You bitch.

My enemy is predictable. On schedule. It even lets me know when it's approaching. Nevertheless, it is an enemy I'll probably never defeat.

I usually have a good sense of well-being. Rational, understanding, optimistic, lighthearted yet confident and independent.

But there is a time that all of this falls to shambles. And I have little or no control over it. I find myself fighting myself -- and when you fight yourself, regardless of the good or dark side, you always lose. I find myself needy, timid, sleepless, unattractive, petty-minded, lazy, pessimistic, tear-eyed due to commercials, impatient, irritable, and scared of my future. It's as if negative me, Me-not, or my evil twin so to speak dominates me.

How do I control this? I stay quiet. Introspective. I try really, really hard to stay busy so I don't have the chance to show others how weak-minded I am. I need oodles upon oodles of attention, but if I'm rubbed the wrong way, the attention turns poisonous. My sense of humor is the only thing I have to stay sane...and it usually is only funny to me.

Then, as fast as it comes, it leaves. I am back to normal. Usually I feel on top of the world, considering the torture I had to go through and my new-found control over my own mind. I only wish there was something I could do about it. 12 weeks of my year I am this way, and I suppose I can't be happy all the time. But I feel I could go so much further if I didn't have to backtrack. Do any ladies have any ideas? I'm considering going to counseling about it, but I fear (as I am fighting my enemy now) that in a few days it will be one of the last of my worries.

In the meantime, I apologize to everyone that has a negative experience around me in this time.

I really, truly, can't help it.

Talking Head

It's a good life. Down to the TV Studio at two, run through the feeds, pick a half-dozen topics, have the production assistant line up some video clips, make-up and suit and tie, settle into my anchor's chair and the red light's on. I'll spin for cash. Politics? Always kick the dog that's down. Human relations? Always kick the dog that's down. You'll always come up a winner when surrounded by losers. A mother kills her kids and then gets off? On a technicality? (Well of course the "expert" witness lied through his teeth, who cares? No me! She should fry! Next heartbreak!) After the taping, a trip to my personal Doctor Feelgood- I'll be brilliant tonight as a guest on that cable show. A world of misery, my bread and butter, and the best part is, they pay me for it.

twilight

western sun angles into the horizon,
softly.
sitting in a screen porch,
reading.
daytime breezes have dwindled,
exausted.
sounds of a neighborhood become clearer,
quieter.
light fades in a clocklike fashion,
incrementaly.
black type on a white page changes
graying.
a magazine closes and is set aside
finished.
twilight overcomes a busy world,
smaller.

puzzle pieces

jumbled
solve me
complete me

nine letter word for despair
dejection
seven letter word for confusion
turmoil
ten letter word for loneliness
desolation

hate me
lie to me
judge me

j

u

s

t

please
solve me
make me
complete
again.

~RS
November 2004
Used With Permission

Reverse Psychology

Sign In Convenience Store, Reykjavík

Tobacco Advertising Is Prohibited In Iceland

Green Tomatoes

Summer's harbinger, green tomatoes. I took the lazy route this year, potting soil in four large pots and nursery plants to go in them. They are getting big, about golfball sized, still plenty hard and green. I like to gently touch the leaves, the pugent tomato plant smell will linger for an hour or more. My father and his brother always had a "first tomato" competition, my dad always thought it funny to "plant" a store-bought tomato on his plant- my Uncle Fred was not amused. The forth of July is only nine days away, it really is too early to have a ripe tomato in this climate, but I may just have a chance this year...

The Taint

"Just 45 cents for a three course meal?
Sounds to me like that's a deal!
That's all it takes to eat here every day...
At McDonald's..." - Early 60’s radio jingle

Cheap. Fast. Food.

An irresistible combination, a three course meal of marketing. The death of American cuisine. The poisoning of the planet by corporate ruthlessness.

But wait a minute...it is food, after all, and it could be worse, right?

Well, maybe so, maybe no. There is some protein in the burgers, they have salads now, and you can even get orange juice if you ask for it separately. But there is a lot of tasty but worthless in the long term harmful stuff in almost everything they serve under the golden arches. None of this is news. The real tragedy is that the success of this enterprise (and others like it) has corrupted our sense of what food is, limited our outlook and helped turn us soft, like the worthless bread in their sandwiches. It is a taint, a moral stain, that has affected three generations and will continue to do so, as long as it remains profitable.

But it is so convenient, so tasty, a cultural icon. The American Way.

There has to be a better way.

I’m going out to lunch now- I’ll just grab a burger, a Coke and fries and be right back… you want anything?

Photographs

"They are proof that something was there and no longer is. Like a stain. And the stillness of them is boggling. You can turn away but when you come back they'll still be there looking at you." - Diane Arbus, 1971

A box of photographs. Old friends, in another world. When brought out to view they become cruel windows, only allowing a fixed perspective, a moment in time, a lie. What was life is reduced to a shadow. What meaning it had has now been changed, eroded and reshaped by the river of time. Personal history counts for little, it is an emotional commodity. But the potential connection will always be there, for we are creatures of curiosity, from prehistory to the present, trying to try to find a meaning in a picture.

a child, a woman

thirteen with the body of a twenty year-old
last year she was hanging out at the dairy queen with the girls
laughing and carefree
this year she returns, but not with the girls; the boys seek her out
sullen and wary
she could use just a little more time to be a girl
she'll be a woman the rest of her life
on the first day of summer
spring is forgotten

A Tale of Two Kitchens

circa 1950

   The Anglesey Restaurant, Bar and Cocktail Lounge existed in downtown Minneapolis throughout the 40s, 50s, and 60s. As a child, I was far too young to be a regular patron, but my father's job as all-purpose handyman allowed me occasional access on a Sunday afternoon if he had a special project such as putting up holiday decorations. For an impressionable lad like myself it was like a trip to a strange country, the Land of Adult Vices, a world were children were not allowed. The traditional bar, with its hunting trophies and liquor bottles, was adjacent to the 'motor lounge' where presumably sophisticated couples drank martinis and smoked cigarettes in its naugahyde-covered booths (I quickly learned to check in the space between the seat and the back for lost change.) There was a main dining room with a small bandstand, while in the rear of the complex was a room containing a piano bar—ideal for secretive trysts.

   But the part of the Anglesey which intrigued me the most was its kitchen. As anyone who has worked in commercial food preparation is aware, restaurant kitchens have an odor; a concentrated essence of the various foods prepared there. This kitchen was no exception, and probably a good deal worse than most modern ones. But there were delightful surprises: my first chocolate mint ice cream (all we got at home was Neapolitan), Baked Alaska, and what ever else wouldn't be noticed missing. A lot of fun, but a little gross around the edges (a child's easily captures the hidden sights under the equipment.)

   Fast forward 45 years. While doing some tuning and tweaking of a sound system in a new restaurant I passed through the kitchen on my way to the office where the sound gear was installed. This is a new place, but it specializes in healthy and organic foods, mostly vegetarian, but occasional fish and poultry. The smell of it was wonderful—fresh herbs and veggies—it was more like being in a just rained-upon flower garden. My goodness! No wonder I enjoy eating there.

fears.

I'm afraid of the way it hits me sometimes, the strength in my ache for people.

I'm afraid of imperfection, I'm afraid of getting older, I'm afraid of not seizing the day enough. How do people just shed their pasts, like skins? Free themselves of inhibition?

I'm afraid that my concept of love is wrong and beyond repair. That it has to do with power and that it has to do with me. Not with tenderness, not with the things I supposedly cherish.

I'm afraid that I've made mistakes that can't be forgiven, I'm afraid I've tried to make myself over one too many times.

What if I lost my spark?
What if I never had one?

I listen to the right music and all these things pour at me, images, dialogue, the feeling that I'm missing a limb, or a few. It's not loneliness, really, because I don't crave company, I'm fine being alone.

It's fear. Fear of misplacing parts of my life, forgetting them, like locking your keys in the house. This fear is only momentary, but it's always hovering. And when it hits, it's torrential. A tidal wave.

Carpe diem, but who knows what that means?


~RS
January, 2005
Used With Permission

My Hometown #2

The Anoka Independent Grain and Feed Store.

The last remnant of our agricultural heritage.

Now selling mostly pet food and lawn supplies.

Thinking Inside The Box

One third success. Two-thirds disaster.

The New Guthrie Theatre complex is complete. My Weekend of Culture (see previous post) continued with a tour and preview of the facility that is located on the banks of the Mississippi River in Downtown Minneapolis. The theaters themselves: one is a thrust stage—virtually reproducing the legendary original—one is a conventional proscenium, and the third is a small (250 seat) experimental ‘box.’ Thankfully, they are excellent, the thrust stage in particular maintains tradition and actually has had some of the old one’s problem areas ‘massaged’ a bit. I fully expect that those improvements will be appreciated more and more as the season progresses. The backstage and production areas (both of which were extremely limited in the old theater) have reportedly been elevated to the state of the art.

So: what, you may ask, is the problem?

A theater is, basically, a box within a box. There is the inner box, the sanctum mysterioso, where the dramatic experience happens. A place where technical requirements trump any ‘aesthetic’ concerns, once the house lights go down “The play’s the thing” as it should be, the form truly follows function.

The outside of the box, the architectural face the theater presents to the world, is massive, cold and impersonal. Even the laser-etched graphics suggest a remove from reality. Its scale and appearance are more suited to a race of metallic 40 foot tall robots than puny flesh and blood humans. Here is another take on the externals from Lileks.

In the critical space between the outside and the inside is where the "theatre-going experience" takes place. This is where couples and groups meet and talk before, during and after the performance- where people see and are seen by each other. The coldness of the exterior is magnified in the interior, with dark, gloomy spaces accented by stainless steel and black enamel, Euro-Moderne circa 1960. The creepy hallways around the main auditorium are dismal, with tiny and crude photographic scenes from previous productions as the only decor. There is, of course, the skyway to nowhere: a stunt of a cantilever which is, thankfully, a bit brighter and opens to a balcony that overlooks a vital and often ignored component of Minneapolis: the Mississippi River. A bird’s-eye (God’s eye?) view is hard to condemn although this view is somewhat distant and removed from the immediate surroundings. Elsewhere in the complex there are tinted windows that allow partial vistas of the neighborhood, these views should improve as development continues (although the specter of a sea of tacky billboards and banners is always a possibility.)

Lest I seem reactionary in my opinions, consider these facts: in the old theater's common spaces, you entered and were bathed in north-light, you could see (and be seen) and connect with people on all levels, on the mezzanines, on the stairs, on the patio, even with those in the street with the beautiful sculpture garden beyond. All of this made you a performer in a wonderful, three-dimensional play with gorgeous lighting, a sense of expectation and drama—a completely integrated experience! Contrast that with entering the new building: dwarfed by unadorned (except for the vapid laser-etchings) 40 foot tall walls (hope you like gray), torture-chamber furniture and a vertiginous/claustrophobic 200 foot 4 story escalator to take you to the lobbies. Kafkaesque is the first adjective that springs to mind.

The stakes in this project are high ($135 million, about 1/3 taxpayer money) so I wish it well. If it can elevate the performing arts in Minnesota's cultural scene, so much the better. We will support it (and the actual theater company, under Joe Dowling's direction has been superlative) with our typical Midwestern enthusiasm (“ya, it was pretty good”) and hopefully the new venues will bring back the excellence and daring of the 1960s, when Tyrone Guthrie created a dynamic and challenging ‘theater.’
I heard Sir Tyrone speak once, in 1967- he was brilliant, espousing a theater of danger, one that was a threat to mediocracy and complacency, a theater that made a difference. You’ve gotten your new theater Joe, bring it on, but don’t ask me to linger in those hideous lobbies.

a is for arbus

wild night storms swirling around the entire metro but meteorology be dammed we’re on an art quest driving through downpour after downpour going first to the phipps in hudson wi crossing the state line the rain disappears there’s a big shindig in the park across the street with a band and beer and brats it is WI after all then into the exhibit where large format guy will agar is showing some very classy photos part of a six person show browse at the skimpy food table then top it off at the dq with something more substantial for the drive back into mn and the rain begins again by the time we hit st. paul it is like being in a continuous waterfall all the way into minneapolis exit downtown the road are blocked for some rained out celebration IT'S STILL POURING get turned around end up going in circles dodging police cars with sirens and lights am never going downtown again finally escape the maze of one-ways and end up at the walker art center for the diane arbus opening party drive into the new parking facility go round and round find a place to park no sense of where we are and see a sign: P2 the scene is like the parking ramp episode of seinfeld and i have to pee too through a long corridor the rain is coming in there as well get into the museum proper there are THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE milling about arty and beautiful a big buffet and $8 drink tickets go up to the show and see nicole and kip and kali at the entrance chat a bit go into the gallery lots of early arbus rooms of her personal effects: nikon rollei notes work prints and then more stuff the famous images are all there some prints by her some newly printed all dark to the point of murkiness but moving nonetheless topped of with her institutional shots untitled series made just before her suicide yeah she had it going all right we take a breather in the matthew barney room before heading home and the rain had finally stopped

You Smell So Good

a dozen hugs in a dozen days

the nearness of others so close sharing air

was that CK?

the garlic must have been delicious

stale smoke; not so much fun

traces of conditioner

red wine's sunset cloud

a trillion blood cells covered with a gossamer wrap of rose-skin

every body talking to every other body

life's silent, invisible component

the primal sense

Touched...

While pondering the wisdom of the Bard at the meet-market last night (translation: I was browsing through yet another book about Bob Dylan at the bookstore-coffeehouse- mediacenter), I became aware of the approach of an attractive young woman. She touched my arm gently, smiled sweetly and said "Read?" as she showed me a laminated card. It was printed, by hand, in block letters. She appeared to be of Mongolian descent.

It was a solicitation for money for a Christian "mission" to Mongolia. It suggested a donation of $20 to help cover certain expenses. I smiled and said "No thank you." She smiled and left quickly, searching out another patron/mark.

Reflections of the Hare Krishna movement: There was a time, in the early seventies, when that group organized intensive begging campaigns in airports and commercial areas. They have been, for the most part, ordinanced out of business, so it gave me a little shudder of nostalgia for those days when I was "touched" again. Almost all charities are inefficent at best, and downright fraudulent at worst (not the Salvation Army, however!) or are trying to get funds for something that I don't understand or support. I am certain that the bookstore has a policy against this, but she was most subtle in her method, however. I wonder if this will be a new trend?

She was very attractive, maybe she liked me? I could have given her something I suppose...




NOT!

My Hometown #1

On the Rum River.

No landscape architect required.

My Walden.

she loved a boy.

   Suppose there was a boy, with thick wavy hair that covers his forehead but only barely, a goofy grin, and a bed with a thousand pillows.

   Suppose there was a girl, with light freckles, multi-colored eyes, short hair and a fragile heart, that fell in love with him. She had no choice. She read his palms and admired his courage. And he made her laugh.

   Then she confessed what he already knew in one daring move, and when she held his hand he didn't move away. He responded. Almost too perfectly. He likes her.

   She smiled and tugged on his arm and when he told her he liked her, all she did was smile and nod in agreement. And it was the greatest gift ever given, he had chosen her over everyone. And she wonders why her? She questions everything. And when he's gone she misses him, and gradually she is afraid that he will slip away from her.

   Suppose she loves him even though she doesn't know what love is really about. Suppose he was the one. The only one she'd kiss or go to midnight movies with. Suppose she proposed to be his, offered him her arms and lips with no hesitation and only wanted him to love her back.

   He knows she would love him rotten, but could he do the same?

   What would he tell her?

Elle est effrayee qu'elle toujours l'aimera plus.

~RS
April, 2005
Used With Permission

Redemption

   The last time Garrison Keillor was mentioned here, he was the subject of some disparaging comments concerning his radio program A Prairie Home Companion. That was then, and this is now.

   The movie A Prairie Home Companion, directed by Robert Altman, now in theaters, is a success on many levels; a redemption of sorts for both GK and Mr. Altman.

   The all-star ensemble: Meryl Streep, Lily Tomlin, Lindsay Lohan, Kevin Kline (and many others).

   The premise: a fictional "last performance" of the show, the plot is merely the barest of skeletons upon which to hang the real story- one of aging, death and delusion, played out in the ephemeral world of a radio performance.

   All of the characters (except one) are living a step or two removed from reality, with all the rationalizations and self-justifications that all performers must use to portray themselves and their performances in their best light. That they are fifty years out of sync with the rest of the world only heightens the dramatic effect.

   But the show, even if it is the last one, must go on, and it is a good one. This is not a concert film, but the music is played live with no post-production. In those moments the characters' charades are left behind and they are just real people singing real music. The real surprise here is Lindsay Lohan's Frankie and Johnny, sung with feeling and cleverly acted (her character lost her lyric sheet so she had to adlib.)

   Ms. Lohan's character "Lola" is the pivot point of the movie. Garrison's script wisely shows her as the only person in touch with what's going on, both externally and internally, she is ultimately the movie's only survivor.

   Robert Altman's direction is so effective as to be almost invisible, certainly the greatest compliment any director can receive. There are many complicated and extended scenes that flow beautifully, and there are also stationary shots that are composed with an artist's vision.

   One final comment: The extras seen in the backstage shots are all legendary Minnesota musicians who have contributed greatly to the "real" show over the years. Their ghostly presence is a fitting tribute to their PHC legacy.

Lake Agassiz

   Coming up to Moorhead, Minnesota, one is struck by the absence of topography. As the Dilworth-Glyndon exit approaches the flatness is only punctuated by distant windbreaks, rows of trees planted to shelter a homestead.

   And then it strikes- the knowledge that one is on the bed of the long departed Lake Agassiz. Where your vehicle rolls now was once at the depth of several hundred feet, at the bottom of a body of water that rivaled Lake Superior in size and volume. How many millions of fish once swam here; how many trillions of other, smaller life forms lived and died here? And now we, in our mechanical vehicles, are the dominant life form. And as the denizens of Lake Agassiz have vanished with scarcely a trace, so shall we all.

I was standing by my window,
On one cold and cloudy day
When I saw that hearse come rolling
For to carry my mother away

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, lord, by and by
There’s a better home a-waiting
In the sky, lord, in the sky

I said to that undertaker
Undertaker please drive slow
For this lady you are carrying
Lord, I hate to see here go

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, lord, by and by
There’s a better home a-waiting
In the sky, lord, in the sky

Oh, I followed close behind her
Tried to hold up and be brave
But I could not hide my sorrow
When they laid her in the grave

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, lord, by and by
There’s a better home a-waiting
In the sky, lord, in the sky

I went back home, my home was lonesome
Missed my mother, she was gone
All of my brothers, sisters crying
What a home so sad and lone

Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, lord, by and by
There’s a better home a-waiting
In the sky, lord, in the sky

traditional, in the manner of the Carter family

log in

05:33 stir
06:45 think about getting up
07:22 hmmmm...
07:49 GETUP!
07:51 perform the basics
07:55 think about breakfast
07:58 hit the road
08:11 stuck in traffic
08:33 finally get a clear stretch
08:49 arrive at work
08:55 breakfast- coffee and m&ms
09:00 start pushing pixels
12:00 lunch- shake off pixel dust and go for a walk, eat some stuff
12:20 cut and paste- this job is just like kindergarten
18:00 punch out - hit the road
18:32 arrive home
18:34 check mail
18:37 start supper
18:41 read a few chapters of jPod
18:55 eat supper
19:12 read some more
20:00 check the net
20:22 start this post
20:38 finish post, dated 00:01, Thursday
20:40 (estimate) read some more
21:00 (estimate) bathe
22:00 (estimate) watch the news
22:30 (estimate) go to bed
22:45 log out


she'll be home tomorrow, and then my real life will start-up again...

Smoking Lessons - The Pipe

   When starting a vice it is helpful to have an attentive instructor. When we were young we dabbled in most of the usual sins, but only The Pipe came with the cachet of elegance. People of importance- lawyers, executives, deal makers- smoked a pipe; the very act of it required pause, preparation and calm. Nervous smokers, beery alkies or whisky-besotted ne'er-do-wells never could claim the poise of a distinguished pipe-wielder.

   In the photograph, the innocent maiden contemplates her new "look". The helpful tobacconist gives pointers on technique. And as the observer who recorded the serpent's temptation, I present this tableaux as a stern warning to any impressionable young minds who may feel the urge to transgress.

pohm about wine

we drank cheap wine in glorified swallows...

like the grape rinds still covered the bottoms of our feet
like seeds caught in between the middle toes that nobody ever notices.

lost for a moment and then caught again in shower drains that nobody ever notices

the water relearning the shape of 20 toes while
the drunk touch wrinkled fingers in the 20 minute half-life of hot water
in low-income housing.

as the water goes cold
we drink warm wine
and it spills everywhere.


~RS
October, 2005
Used With Permission

Katie's Been Gone

Katie's been gone since the spring time;
She wrote one time and sent her love.
Katie's been gone for such a long time now;
I wonder what kind of love she's thinkin' of.

Dear Katie, If you can hear me,
I can't wait to have you near me.
Dear Katie, since you've been away
I lose a little something every day

I need you here, but you're still out there.

-Richard Manuel and J.R. Robertson

Anyone Who Had A Heart

   Some hard days lately. With the Weaver at her mother's death-bed, in anguish, not knowing when, only soon. The beauty of our early summer's days seems to be mocking this winter of our discontent. Things will be better again, and life will resume, but with a big piece missing. What is worse- to lose someone suddenly, or slowly? I wish I could make it all right, but in reality it is all right. It is just hard. Everyone's heart is tested; sometimes it is a grand passion, violent and cathartic, other times it is a slow ache that never seems to end. That may be the lesson in a situation such as this- heartache is part of being human so we should live with a glad heart while we may, open to others and not isolated or rejecting.

   It is the only life we have.

A Fantasy of Frogs

Rum River, 8:00 pm.

The mating calls of the frogs are metallic, almost mechanical. In the sheltering cat-tails they sing; a sychronised, if somewhat raucous, choir. The air is filled with the scents of mating- water plants, the pheromones of countless animals, insects and bacteria. Life teems. My canoe drifts too close to the reeds; the music stops. Downstream, and on the other bank, amphibial relations take up the slack. Floating with the current, birdsongs provide a melodic component to the symphony. Drifting past a downed locust tree that is half in the water but still alive, its showy flowers dip into the stream, creating tiny ripples. They look like the fringe of a lacy dress, perhaps hanging over a gunwale of a small boat, with a romantic couple inside, enjoying the evening air. The man takes out a ukelele and begins to croon:

Be my love,
For only you can end this yearning,
One kiss is all I need to seal my fate...
And hand in hand,
We'll find love's promised land...
They'll be no one but you for me...
Eternally,
If You will be
MY LOVE!

The frogs, already aroused, are driven to a frenzy and attack!
The couple are severely gummed, and left covered in slime.

This reverie ends as I realize that I had better start paddling- I've already drifted a mile and the sun is below the tree tops.

Dreams...

Haunted by, of late.
Of the sacred.
Of the profane.
But mostly of the mundane.
Trying the make sense of what was, what may come, and what never will be.
The other people in my dreams- am I in their dreams as well?
Or is my dream-world the universe of a fallen angel?
Aspiring to omnipotence, but remaining in a shadow-play.
If you meet me in your dream, give me a sign.
And I will reciprocate.

Village Smithy

The patriarch stands proudly in the doorway. The first of my ancestors to settle in Minnesota, great-grandfather Edward Everett ran this shop in the 1880's, near Long Prairie. His son, Ernest Eugene, is the child standing in front of the plow. There are still a few of his descendants living there, and a few more elsewhere in Minnesota, but the world is a more open place now- the family spreads out a little each year. A handful of photographs and a few tools are all that remain of Edward's legacy.

That, and the name.