O! O! O!

Where did the semester go? I got so wrapped up in Othello, I didn't notice what time it was. My. I can't believe how long it's been since I posted. Actually, the truth is, this semester has been overwhelming. Ack. I'm glad it's over. Well, I sure enjoyed studying this play . . . we could go in all sorts of directions with this. But anyway. I must say that this semester was my first experience reading Shakespeare, and once I got into it, I couldn't get enough. We read Richard III, Julius Caesar, The Merchant of Venice, Twelfth Night, and finished with the famous Moor. I think I could have spent the entire semester studying Iago and Othello, and the fair Desdemona, too, of course. And I found a cool site for anyone who is interested in this most amazing bard: Open Source Shakespeare, which "attempts to be the best free Web site containing Shakespeare's complete works." Check it out. The cool clipart is courtesy FCIT.

Alack,

how is it that I find myself in the middle of the semester already? Where did the time go? And how is it that I find myself writing an essay on the villainization of Shakespeare's Richard III? Silly me. What thinketh I? I started out for a nice little lake swim, and find myself adrift in the middle of the Atlantic. Three pages...now going on seven, and I still haven't wrapped up my argument. Sigh. I must finish this paper. I simply must.

(still) crazy like a loon

"I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo."

from The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath

I've said this before; I'll say it again. Sylvia Plath is one of my favorite poets. The brilliance of her poetry is blinding in a very unsettling way; it's as if she has caught me naked in the vastness of my parched, cracked desert, sitting spread-eagle, under a cloudlessly hot indigo sky. She also wrote some startling prose. As I struggle to write a collection of short stories, stories which I hope will eventually become the wellspring of a memoir, I re-read her novel, The Bell Jar, for inspiration. Why do I relate?

When I was eighteen and lost (oh, hell, who am I trying to fool? I'm still lost), I went to a career placement center for women. They were going to help me get a good job, and they were going to teach me the things I needed to know: how to dress properly, the finer points of office etiquette, typing proficiency, and all the other things necessary for becoming a good secretary. Of course, I would have to work my way up to that, but receptionist jobs are very respectable, too, they assured me. I told them what I really wanted to learn was how to become a waitress. They couldn't help me.

Now I want to be a writer. I'm still looking for help.

I like to read startling books, no, I require startling books, when I need a nudge. The glass on my bell jar has cracked; it's too late to go back now. But how to proceed? I am new at all this; I haven't a clue what I'm doing. I am writing a memoir because I need to write it; I need an exorcism. Maybe what I write will be shit, I don't know. Or maybe I'll be the next Sylvia Plath.

Sylvia scares me. Which is exactly why I am so enchantingly lured, into her dark and intensely pulsating embrace. I was hoping that what I read would prod my brain to remember--to feel what I long ago embalmed in the bowels of my soul. I am at a loss to find the memories that have poisoned the very red of my marrow. Perhaps it is too late. Perhaps the demons of my pain have already killed me. Perhaps I will be unable to purge this fetid miasma from my belly. Perhaps I am indeed, nothing more than a still and empty hole in the eye of the tornado that I have created.

Welcome to my neighborhood

photo source: www.oddee.com

See more unfortunate towns: http://tinyurl.com/l9a9oj

Hulloo, everyone, I've missed you. I have been busy, though. I have written the first chapter of the memoir, and the book outline. Not quite ready to look for an agent, though. Soon, soon. Chapter one came out quite nicely; I will post a little excerpt for you later when I get it polished enough. I started chapter nine, too, I know, I know, I'm all out of order. But, um, duh. News flash: that's my life. All out of order. You'll just have to read the book, yo. Or visit my memoir blog for random updates: http://beautiful-blue-butterfly.blogspot.com/

In the meanwhile, I'm just trying to stay cool in this lovely California heat and pondering the tumbleweeds that got stuck in my belly button after the last winds. August...dog days. My ass is still fat, but I can't afford to buy a new swimsuit anyway, so what the heck? Took a nice little hiatus from the blog-thing in July. This is good to do every once in a while. People, you need to remember you are not virtual, you are still flesh and blood, well, most people are anyway. And besides, go take a look at the title of my blog. Keyword: random. That's me. D'ya think? Stay cool.

Oh, one more thing. I just got one of my flash fiction stories published in the August issue of poeticdiversity ezine, check it out here: http://www.poeticdiversity.org/main/index.php. You'll find me in the "prose" section. Cheers.

Here's to the crazy ones.

Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can praise them, disagree with them, quote them, disbelieve them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things...

Summertime Poetry Picks

S.B. Poet Laureate David Starkey Gives Us His Must-Read Collections in the Santa Barbara Independent

Focused on Killing the "Angel in the House"

A Look at Virginia Woolf's "Professions for Women"

After reading an actual excerpt from Coventry Patmore's "Angel in the House," one can see clearly why Woolf devoted so much time, necessarily, to "killing the Angel in the House." Even sixty-plus years after Patmore penned this tribute to his wife Emily, it is clear that Woolf saw this ideal -- written by a man -- of how a woman should conduct herself (the "Angel"), as a threat to women, and especially "professional women."

Woolf's conversational style is thoroughly enjoyable, and it is interesting that she noted "Professions for Women" was a paper she read to the Women's Service League in 1931. In this essay, presumably also a speech she presented, Woolf at length describes how the Angel frequently intervenes as she writes. The Angel tells her that as a woman writer, she must always "be sympathetic; be tender; flatter; deceive; use all the arts and wiles of our sex. Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all, be pure."

As the Angel continues to get in the way of her attempts to write, intelligently, her own thoughts, wasting her time and provoking her, Woolf describes how she finally "caught her by the throat" and tried to kill her. Woolf explains that "Had I not killed her she would have killed me. She would have plucked the heart out of my writing." Woolf also describes how the Angel "died hard."

In order to be successful as a writer, Woolf explains that "Killing the Angel in the House was part of the occupation of a woman writer." The Angel is still appropriate for all women of all professions, which is why she chose to spend so much time discussing her: "it is necessary also to discuss the ends and the aims for which we are fighting, for which we are doing battle with these formidable obstacles."
read the rest here: http://tinyurl.com/lpgn89

Word of the Day

daedal \DEE-duhl\, adj: 1. Complex or ingenious in form or function; intricate 2. Skillful; artistic; ingenious 3. Rich; adorned w many things


from dictionary.com

Word of the Day

from dictionary.com:

pule \PYOOL\, intransitive verb:
To whimper; to whine.

Word of the Day

from dictionary.com:

copse \kops\ noun:
a thicket of small trees or bushes.

The Genius of Renaissance Art

(Above: Garden of Earthly Delights, right panel; below, Fetus in the Womb. Click painting for a larger view)

In the south, Leonardo da Vinci in particular emerged as a gifted genius, who dramatically affected the world with his prodigious art and his curiosity about the way things work. Leonardo (1452 - 1519) was a true "Renaissance Man," in every sense of the word. One work of Leonardo, most commonly referred to as the Fetus in the Womb, is particularly telling of his inquisitive brilliance, and the contributions he made to society. Interestingly, he is probably more famous as a painter, especially for his painting of Mona Lisa. But in fact, he finished few paintings and kept a huge collection of notebooks where he recorded his drawings and notes of his studies and ideas (Kleiner 583). Leonardo was fascinated by the human body, and kept at least 13,000 pages of notes and drawings, which fuse art and the precursor to modern science, "natural philosophy" (Kemp). In this drawing, not only is his skill as an artist apparent, but it crosses over into his skill as a scientist and student of life. Because he was considered a successful artist, and knowledge of human anatomy was very important at that time in Italy, Leonardo had access to human cadavers at several hospitals and was given permission to dissect these cadavers (Kemp). One aspect of the human body he was interested in was the mystery of human creation. Study Fetus in the Womb, and his meticulous attention to detail is very apparent. He has scribbled copious notes around the figure, and is apparently working out ideas of how the reproductive system works with smaller sketches around the main one. In Leonardo's words,

"[t]his work must commence with the conception of man, and must describe the nature of the womb, and how a baby lives in it, and in what degree it resides there, and the way it is enlivened and nourished, and its growth, and what interval there will be between one degree of growth and the next, and what it is which pushes it out of the mother and for what reason it sometimes comes out of its mother's womb before due time" (Kemp).

During the same time far to the north, in the Netherlands, Heironymus Bosch (ca. 1450 - 1516) was dazzling his world with dramatically different visions and his mysterious imagination. Very little is known about Bosch, which makes his art even more compelling. It is not even clear when he was actually born; his birth date is approximated based on the appearance of a painting assumed to be a self-portrait done toward the end of his life (Smith). One of his most famous and most compelling works is Garden of Earthly Delights, a three-part painting on hinged wooden panels that close to reveal another painting, of the world during creation. Unlike the true-to-life detail of Fetus in the Womb, the Garden is wild and surreal, with scenes and stories that possibly tell of the dilemmas of sin vs. morality. There is much debate over Bosch's intent amongst scholars, but he appears to have in the least a great imagination, and probably a sense of humor. On the outside or backside of the painting, the world, painted only in greens and grays, is thought to be a depiction of the third day of creation; a small figure of God appears at the top left corner. God appears to have the weight of the world on his mind; already he seems to know that the humans will sin. Inside, the painting is spectacular, colorful, and surreal. It appears intended to be viewed from left to right, starting with Adam meeting Eve on the left panel, an event or scene full of sin and immorality in the middle panel, and demons torturing sinners in hell in the right panel.
Read the rest here: http://tinyurl.com/n4ql5b

this, of course, could be a metaphor for my life

I went to a bookstore and asked the saleswoman, "Where's the self-help section?" She said if she told me, it would defeat the purpose.

--George Carlin

Women Warriors

The Story of Ts'ai Yen in Maxine Hong Kingston's Memoir @ http://aclnk.com/ar1836267

Killer Art! Or, Just What Is It That Makes Today's Homes So Different, So Appealing?

Just What Is It That Makes Today's Homes So Different, So Appealing? by Richard Hamilton (1956)

The World at War and the Faces of Progress

During the first half of the twentieth century, events of the world occurred ever faster, globally and tumultuously; in particular, world powers fought in two devastating world wars and languished in the Great Depression in between. Globally, people witnessed a new set of -isms: Communism, Fascism, Nazism. The Industrial Revolution had taken off and was accelerating the world, at a faster and faster pace. Change was inevitable. By the second half of the century, the fast pace of progress seemed inevitable, and warring of the nations seemed perpetual. In the midst of such a challenging world, artists grappled with deep and disturbing issues and confusion, asking new questions. What, for example, was the meaning of art? What is art? What was the meaning of life itself? Artists began to see themselves as spiritual leaders of sorts, and felt compelled to make social commentary on the issues, change and devastation they saw all around them. Nature versus technology was a major theme, and later human rights and equality for all—especially for traditionally marginalized groups such as women and minorities; all of this in the face of the world's rapid change into ever-more mechanized modernity. In the face of the new reality—the new human condition—brought on by the these changes, and the devastation of the resultant wars, artists also sought to explore the meaning of permanence, sometimes in a hopeful manner, other times in despair.

Read the rest of my essay here: http://tinyurl.com/mdy67p

Don't Forget Dad

Shameless plug for my Amazon Associates Store:

Amazon Gift Cards for Dad on Father's Day... it's not too late!

The social media maelstrom

I am not a social media expert. I barely even know what the term really means. I do know, however, that there is a powerful tsunami swelling up in this ocean; it's a hot trend, and I need to figure it out fast. Oh, I've signed up, all right. But now what? I'm on Facebook, I'm on twitter, and I'm even on myspace. I've got half a dozen blogs. And yes, I have an account at LinkedIn. My name is all over Google now (scary). I suspect, however, that I'm putting my foot in my mouth via these avenues more than I am forwarding my cause.

I've met a lot of really great people through all these social networking sites, I must admit. All kinds of people from all kinds of places. And all these people seem to have their own agenda; some are promoting something, some are there just for fun. And, of course, you have your requisite pervert-scum-element lurking throughout. Gotta watch out for those creepy perps. But most of them are harmless; most of them are self-promoting. There are so many people selling something, I don't know who is left to buy anything. I'd estimate that a solid 80 percent of all the tweeple on twitter (yes, I'm for real) call themselves social media experts. How in the hell do these people make their living; really? I want to know. They all market themselves selling how-to-market-yourself books. e-books, no less. WTF? Maybe they make deals with each other: you buy mine and I'll buy yours.

More importantly, though, what is my goal in this murky maelstrom? Good question. I'm still trying to figure out how to answer that. Everybody else seems to have a clear purpose, even if they won't exactly tell you what it is. Maybe I need to sell something. But I don't quite get what all these people sell. I just want to be a writer, that's all. But writers, even wannabe writers like me, have to promote themselves, right? Maybe some day if I get something published, I'll have something to promote. Then I can sell my book from my blog, like all the other writers do. Meh. If somebody buys a book off my blog, I think I'll fall out of my chair. Well, anyway. I have a question of my own. How long do I have to body-surf here? These waves are big, and I can't tell where the tide is pulling me. My triathlon days are over, and when I played swim-bike-run, we never had waves this foamy and frothy, not even in the mass-starts of the open water.

What do I hope to get out of this social networking stuff, someone asked me back in January? I do know that I need to promote. Something. But I have some nagging feeling that my blog and my Facebook page aren't going to do that, whatever that is. If I don't expect to sell a book (that doesn't exist), why am I here? I sure don't want to be a social media expert. Well, actually, I do know the answer to why I'm here, but it's rather difficult to articulate. Because, frankly, while I do know the answer, I'm not entirely clear. Maybe I am clear about my goals, but I don't know how to explain them in reference to why I am on this blog, writing as you read. Make sense? Nope, doesn't to me, either.

Perhaps the simple answer would be that I want some publisher to stumble upon my blog and recognize my writing genius and sign me to a book deal. Aha, that's it!

Lost in the forest: 95% of blogs are abandoned

Why do you blog? Think you're going to make your millions? Just want to get something off your chest? Personal reasons? More lofty goals? If you pinned me down for my answer to that question--and my multiple blog-projects--I'd have to tell you that I still haven't figured that one out. Okay, okay, I do know. Well, I kinda know, but how to explain? Hmm. Blogging successfully is hard to do. It takes a vision, dedication, persistence, and patience. Have you ever started a blog only to abandon it or lose interest? Has your blog succeeded in its mission? Do you faithfully post to your blog(s)? A recent New York Times article says that most blogs are abandoned: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/07/fashion/07blogs.html

Tell me why you blog and whether you think you've succeeded; I'd love to know.

Or, Irregular Pearls of Influence

(Baroque) Art as Politics

Since the masses could not read, there could be no better way to feed them religion—Catholicism’s particular view of it—than through grand pictures depicting Biblical lessons and the dominance of Catholicism, figured the Church. One of the most interesting examples of art as propaganda for the Catholic Church is Caravaggio’s Conversion of Saint Paul, painted ca. 1603. In 1600, Caravaggio was commissioned to paint two pictures. One is Crucifixion of Saint Peter, a dramatic and unconventional work. The other is Paul’s Conversion, which hangs across the chapel from Saint Peter in the church of Santa Maria del Popolo in Rome. Also known as Conversion on the Way to Damascus or The Road to Damascus, this depiction of Paul’s conversion is by far the most intriguing of the two paintings. In this grand picture (it is over seven feet tall and almost six feet wide), Caravaggio portrays the moment described in the Bible, in the Book of Acts, when Paul (then Saul) falls to the ground in an epiphany from the Lord. The egocentric, Christian-hating Saul is on his way to Damascus, on a mission to witch-hunt Christians there. In Acts chapter 22, verses 6-7, Saul describes the moment: “About noon as I came near Damascus, suddenly a bright light from heaven flashed around me. I fell to the ground and heard a voice say to me, ‘Saul! Saul! Why do you persecute me?’” This information is important to consider when studying Caravaggio’s representation of the event.

Click on the picture to view a larger version.

The rest of my essay can be found here:

The Era of Baroque Art @ http://aclnk.com/ar1813622

seen in a store front

by my snarky friend Cheryl. Brilliant, I say.

baghdad redux

Wow... just returned from a long day at the Getty and then an evening at the Kirk Douglas Theatre (Los Angeles) to see the amazing play, Bengal Tiger at the Baghdad Zoo, by brilliant playwright Rajiv Joseph. Compelling story about the war in Iraq, ca. 2003. Dramatic portrayal of the tragedy of man's inhumanity to man. Chock-full of absurdities, atrocities, actualities; a vivid depiction of all the reasons war is inherently evil. If you didn't see it you missed out. (Click the photo to link to the Los Angeles Times review of the play.)

26 Newsworthy things you didn't know about me and didn't care about anyway

1. I am an extreme introvert.

2. I am a sucker for Weimaraners.

3. I did the Ironman Triathlon 7 times.

4. I want to travel the world before I die.

5. I'm such a bookworm, it's scary.

6. My favorite book is Jane Eyre.

7. I think Johnny Depp is cute.

8. I'm addicted to decaf-soy-with-whip mochas.

9. With any luck, I'll get my PhD by the time I'm 92. Still working at it.

10. I need to stop drinking diet cokes.

11. Intimidate me and I'm a skittish little hellcat.

12. Sylvia Plath is one of my favorite poets. "Female Author" is one of my favorite poems, except that my breasts are brown.

13. I'm a yoga-pilates nut.

14. I absolutely must watch From the Top at Carnegie Hall on PBS every Sunday.

15. I wish I could play the piano better.

16. I want to learn to play the harp.

17. If I could, I'd rescue every animal I came across.

18. My parents met in Nigeria. How cool is that.

19. I am a snarky, sassy shrew.

20. I think pedicures are imperative for a woman's mental health.

21. I think Anderson Cooper is cute.

22. I love Paula Deen, even though I don't eat butter.

23. I have an exceptional, inscrutable sense of humor. I get it from my dad.

24. The fat ass and frizzy hair I get from my mother. But I love her anyway.

25. People think I'm a white girl but I'm not. Can't you tell from the fat ass?

26. The last one is a secret. No, really, I just couldn't think of anything else to say.

Virtuality and the Roads It Can Lead To

So, I was having a virtual conversation with a member of one of my creative writing clubs earlier today (isn't that the way we all communicate now?). At a certain point in the conversation, this virtual friend (whom, of course, I've never met in person) commented--after offering me a generous proposal of marriage--that William Blake once wrote “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.”

My virtual fiancé then commented, Heck. I’m just along for the ride. Let’s all get aboard that train.

Well, I wonder where the road of paucity leads to? I seem to have gotten the wrong directions. It's all good though, lots of interesting things to see on the way!

The good news, of course, is that I accepted his offer. I shall invite you all. Better yet, I hear Las Vegas is hurting for business; perhaps they are offering cut-rate discounts at the Chapel of Love. In which case, I shall post the pictures on my blog.

Having fun, wish...

24th Annual Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival

The Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival is accepting submissions for its Second Annual Fiction Writing Contest. The winner will recieve a $1500 prize, a $500-value VIP pass to the festival (March 24-28, 2010), publication in the New Orleans Review, and more. Open to writers who have not yet published a book of fiction. For all the details, go to tennesseewilliams.net. Sounds like a good time to me!

NPR: Already Poor, Poets Don't Much Mind The Recession

How sad is that statement?

Here's the article.

Female Author

by Sylvia Plath

All day she plays at chess with the bones of the world:
Favored (while suddenly the rains begin
Beyond the window) she lies on cushions curled
And nibbles an occasional bonbon of sin.

Prim, pink-breasted, feminine, she nurses
Chocolate fancies in rose-papered rooms
Where polished higboys whisper creaking curses
And hothouse roses shed immortal blooms.

The garnets on her fingers twinkle quick
And blood reflects across the manuscript;
She muses on the odor, sweet and sick,
Of festering gardenias in a crypt,

And lost in subtle metaphor, retreats
From gray child faces crying in the streets.

Look what the cat dragged in

...I know, I know, I've been gone for a while, MIA, but I'm back. Throw me a party.

friends

When all other friends desert,

he remains. When riches take wings and reputation

falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love
as the sun in its journey through the heavens.

If misfortune drives the master forth an outcast
in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks

no higher privilege than that of accompanying him to guard
against danger, to fight against his enemies…

faithful and true even to death.

--From a speech given by the late Senator Vest of Missouri,

in the trial of a man at Warrensburg, who had killed a dog

belonging to his neighbor. Mr. Vest represented the plaintiff;

he won.

The speech is inscribed on the Old Drum Memorial,

Warrensburg, Missouri, 1870.

just a dog

Dearest Lindie:

I found you at the pound,

we busted you out of prison.

Quicker than 5-Second Nail Glue, fast friends instantly.

You defined loyalty. In a New York minute.

Like a child, you innately distilled

the purest meaning of love. Love so pure

it hurt. You wet-kissed me

when I cried. I kissed you gratefully

every night.

My BFF. I miss you.

I can do this!

I think. I can.

I think I can, Thomas

who is my friend said

so, and so I can.

http://tinyurl.com/dylmot

white plastic box

Because she is so
linda.
My best friend
ever.

Oh, God
I love her.
Why
did she have to die?

She's just a dog
they all said; just get another one.
Bury the body. In any old back yard;
now she's just a pile of bones, soon forgotten.
Alone, numb, weeping mutely, I lifted her stiff body.
Her once-warm heart no longer beating. One final trip in the car.
This last, a misadventure.

Would you bury your mom
in any old back yard?
A small, white plastic box,
its neatly typed label: Lindie Beller.
Renews my river of sorrow.
Hot, salty tears, torrents, sting my cheeks;
impossible heartache crushes my chest. Just bones. Now ashes.

Oh, dear God! the pain, its weight unbearable.
My heart, warm only from the blood still pulsing through it,
has cracked, ripped, fractured: tiny pebbles of glass
from a vandalized car. My heart, now a black hole never-ending.
Black as coal, dark and dense, and rough-edged.
My grief is fatal, hopeless, beyond recall.
Please, God, bring her back. please.

for sydney louise, continued

Oh, yes, and by the way
thank-you for the flowers, and the lovely sea-shells
adorning Lindie's resting-place, in the purple sky.

Alice, in Wonderland, a very silly girl
says in honor of your grandma and the color pink
I'm going to call you Squeezie! Just because.

Go to bed! It’s very late
the Princess looks like Grumpy Bear, early in the morning.
Oh! Thank goodness! There is no need to dress for school.

But my, oh, my, what do I smell?
Rebelliousness brewing, in the coffee-pot.
Please watch out, mama! This coffee can be hot.

couldn't sleep again last night

The Nightmare by Fuseli (1781)

a draft of my latest nightmare

I'm suffocating. In this thick,
oppressive, Mojave Desert
heat. Choking
in this dust-bowl. Stagnating
in this godforsaken, fruitless, one-
horse-town. Asphyxiating in this armpit
of America.

This barren desert earth mocks me
with a mirthful cackle.
This howling arid wind groans
with a forlorn song. Together
they sing, a cacophony
of baneful voices,
to my wearied soul.

for sydney louise, continued

Multi-colored crayons draw
kaleidoscopic rainbows
all by my niece Sydney, a most gifted artist.

I collect them all, to some day make
a great big, giant rainbow. So that I can climb,
into the sky, with diamonds.

It’s all in the mind y’know, that’s what Ringo says
and I’m in back, head in the clouds
then I’m gone!

Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
and then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

sonnet schmonnet

Sonnet for Rosetta

So proud, dear cousin, you were a Burton;
Sagacious, you changed; anew, a LeNoire.

You countered, embraced, a life of hurtin';
Like Joan of Arc, you battled in a war

As actor, as sage, as patient teacher.
The burning wrongs, to young eyes, a pity;

Your home, Hell's Kitchen: an angry preacher
For an innocent soul, in New York City.

Your mother, she died on a dirty floor--
Such anguish. Paltry words, with such a punch:

A hospital, Harlem, no blacks past the door.
Biting words, yours: Darkest raisin in the bunch.

But you broke the color bar, this: your berth
said The New York Times, when you left this earth.

Jelly-Belly

There once was a young lass named Shelly
who couldn't stop filling her belly~
From lemon merengue
to sugar-free Tang~
but NEVER unsweetened toe-jelly.

for Sydney Louise continued

random thoughts, from a random aunt

Shiny head of curli-cues
sweet, sweet voice of Minnie Mouse
or, Girl on Helium.

A Fashionista Dee-vine!
In lovely groovy bell-bottoms
and matching sequined purple purses.

When I die, I’m going to leave you
all my high-heeled shoes
and, all my books.

a better one

Torridy Lorridy
Moral Majority,
scourge of debauchery's
priapic zoo,

plague of all nympho- and
gynecomaniacs'
endless libidinous
hullaballo.

--Anonymous

a double-dactyl

Hestimus-festimus
Felix Domesticus
Regal as princes and
lazy as bums.

Partial to canned food and
ultra-magnanimous
folks who have got those op-
posable thumbs.

--Anonymous

Little Miss

Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet,
eating her curds and whey.
Along came a spider
who sat down beside her,
and frightened Miss Muffet away.

Little Miss Mary got rather hairy;
her nose, it started to grow.
Along came a bear
who said, "Hey! You there!
You ate my porridge, you ho."

Are you

up for the challenge?

A poem a day.

I don't want

to hear excuses,

go now; git!

Start writing,

or support

a poet and buy

his/her book.

Poor Shelly

There once was a woman named Shelly
who spent every night watching telly.
But she drank too much wine
in her crystal so fine
while she nibbled on cheeses so smelly.
And then one night~
in her winesoaked stupor
she fell into the pooper.
And that~
was the end of poor Shelly.

something to make you smile

Ray's my man. This is for all jazz lovers.

A Conversation

I was having a conversation the other day
with God, and I said, God
I really fucked up big time and I
made a smelly mess here, and God said,
Girlfriend (God calls me that when I’m
feeling like a rank pile of fusty brown poop),
Girlfriend, God said, you’re doing
just fine.

NaPoWriMo

For Sydney Louise
random thoughts, from a random aunt


Purple-pink teddy bears
are cordially invited, to a birthday tea.
With Ariel, Tinker Bell, and little brother Kevin.

And don’t forget a special guest
our favorite cupcake Hello Kitty!
Dressed to eat in pretty pink frosting.

She is six going on sixteen
such a beauty, such a Queen.
And she’s much, much, more: she's sassy, she’s smart, and oh! so sexy.

Happy Poetry Month!

Let’s read some great poetry! Let’s write some even better poems! Let’s turn our friends and family on to the pleasures of verse! And let’s have some boisterous, jolly good fun in the process! National Poetry Month is an annual celebration of the art of poetry, with the goal of increasing appreciation and support for poetry and poets. I challenge you.

National Poetry Month was started by the Academy of American Poets in 1996, and has been gaining momentum every year since. They've got some fun ideas for enjoying the art of poetry, and while the purists may groan, I think it's cool. Visit the Academy of American Poets at poets.org. Or visit the blog of your favorite contemporary poet. Buy his or her book of poetry. Write something. One of my goals is to write a poem every day (yikes!) I'll add some other fun ideas so I don't get bored, whenever the mood strikes me. Here's my first challenge to you: start out with some easy stuff. Pick one of your favorite poems, gather some friends, and discuss it with them. Pick something you wrote, or a famous poem. Why do you like it? What makes it good? If it's old, what makes it stand the test of time? If it's contemporary, what makes it stand out over others? Have fun!

Poet incenses police

National Poetry Day news

from The Zimbabwean:

http://tinyurl.com/d8jdl4

I was thinking of newcastle, really

God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.

--Anne Sexton

Okay, so what the

heck? I fell off the wagon, big time. And damn: what a disturbing thud there was when I hit the floor; even the ground was embarrassed. Me and my fat ass. So much for my eager vow to post on my blog daily. Excuses, I've got excuses. Nope, won't go there, no excuse. What kind of a writer does she think she is, can't even come up with some puny something to write for a blog that nobody even reads anyway? Well, at least I'm reading a lot. My current TBR pile makes my heart quicken with gladness: my favorite girl, Sylvia Plath. Dostoevsky, Anne Sexton, Maxine Hong Kingston, Tolstoy. Toni Morrison, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Lorraine Hansberry. It's fun when you mix it up. I think I belong to too many reading groups. I'm on my second read of Bharati Mukherjee's Jasmine, couldn't put it down the first time, and it's even better this time around. Getting ready to re-read Richard Wright's Native Son. Shudderingly disturbing work. Yummy.

somebody stop me!

I need to stay away from amazon.com, I think.

watermelon heaven

Now, if only I could craft my words as masterfully as this artist crafts his watermelons...

It never rains in Southern California

Dude, what are you talking about? It snowed.

valentine for my ex

Words

Oh, the words, the words,
the achingly
beautiful
inadequate
words.

--Terry Hertzler

Kooky Professors

Speaking of kooky poli sci professors and sitting in the front of class, I remember a favorite story from my days at CSUN years ago. My dad, see, was a poli sci prof while I was a coed there. I took two of his classes. Naturally. He was a great prof. No, really, he was. I can remember around registration time, you could hear whispers in the hallways of the poli sci department: Take Beller, he's the best. So, yes, I took his class. We secretly agreed to change my last name for the class, and none of the students knew my undercover identity.

Those were my triathlon days, and my boyfriend and I rode our bikes to campus. I swam at school. One semester I took Poli Sci 156, and swam before class. The chlorine from the pool always made my nose run terribly. It was so annoying, that watery distraction tickling my upper lip, as I would sit in rapt attention to Dr. Beller's colorfully animated lectures, sucking up his profound wisdom like a dry loofah.

At the end of every week, we would always take our suits home to wash the chlorine out. I always wrapped mine in my scratchy white gym towel, and carried it with me tied to my backpack until I got home. During one lecture, my runny nose was particularly pestilent. I was sniffling and snorting and it wasn't doing any good; the water was running like a busted faucet. It was so annoying. Still, I refused to budge from my front-row perch to escape to the hallway, where I might blow the chloriney liquid away for good. Unable to control the leaky Kohler that was my nose, I desperately grabbed my towel and wiped, thus averting a disastrous scene.

That was it. Silly me. Dr. Beller--Dad--in a great show of drama, stopped his lecture mid-sentence, his emphatically gesturing arms suddenly frozen. He made a dramatic, sweeping motion to turn and glare at me. "Good god!" he exclaimed incredulously. "Did you just wipe your nose with that towel?!"

I stared back at him, stunned, my face turning a hot shade of burgundy. The entire class gasped in unison, horrified. "Ohhh! Dr. Bellerrrrr!" they cried. How mean!

I got an "A" in class. And no, I didn't cheat. It was all scan-trons.

Honoring Women and Black History Month

In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens by Alice Walker is a collection of feminist essays, written very much about black women, but not exclusively -- it is about all women. Powerful is Walker's assertion of what poet Jean Toomer found when he walked through the South many years ago: "he discovered a curious thing: black women whose spirituality was so intense, so deep, so unconscious, that they were themselves unaware of the richness they held." This seems a curious statement, and yet somehow rings powerfully true.

Walker is a very thoughtful and insightful writer. There is so much packed into these essays, one doesn't even know where to begin. One theme is the enduring resilience and strength of women. Similar to Virginia Woolf in A Room of One's Own, Walker examines women's ability to become artists, in this case particularly, black women -- women who were denied, among other indignities, the means to learn to read and write, or express themselves in any way. "How was the creativity of the black woman kept alive," Walker asks, "year after year and century after century, when for most of the years black people have been in America, it was a punishable crime for a black person to read or write?" Walker refers to Phyllis Wheatley, a black slave of the middle 1700s, who was highly educated and wrote poetry, in reference to Virginia Woolf's essay; how was this slave able to become a writer if she not only had no money or a room of her own, but didn't even own herself? Walker continues with other examples of strong women, most notably her own mother, who ran away at 17 to marry, had eight children, did all the work at home plus labored alongside her husband in the fields.

The strength of women is inherited from their mothers, handed down the line unspoken. All of these women, says Walker, "our mothers and our grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see." This is the strength of women. Walker's works are a valuable contribution to the importance of women, regardless of race or color. In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens is a must-read for all.

We Real Cool

by Gwendolyn Brooks

THE POOL PLAYERS.

SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We

Left school. We

Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We

Die soon.

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15433
Click this link and listen to Brooks herself read the poem; it's a great treat, and I say it's required listening.

I Love Art

So, I have this prof, see, for my art history class. I'll call him Dr. D. He's crazy. He's passionate. He teaches art history, political science, and western civ. Go figure. I couldn't imagine taking his poli sci class. He speaks in riddles and metaphor, and when he wants you to write down a word he repeats it exactly three times, his voice rising one octave on each repetition. Like this: "art, art, ARRRT!" It's a lyrical melody I know by heart now. He gestures wildly with his arms, and beats on his chest when he wants to make a point. He gets so feverish as he flails that he knocks his papers or books, or whatever is in front of him, on the floor at least once every class period. I heard his textbooks only last one semester.

He gets in your face. He challenges you with weird questions. He gets so excited he spits. Bummer, because I like to sit in the front. One day he brought donuts for the class, two big greasy-pink boxes. At the end of the lecture he asked if anyone wanted the last three donuts: "I didn't spit on them, I promise," he said. "Well, only once." We roared, only because we knew it was true.

One of his favorite paintings is "The Scream," by Edvard Munch. He likes to open the text, hold it up in front of him, and smack the page where the painting he is discussing is located. One day he did that, he grabbed some poor coed's text off her desk in a moment of passion and, holding it to his chest, smacked the pages until they were crumpled. The poor girl. Yeah, he forgot to give her book back, too. Dr. D gets so excited, he yells, usually directly at one student. No one seems to know quite how to react, and yet he is loved--adored--by his groupies. He takes his groupies, anyone who wants to go, on field trips to see art exhibits and concerts. I'm signed up to go this Saturday.

No one took the three donuts.

Sylvia Plath reads Lady Lazarus

Lady Lazarus

by Sylvia Plath

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it--
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?--

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand and foot--
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart--
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.

23-29 October 1962
(Scroll to the bottom of the page to hear Plath herself read the poem -- it's wonderful!

Any More

You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

--Sylvia Plath
first stanza of "Daddy"

random, random

My mother, of course, told me I had a fear of success.

A Cackling Witch

My sister tells me I laugh like a cackling witch. Which really sucks, because I like to laugh. My brother tells me I'm too "sensitive." Which sucks because I really like people, and I really like to be social, and I really like to laugh. My other brother doesn't even talk to me. Did you know that I'm an introvert? Surprising, huh? I'm such a chatty cathy sometimes. But it's true; I took the Myers-Briggs three times, it came out the same way: INFJ; INFJ; INFJ.

So I finally figured out that I don't have to hate myself anymore just because I'm too sensitive. And I still sound like a witch.

I Hate Sonnets

a working draft...

Sonnet for Rosetta

So proud, dear cousin, you were a Burton.
Sagacious, you changed; anew, a LeNoire.

You countered, embraced, a life of hurtin'.

Like Joan of Arc, you battled in a war,

As actor, as sage, as patient teacher.
The burning wrongs, your young eyes, a pity;

Your home, Hell's Kitchen: an angry preacher,

For an innocent soul, in New York City.

Your mother, she died on a dirty floor,

Such anguish. Paltry words, with such a punch:

A hospital, Harlem: No blacks past the door;

Biting words, yours: Darkest raisin in the bunch.

But you broke the color bar, this: your berth

said The New York Times, when you left this earth.

http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9C07E4DC1338F933A15750C0A9649C8B63&scp=1&sq=rosetta%20lenoire&st=cse

My idea

of a delicious evening: hunkered down in bed, impregnably protected by my fortress of mismatched pillows, the low background rumbling of CNN to remind me I am not alone, a good glass of red, and my candy, my delicious candy. What kind of candy do I like to eat? Books.

That's correct, you heard me right. Books are my candy, and I eat them up; I gobble them. My happiest moments are when I am gazing dreamily at my TBR pile, which is perched atop my wobbly antique nightstand. (That's to-be-read pile, for you un-bookish-geeks.) On the floor below me sits another wonderful pile, seven hundred dollars worth of textbooks for my current load of 19 units -- yet unread, but beautiful to look at. On my thrift-store antique table-cum-desk is yet another pile: Best American Short Stories, Best American Poetry, Flannery O'Connor: The Complete Short Stories... the list is voluminous. The important part is that the mere sight of all these wonderful tomes and bibliothecae fills my belly with felicitous contentment and euphoric gladness.

Currently on my TBR pile include the new issues of The Atlantic, The New Yorker, and Harper's, and a pile o' books: Black, White and Jewish by Rebecca Walker, No Disrespect by Sister Souljah, Lost Lake: Stories by Mark Slouka, Permanent Visitors (Iowa Short Fiction Award) by Kevin Moffett (a signed copy!), and The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein. Great writers, all. Tonight I am alternating between two books that I can't get enough of. First is The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. I already noted in my post two days ago that Sylvia is one of my favorite poets, and why I'm reading The Bell Jar. So if you wanna know, then go read the post. The other book I am reading is The Healing Art of Pet Parenthood, by Nadine M. Rosin. Another amazing book, by a very intuitive writer and fellow pet-lover. The problem with this book is that I can't get through more than a few pages at a time before I'm bawling so frightfully that my eyes are too swollen to read another line. I just miss my dear sweet Lindie so much. Hopefully this book will help me heal and move to my next chapter, sans Lindie. I'll let you know when I finish the book.

This is when it's time to go refill my wine glass, take a pee break, and then start the process all over again. Excuse me, think I'll go read.

The race is on, yo.

Change

Now that the Obamas are
in the White
House, is it still
White?

Now that Barack Hussein Obama is the 44th President of the United States, I am listening to an awful lot of chatter about race. Why are we still discussing this matter? This really bothers me. I hear that there is a huge jump in racist death threats against our president. What the fuck, people? As a person who is bi-racial, or multi-racial, or mostly a member of the human race, I for one am tired of this shit. Wanna know what I'm tired of? I'm tired of this ignorant hate. I'm tired of black-versus-white. I'm tired of ignorant assholes who think I'm a white girl like them. I'm tired of getting elbowed in the ribs and I'm especially tired of getting let in on the joke. Wanna know what I think? I hope Obama is the first of 44 consecutive Black Presidents. Here is the beginning of a poem. Change, people, change. I'm done with this shit.

Red, White, and Blue

Red-and-white-and-blue
lights flickered in the dark room,
from the old t.v. set,
and the rhetorical buzz droned on
as we both sat and watched,
each in our own private thoughts.

pickaninnies in the White House
my friend said straightfaced,
and took a swig of her
Natural Light beer
then crushed it with her hand
as she reached for another.

crazy like a loon

"I felt very still and very empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo."

from The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath is one of my favorite poets. The brilliance of her poetry is blinding in a very unsettling way; it's as if she has caught me naked in the vastness of my parched, cracked desert, sitting spread-eagle, under a cloudlessly hot indigo sky. As I struggle to write a collection of short stories, stories which I hope will eventually become the wellspring of a memoir, I am starting her novel, The Bell Jar, for inspiration. I like to read powerful books, no, I require powerful books, when I need a nudge.

I am new at all this; I haven't a clue what I'm doing. I am writing this memoir because I need to write it; I need an exorcism. Maybe what I write will be shit, I don't know. Or maybe I'll be the next Sylvia Plath.

Sylvia scares me. Which is exactly why I am so enchantingly lured, into her dark and intensely pulsating embrace. I hope that what I read will prod my brain to remember, to feel what I long ago embalmed in the bowels of my soul. I am at a loss to find the memories that have poisoned the very red of my marrow. Perhaps it is too late. Perhaps the demons of my pain have already killed me. Perhaps I will be unable to purge this fetid miasma from my belly. Perhaps I am indeed, nothing more than a still and empty hole in the eye of the tornado that I have created.

Wow

“For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness. We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus -- and non-believers. We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.”

- President Barack Obama, January 20, 2009

Can you feel it?

My heart is

BURSTING today! Too many words are jumbled in my brain: HOPE; CHANGE; Yes We Can! Welcome, President Barack Obama, welcome. So proud. Just so proud.

"What if the mightiest word is love?" -- the poet Elizabeth Alexander at Obama's inauguration. Awesome.

bloggity bloggity

Well, I've done it. I promised you I would post the rest of my story yesterday and I didn't. (I forgot to tell you that I'm a flake, on top of the random smartassness I told you about earlier.) Sadly, I pretty much forgot what it was I was going to finish telling you. (See January 14's post.) Besides the fact that I am back in school, trying to act like a writer, and trying not to act like a loser. Some have argued that I shouldn't have even enrolled in any classes, since I couldn't even afford to put food in my mouth, but I argued back -- why not?, since I am miserable in my career path, currently unemployed, and apparently unemployable; why not go back and finish the degree that I started twenty years ago?! Why not tap into my share of all those tax dollars I paid for so many years, to get my education? Besides, what's the alternative, getting a job that goes nowhere, as a low-wage worker in an office, somewhere in Obscurity, California ? Hmm, what an encouraging thought. Exile myself into the impassive life of the uneducated bourgeoise. Clearly, I would fit right in.

The truth is, I went out of town this past weekend to celebrate my father's birthday and came back exhausted from the trip. But I haven't been completely unproductive. I started two more blogs. One is just for me (because I'm special!) and the other one I created as a journal of my Big Project. That's right, I have Big Things planned. Besides the amazing short stories and poignant poems I'm writing, I'm writing a memoir, and the working title of it is beautiful blue butterfly. (http://beautiful-blue-butterfly.blogspot.com/) Sounds pretty, doesn't it? And I assure you, it will be a good read, full of lots of juicy details and and dramatic pathos. I'm a study in confusion, an example of how not to mess up your life: a personal trainer and seven-time Ironman Triathlon competitor who can't get rid of her fat-girl mentality, and don't forget the four-eyes and the buck teeth and the frizzy hair. The frizzy hair, of course, coming from the fact that I have one white parent and one black parent. Only unlike one of my more famous brethren, Barack Obama, I don't look very black. (My parents married in 1958, when it was still illegal in several states -- miscegeny, they called it -- and years before MLK gave his famous "I Have a Dream" speech.) The confusion, of course, coming from all this. Oh, but the book will have so much more! Like the depression, the self-destructive behaviors, the foggy-brained wanderings, and the molestation-rape as a little girl. (Got a really cool poem out of that one.) Let's see, what am I forgetting? Oh, yes, the resultant infertility. That's right, my insides are rotting. There's much, much more, but if I told you everything now, then you won't want to read the book. So that's all you get for now. Heh heh.

One thing

that I'd like to say before moving on to more meaty subjects. I know you want me to finish my story, the one that I started earlier this week (http://randomaunt.blogspot.com/2009/01/you-are-so-inquisitive-dear-reader.html). I will tomorrow, I promise; it's a juicy story, I know. That will be a perfect way to close out the first week of my Big Blog Project, don't you think?

I just need to rant about one little thing. There are just some things that really bother me, and I need to get them off my chest. This is one of those things, and this one REALLY bothers me, every time it comes up. My feelings on this subject are beautifully reflected in this eloquent letter by Rick Sanchez of CNN (http://twitter.com/ricksanchezcnn for all you twitterholics), so I'd like to share it with you. Here you go: http://ricksanchez.blogs.cnn.com/2009/01/14/so-now-youre-a-correspondent-really-sam/

I have a little letter of my own:

Dear Sam, or Joe, or Whatever Your Name Is,

Who the h*** let you in front of a camera, anyway?

Sincerely,
Michele

That's all I have to say. What do you think? Just wondering.

White Plastic Box

Because she is so
linda.
My best friend
ever.

Oh, God
I love her.
Why
did she have to die?

She's just a dog
they all said; just get another one.
Bury the body. In any old back yard;
now she's just a pile of bones, soon forgotten.
Alone, numb, weeping mutely, I lifted her stiff body. Her once-warm heart
no longer beating. One final trip in the car. This last, a misadventure.

Would you bury your mom
in any old back yard?
A small, white plastic box,
its neatly typed label: Lindie Beller.
Renews my river of sorrow. Hot, salty tears, torrents,
sting my cheeks; impossible heartache crushes my chest. Just bones. Now ashes.

Oh, dear God! the pain, its weight
unbearable. My heart, warm only from the blood still pulsing through it,
has cracked, ripped, fractured: tiny pebbles of glass
from a vandalized car. My heart, now a black hole
never-ending. Black as coal, dark and dense, and rough-edged.
My grief is fatal, hopeless, beyond recall. Please, God, bring her back. please.

When all other friends desert,
he remains. When riches take wings and reputation
falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love
as the sun in its journey through the heavens.
If misfortune drives the master forth an outcast
in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks
no higher privilege than that of accompanying him to guard
against danger, to fight against his enemies… faithful and true even to death.

--From a speech given by the late Senator Vest of Missouri,
in the trial of a man at Warrensburg, who had killed a dog
belonging to his neighbor. Mr. Vest represented the plaintiff; he won.
The speech is inscribed on the Old Drum Memorial, Warrensburg, Missouri, 1870.

Dearest Lindie:
I found you at the pound,
we busted you out of prison.
Quicker than 5-Second Nail Glue, fast friends instantly.
You defined loyalty. In a New York minute.

Like a child, you innately distilled
the purest meaning of love. Love so pure
it hurt. You wet-kissed me
when I cried. I kissed you gratefully
every night.

You were my little Sugar Bear, my Sweet-pea, my
Belinda-bear. My Mama's Girl,
my Sister. I still save you
my sandwich half. Still save room
in the back seat of the car for you, ever ready for our next adventure.

We were partners: you and me. The endless azure skies and sage-filled canyons
of John Muir's wilderness knew our song by heart,
our blissful freedom treks
where you chased summer, the shadows of golden monarchs,
then frolicked, in winter's fluffy snow.

Fearlessly rough-and-ready, emboldened
by the Gypsy Kings in Dolby, we zigzagged cross-country,
Texas to Cali and back again, encore performances. Sacked out in our green 4Runner,
at the gray rest-stops. You protected me, ever ardent,
from the gray rest-stop gangsters.

How I long to inhale your perfumed sweetness again,
and nuzzle your coat, your velvety-grayness, and kiss your ears, your satiny-tenderness.
That certain way you reclined, paws delicately crossed, betrayed a certain sovereign mien.
I sometimes called you
my regal-beagle

as if you wore a sparkling citrine-encrusted crown of the finest, purest gold,
befitting your noble status as Queen of Weimaraners.
Your soulful eyes, exotic jewels of haunting yellow,
spoke erudite, scholarly volumes. My very own
William Wegman masterpiece.

You melted my heart, as deliciously
as Paula Deen melts buckets of butter
with your goofy ill-docked propeller-tail, and your cute little ski-slope nose. As brightly
as the sunshine, when it shimmies across the end of a gray rain, you delighted me
with your Alvin Ailey happy-dance and your irresistible, toothy dog-smile.

Lickety-split, I was your reason for living;
imminently, you were mine.
After fifteen quixotic years,
you surely ceased to be
Just a Dog.

You suffered in your love for me
until the very end.
I suffer
still.

I love you, little mama
I miss you.
Goodbye, Lindie Girl
goodbye.

Lindie is my BFF; my best friend forever; after a while I found myself wondering, who rescued whom? Click here http://www.weimrescue.org/ if you want to find out about rescuing one of these deliciously loyal, erudite souls. Lindie thanks you from heaven.

little adolf... huh?

This gem is courtesy of @andersoncooper from CNN. I promise not to rant politics, but this one's crazy. Take a look if you didn't already see it:

Little Adolf Hitler In Custody http://tinyurl.com/89e3gm about 2

Okay, honestly, everyone has a right to their choices, but I can’t help but find someone who chooses to name his poor little child ADOLF HITLER to be rather suspect. Makes my skin crawl. Can’t wait to hear the rest of the details on this one.

Maybe Joe –er, I mean Sam can cover this story, too?! Sorry, Anderson.

You are so inquisitive, dear reader,

I can read your mind. What makes her think she is a Writer? Okay, you outed me. Really, I’m a Loser. But I’m trying to change; really, I am. I lost my job in January 2008, and couldn’t find another one, that’s how this all started. Yup, I'm one of those ones who slept in her car for six months. And then I thought, “Why the hell am I doing this, and where am I going, anyway?” Fuck this, I paid my taxes, I want some of my share. And here I am now, naked, in front of you. Back in school; trying to grow up, do something with my brain. Which is huge, see, because of my amazing track record: a one-time high school drop-out and a two-time college drop-out.

It’s been a thousand years since I've been in school. And what an experience last semester! I could write a book about it, and it would go something like this: Penniless, jobless for six months, graduated from the car to sleeping on a friend’s couch, thankful she was feeding me, hoping “they” didn’t repo my car, petitioning for financial aid to pay for my classes, unable buy my texts. (Yes, "they" said I wasn't eligible for financial aid because I made too much money the previous year -- no matter that I'm sleeping in my car.)

Eventually, I figured out that all my books, except a couple, were available at the public library, but I had to request them from other branches -- an inter-library transfer. Had to wait more, as the semester ticked on. I finally got the library books, just as I was ready to drop out of my favorite class, Creative Writing (the only books the library didn't have). The worker-bees in the college book store must’ve thought I was dotty, because for a bit I was going in there, in stealth mode, and sneaking a read, trying to smuggle as much information as I could, from a five-minute skimming, once or twice a week. No, I didn't drop out of Creative Writing.

Eventually, on a referral from the Learning Resource Center (I started tutoring English there in October, but had to wait until November for my $280-dollar-monthly paycheck -- hell, that doesn't even cover my car payment), I got a private tutoring gig with a special needs kid who's home-schooling, worth sixty bucks a week. So in the sixth week of classes, I bought that one text. And a Starbucks Mocha. And a bottle of wine. As I explain myself, it occurs to me that the whole thing is kind of hilarious: How To Be a College Student on Zero Dollars Down (with a bonus section on How to Steal Fountain Drinks from the Cafeteria), by Michele Beller. By the way, I finally got financial aid, halfway through the semester.

That's enough for today, I'm tired now. I'll tell you the rest later.