Everyday People

I am fascinated by people. I love them -- I love us. I love shared moments with strangers. Not THAT kind. Not the being-felt-up-on-public-transportation kind, or the quicky-in-the-unisex-bathroom-kind (not that I would know anything about that), but more like what happened today in Target. Somewhere, a child I couldn't see was singing very loudly her own song -- the only lyrics seemed to be "I love the holiday season", which she just kept singing, making up her own melody as she went along, carefree as can be. I happened to glance up and made eye-contact with two women shopping an aisle from me -- we smiled at each other and began to laugh. It was a nice moment -- for just a minute or so, we got out of our own heads and thoughts and acknowledged something sweet and joyful happening in our midst.

I'm taking a Biology class on Saturday mornings from 9am - 2pm in preparation for a possible career change that may or not be coming down the pike depending on a bunch of variables. The class is a great mix of younger students and women my age. The class is taught by a young woman from Ireland, one of the students in the class is from England, one is from Bosnia, and one is from Nigeria (that's just the international students I know of). I've had an opportunity to chat with a number of the students -- particularly the ones around my age, and I love hearing their stories. Jackie worked on the assembly line at the Chrysler plant until they closed. She's my lab partner, and on the first day of class, she said she was scared she wouldn't be able to do this -- that it would be too hard and she just wasn't smart enough. But she stuck it out, and half-way through the semester, she's doing great. Beth is my age, and thinking of going into the same program as I am (Occupational Therapy Assistant). She came to class a few weeks ago, just two days after losing her mother to complications from diabetes, because she didn't want to miss class. Svetlana is from Bosnia, where most of her family still lives. She lives with her mother and young daughter, having lost her husband two years ago to pancreatic cancer. She told me that although she knows life would be easier for her if she moved back to Bosnia, she wants to stay in the States so that her daughter will have more opportunities.

Last night, I had the privilege of working an Indian wedding reception (one of my multiple jobs right now is working for a catering company). I say that it was a privilege because I look upon any opportunity to be a part of a different culture's traditions -- even if only in a very peripheral way -- to be a privilege. The place was full of women in beautiful, elaborate dresses and saris, and men in suits. The women seemed to mostly cluster together on one side of the room, and the men on the other. Some of the them must have been Muslim, because a group of women went up to the mezzanine level, out of the way of the drinks and hors d'oeuvre, took off their shoes, placed a tablecloth on the floor and began to pray. Soon after they finished, a large group of men came to the same place, and went through the same ritual. One man missed the prayers, and later went up to pray alone -- he asked me if I remembered which way the men faced when they prayed? I remembered, and showed him. Later, after dinner, a band of traditional musicians came to the stage and played and sang for a few hours. They wore bright tunics, and sat on the stage floor, on cushions. The music and singing was amazing. There was no dancing -- the guests pulled their chairs closer to the stage and listened and sometimes clapped along and shouted out approval (at least, that's what it sounded like to me).

If you know me (and if you're reading this blog, you do), you probably also know that I post a lot of political stuff on facebook. You know my politics (whether you want to or not). You know that I'm a liberal Democrat and I don't have a lot of love for the Republican party. But maybe what I don't say enough is that, when it comes to day to day interactions with people, politics doesn't much come into play. The strangers at Target that I shared a moment with, the women in my Biology class, the Indian/Muslim/Hindu guests at the reception -- I don't know their politics, and I don't care. They're all people -- flawed, hopeful, beautiful, sad, joyful, full of good intentions, sometimes kind and compassionate, sometimes angry and fearful. They're all trying to make their way in this world, just like me. Just like you. Might as well relax and be friendly.

Why Won't Ben Vereen Get Out of My Head?

I haven't been writing much these days. My brain feels full. After a little more than a year of being back in my hometown, I still don't really feel at home. It is interesting to me how relatively easy it was for me to move, over and over again, to new places where I knew few, if any people, and how I much I enjoyed "forging" a life in new environments. Ofcourse, I was mostly moving for theatre -- either to go to school, or to work, and so I was meeting like-minded people. There were classes and meetings and rehearsals and productions, all of which occupied our hearts and our minds almost 24/7. It felt at times as if we were all on a great quest. We knew that making a life in the theatre/arts was foolish by most peoples' standards, but most of us felt that we had little choice -- theatre was "in our blood".

And then my dad died, and it was if a "switch" was turned off in me -- everything stopped. Or I should say, I stopped -- and everything else around me kept moving, often at what seemed to be break-neck speed. I had stepped off the proverbial merry-go-round. I haven't really been able to get back on since.

And so here I am. No costumes, no sets, no scripts, no characters to hide behind, and I feel like I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. It's a big, fat cliche', I know, but I've always really felt more "myself" on the stage, in the rehearsal room, or even in front of the classroom, than I ever have in "real" life.

I first saw "Pippin" when I was 16 or 17, I think. It came through town and played for two weeks ( Robbie from the TV show "My Three Sons" played Pippin - he was really good!) --I saw it three times during those two weeks. "Pippin" was to me what "Rent" was for the young people of the 90's, or what "Spring Awakening" has been for many young people today -- it spoke to my restless, yearning young self who wanted least of all to live an "ordinary" life.

I'm a tad embarrassed to admit it, but it still speaks to me today.

Eat, Kvetch, Drive

Elizabeth Gilbert wrote a lovely book called Eat, Pray, Love, which has been turned into what I'm sure is a lovely movie starring the lovely actress Julia Roberts. I read the book about a year and a half ago, and it was... lovely. By now, you're probably familiar with the story -- the author tells us how, after a difficult divorce and a confusing relationship with a passionate, younger lover, she decides to "find herself", and takes off for Italy (to enjoy life/food), India (to pray/meditate) and Indonesia to ... well, I don't remember what she went to Indonesia for, but she finds love. Real, true love.

That's nice.

Actually, I did enjoy the book quite a bit -- particularly the "eat" and "pray" parts. Gilbert's a very friendly writer -- conversational and funny. And I was drawn to the book because I also have my three "I" countries I long to visit, two of them being, in fact, Italy and India. I also really want to go to Ireland. Not quite as exotic as Indonesia, I know, but man, can the Irish tell a great tale and play some pipes and whistles!

I think what Ms. Gilbert's successful book might've done is opened the flood gates for all kinds of memoirs of "self discovery". I want to be the first on the bandwagon! My book would be called Eat, Kvetch, Drive. Here's the blurb: After losing her father and her full-time job, our author decides to move back to her sprawling, mid-western hometown with her domestic partner and cat. Hilarity ensues as she attempts to find work, deal with her ailing, problem-ridden mother, and try to figure out what to do with the rest of her life. A joyous romp through middle-age, not to be missed!

I played with a variety of titles -- eat, mope, sleep almost won.

What would you title your past year's "journey of self-discovery"?

Beach Boy Summers

I've always wanted a "Beach Boys" summer. Not that I've ever had a hankering to hit the waves, or bake on the beach in my plaid bikini. I think I just want to be something other than hot, sticky, besieged by mosquitoes and lethargic during what is supposed to be the most glorious time of the year.

Most people seem to love summer. Farmer's Markets! Bountiful Gardens! Grilling and Cold Beers on the Patio! County Fairs! Vacations at (take your pick) the family beach house, the family lake house, the family cabin in the woods, the family mountain chateau!

I was invited once, many years ago, to a weekend graduation party at a "family beach house" on Lake Erie. The house was huge and beautiful and almost literally on the lake. It was decorated in the way that vacation homes seem to be -- that sort of "haphazard-on-purpose" look that included lots of old paperback summer novels and well-worn board games and straw hats and old oars and fishing gear hanging about. At night, we slept with the windows open -- no air conditioning needed -- and the breezes from the lake, and the sounds of the waves lapping up against the beach lulled us to sleep. "I could spend my whole life here", I thought. "I could die here". Thankfully, I didn't.

Growing up, my summers did not include farmer's markets! bountiful gardens! country fairs! grilling and cold beers on the patio! or any vacations at all (except one summer when my dad had saved money so that we could all take a Greyhound bus to Colorado to visit his sister!). I didn't spend my summers at a woodsy camp with an Indian name, or take long road trips in a paneled station wagon (we didn't own a car).

What I remember most about my childhood summers was the sense of freedom all of us neighborhood kids seemed to share. School was out, we had nowhere we had to be, nothing we had to do. None of the kids I grew up with went to summer camp. Most of us didn't have lake or beach houses. Though we lived in the land of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, we didn't run through the woods or build rafts -- we were city kids, and we ran the streets and alleys. We swam in big galvanized tin pools (affectionately called "hoosier hot-tubs" in these parts) in friends' backyards, we played in basements, some days we practically lived in our swimming suits. Adults appeared only to offer us kool-aid and popcorn, or slices of watermelon, or to call us home if the street lights had come on and we were still out in the streets, playing SPUD. Days were hot and humid, mosquitoes had their way with our little tanned limbs, but we didn't care -- we were too busy chasing balls down the alley, riding bikes, making up stories, and playing dress-up to notice.

Maybe that's what I'm missing about summer these days -- the playfulness, the fun, the freedom. Take those things out of the equation and for me, summer is mostly the hot, humid, uncomfortable days you have to get through until you can make it to fall. And that's kind of too bad. I think I'm going to have to find a way to make next summer a "Beach Boy" summer.

Hurt Toys

When I was a kid, our local discount store, Venture (akin to K-Mart), had a section in the back of the store called "Hurt Toys". It was just a few shelves of slightly damaged toys, all marked at a discount. I would often go back there to look at what unfortunate toys had found their way to those shelves. While I could always walk away from broken trucks or board games that were missing pieces, anything with a face was hard for me to resist. Once I bought a stuffed rabbit with one ear.

The other day, after relating this story and talking about my affinity with strays, misfits, and all things broken and abandoned, my counselor asked me (sometimes, you just gotta pay someone to listen to you and ask the hard questions) "Are you a hurt toy?"

Yeah, I think I am. I don't know why I think that, but I always have. In some ways, I think we all are like hurt toys -- we all have those "broken" bits, some of which are perhaps visible to others, some we keep hidden. Maybe part of growing up is learning to love those broken bits in ourselves.

Don't even get me started on "The Velveteen Rabbit".

SO Yesterday

I've been spending a lot of time in nursing homes during these past 6 or 7 months. My mom, who is only 68, is unfortunately old before her time. Being hard of hearing, legally blind and diabetic along with having poor balance and trouble walking, along with a host of other physical and mental challenges, landed her in an assisted living residence about 7 years ago, where she is expected to be somewhat independent. Lately, frequent falls have been sending her to the hospital, and then on to "skilled nursing", which takes place in nursing homes.

Look online for "photos of nursing homes", and you'll likely find pictures of smiling, well-groomed seniors, interacting with friendly staff members, or taking part in lively group activities. "See?", these photos seem to say, "Being in a nursing home can be FUN!". ( A side note: I am reminded of when I was in grade school -- a Catholic school -- and they'd have "Vocation Day", when nuns and priest would talk to us about what it was like to give your life to God. The nuns showed us slides of young-nuns-in-training, all in curlers and t-shirts and shorts, piled into a VW Bug convertible, making goofy faces and the peace sign with their fingers. It looked like one big slumber party to my fourth grade brain. Sign me up!!)

But back to nursing homes. Look up "nursing homes" online or in your phone book (if you still have/use one of those relics) and you'll find lots & lots of them. Chances are really good that the city or town you live in is full of building after building dedicated to caring for old people in their final days. But many of the people aren't really all that old. And many of them are nowhere near their "final days". There's simply no place else to put them.

Life moves fast, especially in our culture. We are driven by speed. Things cannot go fast enough for us. We are always grasping, reaching for the next, new, shiny fast thing, and ready to just discard what came before. We value youth above all else. If you move too slowly, if you can't keep up, you get pushed aside.

I would love to see a day when all the people in nursing homes were brought outside into the streets -- on a beautiful, warm day -- and the streets and sidewalks would be full of old people in wheelchairs, just sitting, claiming their rightful place in this world.

Is This My Home?

It has been almost a year since I moved back to the place of my birth. Home.

There is the place where you're born, and maybe raised. The place where you learned to ride a bike, created secret hiding places, and buried stuff in the yard. There is the place where most -- or some -- of your family live. Where you went to school, maybe where you got your first after-school job, where you began to carve out a little space in the world for yourself. It is an address and a phone number you remember by heart. It is where someone is waiting for you.

Then there is the place where you feel most alive -- where you feel most yourself. A place where you can breathe. A place that feels open and full of possibilities. A place that speaks to you as if you were a long-lost friend or lover -- "You've been gone so long -- welcome back". No one is waiting for you but the place itself. And that feels like enough.

For some people, these two places are the same. The place where they feel most alive -- most themselves -- is the place where they grew up. Their roots are deep and far-reaching, giving them strength. The familiarity is both comforting and freeing. There is a rhythm to their life that was set when they were small, that marks the passing of the years in a steady beat.

For some people, these two places are not the same. One was chosen for them, one was chosen by them. One place was strictly the luck of the draw, one place was revealed -- perhaps by circumstances, perhaps by choice -- to be their "true" home. A place where they are not bound to the past. A place that is mostly "now" and "tomorrow". A place that lends itself to dreaming.

I have suspected, for quite some time now, that I belong to the second group of people. I don't really know why this is so. I have a few hunches, a few theories maybe. I think maybe I came back here to find out.

Life, Still

There have been many, many times in my life when I could wax poetic on the virtues of sitting down to a perfect cup of strong, dark tea (with milk and sugar) and buttery, crumbly shortbread, or a rich cup of coffee and a piece of homemade pie, or a nice glass of wine, some olives and good, crusty bread. There have been many, many times when I could sigh over such things and think "Life doesn't get any better than this, really". Simple pleasures.

Now does not seem to be one of those times. Yes, I am aware of spring everywhere and I note the gloriousness of buds and birds, of fluffy clouds, of sweet strawberries and warm patches of sun. I note them, I appreciate them, I thank the universe that I am here and part of it all. But somehow, it's not enough. Not at this time.

At this time, I want red (isn't that a Sammy Hagar song? "Red! I want red, there is no substitute for red!". I know Red is play on Broadway right now -- nominated for Tony awards).

At this time, I want courage -- the courage to paint my small life in bold colors and large brush-strokes, if I choose. The courage to bloom, to be messy, to be more myself than I've ever dared to be. I love Matisse's painting The Red Room (Harmony in Red) because it is both small and large at the same time -- the subject matter is just a woman arranging what looks like fruit on a tray -- a small, insignificant domestic task. But the way he paints this task makes it glorious and bold -- a little risky, a little sexy -- how can you look away?

What He Said

My poor blog. Like millions of other writers, poets, pundits, artists, mommies, entrepreneurs, fashionistas, hipsters, fanatics and lunatics out there, I started this blog with the best of intentions. I wanted to write, and I wanted to connect with others. I still do. But damn, if life doesn't get in the way sometimes. The past few weeks, it's been hard for me to justify spending a few hours a week working on this blog when I have no income. Ofcourse, spending hours cruising Craig's list and local want-ads and sending resumes out to faceless employers in cyberspace hasn't exactly proved fruitful, either. Getting work is always about who you know -- it always has been.

In fact, I did just land a short-term gig for the early part of the summer, through an old friend -- working wardrobe for a big-deal Opera company. I am grateful for the work, and really excited to be a small part of something so big and luscious and grand as the Opera (although frankly, my personal aesthetic is much more akin to small and tasty and scrappy). I hope the divas are nice.

Resurrection

Like many kids in the mid-western city where I was born, I was raised Catholic. I attended our neighborhood Catholic school from kindergarten all the way through high school, and then even went so far as to graduate from a Jesuit university. I consider myself fortunate -- and I would even dare say typical of folks my age -- in that most of my memories of my Catholic education were pretty positive. By the time I was in school, most of the nuns of the "old regime" -- the "whack 'em with a ruler if they're not paying attention" school of classroom management -- were either dead, or were getting too old to teach. Not that that didn't stop a few of the old broads from trying, but they were thankfully a dying breed. Most of the nuns I encountered were very kind. They could be stern at times, yes, but also funny and wise and suprisingly hip. They were good people.

I am no longer a practicing Catholic, although Catholicism is sort of like herpes -- once it's in your system, you'll always be a carrier. No, I am no longer a practicing anything. I find religion sociologically and anthropologically fascinating -- I'm just not interested in belonging to a church. I am not much of a "joiner", for one thing. For another, my relationship with God (I do believe in a higher power) feels very personal to me -- not something I want to proclaim to all. Although I have to say -- last fall I went to an Episcopalian service with Bug to hear his offspring sing in the kids' choir, and it happened to also be the Blessing of the Animals. The church was full of adults and kids with their dogs, cats, hamsters, snakes, turtles, bunnies and other creatures. It was the best service I ever attended. If I found a church where animals were welcomed to every service, I might actually consider joining -- there was something lovely and humbling about celebrating with the animals.

All this to say, like most fallen Catholics, there are certain times of year when I feel the "tug" of old rituals and deeply ingrained stories moving me to act. I'm sure all religions are full of great stories -- they would have to be to have lasted so long. Everyone loves a good story. The stories I'm most familiar with are those I grew up with -- those of The Bible and Jesus Christ. And to me, that's just what they are -- stories -- more metaphorical than real, which as far as I'm concerned, does not diminish their power. Those early Christians sure knew what they were doing when hooking up their stories to pagan celebrations. There are certain times of the year when we need to be reminded that all is not lost -- that the darkness will pass -- that new life can spring from even the deadest of places. Even from the grayest asphalt of mid-western cities. Even from the saddest of fallen Catholic souls.

Hallelujah.

Walk With Me

walking from blu on Vimeo.

Moving back to the land of sprawl and cars, cars, cars has been hard on this ol' gal. I learned to drive only a year ago out of necessity (and the desire to conquer a fear that had grown over time to rather epic proportions), and I'm glad I did -- it's good to have options. But I don't like what it's done to me. Driving isn't healthy. It's changed the way we live in the world -- the way we shape the world around us, the way we structure our time, the way we interact (or not) with each other. Driving is all about the destination -- about getting from Point A to Point B as quickly as possible and filling the in-between time with as many distractions as possible (phone calls, texting, eating, putting on makeup -- it's amazing the things people try to accomplish while driving).

Come walk with me. Life is all around you -- on a lovely day, all of humanity is out in full-force: there's an elderly couple digging in their garden, there are kids of all shapes and sizes on bikes, on skates and skateboards, boys wrestling in the grass, girls gossiping on front stoops. Babies are as abundant as rosebuds in early summer -- pushed around in strollers by teams of moms and dads, slung on hips, toddling unsteadily across lawns and playgrounds. Dogs trot happily alongside their humans. Cats lounge on porches, or stare longingly out of windows. As you walk, you pass a shop you hadn't noticed before -- you go in -- it feels like a discovery. You leave the shop with a used book, or a new pen, or a homemade fudge brownie -- or maybe nothing, but you know you'll be back later. You keep walking and almost step on a severed Barbie head -- no sign of the rest of her body anywhere around -- you pick it up and put it in your pocket -- a souvenir. Or maybe you find a lone earring -- something a little gaudy and young, lost by a teenage girl while in an argument with her boyfriend over how come he kept talking to Maria, that skank, all night, instead of her? You are surrounded by stories -- stories of love, betrayal , abandonment, despair, hope, joy -- behind every door and window, laying on sidewalks and in storefronts and propped up against dumpsters in alleys.

If you drive all the time, everywhere you go, you miss all of this life. All of this beauty and sadness and violence and tenderness. Get out of your car. You know you want to.

Keeping it All in Perspective

So, I went out for lunch this past Friday with a friend I hadn't seen, or been in touch with, for about 20 years (thanks, facebook). She arrived, we hugged and exchanged compliments ("You look great! You haven't changed at all!"), ordered our food, and sat down to begin the process of catching up on the past two decades. Suddenly, I felt light-headed, faint. She was asking me questions, but it was all I could do to breathe. I apologized, explaining that I was feeling a bit dizzy and faint. At that moment, I fully understood Ricky Bobby's (Will Ferrell's character in Talladega Nights) urge to strip down to his underwear and run around the race track screaming -- had I been the lead character in a comedy film I might've stripped down and splayed myself out across a row of tables, laying in people's chicken salads and hummus, causing everyone around me to recoil in disgust as I'm led out of the cafe', big globs of salsa & bean dip dripping from my Hanes Her Way briefs.

Side note: Why would that not be funny? (because I guarantee you, a general audience would be groaning in disgust over such a scene). Why is it that middle-aged, soft-bellied guys can strip down to their tighty-whities, smear food all over their bodies and run around and it's funny, but if soft-bellied, middle-aged women do it, it's pathetic and disgusting? This begs further investigation for another post.

Anyway, it wasn't a film, it was real life, so I remained fully clothed and relatively composed as I said to my friend "Would you mind taking me home right now?"

It has been a rough winter, to be sure. There's a reason I called this blog "Incredible Exploding Head". I keep feeling like something's gotta give.

Thank God for Monty Python. Life can be so difficult, so sad, so painful -- it can be a challenge at times not to let it all get to you. Sometimes the only thing for it is to watch "The Fish-Slapping Dance", and just revel in the sheer absurdity and silliness of it all.

Gatherers

Sometimes, when I'm feeling nostalgic, or restless, or just plain lost, I walk around my home and pick things up -- here's a very small round, smooth stone-like container with a crystal inside, given to me by a now long-lost friend many years ago in Kansas City; here's a small animal skull I fished out of a bin labeled "miscellaneous skulls" in a store in SoHo; here's a little bisque figurine I found buried in the dirt in West Virginia. There's something about the tangible nature of these objects -- holding them and looking at them -- that brings me great comfort -- they remind me of who I am, of where I've been, and of the people and friends I've had the great good fortune to know. They somehow bring me back to me.

That said, I am not really a collector -- I find "collections" to be rather cloying -- shelves and shelves of essentially the same thing -- frogs, or elephants or angels or salt & pepper shakers or what have you. Once people find out you collect something, you can never get away from it -- every birthday, holiday, you're bombarded with more "Precious Moments" or "Beanie Babies" until you've no choice but to turn over whole rooms of your home to your collection, with special display cases and lighting. I suppose it's something to do -- something to occupy your mind so you don't have to think about where your life went so wrong that all you can do is sit in a room full of "Cabbage Patch Kids" and weep for your long lost youth.

No, I am a scavenger of sorts, a gatherer. When I was a kid, I wanted to be an archaeologist, and that fascination with "unearthing" things -- old letters, recipes, notebooks, objects, bones -- has stayed with me my whole life. Everything has a story to tell (it's up to us, the gatherers, to discover what that story is).

I have moved quite a bit over the years, and have gotten rid of a lot of stuff. A "rule" has sort of emerged regarding what to get rid of and what to keep: if an object has a good story or a good memory attached to it, or if it just makes me really happy, then I keep it. My house is full of good stories.

P.S. First saw this beautiful video here. These three blogs -- even cleveland, Squid ProQuo and Letters of Note all have inspired me to think about ephemera (love that word!) and collecting and gathering.

What the World Needs Now

About a week ago, Onion and I were heading East to go see his ma. Being relatively "new" here still, we didn't anticipate the entrance ramp to the highway coming up on us quite so quickly, so we were in the wrong lane. Onion slowed down, put on his blinker to indicate he was trying to get over, and began slowly to inch his way towards the right lane... one car passed, another, then another. Thinking perhaps he had an opening, Onion started to make his move when one mightily-pissed off driver honked and screamed at us -- obviously, he either hadn't seen us, or had, but had no intention of letting us in. Being on the passenger side, I glanced over to see the guy we had enraged -- shaved head, some piercings, tattoos, snarling and cursing at us, showing us his middle-finger.

"Oh, fuck you!!" I suddenly found myself screaming back him. "Would it have killed you to let us in?!" This guy looked pretty big and mean, but in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to get out of the car and kick his ass. This is laughable, of course, because although I am not exactly small, I'm a pretty peaceful Bird by nature and not particularly known for kicking ass. The guy screaming at us probably kicked ass for a living. He sped off, quickly zooming past all of the other cars on the highway until he was well out of our sight.

I can still see the guy's snarling face, full of rage, screaming at me. And I can easily recall how incredibly angry I felt -- how much I hated the stranger in the next car, and how I wanted something bad to happen to him for being such an asshole. Onion had said "He's probably a really nice guy" and I replied "I doubt it. He's probably a selfish prick. He certainly drives like one."

Having been to counseling in the past (I'm one of them ruminators, remember?), I realize that my anger wasn't just about that one guy screaming at us. In that moment, that snarling face represented everything that's been pissing me off for weeks (months?) now -- both in my personal life and in the political arena.

I've been thinking a lot about empathy lately -- obviously, I could use a little work on this myself. I found this passage, from a commencement speech made in 2006 by then Senator Barack Obama:

The world doesn't just revolve around you. There's a lot of talk in this country about the federal deficit. But I think we should talk more about our empathy deficit - the ability to put ourselves in someone else's shoes; to see the world through those who are different from us - the child who's hungry, the laid-off steelworker, the immigrant woman cleaning your dorm room.

As you go on in life, cultivating this quality of empathy will become harder, not easier. There's no community service requirement in the real world; no one forcing you to care. You'll be free to live in neighborhoods with people who are exactly like yourself, and send your kids to the same schools, and narrow your concerns to what's going in your own little circle.

Not only that - we live in a culture that discourages empathy. A culture that too often tells us our principle goal in life is to be rich, thin, young, famous, safe, and entertained. A culture where those in power too often encourage these selfish impulses.

They will tell you that the Americans who sleep in the streets and beg for food got there because they're all lazy or weak of spirit. That the inner-city children who are trapped in dilapidated schools can't learn and won't learn and so we should just give up on them entirely. That the innocent people being slaughtered and expelled from their homes half a world away are somebody else's problem to take care of.

I hope you don't listen to this. I hope you choose to broaden, and not contract, your ambit of concern. Not because you have an obligation to those who are less fortunate, although you do have that obligation. Not because you have a debt to all of those who helped you get to where you are, although you do have that debt.

It's because you have an obligation to yourself. Because our individual salvation depends on collective salvation. And because it's only when you hitch your wagon to something larger than yourself that you will realize your true potential - and become full-grown.

Yes. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. This is why I voted for this man.

I find it relatively easy to feel empathy for others -- unless they hurt me, or piss me off. Onion was probably right -- the snarling guy in the car probably is a nice guy -- probably has tons of friends and laughs readily, maybe has kids that he gently tucks in to bed each night. Maybe when he looked at my snarling face, I reminded him of every woman who's ever screamed at him about -- oh, about whatever multitude of things women scream at men for. Maybe he just lost his job. Maybe, if we sat down and had a cup of coffee together, we'd discover we had a lot in common. Maybe not. But I'm fairly positive we wouldn't end up screaming at each other.

Years ago, there was a play (later turned into a movie) called Tea and Sympathy. I'm thinking maybe it's time now for Coffee and Empathy.

The Ruminator

the thinker by Wilf

I read an article this weekend in The New York Times about depression. Turns out I'm a "ruminator" -- a person who, like a cow chewing its cud, "chews" over and over the same stuff in her head. People who suffer from depression are likely to be ruminators, as are artists, writers and other creative types.
I'm gonna go think about all of this for a bit.

But make no mistake, "I'll be back".

Whose Side Are You On?

This is indeed one of the most important -- and perhaps contentious -- debates in American culture right now. Forget Democrats vs. Republicans, Left-wing vs. Right-wing, creationists vs. evolutionists, Mothra vs. Godzilla -- when the Great Revolution comes, Americans will have to take a stand: Bacon, or Tofu?

As an elitist, enlightened liberal, this decision has the potential to cause me great angst. I've seen documentaries (well, at least one, anyway) depicting a pig slaughter house, and yes, I got kinda teary-eyed -- how cruel! how inhumane! how freakin' delicious! As a highly evolved liberal, I KNOW that tofu is a better choice -- for the planet, for my body, for the poor pigs being slaughtered. I know this, and yet the smell of frying bacon makes me drool like a baby -- if I walk into an IHOP, or Denny's or Perkin's or any neighborhood diner, any resolve I might've had flies out the window.

Don't get me wrong -- I don't hate tofu. In some cuisines, it's preferable to bacon -- I don't want curry with bacon, or pad thai with bacon, or stir-fried vegetables with bacon (although I think I may have just come up with a new idea for a restaurant). I even bought a cookbook a few years ago -- I Can't Believe it's Tofu!. The problem was, I could.

So when the time comes -- when the gauntlet has been thrown down -- I know which side I'll be on -- and it will include a side of pancakes.

P.S. OOps, almost forgot -- bad blogger! -- for you physical types that aren't satisfied with merely discussing this topic, you can act it out with these bendable action figures, available for purchase here
or here.

What's a Gal Gotta Do to Get a Job Around Here?

Fact: I am currently unemployed. Resolved: I will never, ever, put the following on any resume', curriculum vita or application: "Check out my blog!"

I was going to write this post about what it's been like to be unemployed for the past 9 months -- the longest I've gone without a job since I was 16, I think. And about mid-life career changes and how, unlike many folks my age, I HAVE followed my "passion" for the past twenty-something years, managed to make a meager (but always fun & interesting living), but now find myself zooming towards 50 with nary a nickle in retirement savings, and no health care.

Instead, I'm going to write about the picture I posted, and what that says about me. Here's the other one I was going to post instead:



Cute, right? Still makes the same point, but not nearly as offensive.

See the thing is, I have sort of a subversive sense of humor. I have been fortunate in that most of my work has been in the arts/theatre, where people like me are plentiful -- "birds of a feather" dontcha know. But out in the "real world" -- well, one must behave oneself, and conduct oneself in a manner befitting a professional. One must wear the proper attire and utilize power-point presentations whenever possible. One must exhibit a demeanor of seriousness at all times. One must hang out at the trendiest bars and get totally trashed every weekend. One must pretend.

Alas, my ability to pretend extends only so far. As Frank Zappa says "You ain't what you're not... you are what you is". And I is ... well, perhaps that's what I really have to figure out.

Timing is Everything

I have to admit, I was pretty fond of my last post, "You Don't Know Jack". I mean, I found this amazingly powerful photograph (that someone else took), accompanied by a great article (that someone else wrote), and then linked them oh so succinctly to my own thoughts and -- damn, if I wasn't feeling like a writer! So, I let it sit there for a few days -- I liked that it was the first thing you saw when you came to my blog. Sort of like having a really poignant welcome-mat (is there such a thing?)at your front door.

Now what? "Well, ladies and gentlemen, I guess that about wraps up this blog. I'm such an amazing writer I've managed to sum up the whole of human existence in 6 or 7 posts. I'm off now to create the next great work of art -- shouldn't take me long!"

It seems this situation calls for The Farting Preacher. Nothing brings you back down to earth quite as well as a few expertly-timed farts.

Don't Know Jack

You know, I don't think there's anything I can say right now that will not seem trite -- or inappropriate -- against the backdrop of this photograph. I was going to write about how my life feels "frozen" these days --how everything just seems stuck, unable to break up and move. While searching for images to accompany this post, I found this photo almost immediately. Taken by Max Ortiz for The Detroit News, it accompanies this article.

I, of course, was using "frozen" simply as a metaphor. But I am not homeless in Detroit in the dead of winter, where metaphors mean jack-shit.

R.I.P

Side by Side

Or, same sentiment, different medium/artist:

From "Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking"

Two together!
Winds blow south, or winds blow north,
Day come white, or night come black,
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all time, minding no time,
While we two keep together.

by Walt Whitman


She calls him Bear, he calls her Bird. Bear's a homebody -- would prefer spending time in his den to just about anywhere else, loves his long winter's naps, and contentedly wears grooves in the paths of his life -- he'd prefer not to have to think so hard and so much about things, and just do what comes naturally.

Bird, though, is a restless soul. Nesting, then flying, then nesting again, then flying, and on and on. As she gets older, the flying part is getting more and more wearisome, for though she's a bird, she doesn't travel particularly lightly (damn all of those books and magazines and craft supplies and record albums!) Still, she has a habit of saving cardboard boxes and bubble wrap. She looks at maps, and plans escape routes.

Bird sometimes feels stuck in jobs, in places, in situations, but she never feels stuck with Bear. Every day feels like a new adventure. She nudges him, wakes him from his slumber, and shows him a different path to tread, and he always, always gives her a warm, sturdy place to land. And so onward they go.

My Brain Hurts

I feel like crap. The worst part is, I don't know why I feel like crap. Sometimes, you get a head cold, or bronchitis, or something like that, and you know what it is, and you know that it will pass. Or you pull a muscle, or konk your knee, and you know that it will heal. You know that in a week or so, you'll be back to your old self again. This time isn't like one of those times.

I hate not knowing things. I remember when I was in kindergarten, I took to letters and words easily -- even before going to school, I was looking through books and practicing writing letters and even making up my own words (the biggest spanking I ever got was for writing my made-up words all over our blue upstairs walls in orange crayon). The first time I was introduced to the concept of math, however, I cried. I still remember so clearly sitting in a little chair at a little table with three other little kids, and choking back sobs as I tried to figure out how many sticks I'd have if I had three to begin with, and my friend gave me three of hers. I suffered upset stomachs and dry heaves most mornings for the first few months of first grade, all because of math. Eventually, something clicked in my head and I "got it". The dry heaves went away.

So when I'm feeling like crap, and I can't get in to see a doctor because a.)I recently moved and don't have one yet b.)I'm unemployed -- well, actually I was offered a job, but I can't start until my fingerprints have cleared, and after two tries, the nice folks at the fingerprinting place still can't seem to get a clear enough set of prints on me, so technically, I'm still unemployed which means c.)I'm uninsured, although I did apply for insurance online a few weeks ago, and after filling out a lengthy application and then going through a lengthy interview over the phone, I'm still waiting to be approved -- anyway, when I can't get in to see a doctor right away, I will self-diagnose (it's so easy, what with the Internet and all) and fret. I think I've got it narrowed down:

*Labyrinthitis
*Vestibular neuritis
*hypothyroidism
*hormonal imbalance (menopause is looming, after all)
*some kind of vision problem
*something viral -- a mild flu that won't go away

Ofcourse, lurking in the back of my head -- in the back of my dizzy, lightheaded, water-balloon of a head -- is the word "tumor". It's written in orange crayon on the blue walls of my head. I shouldn't have written it there, but I did. Now I'm just pretending that I didn't, because that's the least likely thing it could be. I know that much.

I made an appointment to see an ENT. I'll get to see him in the first week of April. My brain hurts.

Trickle Down & Out

This graph haunts me. I can't stop thinking about it. Take a good look at those numbers. In 2005, the average C.E.O in America earned 821 times that of a minimum wage earner. In 2005, minimum wage was $5.15 an hour. That works out to $4,228.15 an hour for a C.E.O. Perhaps by now that number has dropped somewhat. Perhaps -- probably more likely -- it has risen. The Economic Policy Institute's website is chock full of these kinds of sobering facts.

Unless those C.E.O's possess some kind of magical powers -- are able to shoot lighting bolts out of their asses, or heal the sick with just a gentle touch of their mighty hands, I can't justify the humongous disparity in earnings between them and their lowest paid workers.

Anyone who has ever had kids, or worked with kids, knows how much time is devoted in teaching them to share. Maybe C.E.O's need to go back to preschool until they learn to share.

I Wanna Be a Coal Miner

You never know what you're going to find on this blog. Think of it as one of those funky little second-hand boutiques you sometimes stumble across while wandering around a Big City, or maybe even a run down, musty junk store with a grizzled proprietor hidden in a corner, eating bologna sandwiches and reading vintage issues of MAD magazine. You get the idea.

Yesterday I was on my mini stair-stepper, watching a really interesting interview on LinkTV, when I saw this commercial for coal. Actually, the commercial was part of the film/documentary, "Burning the Future: Coal in America", and the interview was with the director, David Novack.

Trying to make burning coal and coal mining sexy -- blows my mind.

Funny Thing About Music...

The four of us were in Geez's van, I think, heading for the funeral parlor to finalize the arrangements for our dad's viewing. A cold, bright "Black Friday", we were all a little groggy from the night before. Dad had waited until we were all in town, until we had all had our Thanksgiving meal, until all of the kids had whispered good-bye and gone off to bed, to finally take his last breath. We were in the dining room, playing movie trivia, so I expect the last sounds he heard were the four of us and my sister-in-law yelling out names of movies -- "Citizen Kane!", "Ben-Hur!". My dad might've even been playing along in his head, beating each and every one of us at this game -- he loved movies about as much as he loved us, as much as he loved his cats.

So we're in the van, and Bug, the youngest of us, says "Hey, you guys want to hear this CD? I'm playing this all the time now, and I think you'll really like it -- especially this one song...".

In my mind, we're in the van, and it's cold, and I'm sad, and I'm listening to "White Winter Hymnal" by Fleet Foxes, and I keep seeing my dad in his final days -- a little baby-bird of a man, so frail, so small -- not at all like the dad I knew growing up. And I remember a song he sang to me when I was little, something about "saucy little chickadees" in winter snow.

Recently a friend posted on facebook that she was listening to "White Winter Hymnal" and dancing around her kitchen. I don't think I'll ever dance when I hear this song.

Look Ma! I'm Bloggin'!

Whoda thunk it? I just got my driver's license at the age of 46, and now I'm blogging? Somebody stop me, before I get an iPod!