Fading Lily

a terse message on the answering machine:
not coming home today
mother won't wake up
pallative care
tell the boys
take care
love you
bye

i'll just wait and watch

It was like sawdust, the unhappiness: it infiltrated everything, everything was a problem, everything made her cry - school, homework, boyfriends, the future, the lack of future, the uncertainty of future, fear of future, fear in general - but it was so hard to say exactly what the problem was in the first place.   -Melanie Thernstrom, The Dead Girl

I don't ever want to become the girl I once was. Because she was the one that could relate to this.

And I don't want it. Anymore.


~RS
March, 2005
Used With Permission

Memorial Day

The Explodo Boys - 1976

At least once a night the bickering would stop, the arrangements would coalesce, and Jimmy would take over the room, his '61 Les Paul pushing a Twin Reverb, growling and moaning; you were powerless to resist. Beethoven rolled over as you dug those Rhythm and Blues and everybody got hot and sweaty. Then the party left the bar and went elsewhere, all night long, and in the morning the sun began to shine…

Installation

Finished up a sound system installation today: A new restaurant, Spoonriver, located across the street from the new Guthrie Theatre complex. The creative forces behind the project are Brenda Langton and her husband, Tim Kane. The opening of any restaurant is an exciting, chaotic affair; thousands of little pieces of an interlocking puzzle that must be fit together, the sound system is but a small part, simple compared to the food handling and prep, or even the lighting, decor and furnishings. Still, the audio component is one of the five senses, in a restaurant setting its role is to mask neighboring conversations, while not stepping on your own. There are some tricks and gizmos that help to even out and keep the music in the background, it always annoys me when I go into a place where the sound system is not adjusted properly- it's loud, but you can't understand anything.

When I finished the wiring, I turned it on, hoping for the best.

It worked perfectly! No "hot spots", echoes, peaks or dead zones. Tim and I were having a conversation and as we spoke the music filled in the gaps, but did not intrude. Hopefully, the new place will be as successful here as their other café, where the food is sublime, delicious and healthy. It isn't really work to be a part of this endeavor...any time I can help make the world a better place (choir swells in background) it is true art.

Fish Tale

Big Swan Lake, Todd County, Minnesota, Summer, 1962.

Fishing in a boat rented from my dad's uncle Henry (the ex-bootlegger), we were out on a warm summer's day, catching some fair sized sunnies in a bay by a marsh on the far side of the lake from where our tent was pitched. The action was pretty good, in fact so good that we failed to notice the massing of thunderheads to the southwest. A few very large raindrops dashed our fish frenzy; a big storm was headed our way. My dad tried to start his cranky outboard as the rain really picked up. He had an old-fashioned trolling motor, the kind where you wrapped the rope around the flywheel by hand, fiddled with a manual choke, gave that rope a quick pull, and hoped for the best.

The rope broke. Us kids were getting pretty scared as the lightning started to increase. Dad gave up on the motor, and started to row us toward the nearest shore.

The oar broke. It was pouring now.

He finally managed to get us to a cabin on the opposite shore, where a kindly couple took us in and gave us towels.

It has been said: "A successful fishing trip is one in which you eat the fish, and the fish don't eat you." This one was somewhere in between, methinks.

Best Answer so Far

"Why does anyone write but in search of a soul mate? A good ear readily lent to what the writer has in mind. A confidant on call to respond with the right sigh or shudder or chuckle when the writer has, to his or her own tentaive satisfaction, made things clear. It is childish to expect this imaginary friend, the ideal reader, to be embodied in another person, perhaps especially another writer, whose expectations are comparably - which doesn't mean compatibly - childish." - Roy Blount Jr.

OK, so now I'm starting to understand why I am doing this blog thing.

Folks' Booze

   I grew up in what seemed to be Beaver Cleaver's neighborhood. Lot's of kids, Mom at home, Dad working during the day. Divorce happened to other people. One thing that Ward and June Cleaver didn't have was booze. All our folks had their stash. Mine kept a bottle of Windsor under the sink. When he had a beer it was only in the summer- when I was young he favored Hamm's- as he got older he could be caught with a bottle of Cold Spring or Special Export. These were all lagers, but not really the same as a good German beer. We'd sneak a taste now and then but didn't drink much as these local beers were a bit heavy on the hops; the watering down of American beer didn't really take off until the end of the 60's.

   Kevin's Dad liked the onomatopoeic "Gluek's" which spoke its name clearly when you poured it from the bottle. Big Bill's Dad had a real liquor cabinet, which got Bill and some of his friends in trouble once - the legendary "Schoch's Booze" incident. Mrs. Lewis, however, had a different strategy for keeping his 6 kids out of trouble. She bought the worst beer- Fox DeLuxe- a brew so foul that he could keep the case right out in the open in the basement where we played, knowing full well that it would remain unmolested.

Lover’s Lane

We had driven out of the city and found a side road in the country, away from lights and traffic. The moon was setting, the night noises had diminished. I moved closer to her, hoping she would reciprocate, this was hardly the first time for either of us but she seemed tense and distant.

“What is it? There’s something on your mind, isn’t there?”

“I heard about a couple that was attacked in their car, it was out west here somewhere…”

Now I was the one feeling tense. It suddenly got very quiet.

“OK, let’s get out of here…”

“Thanks.”

We drove home in silence. The dark side won that night. There would be other nights, however…

Where Will My Eden Be?

Hi you, two booths down
Would you like to join me?
You see
It's been years
since I've had a man
You know.
To slap me around.

I would love to
But I have weak wrists
Can't make a fist, he sighed
I can only kiss you
violently to show you
You know.
Who is boss.


~RS
September, 2004
Used With Permission

Freight Train Blues

Driving home from work on the back roads has its virtues, but one drawback. The railroad crossing. I wasn't in a rush that day last week; the trains are fun to look at, in sort of a geeky train-spotting way. (That last sentence speaks volumes about the ease of keeping me entertained!) The rail cars, often in colorful decorations by illegal artists, roll by in a steady stream, their contents a catalog of the economy. Many of the cars, the older shabby coal cars, had been filled with scrap metal. Headed to Pittsburgh for recycling into new ingots? No, these were going west, to China. I had an uneasy feeling about that. The nations' wealth being outsourced to a foreign country, to be processed and sold back to us? This makes a much sense as the 1.6¢ penny. But as least there is some activity. I have a nagging doubt that once this boom ends, we will be stuck without a viable industrial base, and our paper wealth of stocks and futures will vanish, along with my retirement. Let's hope I'm wrong.

An Icelandic Home Companion

Tonight I listened to the NPR radio show A Prairie Home Companion which had been recorded earlier this week in Reykjaví­k. Garrison Keillor, its host and writer, brought a mixture of music, drama and nostalgia to Iceland at the urging of his friend, the writer and virtual "Poet Laureate" of Minnesota- Bill Holm. It is kind of hard to be objective about GK when he has been a part of your life for thirty years, the good and the bad start to even out. His morning radio show in the early 70's (pre PHC) was positively sublime, and I've seen him at his best, in person, speaking in my town (our town, he grew up here) when he spoke brilliantly for an hour at the behest of the Anoka Philolectian Society- a group of elderly librarians who gave him literary encouragement when he was just a shy teen. I've also seen him at his worst, causing real anguish to people I know who have had to deal with him professionally on his show.

Still, as the old saying goes, in show biz you are only as good as your last performance. Because Garrison does almost all of the writing, the show lives and dies on his inspiration. He has done over a thousand performances and his material is, by now, thoroughly recycled. This gives a certain uniformity to the proceedings; a fan might call it a comforting familiarity. He has taken the show on the road often and the routine is the same each time: A little monologue with local history and cultural references, a musical guest or two from the area (usually the high point of the show), then a sketch (heavily recycled), more tunes, and then the show's signature- The News From Lake Wobegon, followed with another left-over skit and some more music to end it all.

Tonight's show was typical of most, some good (especially the Icelandic singers and Mr. Holm) Some OK, (John C. Reilly) and some indifferent (skits and the monologue.)
With the upcoming Prairie Home movie the franchise is poised for another spurt in popularity; the Robert Altman-directed film is supposed to be a knockout. This week's chance for the radio show to create something unique incorporating and illuminating the Icelandic experience was lost in formatics: The show has gone on for too long, and in the same rut, it is as stale as a thirty-year-old Powdermilk Biscuit.

Nature Tales From The Urban Wilderness

Driving home, past a freshly plowed field, I spotted three crows among the furrows. They were scavenging (grubs?) a maintaining a conversation among themselves concerning the other creature on the scene- a wily coyote. Visions of The Roadunner came to mind, this poor canine looked just as clueless as his cartoon namesake, the crows just as cunning, and the bare earth was as close as Minnesota gets to the painted desert. The traffic came to a stop, so I could study the tableaux at length. The coyote was standing still, just looking at the cars on the highway, completely unafraid; perhaps he thought the UPS truck behind me had a pair of ACME™ rocket powered rollerskates for him.

When I got home, the weaver told me about a co-worker who had a bear in her birdfeeder the other day. We had three deer calmly munching in our backyard last summer. Nature is returning, intent on reclaiming the urban sprawl. My tomato plants are infested with squirrels. I'm afraid.

UPDATE: The Weaver spotted more deer sauntering past the house Saturday morning. Nature threat level: ORANGE

White Cotton Dress

A sign of summer, to be sure. Crisp, bleached white cotton, a little stiff, oversized, so she can sit curled up inside of it; it becomes a little tent to shelter her from the twilight and my desirous eyes. Still, just the whiteness of it causes me to remain transfixed, the dark skin of her hands and feet making its iridescence even more impossible to believe. A slight rustling as she turns to speak, and the enchantment which is her voice emanates softly from that alabaster shroud, making me a believer in the gospel of her. The sky darkens, the rest of the party heads indoors, but there is nothing on our little patio to fear. The air is still warm, the breeze is just strong enough to keep the bugs away, and as the vision in white continues speaking, the angels sing.

The Pack

Seventh grade was, for me at least, quite possibly THE watershed year in a boy's/young man's life. The tipping point, as it were, of many things. Puberty and the physical and mental changes that came with it . Gym Class- and the exposure to enforced sadism, collective nudity (and potential homosexuality) and the need to be subservient to the "the big kids" who had already gone through "the changes". And, of course, gangs. Whether they were benign, evil or a combination of the two, seventh grade saw the clustering of boys around potential leaders.

Big Mike was a bad child. When he developed a man's body, he became horrific. When he felt the need for a scapegoat, it was certain that some poor soul would get special attention from Big Mike.

Richard was different. In the statistical inverted "bell curve" of gender, Richard was somewhere in the middle, in no-man's land- but not really a girl either. Gym class and the shower afterward were hell for the girlish-figured lad, and his bare minimum of equipment gave his tormentors an additional target.

Big Mike selected him for his next victim. But the way it worked, you see, is that
Big Mike needed an audience or else there was no point in it. Being a top dog, he needed a pack.

The Pack was rest of us. Including me. We trailed after Mike, and when Mike found his quarry on the way home from school, we followed. Mike did his worst, we watched. Richard broke down, sobbing, terrified. We watched.

In the eighth grade, I read William Golding's Lord of the Flies.
In the eighth grade, Big Mike got a girl pregnant, and we never saw him again.
In the eighth grade, Richard got some hormone therapy which helped him a little.

There were other gangs later, real gangs with turf and colors and gang fights. But somehow that all passed us by. We didn't have an alpha male.

Conversations at a breakfast table, my impending doom.

As I handed over breakfast to my father yesterday morning, he looked at me and said, "You're getting married at 29." I stared at him and then began railing. It was a rant of denial, my friends, and although I'm not too sure I remember, I might have sounded something like this -

"Twenty-nine? So soon? Are you sure? Who told you?
That's like, three years away. So soon? I haven't had enough relationships yet.
So soon? Who told you, Baba, who told you?
I should really speed up my moves now. If my marriage is three years away, I need to have as many affairs as possible before that. So many men, so little time!"

So then my pater brings out this yellowed scroll that is my first horoscope, made at the time I was born, and showed me that the stars indeed had predicted a late marriage for me. The chances of me tying the knot (or noose, if you please) are very high when I am twenty nine. Only now, the late marriage does not look so *late* anymore.

Oh, and to think that of all the guys I know already, not ONE is marriage material ...yeah, that knowledge helps a lot. So it should basically be someone who is going to materialize out of nowhere in the next three years, fit the *husband* bill as I see it, and make me fall in love with him (because arranged marriage remains a no-no), like me back in equal measure, AND be ready for commitment and marriage.

Hah! Like Charles Dickens said, "Great Expectations!"

Anyways, I will be off tomorrow for the land of Robbie T (Rabindranath Tagore for the uninitiated) - Shantiniketan, where I shall listen to the songs of the bauls - the traveling bards, and watch the dark tribal girls sway to the rhythm of mohua, the local liquor made from fermented dates.

It's as much Hedonism that I can work up at short notice. If I am indeed to be married within the next three years, I'm making sure I live the high life before I fall to my grave.

~RS
July 2004
Used With Permission

It's Time...

So I hear you've been struggling with the meaning of it all lately...but you've got a career going at least, something you can count on as much as anything these days. And the drinking, you've dealt with that too...things are looking up. But there is one thing, one thing you need to do, it's time that you supported her completely in what she wants, to put your desires second... you made a mistake years ago, and then made another, but it isn't too late to correct them...but it is almost too late.
There is only one thing she wants. You can give it to her. But you have to surrender your life, to be the man behind the woman. It's time.

U.S.A.

Untold Stories of Amnesia.
Upside Savings of Antlers.
Untied Sneaker of Adiddas.
Uneasy Scenics of Armenia.
Upload Sharing of Artists.
Unread Sheaves of Agonies.
Ultima Secrets of Artemis.

U.S.A.

It means so much to me...

Wikipedia, the Mormons and Me.

My chance to write history! Usually reserved for the victors of war and dedicated academics, the rise of Wikipedia, like most things on the internet (bless you, Al Gore!) brings with it a host of new opportunities and challenges. Researching an ancient branch of my family tree, I discovered this entry with a fair amount of information about one of the founders of the Mormon religion. I had done work on this subject while in college, so this was more of a fact-checking endeavor rather than a search for new information. For those who don't know (nearly everyone that isn't a Mormon) Oliver Cowdery was a central figure in the first schism in the history of The Latter Day Saints. The article was fair enough- taken mostly from Mormon sources- but the reference to "a letter of resignation" spurred me to action. I have a copy of the letter; I thought it appropriate to insert it, and let the poor man speak for himself. When ever I read histories that ignore the actual words spoken by the person in question concerning an event, I always wonder- why has his or her voice been silenced? So now I have written (rewritten?) a piece of history- with a footnote! I'll be interested in seeing how long it remains on the site. The LDS are thorough, controlling, doctrinaire and relentless, but perhaps now this one dissenting voice from their past will be heard again.

Marley's Ghost - Modern Day Saints #3

Twenty-five years gone, mon. Quite possibly the most spiritual pop icon of the late twentieth century, Bob Marley died a quarter century ago. A somewhat diffuse theologist, but still enormously influential around the world. A champion of the down-trodden, the third world and yes, Rastafarians, Mr. Marley's music is his message and legacy. All that is needed now is someone to catalyze this energy into a mainstream religion. Not easily done, but then again, elevating a cult into an institution never is.

The Cat Came Back

My feral friend, King of the Felines and Defender of the Faith, has returned. He had been missing in action for three months and presumed lost. Cycling down the Rum River Trail, I came to the turn which marks the beginning of the feral cats' territory and sitting there, waiting as if nothing had happened, was my bewhiskered comrade. He strode right up to my bike, and then proceeded down the path to the feeding area, leading the way as it were. He deigned to allow me salutations (a head scratch- one hand only- and some gentle stroking) before we got down to the business at hand: Sardines. The other cats had to wait their turn. He was still the boss. I asked him where he had been on his spring vacation, was it Cancoun, Hawai'í­, or perhaps Jamaica? No reply. We're on the third year of our "relationship" and after an absence of three months I had really thought he was a goner. He must have another life- or maybe 8 more! For all I know he could be living in one of the apartments across the tracks, or perhaps he has a pad in one of the service buildings on the hospital grounds. Or he might be "slumming" with the other cats, and just hangs out there because foolish humans bring him savory delights. Whatever the case, he has the best of all possible worlds. I may have to start calling him "Candide."

Fine, I won't walk around at night...

The rain had begun to fall. Luckily, I was wearing the new rain jacket and was apathetic. In fact, the jaunt now had purpose. Let the rain wash away my restlessness and let the jacket catch the extra droplets of relief. The bars on West Main were hopping most metaphorically, and thanks to a sharp eye, I know where to catch one of my former professors in case I have a question on the shapes of galaxies or wormholes (sometimes I do, y'know).

It's Finals Week here, but you couldn't tell with the number of college students skipping to and fro to various apartments, smelling of Miller Lite, Jack Daniels, and that once deceased Bohemian spirit, now urbanized and modernized. The atmosphere was pretty carefree. It was like the night before a festival, and only the rain hinted otherwise (rain normally comes the day of festivals)...

People on their cell phones, some with Slurpees,and others with girlfriends. Truly fascinating spectacles for a Monday night romp.

I had just gotten to the section of West Main where I'm between FanTastic Thrift and Family Dollar, and the rain fell harder. A luxurious car was slowing down as the others were speeding past, and I knew what was coming. First came the greeting.

Three males, obviously out of towners seeking a bit of fun.

"HEY! Do you know where the strip bars are at?!"

"No, I'm sorry I can't help you there!"

"Where are YOU going? We stopped to talk to you!"

"I'm just out for a walk!"

"Where are you from?"

"Oh five hours away from here."

"Oh, we're farther away than that. We're from California!"

"What are you doing all the way over here then?"

"We came to D.C. and we thought we'd drive through here!"

"Ah, I see!"

"Do ya' need a ride?"

"Oh no, I'm fine, thank you though!"

"Are you suuuure?"

"Yes, yes. I'm just out for a stroll."

"You need a ride to that home five hours away?"

"No, no. I'm fine, I'm fine really! Thank you! Go have fun!"

The driver didn't look older than 16, so it was tough for me to take them seriously. I felt so much older than him. He had a light, cheery voice, whereas his comrades looked to be in their late twenties.

I continued on my walk, not giving the three a second thought. I was approaching another intersection when I saw that same luxurious car pull out from a side street, and zoom off. At first, I thought they had finally found a bar to their liking, but then I realized that wasn't the case. I saw the car keep going into the distance, but it was slowing down.

West Main is a one way street, so I decided not to finish my romp, but to turn around and go back the way I came.

The rain stopped the moment I turned around, and campus was soon in sight again.

Lesson learned.

i wrote it, but i don't get it either, don't feel bad.

chloroplastically peeling bananas to feed her long lost sister she wobbles through the desert of the flipper flopper penguin and gives him a big kiss on his beak before ripping his blubber right out of him and using it to insulate her dead baby.

it's post-armageddon and she's a ghost but she doesn't know that and she still lingers in the purple ashes of earth as she forages for food in the graveyard and munches unknowingly on the bones of her lovers.

some people are scared of being in elevators, but say they go on an elevator with a little kid who's terrified too? well, all of the sudden the older person can't be scared anymore, for the sake of the child.

asymmetric poetry wasn't enough to light nudecavewoman's technopunk fire when she was alive but it's more than enough now that she is reborn into her unacceptance of death and has these two dependents to care for.

as she sits in the middle of her flames and cries out her glory she realizes that no one is listening, and wonders if it's like the proverbial tree falling in the woods...but then she decides that's ridiculous. obviously it's nothing like that, because, after all, her long lost sister and dead baby can hear her.

the beatboxboomboogy only has enough fuel to last in her chest-membrane for three point seven minutes more.

tick.

she melts into maalox oblivion and her dead baby and long last sister finally sit up, and serenely wave good-bye.



~RS
February 2005
Used With Permission

No Comments

To comment or not to comment, that is the question...

The personal nature of many blogs leaves this normally outgoing Professor in a bit of a quandary. Especially when reading some posts by the opposite sex. It is said that Radio Drama is the "theatre of the mind", and if that is so then blogging must be as well. In recent weeks I've been privy to bra selection, shared a shower, and contemplated the sleeping habits (and partners) of various bloggers. Needless to say, I've left no comments. This is not to say that those posts, and others of that type, were not appreciated, au contraré! I am ever so grateful for any such small glimpses of paradise. And respectful. So I will continue to refrain from any remarks that might possibly be construed as tactless, rude, or inappropriate.

But I will say thanks to all those who have occasionally raised the curtain of my mind's theatre for me; I promise not to abuse the privilege. Really- I am humbly grateful. Thank you all.

Drawing A Blank 9

ATTENTION! THIS POST REFERS TO MATTHEW BARNEY- CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED!

Tonight I saw Drawing Restraint 9 Matthew Barney's latest film. A meditation on industrial whaling, Shinto rituals, flensing and Vaseline, in no particular order. But very mannered, one of a more artistic bent might even say restrained. It was worth it to see him interact with Björk, his lover and mother of their child. In the long list of legendary couples (David and Bathsheba, Romeo and Juliet, John and Yoko, Jagger and Bowie, etc...) these two have to be as close to a complementary ideal as any. The film itself was actually quite coherent (compared to The Cremaster Cycle), or else it was just me finally "getting it." Don't worry about it hogging the screens at your local multiplex, any art film with a climax of erotic mutilation/cannibalism won't make much of a commercial impact. I must admit, however, that I did enjoy it. In a restrained way.

P.S. The Vaseline was great!

The Resolute Gardener

She shows no mercy on her enemies. Pity the foolish Dandelion or Creeping Charlie. She is out in full force today, with strange implements of weed destruction. Each year a new flowerbed to create, maintain and defend. Her tenacity is legend. The neighborhood watch always slows when their patrol goes by her corner. "Nice Sedum." She barely acknowledges the comment. She is on a mission.

Some say she's compensating for a broken marriage. Some say she's in competition with the neighbor who lives kitty-corner from her. The one with fish ponds (front and back) antique props, and proper stone pathways. That garden was created by a divorcee as well. Who needs a man when you have Nasturtiums?

Pulling weeds can be a catharsis when the heart is troubled. Order is restored, one stem at a time, evil punished, good rewarded. If only sexual relations were so simple.

Smoker's Alley

Every school had one. A place for that last butt before classes. The space between the garages was popular for those who were "sneak" smokers. The alleys were tolerated by the officals, better to have them there than in the lavs, I suppose. Girls all wanted to stay thin. Boys wanted to impress the girls. Everyone stank. There are still some from my high school class that pound the heaters.

There are some that still would if they still had the breath to inhale.

"Hey Skinny..."

You stopped in just to see me? It's great to see you! A little hug, why not? So what's with this guy you've been seeing? He's only 33?! My goodness. So that's why you haven't been writing on your blog. One last fling? You sent the Queen a card on her birthday! If your hair-do was any more flamboyant, you'd be on fire. It really was very nice of you to think of me. I'll have to remain content with being the best boyfriend you never had. Next lifetime...

**the hand you hold is the hand that holds you down**

I'm ashamed of myself.
For shouting at my parents and being impatient with them.
For being a bitch with people who I know I can dump my baggage on.
For hurting these people over and over again, because I knew they would take it lying down.
For caring about people who couldn't care less about me.
For obsessing about people and clutching onto them.
For just not letting go.
For trying to be cool and pretending I'm 'with it'.
For concocting points of view and ideologies that I've never believed in.
For nursing biases, grudges, and prejudices, for letting them grow and fester.
For discouraging a friend to get married - I'd liked him at some point of time, and I can't bear the fact that someone else will have him.
For cheating on two men who I guess had really bothered to love me.
For ignoring people who've bothered to find out how I was doing.
For smirking and refusing outright when all they wanted was to give me company.
For making the same mistakes over and over again.
For faking that I've actually learnt something from my blunders.
For just wanting to be adored and admired. And approved of.
For claiming I need true friends around me, when I could've done just fine with a bunch of yes-men.
For throwing away valuable friendships.
For not knowing jewels from cheap tinsel.
For giving away the gifts I had.
For showing off in front of people who I knew would never be able to match up.
For each time I've cursed my life, blamed God, and held my parents responsible.
For every little mean insensitive thing I've ever done.

I'm not saying things will change.
But I'm really, really sorry.


~RS
December, 2004
Used with permission

Connecting...

Connecting...
Connecting...
Hoping for something new.
Something to take the flat taste out of life.
Connecting...
A link.
A lifeline.
I'm thirsty.
The world is on fire and all I seek is a glass of water.
Connecting...
Fulfillment awaits.
Authorizing...
Closer.
Searching...
Searching...
Searching...
For an answer.
For a question.
For a key.
Disconnecting...