7.04.2008
9.06.2007
Who Says?
I'm doing a shout out here.
Do we really need to get away from it all?
Just laugh about it , forget life's difficulties, say 'no' to worry?
Sorta yes, maybe, no, always, never mind?
I'm told that :"laughter is the best medicine" and "laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone"- but is that the only way to split existence?
Go with me on a little exploration:The key factor in all this seems to be that laughter punctures the pompous quality of 'my life is so hard' or 'my life is so different' - it reduces the need to take politics, fashion, sex, and life seriously, and it takes away the isolation. What's the difference between George Bush and a Chinese rug? Well the Chinese rugs lies really well at the expense of underpaid workers, and George Bush lies really well at the expense of...do you think George would look better under the dining room table or in the hallway?
And 'my mother still worries about whether I'll join society like her or not. Last week she sent me coupons for Lean Cuisine, Windex, Estrofix and - she's hoping I'll get thinner, clean more, and enter menopause.
What's the drug in laughter and is it the actual "who me, worry?" quality or is it the release from over concern about the centrifugal sense of me?
Maybe the question to ask is can you get there without laughter. Separating from the ego without the lancet of comedy...well there's meditation, and psychoanalysis, religion. Meditation requires quiet, time, and seclusion. That's not my life at the moment unless I start getting up at 5 AM and pray the helicopters aren't circling. Psychoanalysis takes a long time. Look at Woody Allen....do you think his issues are resolved or even questioned? Sometimes it seems that analysis is forever mired in the moment of 'you're fucked up! yes, I am!' and then that awareness is celebrated as the cause celebre is placed in various contexts. You know what Freud said about humor: that the really good guffaws came from repressed unconscious sexuality and aggression. Kind of takes the funny out.
And religion - turn yourself over to the higher power of your choice and let go of your precious self-involvement. fine, except most often it involves replacing one system with another that may just be just as tightly wound. Maybe I'm missing the ectasy part of the equation - not the tablet, those are just fine ...maybe I'm missing the point where release can happen with a chalice or a prayer.
Did this turn too serious? We need a joke....
A couple of New Jersey hunters are out in the woods when one of them falls to the ground. He doesn't seem to be breathing, his eyes are rolled back in his head. The other guy whips out his cell phone and calls the emergency services. He gasps to the operator: “My friend is dead! What can I do?”
The operator, in a calm soothing voice says: “Just take it easy. I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead.” There is a silence, then a shot is heard.
The guy's voice comes back on the line. He says: “OK, now what?“
Ah now where was I?
Do we really need to get away from it all?
Just laugh about it , forget life's difficulties, say 'no' to worry?
Sorta yes, maybe, no, always, never mind?
I'm told that :"laughter is the best medicine" and "laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone"- but is that the only way to split existence?
Go with me on a little exploration:The key factor in all this seems to be that laughter punctures the pompous quality of 'my life is so hard' or 'my life is so different' - it reduces the need to take politics, fashion, sex, and life seriously, and it takes away the isolation. What's the difference between George Bush and a Chinese rug? Well the Chinese rugs lies really well at the expense of underpaid workers, and George Bush lies really well at the expense of...do you think George would look better under the dining room table or in the hallway?
And 'my mother still worries about whether I'll join society like her or not. Last week she sent me coupons for Lean Cuisine, Windex, Estrofix and - she's hoping I'll get thinner, clean more, and enter menopause.
What's the drug in laughter and is it the actual "who me, worry?" quality or is it the release from over concern about the centrifugal sense of me?
Maybe the question to ask is can you get there without laughter. Separating from the ego without the lancet of comedy...well there's meditation, and psychoanalysis, religion. Meditation requires quiet, time, and seclusion. That's not my life at the moment unless I start getting up at 5 AM and pray the helicopters aren't circling. Psychoanalysis takes a long time. Look at Woody Allen....do you think his issues are resolved or even questioned? Sometimes it seems that analysis is forever mired in the moment of 'you're fucked up! yes, I am!' and then that awareness is celebrated as the cause celebre is placed in various contexts. You know what Freud said about humor: that the really good guffaws came from repressed unconscious sexuality and aggression. Kind of takes the funny out.
And religion - turn yourself over to the higher power of your choice and let go of your precious self-involvement. fine, except most often it involves replacing one system with another that may just be just as tightly wound. Maybe I'm missing the ectasy part of the equation - not the tablet, those are just fine ...maybe I'm missing the point where release can happen with a chalice or a prayer.
Did this turn too serious? We need a joke....
A couple of New Jersey hunters are out in the woods when one of them falls to the ground. He doesn't seem to be breathing, his eyes are rolled back in his head. The other guy whips out his cell phone and calls the emergency services. He gasps to the operator: “My friend is dead! What can I do?”
The operator, in a calm soothing voice says: “Just take it easy. I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead.” There is a silence, then a shot is heard.
The guy's voice comes back on the line. He says: “OK, now what?“
Ah now where was I?
5.18.2006
Writing Down the Mom
I’m doing it right now: I’m telling you the low down on the mom-writer phenomena.
Yep, writing down “the mom” perspective is the New Big Thing.
Just check your bookstore, and you’ll discover books tailored to the every type of mom possible. Titles tout the full-range of possibilities: slacker moms, mommies who drink, stay-at-home moms, have-it–all moms – along with inventor, balanced, frazzled, cool, dowdy, sexy, miserly, buff, soccer, punk, briefcase, depressed, ordinary, yoga, doctor, murderous - and let’s not forget “Hot” Moms.
Sometimes, it’s overwhelming. Which mom am I? What camp will I join? Can I be sexy and miserly at the same time??? If all these purport to be ‘the way of the mom’ which am I to chose?
And it doesn’t stop at books. On blogs and at poetry readings, women share tales of diapering tots in yoga class and taking their daughters to a Green Day concerts. Tucked away across the U.S.A. are writing groups comprised of moms tending to kidlets in carseats while they compose their next greatest poem or tome on mom-ly wisdom. In my writing classes, women shyly or bravely bring out their tales of single-parenting and dating strategies, all while managing the kids.
Why is everybody writing about motherhood? Mothering in the human race been going on for what - several million years (if you count the ancestors)? And for a long time, we only had Medea and the Virgin Mary to look up to. Somehow parenting still happened.
Not that I think the book explosion is bad. A mere 13 years ago, I was the first of my gang to embark upon the mothering way. At that time, I could have used an alternative description of the mom-e-tary unit: the mom book-phenom hadn’t burst upon the scene yet, so my reading was relegated to ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting” and a book of poetry or two donated by friends. Let’s face it, Sylvia Plath isn’t exactly inspiring maternal reading.
I longed to have some support for my left-of-center iconoclastic identity that didn’t seem to be changing just because I’d pushed out a 9-pound human that needed a lot of tending and caring. I still felt like me - not a page out of Redbook, Family Circle or Good Housekeeping. If only I had seen an image or two of an odd mom, or read an article about alt parenting while standing in line at the grocery store. Ah, then maybe I wouldn’t have worried about my urge to still boogie-in-the-basement (yes, that’s a metaphor) or to have a marguerita or two at a blues bar. These desire didn’t make me a bad mom…I was simply a self-doubting product of a static 60’s mom stereotype.
To tell the truth, there has been a slow, but steady, breakdown in the past 40-50 years in the uber-mommy model - both in media and actuality. Back in the 60’s, the “mom” role was identified with one of three mainstream role-models: June Cleaver, Donna Reed, and, oh hell, I can’t think of a third. Sure there were a few break-though voices: Phyllis Diller providing audacious relief from the Mom tyranny, and the ever brave Erma Bombek bringing humor and compassion to the most mundane circumstances. But for the most part, as a girl, I understood ‘mom’ to mean contained, perfect, supportive, clean, and narcotized.
But then, things started shifting. For me, it started with Jane Fonda. When I learned she was a mom, that blew me away. Then Yoko Ono. And then Roseanne and Anne Rice and Sandra Day O’Connor and Toni Morrison and J.K. Rowling, and even Martha Stewart – and Courtney Love and Hillary Clinton and all the Desperate Housewives and…well the list keeps expanding. I’m still looking for a few more scientists and philosophers to stand out in the mommy movement, but that’s my thing.
All these mothers have intriguing new stories – and they’re just the shiny, noticeable surface. I encounter moms everyday, right in my own neighborhood, that inspire me: from funky and tattooed to powerful and chic, from hip and slick to zen and centered. Immigrants, home workers, artists, executives - all pushing their carriages and taking the kids to school.
So again - why all the books and tapes and blogs? In my opinion, popular culture is doing it’s best to deal with the new multifaceted aspect of mothering. It’s writing down the mom: capturing new stories - absorbing them, reconstructing them, turning them around – and giving credence to new ways of being maternal. That way, it’s harder and harder to slip back on the narrow templates from days of yore.
If bewilderment arises when you see the rows of mom books, just realize that as the boundaries stretch, you have the choice to be, read, and write your own mom experience.
By the way, I’m still looking for a book about mid-40’s moms that still feel young, but don’t really party, and that desire a good paying job with great benefits and minimal hours. A book about moms that don’t necessarily think about sex and wardrobe all the time (just when necessary): moms that are concerned about global warming and multinational corporations, but still have an interest in cheesy movies and a Starbucks latte.
Guess I’ll just have to write that mom down.
Yep, writing down “the mom” perspective is the New Big Thing.
Just check your bookstore, and you’ll discover books tailored to the every type of mom possible. Titles tout the full-range of possibilities: slacker moms, mommies who drink, stay-at-home moms, have-it–all moms – along with inventor, balanced, frazzled, cool, dowdy, sexy, miserly, buff, soccer, punk, briefcase, depressed, ordinary, yoga, doctor, murderous - and let’s not forget “Hot” Moms.
Sometimes, it’s overwhelming. Which mom am I? What camp will I join? Can I be sexy and miserly at the same time??? If all these purport to be ‘the way of the mom’ which am I to chose?
And it doesn’t stop at books. On blogs and at poetry readings, women share tales of diapering tots in yoga class and taking their daughters to a Green Day concerts. Tucked away across the U.S.A. are writing groups comprised of moms tending to kidlets in carseats while they compose their next greatest poem or tome on mom-ly wisdom. In my writing classes, women shyly or bravely bring out their tales of single-parenting and dating strategies, all while managing the kids.
Why is everybody writing about motherhood? Mothering in the human race been going on for what - several million years (if you count the ancestors)? And for a long time, we only had Medea and the Virgin Mary to look up to. Somehow parenting still happened.
Not that I think the book explosion is bad. A mere 13 years ago, I was the first of my gang to embark upon the mothering way. At that time, I could have used an alternative description of the mom-e-tary unit: the mom book-phenom hadn’t burst upon the scene yet, so my reading was relegated to ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting” and a book of poetry or two donated by friends. Let’s face it, Sylvia Plath isn’t exactly inspiring maternal reading.
I longed to have some support for my left-of-center iconoclastic identity that didn’t seem to be changing just because I’d pushed out a 9-pound human that needed a lot of tending and caring. I still felt like me - not a page out of Redbook, Family Circle or Good Housekeeping. If only I had seen an image or two of an odd mom, or read an article about alt parenting while standing in line at the grocery store. Ah, then maybe I wouldn’t have worried about my urge to still boogie-in-the-basement (yes, that’s a metaphor) or to have a marguerita or two at a blues bar. These desire didn’t make me a bad mom…I was simply a self-doubting product of a static 60’s mom stereotype.
To tell the truth, there has been a slow, but steady, breakdown in the past 40-50 years in the uber-mommy model - both in media and actuality. Back in the 60’s, the “mom” role was identified with one of three mainstream role-models: June Cleaver, Donna Reed, and, oh hell, I can’t think of a third. Sure there were a few break-though voices: Phyllis Diller providing audacious relief from the Mom tyranny, and the ever brave Erma Bombek bringing humor and compassion to the most mundane circumstances. But for the most part, as a girl, I understood ‘mom’ to mean contained, perfect, supportive, clean, and narcotized.
But then, things started shifting. For me, it started with Jane Fonda. When I learned she was a mom, that blew me away. Then Yoko Ono. And then Roseanne and Anne Rice and Sandra Day O’Connor and Toni Morrison and J.K. Rowling, and even Martha Stewart – and Courtney Love and Hillary Clinton and all the Desperate Housewives and…well the list keeps expanding. I’m still looking for a few more scientists and philosophers to stand out in the mommy movement, but that’s my thing.
All these mothers have intriguing new stories – and they’re just the shiny, noticeable surface. I encounter moms everyday, right in my own neighborhood, that inspire me: from funky and tattooed to powerful and chic, from hip and slick to zen and centered. Immigrants, home workers, artists, executives - all pushing their carriages and taking the kids to school.
So again - why all the books and tapes and blogs? In my opinion, popular culture is doing it’s best to deal with the new multifaceted aspect of mothering. It’s writing down the mom: capturing new stories - absorbing them, reconstructing them, turning them around – and giving credence to new ways of being maternal. That way, it’s harder and harder to slip back on the narrow templates from days of yore.
If bewilderment arises when you see the rows of mom books, just realize that as the boundaries stretch, you have the choice to be, read, and write your own mom experience.
By the way, I’m still looking for a book about mid-40’s moms that still feel young, but don’t really party, and that desire a good paying job with great benefits and minimal hours. A book about moms that don’t necessarily think about sex and wardrobe all the time (just when necessary): moms that are concerned about global warming and multinational corporations, but still have an interest in cheesy movies and a Starbucks latte.
Guess I’ll just have to write that mom down.
10.05.2005
Hi!!
to me that is, since I'm the only one who reads these posts.
Sure bloging is a convenient way of talking to oneself, a nice track of the thoughts of the year in a recognizeable and comforting form, but to tell you the truth, it's also a bit disconcerting. Why, I may ask? Because I suffer from autodismemorgraphia.
Yes, you guessed it.
I forget what I write.
Do I?
Uh-huh.
As you can tell (once again talking to myself) I haven't posted my works on this particular blog in quite a while. The last date was May and before that the first flurry in February. There's other things I've been writing and this kinda slipped my consciousness. Thank god for auto password recognition otherwise I may never have remembered this user name and password.
Autodismemoriagraphia. Something like that. I'm surprised that I actually was thinking earlier this year, that my words were a recognizeable style, and that I may have something interesting to say once in awhile. Whoever penned the sentences was witty, struggling, revealing and funny. And inconsistent in a good way.
But I don't remember writing it all. Here and there a sentence, a phrase, a joke...but there's stretches that don't seem familiar at all. Who was it that took over my body, used my computer and password and blogged on to my life? Talk about the ephemeral nature of it all.
Wow. If I don't blog for a while and I read this will it still be me if I don't recognize it? Is it early signs of memory loss? Have I unhinged identity from the bricks of the past? I like that. Unhinged, my portal now floats in the cosmos, opening doors into whatever universe comes next.
Cool.
But I don't think I'll remember writing that either.
to me that is, since I'm the only one who reads these posts.
Sure bloging is a convenient way of talking to oneself, a nice track of the thoughts of the year in a recognizeable and comforting form, but to tell you the truth, it's also a bit disconcerting. Why, I may ask? Because I suffer from autodismemorgraphia.
Yes, you guessed it.
I forget what I write.
Do I?
Uh-huh.
As you can tell (once again talking to myself) I haven't posted my works on this particular blog in quite a while. The last date was May and before that the first flurry in February. There's other things I've been writing and this kinda slipped my consciousness. Thank god for auto password recognition otherwise I may never have remembered this user name and password.
Autodismemoriagraphia. Something like that. I'm surprised that I actually was thinking earlier this year, that my words were a recognizeable style, and that I may have something interesting to say once in awhile. Whoever penned the sentences was witty, struggling, revealing and funny. And inconsistent in a good way.
But I don't remember writing it all. Here and there a sentence, a phrase, a joke...but there's stretches that don't seem familiar at all. Who was it that took over my body, used my computer and password and blogged on to my life? Talk about the ephemeral nature of it all.
Wow. If I don't blog for a while and I read this will it still be me if I don't recognize it? Is it early signs of memory loss? Have I unhinged identity from the bricks of the past? I like that. Unhinged, my portal now floats in the cosmos, opening doors into whatever universe comes next.
Cool.
But I don't think I'll remember writing that either.
5.17.2005
obviously I don't have the blogging gene fully implanted in my consciousness yet. Also, i'm punctuation challenged and it's not a affectation or the rejection of society's arbitrary rules or the commands of language - no I just don't like reaching over to the shift key. it takes too much energy.
For those of you obsessively reading this melange of words on a yearly basis - there's so much to tell! I'm alive, I have some books, Max is kicking in the 5th grade, MM is doing stuff, and it rained a lot this year.
That's about it!
Seriously, I'm contemplating the nature of the universe, man's inhumanity to man, the relationship of creativity to existence, and the necessity of protecting one's home against termites.
more later
For those of you obsessively reading this melange of words on a yearly basis - there's so much to tell! I'm alive, I have some books, Max is kicking in the 5th grade, MM is doing stuff, and it rained a lot this year.
That's about it!
Seriously, I'm contemplating the nature of the universe, man's inhumanity to man, the relationship of creativity to existence, and the necessity of protecting one's home against termites.
more later
2.15.2005
Catholic Schoolgirl
"I liked the last outfit better, cause it had that Catholic schoolgirl feel."
So, to please the man, I went out and purchased three green and blue plaid mini-skirts, a bag of white knee hi's, five slightly too-tight white shirts with Peter Pan collars (and one green turtleneck), along with two pairs of very shiny patent leather loafers. At the Eagle Brand School Supply store they were a bit surprised when I asked to try the skirts on, but it was the middle of the year and business was slow: and the much too attentive man behind the counter said "you look good in a skirt."
I also chose a St. Mary's blazer, girl's size 14 - I'm not sure where St. Mary's is, but if its got both the Saint and Mary thing going, it's got to be good. I bought full-size bloomers, and an embarrassingly tight training bra at Macy's and finished it off with a set of Hello Kitty barettes at Savon and a 24K gold splurge of a crucifix at the local bodega. He's my Jesus too.
Later, at home, I scrubbed my face to a splotchy red, twisted what hair I could into two ponytails behind my ears, and donned the whole ensemble. Silverwire twisted around my teeth fulfilled that braces look, and I found a nice small pair of black glasses that slid down my nose for the full eigth-grade effect.
Catholic School Girl.
I wanna be you
I wanna live like you all my life
Catholic School Girl
You can be naughty or nice.
Who has touched you?
Will you give it up? Teasing with your little smile.
Underneath the skirt are you up to no good
Will you make the ruckus worthwhile
Answer teacher...
Are you wiggling? rocking back and forth in your chair
Making up the no and yes, giggling at the size of it
Yesterday you wrote on the wall that you loved me
That's not fair
CAtholic School Girl
I aspire to you
I'm gonna stay just like you all my life
Catholic School Girl
Catholic Fun Girl
Catholic Anytime Pearl in An Oyster
I'll be just like you
I'll be just like you
I'll be just like you
For the rest of my life
So, to please the man, I went out and purchased three green and blue plaid mini-skirts, a bag of white knee hi's, five slightly too-tight white shirts with Peter Pan collars (and one green turtleneck), along with two pairs of very shiny patent leather loafers. At the Eagle Brand School Supply store they were a bit surprised when I asked to try the skirts on, but it was the middle of the year and business was slow: and the much too attentive man behind the counter said "you look good in a skirt."
I also chose a St. Mary's blazer, girl's size 14 - I'm not sure where St. Mary's is, but if its got both the Saint and Mary thing going, it's got to be good. I bought full-size bloomers, and an embarrassingly tight training bra at Macy's and finished it off with a set of Hello Kitty barettes at Savon and a 24K gold splurge of a crucifix at the local bodega. He's my Jesus too.
Later, at home, I scrubbed my face to a splotchy red, twisted what hair I could into two ponytails behind my ears, and donned the whole ensemble. Silverwire twisted around my teeth fulfilled that braces look, and I found a nice small pair of black glasses that slid down my nose for the full eigth-grade effect.
Catholic School Girl.
I wanna be you
I wanna live like you all my life
Catholic School Girl
You can be naughty or nice.
Who has touched you?
Will you give it up? Teasing with your little smile.
Underneath the skirt are you up to no good
Will you make the ruckus worthwhile
Answer teacher...
Are you wiggling? rocking back and forth in your chair
Making up the no and yes, giggling at the size of it
Yesterday you wrote on the wall that you loved me
That's not fair
CAtholic School Girl
I aspire to you
I'm gonna stay just like you all my life
Catholic School Girl
Catholic Fun Girl
Catholic Anytime Pearl in An Oyster
I'll be just like you
I'll be just like you
I'll be just like you
For the rest of my life
2.07.2005
Searching Out the End
Lee is looking toward the next.
Lee looks for the rhythm to accelerate.
Lee hears the change of the sunset to from russet to black.
Lee hunts down sound, conjures images, harnesses words and plays with yesterday.
Lee waits for the rain to never end.
Lee is a searcher.
Lee dreams of the physics of the cosmos
Lee moves through theoretical indifference
Lee slices the moments into comprehensible bits.
Lee puzzles for patterns in the pieces
Lee is a searcher.
Lee looks for heart in the face of a dog.
Lee gives her heart away in hopes of a kiss.
Lee loses her way in the wishes of people who don’t wish for her.
Lee ties bows on empty packages,
Lee misses love in front of her nose.
Lee is a searcher.
Lee saves piles of read and unread books
Lee knows the answer is out there, and in here.
Lee forgets to remember, and remembers what she forgot.
Lee believes in what has disappeared and then mysteriously reappeared.
Lee sits poised on the edge of this and that, yes and no, stop and go.
Lee is a searcher.
Lee wonders what it would be like to live forever.
Lee wonders what it means to be good enough and believe it.
Lee wonders why the dreary news is the news that make the news
Lee wonders about the soul of possibility in every soul.
Lee wonders what it’s all about.
Lee is always searching.
Lee feels like a fool.
Lee escapes to a mountain top in her head.
Lee hurries to hide her thoughts in everyday chatter
Lee lives in speeding traffic lanes and drive-thru days.
Lee gets tired of searching.
Lee really likes the sound of her son’s footsteps.
Lee relishes his head on her shoulder.
Lee loves his soft stuffed tiger in his sleeping arms.
Lee slows down to be alive.
Lee stops searching.
Lee looks for the rhythm to accelerate.
Lee hears the change of the sunset to from russet to black.
Lee hunts down sound, conjures images, harnesses words and plays with yesterday.
Lee waits for the rain to never end.
Lee is a searcher.
Lee dreams of the physics of the cosmos
Lee moves through theoretical indifference
Lee slices the moments into comprehensible bits.
Lee puzzles for patterns in the pieces
Lee is a searcher.
Lee looks for heart in the face of a dog.
Lee gives her heart away in hopes of a kiss.
Lee loses her way in the wishes of people who don’t wish for her.
Lee ties bows on empty packages,
Lee misses love in front of her nose.
Lee is a searcher.
Lee saves piles of read and unread books
Lee knows the answer is out there, and in here.
Lee forgets to remember, and remembers what she forgot.
Lee believes in what has disappeared and then mysteriously reappeared.
Lee sits poised on the edge of this and that, yes and no, stop and go.
Lee is a searcher.
Lee wonders what it would be like to live forever.
Lee wonders what it means to be good enough and believe it.
Lee wonders why the dreary news is the news that make the news
Lee wonders about the soul of possibility in every soul.
Lee wonders what it’s all about.
Lee is always searching.
Lee feels like a fool.
Lee escapes to a mountain top in her head.
Lee hurries to hide her thoughts in everyday chatter
Lee lives in speeding traffic lanes and drive-thru days.
Lee gets tired of searching.
Lee really likes the sound of her son’s footsteps.
Lee relishes his head on her shoulder.
Lee loves his soft stuffed tiger in his sleeping arms.
Lee slows down to be alive.
Lee stops searching.
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