Nostalgia for Everything

I stole this title from a favorite short essay by Andrei Codrescu.
The reason I am feeling nostalgia is that Son is 15, and as I peruse photographs of Christmas past I miss the us we were. Now we are not an us, now we are a me and a him.
I know this is a stage of life one must pass through, just as one must go through all the symptoms and illness of the flu before one can recover from it. Yes, adolescence is an illness, mostly for the parents.
The difficulty of this stage of his life surprises me. I was (somewhat) prepared for the difficulty of the younger years. They call them the Terrible Twos! But so much of that was difficult physically. Chasing after the little demon as he tried to put all the poisonous and electrical things in his mouth. Staying up late, getting up early when he developed his very own sleeping schedule that ignored the laws of nature and light. Being exhausted is just part of the deal.
But now the exhaustion is of a psychological nature. Son spends most of his time ignoring me, or slowly pushing the door closed as I try to talk to him. In all ways he is creating and drawing attention to the chasm between us. For him, I'm sure, this is healthy and all part of the process. For the mother, of course, it is painful.
So I find pictures of us when he was five and he has his arm around me and a crooked grin on his face. I sift through memories for moments with him. Watching TV. Listening to him watch Looney Tunes in the basement while he laughed hysterically, the day I was walking with him across a store parking lot, holding his hand, and I had the wherewithal to think, "Remember this. His little hand." And I did, so much so that I can feel the shape of his tiny hand in mine.
Those days are gone, my friends, and I think (a lot, actually) that our best days are behind us. I know there will be good times in the future, but when? The future, as always, is uncertain.
I'm sure there is a Buddhist way to make peace with all of this.
He is a wonderful person, and I'm sure that at some unspecified time in the future he will be able to admit that he likes me again.
But until then, Oy!
So I have nostalgia for everything. For the him he was and the me I was. For Christmases when we could buy him toys and coloring books. For the time when he *wanted* to make cookies with me. For the time when I didn't swear at him every day. (I'm a bad mom. I know.)
At the same time, I'm aware that in the future, two years perhaps, when he's away at college and the house is a tad-bit emptier, that I will have nostalgia for this time, when he ignored me and when I could observe, every day, tiny glimpses into the man he will become.
Damn. Being a Mom is hard.

A Night at The Westerner in President-Elect Trump's America

There are a few things I know for sure, and one is when a man who looks like a straight, white redneck in blue jeans, a plaid shirt, and a camo baseball cap gets on stage at a bar called The Westerner to do karaoke, and he sings "Don't Cry Out Loud," you can be pretty sure he's not what you first thought him to be.
After, you will turn to your friend and say, "He's a closeted gay man," or something to that effect.
Later, when two older gentlemen, one in a giant black cowboy hat with a white mustache and beard, the other in a baseball hat, going by the names "Jack Daniels and Bud Light," get up to sing a version of "Beer For My Horses," you will begin to worry. The song, written by Toby Keith and Scotty Emerick, and originally recorded by Keith and Willie Nelson seems to be a benign country song in the tradition of many such country songs. Some of the lyrics, however, began to grab your attention and cause an uneasy knot to form in your stomach.

Grandpappy told my pappy

Back in my day, son

A man had to answer

For the wicked thing he done

Take all the rope in Texas

Find a tall oak tree

Round up all of them bad boys

And hang 'em high in the street

For all the people to see

Are you alone in being reminded of, say, a lynching? You look around and most of the mostly white people in this bar are singing along and don't seem to be aware of the words that are actually coming out of their very own mouths.

We got too many gangsters
Doing dirty deeds
Too much corruption
And crime in the streets
It's time the long arm of the law
Put a few more in the ground

 Is it the word "gangster" (code for African-American?) or is it the idea of vigilantism that now makes you worry, not only about yourself, but about lots of other people, some of them in this very room?

The cute young man in the plaid shirt has signed up for another song. He has a good voice. The song turns out to be "Sweet Transvestite" from Rocky Horror. Uh-oh. He gives a strong performance with some, but not too much, flair. You look uncomfortably around the room for any men who may be looking violent/disturbed. You say to your friend, "okay, maybe NOT in the closet."

A very talented friend has already signed up to sing a song by the Dixie Chicks. She reminds you of the very public battle between Toby Keith and the Dixie Chicks resulting in the F.U.T.K. t-shirt. Too late now. On she goes. Luckily, she sings like an angel and thereby, through the magic of music?, wins over Jack and his friend Bud. When she comes down from the stage, Jack gives her a high five. He must of forgotten that TK hated the DCs. Good!

Before you leave, you tell the young gay man that he has a good voice and that you liked both his songs. He hugs you. He is gathering his things, and you hope he is leaving, but you see him and his friends heading to the dance floor. 

It occurs to you that he is brave, in Post-Trump America, to dress like a redneck and sing like a fabulous gay man. You complimented him because you wanted him to know you are on his side, you wanted to encourage him, but now it occurs to you that he saw right through you. That he recognized immediately that you were the one who needed a hug, not him, because he has the knowledge and security of being 100% who he is. 

Even at the Westerner in President-elect Trump's America.

Some Thoughts on a Tuesday

Yesterday Middlebrow and I were doing yard work. Or, Middlebrow was doing yard work and I was approximate to him in a way that might suggest I was also invested in this labor, whether I was or not. The point is, we were in the yard and we were doing some manual type labor, wearing gloves, using tools, getting into and near the dirt.
Not very long, minutes-wise, into this endeavor I might have said something like, "This is boring." Because it was. It's basically the same physical action or actions over and over. Then one might look down the long row of rose bushes that stretches from the sidewalk to the fence and using some kind of fancy algebraic formula, one might guess at the amount of time it will take to finish the project and then one might imagine the boredom stretched out over those minutes and days and one might become instantly exhausted.
"This is why we went to college," said Middlebrow. To avoid such labor, I'm guessing. And it's true. I hated weeding in the summer, when my mom made me, I hated mowing that one day when I actually did it for money.
But it's necessary, isn't it? The labor? The weeds grow, and they grow and grow unless we pull them and then put down this miracle fabric which prevents them from growing. And the roses bloom and then they die, and someone has to trim them otherwise, how will the new buds find the sun?
I contemplated these ideas, labor, adulting, as I did some light weeding in the cool morning breeze. It felt good, but it was still boring. Also, my back hurt.
And then I thought about social media, and how obsessed it is, right now, in this moment with one particular gorilla. And how everyone and their fucking dog is using it as an occasion to bludgeon everyone else about a pet obsession: The gorilla proves that we don't care about endangered species (this one might be true); the gorilla proves that parents are distracted/lazy/bad; the gorilla proves that unless we are vegans, we're not allowed to feel compassion for the gorilla; the gorilla proves that zoos are bad; the gorilla proves that zoos are good; the zoo was justified in killing the gorilla; the zoo was unjustified in killing the gorilla. All these ideas basically come down to one thing: people who don't agree with me are stupid.
This seems to be the general sentiment these days, in social media, in politics, in entertainment, in sports, in life.
I have been guilty of it, but the quiet boring contemplation of yard work and the busy, hectic meaningless posturing of social media has given me a lot to think about.
Also I am contemplating a daily "black out" for my whole family.
I look forward to your thoughts.

My husband told me to write a sonnet

Sabbatical Sonnet

You must do the one thing that you think you

cannot do, Eleanor Roosevelt tells me. With all

the things due, it’s true, I do not think I can do

all the things I have yet to do. If you think

you can or think you can’t, you’re right. Says who?

Maybe Henry Ford, who wanted to do to

us before we did to him. Maybe it’s true

that thinking is key, that we do as we believe

or we believe as we do. There is only do,

there is no try, another sage says. Try as I do

I accomplish very little with much to do.

Sometimes I sit. I often admire the view.  

Piles shift in space rather than disappear.

I’m on sabbatical. Good thing I have a year.

Sunday

Over at Jim’s, across the street, they are still

asleep, but the trees dazzle, blossoms

blowing in the Sunday wind. The soft

down of grass has been culled into shape,

the dandelions removed, the pansies trained

into neat little rows. Even the maple seems

to be obeying some grand design.

In the mid-day sunlight, the greens glisten,

the yellows sparkle and pop, the oranges

blaze like dying suns, the reds bleed and bleed.

I observe Nature here, in the urban garden,

a blinded muse, a bound dancer, a slave.

I am no master.

(the first word of each line is taken from This Poem) 

to fast: v.

to go without, to postpone, to defer,

she fasted that she might be furthered

to hasten, to proceed quickly, to heighten,

she fasted that she might arrive

to increase, to displace, to prolong

she fasted that she might want

to hunger, to yearn, to need,

she fasted that she might desire

to bind, to fetter, to fix,

she fasted herself that she might persist

to worship, to mortify, to meditate

she fasted that she might be pure

to elevate, to seek, to pursue

she fasted that she might find

to arrive, to discover, to escape

Self-Portrait as Lucian Freud's "Double Portrait" (1985-86)

Am I the woman, artificially still, arranged as if in sleep,

or death? Am I the dog, nestled beside her, its jaw tense,

dreaming, ready to snarl or bite? Am I the paint, deep

and patchy, ridged  brushstrokes blowing from edge

to edge? Or am I the canvas, flat, transparent, and square?

Am I the navy of her dress, her pale buttery skin, the grayish-

pink of the dog’s vulnerable belly? Am I the paint brush, the hair

Of rabbit, badger, or horse? Am I the shadow beneath the weight

of her arm, casually shielding her eyes, or is her pose a defense

against the artist’s gaze? I’m the suggestion of a wall, the blank

bedsheet, the too white bed, the dog’s mottled fur, the sense

the world is one indecipherable scene and art makes it think.

What, exactly, is it the subject of this painting? That which we see:

woman, dog, paint? Or the space between the painting and me?

Sonnet

I like this one, so I'm reposting it here.


Sonnet for an Absent Spouse

I almost wrote “an empty house,” but it isn’t, still three of four

on site: Son, and dog and me. In your absence, I chauffeur Son

and walk the dog. I text “I miss you.” Is that the vodka (80 or more?

calories) talking? Or maybe it’s the delicious and necessary wine

(5 ounces Merlot = 120 calories) that makes my thumbs light.

When I miss you, I drink whiskey (110 calories), I let Son spend more

time watching “Firefly” on his computer to avoid the nightly fight.

I imagine expensive additions to our home: a deck, French doors

opening off our master bedroom and into the backyard, fertile

with rosemary, tomatoes, chard, sunflowers, and orange poppies.

When you are gone, I am uncharacteristically morose. I wile

the hours away reading actuary charts which forecast our untimely

demise. It’s not wise, the way I spend my time. Wait: that’s a lie.

I imagine the hours we’ll spend, sipping wine, until we die.

National! Poetry! Month!

Welcome to April, in which two poets test themselves against time, meter, rhyme, and the days that demand poems. That's right, it's National Poetry Month which means that HighTouch and I will be writing a poem a day, and you know what that means! Lower those expectations. Let's go!


April Fool

Perhaps there is a spaceship where astronauts
grow tomato plants in zero gravity.  Perhaps there is a zip code
where anyone can live, their mail circulating in some imagined zone
Perhaps instead of a tax refund, I am buying you an air conditioner
or a refrigerator or those teal shoes that you love.
 I am leaving them on your front porch, surreptitiously,
for you to find.

Perhaps I am pouring water on you to wake you from your sleep,
only it's a pitcher full of shredded newspaper,
confetti of the displaced, the forlorn,
the slightly out of date.

Perhaps I am beckoning you near with only a whisper,
trying to dump water, soapy and warm,
down the front of your blouse, rendering you rain-
soaked, stained and foolish.

Or maybe I am a lie, a single red tulip,
planted years ago in a patch of dirt beside the house
that bursts forth unexpectedly every year this day.

In Which I Lament/Praise My Own Planning

Another thing I excel at, since you asked, is planning. I am a planner. I like to plan things.
So, back three or two weeks ago or whenever, I decided (for reasons which are now lost in the haze of my brain) to schedule four days of un-interrupted, hellish consultations with students. Oh yes, I planned it. For myself. Of my own free will. For myself.
What this means, in practical terms, is that for each day of this week I had to read two drafts for each student. That's right, TWO. This I also planned. Which means that the days leading up to this week, and IN FACT, this week was the definition of No Fun.
Luckily I discovered the joy and ease of copy and paste commentary, because, I discovered, even though each student wrote their own draft, they all faced the same challenges. So I wrote very detailed comments, and then I pasted them for each student, customizing them for a students draft. This made my life EASIER.
So what I did I learn from this marathon, no holds barred, few breaks in the schedule, schedule?
First, NEVER DO IT AGAIN!! I say this knowing I will forget the pain and that I will, in fact, construct for myself a similar hell. What can I say? I vacillate between boundless optimism and hard-edged cynicism.
Second, for some students, it actually does work. (Dammit!)
ALSO, re:planning, I was a super-genuis this weekend and prepped food for both breakfast and lunch, therefore making the morning/day portion of my eating life a BREEZE.
The upshot, therefore, is that while sometimes my planning bites me in the ass, sometimes it is an asset.
Thereby, the theme of my planning = ass.
The end.

I still have a Blog!

You guys, I still have a blog!
Which sits here, dormant, like a piece of white paper that, for some reason, is growing mold.
BUT
Poetry Month will soon be upon us and Hightouch and myself made a somewhat informal pact to revive our Poem A Day project during Poetry Month, which is April.
So, I decided I would write a poem a day but BY HAND. That's right. Like, in a notebook and shit.
With that in mind, I decided having a daily writing project (a la Hightouch) is a good idea. I have been Facebooked into brevity, but, my dear readers, I have more to say.
Yes, I will not be contained in a mere Status Update.
No, my words will be many and my sentences will be convoluted.
I HAVE ALL THE BEST WORDS.

and out