latest polling, methodology critique, hand-wringing, and lots of optimism

http://www.mydd.com/