It was midnight and down the street cars were on fire.
Kevin & I smelled the smoke and we looked outside. Fire on the Fifth.
"Smells like tires burning," Kevin said as we looked down a deserted and hazy Portland Avenue.
I knew my neighbor-friend Rich was down the street so I texted him.
Rachel: 12:04am You still at that house?
Rich: 12:08am Yes, someone broke into the house and stole her day old mac book pro a few hours ago. Now there is a car on fire, called the cops, the firemen let me pull the handle on the hose
Rachel: 12:12am Lol, wtf!
Then police cars started zooming up and down the Portland Avenue stretch, pulling u-turns...
Rachel: 12:18am What is with the police are they looking for someone?
Rich: 12:19am We are now two blocks west, another car totally engulfed in flames!
Rachel: 12:20am No way!
Rich: 12:21am Crazy shit
I had this dream where I was a student in Iran. I wore a hijab and was taking luggage out of my car. The Iranian school was my old elementary school in Beaverton (Oregon) and I was there for orientation in the old gymnasium where we used to have wall-ball tournaments.
"Salaam Alaykum" I said to two Iranian students the way I was taught by a Turkish friend.
"Alaykum Salaam," they responded with smiles.
Walking across the old play-yard there was a lot of movement. Bikes and people and kids, a kind of makeshift marketplace had materialized.
"I wonder if there will be a bombing here..." I considered sadly without hesitiation as I entered the crowd.
The other day I walked across a field and never thought once if there were mines hidden under the ground.
I turned on my car today without having a thought there might be bomb rigged up inside.
Douglas Coupland confronted the subject of atom bombs in a few pages in his unconventional little book, Life Without God.
"I was by the fridge in the kitchen when it happened."
"I was having my hair done when it happened."
"I was in the office and it was near the end of the day and people were getting ready to go home when it happened."
"What happened," was the bomb. The stories are the last bits of peoples lives before the bomb, the nuke, killed them. They watch radiation peel their skin off, they fly in the air like super heroes unraveling as the heat and chemicals burn them alive, they are in their cars, in the shopping malls, they suffocate.
I write these stories in my head.
"I was at Safeway when it happened," I thought when I a boom of thunder knocked out the electricity.
"I was taking out the trash,"
"I was driving to the gym,"
"I had just laid out dinner."
Once I had a dream I was with my family on a hill in the forest overlooking a city. We were having a picnic and watched a plane, the plane, fly over the city. Then there was an orb, the orange orb, and we knew it was over.
If we weren't going to die right then and there from the fallout we would die soon after from the radiation.
In a dream my car was pulled to the side of Highway 97 and the bomb was dropped there, right down the road and I curled in the fetal position as the wall of earth rushed towards me.
Reminds me of that Radiohead song "4 minute warning," about the London subway bombing.
{This is just a nightmare, soon I'm gonna wake up, someone's gonna bring me 'round.
Running from the bombers, hiding in the forest, running through the fields, laying flat on the ground.}
A few years ago I visited the Atomic Testing Museum in Las Vegas. There were these slides you could play by rolling your hand across a smooth ball which set the action in motion. The action was video footage of different nuclear tests.
They experimented with houses, trees, cars, dunes ...
Kurt Vonnegut wrote about his protagonist Billy Pilgrim in Slaughterhouse-Five watching a documentary regarding the production of nuclear weapons. Except Billy watched it in reverse, the orange orb being sucked into the shell canister, entering back into the plane, being gently unloaded, being disassembled in factories and put back in the earth.
I spun the ball the opposite direction, creating house and giving trees back their leaves.
(I when in good humor give grass its green Blazon sky blue and endow the sun with gold Yet, in my winteriest moods, I hold Absolute Power To boycott any color and forbid any flower To be. -Sylvia Plath
The fire on fifth street is put out. My friend Rich helped. So did his girlfriend Heather. It was fun.
Kevin and I went back to bed.
Fear and danger happen to other people, not to us.
The car was insured, whoever it belonged to will get a new one.
The firefighters will slide down the poles and save the day just like they always do. I will ride my bike through the crowded downtown wihout a thought and run through the fields and not worry whether someone is going to blow up when I go to shake their hand.
We are safe.
But here it is, in the back of my head - showing up in my dreams and clearing its throat during the quiet times - the suspicion that things aren't always as they seem.
It interrupts me and makes me skeptical of this unquestioning safety.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Snowball
On the day she died, Snowball was quiet.
"She's been sleeping a lot," Kevin told me.
After she sits in the sun she feels much better, so we put her outside.
In the courtyard, she prunes the neighbors catnip.
The last we talked, I was telling her something unmemorable as she sat under the little barbecue on the deck. She listened with a tired expression and said nothing.
We talked a lot about death this last year.
I 'd reached out to stroke her bony white body.
"I'm going to miss you a lot," I always said.
She pretends to ignore me, but then says,
"all things must pass."
Snowball told me once she was going to die outside and that I was going to have to find her.
"You don't have the courage to put me down, but don't worry, I'll take care of it."
We found her under the deck the afternoon following the night we discovered the tossed away tomatoes seedlings had endured and grown several tiny green tomatoes among their branches.
"Kevin, there are tomatoes here." I had said.
Did I ever tell you? Snowball convinced me to drop out of school.
I was 18 and studying late late night on my bed when I lived with my parents. Snowball woke and looked at me through irritated slits from the end of the bed.
"What are you doing." she said flatly, but what she meant was, why are you still awake?
"I need to finish this class so I can get a degree, get a good job and do something with my life," I replied absentmindedly.
"You're tired and unhappy. You don't even know what you want to do with your life. Go to sleep."
After little thought I went to sleep.
This moment foreshadowed a future of Snowball and I in our own place where I am reading her a poem from Marge Piercy's, "Sleeping with Cats." A destiny of a college dropout fulfilled; spending the years between then and now a malarky of reading my own books, writing zines and sleeping well.
I said goodbye to Snowball in the parking lot at the Humane Society.
Setting her on the curb I opened the towel she was wrapped in,
"Hey there, little friend."
My Mom predicted that when Snowball died I would quietly stroke her, letting myself slowly come to the reality of what was happening. I want to say this moment happened and that I took a lot of time holding her, but I didn't. I still don't know how to process the feelings I am having. Where to put them. It's not real.
An hour before I was in the business of death.
Find body, cry a little, wrap body in towel, place body in dresser drawer, lay on couch with no thoughts, call animal cremation services, get in car, drive.
In the parking lot I kneel beside the box and stroke the white fur
"I miss you," and suddenly I don't want to give her away. I don't want her to be burned, all that cat disintegrated.
Everything that was home and love was right there and I didn't want to give her away.
Why can't I be one of those emotionally saucy latinas? The last in a throng of mourners, the men of my family holding a tiny casket above their head as I clutch a wet hankerchief, beat my chest and wail, "MIA! MIA!" before collapsing in the street.
Reason returned and I gave her up.
My family got Snowball when I was five or six or seven. I only know this because my brother remembers it which meant he was at least two.
"They have this white kitty," my friend said, so we went. Snowball cost us nothing.
She was not a cat for children. She hated me and spent her days and nights in the sanctuary only thorny blackberry bushes assured. When our house flooded in '94 we heard Snowball crying in the crawl space and when the waters soaked our couches and beds we thought she was goners. But she wasn't.
Monday I got a call from Johnny, the cremator at the the Humane Society. Snowball's ashes were ready to be picked up and he hoped I was doing alright.
The cedar chest housing the physical remains of Snowball is screwed shut and sealed. It doesn't feel real.
Lucas, my neighbor Richs' son, who's three, came over and asked about my white cat.
"She died a few weeks ago," I said gently.
"Is she in heaven?" he asked me.
"Depends on what you believe," I responded.
"She's in heaven. That's where my dog is."
"I think she's in heaven, too."
I visited Jay Rowan grave and told him Snowball was a very nice cat. I asked him to let her sit on his lap for awhile.
My parents, Kevin and I had a memorial for her a month after her passing. A white cake with vanilla frosting - snowflake sprinkles. My Dad had wanted seventeen candles, each for every year we estimated she was alive, but we lit one and as it burned we talked to her. We missed her. She was a beautiful cat. We appreciated her staying with us for so long.
"Thank you ..." I said.
"Thank you, for being there and telling me to calm down. Thank you for sitting with me. Thank you for talking to me."
I blew out the candle, ate cake and read Cat Heaven. A litany of small gestures of love and memory for my old white colored cat.
"She's been sleeping a lot," Kevin told me.
After she sits in the sun she feels much better, so we put her outside.
In the courtyard, she prunes the neighbors catnip.
The last we talked, I was telling her something unmemorable as she sat under the little barbecue on the deck. She listened with a tired expression and said nothing.
We talked a lot about death this last year.
I 'd reached out to stroke her bony white body.
"I'm going to miss you a lot," I always said.
She pretends to ignore me, but then says,
"all things must pass."
Snowball told me once she was going to die outside and that I was going to have to find her.
"You don't have the courage to put me down, but don't worry, I'll take care of it."
We found her under the deck the afternoon following the night we discovered the tossed away tomatoes seedlings had endured and grown several tiny green tomatoes among their branches.
"Kevin, there are tomatoes here." I had said.
Did I ever tell you? Snowball convinced me to drop out of school.
I was 18 and studying late late night on my bed when I lived with my parents. Snowball woke and looked at me through irritated slits from the end of the bed.
"What are you doing." she said flatly, but what she meant was, why are you still awake?
"I need to finish this class so I can get a degree, get a good job and do something with my life," I replied absentmindedly.
"You're tired and unhappy. You don't even know what you want to do with your life. Go to sleep."
After little thought I went to sleep.
This moment foreshadowed a future of Snowball and I in our own place where I am reading her a poem from Marge Piercy's, "Sleeping with Cats." A destiny of a college dropout fulfilled; spending the years between then and now a malarky of reading my own books, writing zines and sleeping well.
I said goodbye to Snowball in the parking lot at the Humane Society.
Setting her on the curb I opened the towel she was wrapped in,
"Hey there, little friend."
My Mom predicted that when Snowball died I would quietly stroke her, letting myself slowly come to the reality of what was happening. I want to say this moment happened and that I took a lot of time holding her, but I didn't. I still don't know how to process the feelings I am having. Where to put them. It's not real.
An hour before I was in the business of death.
Find body, cry a little, wrap body in towel, place body in dresser drawer, lay on couch with no thoughts, call animal cremation services, get in car, drive.
In the parking lot I kneel beside the box and stroke the white fur
"I miss you," and suddenly I don't want to give her away. I don't want her to be burned, all that cat disintegrated.
Everything that was home and love was right there and I didn't want to give her away.
Why can't I be one of those emotionally saucy latinas? The last in a throng of mourners, the men of my family holding a tiny casket above their head as I clutch a wet hankerchief, beat my chest and wail, "MIA! MIA!" before collapsing in the street.
Reason returned and I gave her up.
My family got Snowball when I was five or six or seven. I only know this because my brother remembers it which meant he was at least two.
"They have this white kitty," my friend said, so we went. Snowball cost us nothing.
She was not a cat for children. She hated me and spent her days and nights in the sanctuary only thorny blackberry bushes assured. When our house flooded in '94 we heard Snowball crying in the crawl space and when the waters soaked our couches and beds we thought she was goners. But she wasn't.
Monday I got a call from Johnny, the cremator at the the Humane Society. Snowball's ashes were ready to be picked up and he hoped I was doing alright.
The cedar chest housing the physical remains of Snowball is screwed shut and sealed. It doesn't feel real.
Lucas, my neighbor Richs' son, who's three, came over and asked about my white cat.
"She died a few weeks ago," I said gently.
"Is she in heaven?" he asked me.
"Depends on what you believe," I responded.
"She's in heaven. That's where my dog is."
"I think she's in heaven, too."
I visited Jay Rowan grave and told him Snowball was a very nice cat. I asked him to let her sit on his lap for awhile.
My parents, Kevin and I had a memorial for her a month after her passing. A white cake with vanilla frosting - snowflake sprinkles. My Dad had wanted seventeen candles, each for every year we estimated she was alive, but we lit one and as it burned we talked to her. We missed her. She was a beautiful cat. We appreciated her staying with us for so long.
"Thank you ..." I said.
"Thank you, for being there and telling me to calm down. Thank you for sitting with me. Thank you for talking to me."
I blew out the candle, ate cake and read Cat Heaven. A litany of small gestures of love and memory for my old white colored cat.
Snowball's death
On the day she died Snowball was quiet. "She's been sleeping a lot," Kevin said indicating to Snowball on the couch, "I don't thinks she's moved in hours."
So we put her outside because after she sits in the sun she feels much better. The sun warms her old muscles, it dries up her weariness, the breeze moves her, she smells the flowers. The last we talked I was telling her something unmemorable as she sat under the little barb-b-que on the deck. She listened with a tired expression and said nothing.
We talked a about death this last year.
Both of us quietly doing our little crafts, watching a movie. I reach out to stroke her bony white little body.
"I'm going to miss you a lot," I always said.
She pretends to ignore me but then says, "all things must pass."
Snowball hurts a lot but she is content with life. She made her peace with death long ago and has allowed herself to be frank with me when I bring it up.
We found her under the deck the afternoon following the night we discovered the tossed away tomatoes seedlings had several tiny green tomatoes among their branches. We were looking for her that night because she didn't come home and made the discovery. "Kevin, there are tomatoes here."
Did I ever tell you? Snowball convinced me to drop out of school.
I was 18 and studying late late night on my bed when I lived with my parents. Snowball looked at me with sleepy eyes from the end of the bed.
"What are you doing?" she said but what she meant was why are you still in school.
"I need a degree to get a good job and do something with my life," I replied ambivalently.
"You're tired and unhappy. You don't even know what you want to do with your life. Go to sleep."
And I went to sleep.
In the unforeseeable future Snowball and I would be in our own place and I would be reading her a poem from Marge Piercy's, "Sleeping with Cats." A destiny of a college dropout fulfilled spending those years of doing my own things, reading my own books, and sleeping well.
When I said goodbye to Snowball in the parking lot at the Human Society.
In the mornuing lot
an hou earlier I was I got busy in the business of death and mourning. A mental list cropped up and I was on the phone getting checking prices for cremations.
I wish I were one of those heart felt latinas. The last in a throng of mourners, the men of my family holding a tiny casket above their head as I clutch a wet hanketshief and beat my chest shouting, "MIA! MIA!" and collapse in the street.
"Your tired and unhappy. You don't even know what you want to do with your life. Go to sleep."
In the unforeseeable future Snowball and I would be in our own place and I would be reading her, Marge Piercy's, "Sleeping with Cats." A destiny of a college dropout fufilled.
I believed the lie and
So we put her outside because after she sits in the sun she feels much better. The sun warms her old muscles, it dries up her weariness, the breeze moves her, she smells the flowers. The last we talked I was telling her something unmemorable as she sat under the little barb-b-que on the deck. She listened with a tired expression and said nothing.
We talked a about death this last year.
Both of us quietly doing our little crafts, watching a movie. I reach out to stroke her bony white little body.
"I'm going to miss you a lot," I always said.
She pretends to ignore me but then says, "all things must pass."
Snowball hurts a lot but she is content with life. She made her peace with death long ago and has allowed herself to be frank with me when I bring it up.
We found her under the deck the afternoon following the night we discovered the tossed away tomatoes seedlings had several tiny green tomatoes among their branches. We were looking for her that night because she didn't come home and made the discovery. "Kevin, there are tomatoes here."
Did I ever tell you? Snowball convinced me to drop out of school.
I was 18 and studying late late night on my bed when I lived with my parents. Snowball looked at me with sleepy eyes from the end of the bed.
"What are you doing?" she said but what she meant was why are you still in school.
"I need a degree to get a good job and do something with my life," I replied ambivalently.
"You're tired and unhappy. You don't even know what you want to do with your life. Go to sleep."
And I went to sleep.
In the unforeseeable future Snowball and I would be in our own place and I would be reading her a poem from Marge Piercy's, "Sleeping with Cats." A destiny of a college dropout fulfilled spending those years of doing my own things, reading my own books, and sleeping well.
When I said goodbye to Snowball in the parking lot at the Human Society.
In the mornuing lot
an hou earlier I was I got busy in the business of death and mourning. A mental list cropped up and I was on the phone getting checking prices for cremations.
I wish I were one of those heart felt latinas. The last in a throng of mourners, the men of my family holding a tiny casket above their head as I clutch a wet hanketshief and beat my chest shouting, "MIA! MIA!" and collapse in the street.
"Your tired and unhappy. You don't even know what you want to do with your life. Go to sleep."
In the unforeseeable future Snowball and I would be in our own place and I would be reading her, Marge Piercy's, "Sleeping with Cats." A destiny of a college dropout fufilled.
I believed the lie and
Date: August 14th
Date: August 14th
Where: Downtown Bend, Oregon - Dudley's Bookshop & Café
Notes:
- Terri's husband Neil tried on a pair of cat-eyed glasses much to my enjoyment.
- Shocking encounter with , Mary Sojourner, Bend's personal Marge Piercy and Source writer shakes me into a boyish smile with her compliments as she flips the pages of my journal. I give her my card and a few personal zines as she works the Buddhist prayer beads from her bracelet adorned wrist. "These are from Free Tibet," she says handing them to me. "I want to interview you for my column."
Mission Statement: To share and educate.
Action:
- showcasing my collection of zines acquired over five years of trades, festivals, and visiting the zine section of bookstores.
- acquaint attendees with my zines.
- exploit my zine-friends to an untapped market.
Theme: Forest and Wood
secondary objective: network and inspect the cultural barometer of Bend's zine interest.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Snowball
And last night the cast away bore us sudden fruit in the form of tiny green tomatoes.
But like I said: it wasn't tomatoes we were looking for. We were looking for something more reliable last night, something that was not cast out, something that was expected home before bedtime and that was Snowball. Where was Snowball?
This morning I looked for her; opened up the doors & let the cool morning air come in. "snow-ball ..." The sing songy voice we save for gentle animal callings. Even Kevin does it followed by the gentle "click click click," the sound made from the sides of our mouths.
Where is she?
Sunday, September 6, 2009
My Dad
In the summers we drove to Forest Park, a verdant chunk of land right outside the city of Portland. Dad brought a long rope and heaved it up strong - the way young dads can - until the rope caught a high branch of this one large oak tree. Then he’d make us a swing that made swing-sets look absolutely ridiculous. Dad swung us so high it was scary.
I loved coloring as a child. Dad drew me pictures of things to color, like a house or a sail boat. He's a very rigid drawer, the kind of guy who uses ball point pens and writes in all capital letters. Sometimes Dad drew me bikes to color, but you can't really color a bike because it's too skinny. I suspect Dad prides himself on being the reason I still love drawing and coloring.
Once, while at the car dealership Dad worked at, Dad asked me to draw a picture of one of his coworkers surrounded by women. I spent a long time drawing. I gave all the women large breasts. Pretty sure Dad was using me to entertain his friends rather then to showcase what a great artist I was.
Dad took me to the dump sometimes to get rid of debris or Christmas trees or something. It was just me and him. The drive was long and I’m sure we listened to Tom Jones along the way. He also took me to Seattle to see some of his buddies because they had a daughter named Marie who was my age. I didn't like Marie but I can't remember why. She had lots of toys and her room was always a mess.
I called Dad a bastard once and he grounded me from spending the night at a friend’s. Then I explained I had no idea what that word meant and he listened and changed his mind and let me go.
In the winter, when the snow fell, Dad, my little brother and sister, and I would lay in the yard wearing only our swimsuits. We froze our butts off challenging one another as to who could stay longer in the snow. Then we’d rush to the hot tub and feel our nerves sting and prick as we warmed up.
In the mornings, when it was really cold, Dad woke up early in the morning to get a fire going in the wood stove. The heat coaxed us out of bed to get ready for school.
After our house flooded, Dad and I spent a lot of our time filling sand bags. We built a bunker in the front yard so that next time it flooded the waters couldn't get inside. Dad and I were a great team. He would scoop while I held the bag out for him. It was winter and our hands got really cold. We were protecting out home. It was very important.
Dad loved his rose bushes. He watered them all the time. I used to check the roses for aphids. Dad gave us roses to give to our teachers. My teacher did not deserve a rose but she got one anyway.
At the beach Dad could dig the most AMAZING holes in the sand. Like four feet deep! After he was done we would stand in them and he would bury us. Thank none of us kids were claustrophobic.
One New Years Dad, it might have been Y2K, Mom and I danced in the living room to (probably) Tom Jones. My Dad did the moonwalk. He never did this before and he has never done it since that night.
When talking to Mexicans Dad takes on a Chinese-Latin hybrid accent. He confused the hell out of my French host parents when he called their house trying to get a hold of me saying, "’Bone-jew,’ Rachel, plait," which means, "Good Day, Rachel likes..."
Sometimes Dad read to us or told us bed-time stories. He tweaked the stories to make them hilarious. To this day he does this and they're still hilarious.
My Dad loves Whale Wars even though he complains the people on the show are morons. "Why don't they drop stuff from the helicopter?!?" he always says. Mom said Dad was really upset when, in one episode, a whale was harpooned and caught.
After my sister and I moved out of the house Dad found Jesus. He refuses to admit the correlation.
As children we weren't allowed to say "KILL" or "HATE." Dad said they were ugly words. They are.
Dad wears briefs.
Instead of cussing Dad censors himself. He says, "What the ____ is going on?!"
On vacations Dad brought his camcorder. He wasted hours of footage filming the road while driving, pointless scenery, mountains, and remarkable things that seen in person are meaningful but on tape are flat and 2-dimensional. As we go through old videos I am sure he regrets it.
Dad is the greatest story teller in the family. He is constantly aware of his audience and a true master of articulation and emphasis. He translates these skills into his lectures which are not as great.
Dad has always loved Patron.
I loved coloring as a child. Dad drew me pictures of things to color, like a house or a sail boat. He's a very rigid drawer, the kind of guy who uses ball point pens and writes in all capital letters. Sometimes Dad drew me bikes to color, but you can't really color a bike because it's too skinny. I suspect Dad prides himself on being the reason I still love drawing and coloring.
Once, while at the car dealership Dad worked at, Dad asked me to draw a picture of one of his coworkers surrounded by women. I spent a long time drawing. I gave all the women large breasts. Pretty sure Dad was using me to entertain his friends rather then to showcase what a great artist I was.
Dad took me to the dump sometimes to get rid of debris or Christmas trees or something. It was just me and him. The drive was long and I’m sure we listened to Tom Jones along the way. He also took me to Seattle to see some of his buddies because they had a daughter named Marie who was my age. I didn't like Marie but I can't remember why. She had lots of toys and her room was always a mess.
I called Dad a bastard once and he grounded me from spending the night at a friend’s. Then I explained I had no idea what that word meant and he listened and changed his mind and let me go.
In the winter, when the snow fell, Dad, my little brother and sister, and I would lay in the yard wearing only our swimsuits. We froze our butts off challenging one another as to who could stay longer in the snow. Then we’d rush to the hot tub and feel our nerves sting and prick as we warmed up.
In the mornings, when it was really cold, Dad woke up early in the morning to get a fire going in the wood stove. The heat coaxed us out of bed to get ready for school.
After our house flooded, Dad and I spent a lot of our time filling sand bags. We built a bunker in the front yard so that next time it flooded the waters couldn't get inside. Dad and I were a great team. He would scoop while I held the bag out for him. It was winter and our hands got really cold. We were protecting out home. It was very important.
Dad loved his rose bushes. He watered them all the time. I used to check the roses for aphids. Dad gave us roses to give to our teachers. My teacher did not deserve a rose but she got one anyway.
At the beach Dad could dig the most AMAZING holes in the sand. Like four feet deep! After he was done we would stand in them and he would bury us. Thank none of us kids were claustrophobic.
One New Years Dad, it might have been Y2K, Mom and I danced in the living room to (probably) Tom Jones. My Dad did the moonwalk. He never did this before and he has never done it since that night.
When talking to Mexicans Dad takes on a Chinese-Latin hybrid accent. He confused the hell out of my French host parents when he called their house trying to get a hold of me saying, "’Bone-jew,’ Rachel, plait," which means, "Good Day, Rachel likes..."
Sometimes Dad read to us or told us bed-time stories. He tweaked the stories to make them hilarious. To this day he does this and they're still hilarious.
My Dad loves Whale Wars even though he complains the people on the show are morons. "Why don't they drop stuff from the helicopter?!?" he always says. Mom said Dad was really upset when, in one episode, a whale was harpooned and caught.
After my sister and I moved out of the house Dad found Jesus. He refuses to admit the correlation.
As children we weren't allowed to say "KILL" or "HATE." Dad said they were ugly words. They are.
Dad wears briefs.
Instead of cussing Dad censors himself. He says, "What the ____ is going on?!"
On vacations Dad brought his camcorder. He wasted hours of footage filming the road while driving, pointless scenery, mountains, and remarkable things that seen in person are meaningful but on tape are flat and 2-dimensional. As we go through old videos I am sure he regrets it.
Dad is the greatest story teller in the family. He is constantly aware of his audience and a true master of articulation and emphasis. He translates these skills into his lectures which are not as great.
Dad has always loved Patron.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Shugust 29th Written
Evening Time
I want to be part of the circus of beautiful things.
If my eyes were cameras I could show youthe way things are supposed to look. Sepia, altered tint, adjusting saturation. Somedays I want the world Wizard of Oz and other days it needs to be antiqued; scratches and laminate peeling in the corner of rain clouds and sidewalks.
I am the postmodern lover of Sylvia Plath
I created you.
{I know you appear, vivid at my side, denying you sprang out of my head, claiming love fiery enough to prove flesh real. But it's quite clear. All your beauty, all your wit, is a gift my dear, from me.
In High School I told everyone I was a creationist before I knew what a creationist really was. }
In High School I told everyone I was a creationist before I knew what a creationist was.I believe in creation. Things are created all the time from nothing more than sparks, two rocks rubbing against each other rolling down the big hill. A little sunshine and we have a garden loosening the nailsof the backporch.
I believe in change. Things are created and then they folly or wisen to the conditions of their existance.
The term Creationism just seems too lovely to chalk up as the interrupting kid in Biology class.
{I justwant to be marvelous enough to be photographed by Lauren Dukoff}
August 29th : if life were any better I would have to start smoking. We all know it can only get worst if it gets bester.
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