Tag Archives: Memory

A Little More Me. A Little Less You.

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So there was this night that a 16-year old was driving. It was dark, because it was night. This was a while ago. The 16-year old did not have her headlights on. Which caused a police officer to pull her over.

He asked to see her license. She obliged.

“Did you know you were driving without your lights on?”

“No, sir.” Pause for consideration. “I'm sorry. But don't worry, there are streetlights. I could see fine.”

Luckily, the police officer was kind and did not penalize the 16-year old idiot with a ticket.

Less happily, the girl was an idiot. Clearly.

Headlights are really not about helping the driver be able to see. They're really much more about permitting others to be able to see the driver.

Say this really happened to a certain person a long time ago. Say this person was driving a blue Cutlass Ciera with a Beatles tape in the cassette player. Say this really happened.

I can assure you, it did.

The 16-year old will grow up. For some strange reason, she'll remember the night she drove without her headlights. She will remember the night she said, all wide-eyed, “gosh, officer, no problem because I can see.”

Lord.

16-year olds grow up. Thank God. And then, then, they occasionally remember things like this and they realize: well, you know. It would have been nice if, at 16, or now, or sometime, my life didn't revolve around me. What was so wrong with me, that my concern was with me?

Well, unlike the city streets, which I really could see just fine, thanks, what I could not see– with or without headlights– was how self-centered the view of the streets and world I had.

After all, I meant no harm. I still don't.

But even now, many moons past 16 and that Cutlass Ciera (though never Norwegian Wood or My Michelle), it worries me that, more frequently than I would like, my thoughts are of the “don't worry, I can see just fine” variety. I would rather be thinking of “how well can you see?” and “can everyone see okay?”

Life is funny. It's my life and my work and my bills and my worries. My life.

My blog and my stupid memories.

When what matters is “we” and “us” and “you” and “everyone.”

A little less me. A little more you.

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Nary a Flea: The Things We Leave Behind

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To Market, To Market, To Buy a Fresh Flea…

Greenwood Red and I went and “did” brunch. Then we went to purchase nine (nine!) bales of very-exciting straw for my very-exciting straw-bale garden project (I hope it will look like this when it's done, only with vegetables).

So, since we were feeling all suburban and adult by doing both brunch and the hardware store on a Saturday, we thought we'd cap it off with a walk-through of the flea market.

Which was profoundly entertaining. It was a virtual feast, a garden of earthly delights, the detritus and ephemera of people's lives— plus the bizarrely and blatantly questionable attempts by someone (but who?) to make a quick buck in the most delightful and/or peculiar of ways.

Items One Can Purchase at the Flea Market, if One Should Desire to Do So:

A glass Mrs. Butterworth bottle, minus the syrup, cap, and label. This will set you back $3.00.

A piano, without strings. Or keys. Price unknown.

Ziploc bags filled with hotel toiletries, some of which also included a (hopefully) clean pair of socks. ($1.00 per. Get 'em before they're gone. Best Western soaps are hard to come by.)

Ziploc bags filled with unwanted, mixed-up Keurig coffee pods. Cheaper than any Keurig pods from anywhere else. But mostly decaf. Also, still in Ziplocs from someone's kitchen table somewhere. (In my heartless estimation, this would be a questionable purchase.)

Still in pristine boxes: the Disneyland “Monorail” board game and, its brother, the Disneyland “Frontierland” board game. These were shrink-wrapped, probably dated to the opening of the original park, pre-frozen Uncle Walt, and were $22.00 each.

A bedazzled sugar canister. (As in, someone literally took their sugar canister and hot-glued plastic rhinestones to the surface.) $10.00.

A Flowbee. Not bedazzled. Definitely well-used, but still with the original, if battered and dog-eared, box.

Pirate, sea-farer, and other-masculine-weathered-male ceramic mugs (Captain Kangaroo?). Perfect for one's morning cuppa, shared with two friends.

Very popular at the flea market: Patently Obvious Dollar Store/Tree/General merchandise: kitchen spices, feminine products, baby lotion, deodorant, gift bags, and pens. Fair warning: these cost about $1.50 to $2.00 each— because they have that flea market cachet added on now.

Miscellaneous jewelry, beads, magnets, fishing lures, buttons, and (?) in Ziplocs. (Ziplocs are very popular in the flea-market world. You can buy a bag of almost anything– a bunch of tangled anythings– in a Ziploc at the Flea Market.)

Used hats. (Prices vary. Wash in very hot water.)

Still-in-shrink-wrap but clearly aged candy– in large quantities. Like, as in, 36 packs of that gum they don't make anymore; that gum with early '90's popular font. But hey, 36 packs of old gum (new! in package!) for $3.90. Helluva deal.

Dolls. An abundance of dolls. Very, very creepy dolls.

Also, clown dolls. Even more creepy. (Greenwood Red says clowns are fun. Greenwood Red is sadly mistaken.)

A picture frame with someone's family photo still inside– from not very long ago. (This made me sad.)

A 1960 yearbook from a local high school. Reasonably priced at $25.00. (This also made me sad.)

A test missile (seriously). For $33.00.

Fine Art– actual paintings. Priced to support the artist's ego and your budget. Perfect for hanging above a fireplace:

Star Trek, Next Generation figurines (still in battered packages): Picard as Borg, Guinan, Wharf as Cowboy.

The same Lite Brite in the same box that I had as a child and that's still in my Dad's shed, waiting on me to retrieve it (Oh, I will, little buddy, believe me, I will): $30.00.

Two church pews. Not including hymnals. Sadly.

A suit of armor. (It's not real. Don't get excited. I'm an art history major and I checked it up-close. It's real metal, but it's not old; it's certainly not authentic. 'Course, the multiple-different centuries all mixed-up in one suit probably told you that.) Only $259.00 though. Not bad. Plus, it is still a suit of armor.

Samurai swords. $10 to $30 each. Also not real.

Dream-catchers of all sizes.

Chipped mugs, stained bedding, broken music instruments, sheet music, stained and matted stuffed animals. Children's clothes.

An entire corner filled with 20 to 30 vacuum cleaners. (Plug it in before you buy. All sales are final. Bonus: some of the canisters hadn't been emptied…possible treasure surprise!)

Hair clips! $1.00 each. Hot-glue, free time, and a penchant for crochet. Let no one tell you entrepreneurship is dead in America. It's alive and well at the Flea Market.

Vinyl records, cassettes, VHS tapes.

Suspicious laptops and computers. (MacBook Air for $349. Virus included!)

A shrunken head.

A circa 1901 wooden wheelchair. (This was both sad and creepy.)

A china plate with dogs playing poker painted on it. (It's possible that this came home with Greenwood Red and me.)

Salt-and-pepper caddy shaped like a horse.

The thing about a flea market: no fleas, no ant farms, no animals. (It could have used some cats, if you ask me.)

The other thing about a flea market… some of these things, these objects, you just know they've all got a story to tell. They all came from somewhere. Whose kitchen table was graced with that horse? Whose Christmas holiday was enlivened by that big felt thing with sparkles? Whose yearbook was that?

And how did it end up here, on these shelves, in these Ziplocs, jumbled together with big-eyed owl cookie jars and broken bits of clip-on jewelry, and outgrown children's clothes?

Who chose the scary clown? Who loved it?

Who sat in that chair? Played that broken flute?

Who drank from that mug and why did they pick that one out in the first place?

 

And do they still enjoy country music?

It just makes you look at your life, at your stuff: what do you have, what does it say, and will it end up in a flea market, jumbled with old Avon bottles (Bird of Paradise!) and memories. And will someone else like it too? When it can't be with you anymore, will someone else take it home to live with them?
And so many people, so many hands, so many lives– where did they go to; what stories would these things tell?
I do not know. There were no fleas to get in my ear.

Trying to Find It

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Part I: Wish I believed in Something.

So, my wrist is wrecked. Temporarily and all. Ravaged by years of sewing very fine fabric with even finer thread coupled with incessant typing. And then, then, a weekend of hyper-aggressive yard work. I was a beast, lifting 20 pound bags of soil, thinking not of ergonomics and safety, but only of “get the good dirt to the bad dirt. Pull!” And there was the enthusiastic wielding of the industrial-strength shovel.

Yes, Dad, I still have that. Thank you for lending it to me. Three years ago. I really appreciate it. I love that shovel.

So consequently, a week and a half later, my wrist is wrapped in white tape, like a gymnast’s or something really spectacular.

And I can’t essentially do a damned thing with my left hand. Ta very much, repetitive motion tendinitis. You’re awesome. Also, you hurt just a very little bit.

I don’t mind the wrist thing. It’s what it is. I tape it up and keep typing and generally, do more with my right hand, which is a real trouper. I’m grateful, as ever, that the good lord didn’t, as yet, give me more to bitch about.

But it’s had a weird side effect in its most recent incarnation. If I upset family or anyone else with what I’m about to say, I really am sorry (let me know, I’ll take down the post and hopefully you will forget I ever wrote it).

And also, for those who believe what I’m about to very publicly say I do not, I also apologize. I don’t think I’m right. I don’t think you’re wrong. The last thing I want is to offend anyone. So pre-blog apologies all around.

My wrist thing…the white bandage… it reminds me at times, as I’m fumbling with a key, bag, or coffee cup, it reminds me of my Papaw, my grandpa.

See, before the cancer ravaged his colon, it hit his arm first. The wonders of late ’80′s medicine were such that they chopped out some nerves and tendons in his arm and then gave him a brace so he could operate his fingers. (See, apologizing again. This is painful and a little graphic. I don’t know he would like it, that I’m writing about his brace and putting my thoughts online. Apologies. Seriously.)

This was no mean bit of white tape wrapped all Nadia-like around his wrist. This was a spider made of paper clips. It was a metal praying mantis. It was a puppeteer’s strings, linked to every finger with slender metal jointed pieces: like pipe organs, like Edward Scissorhands, like Rube Goldberg designed a wrist brace with metal finger trusses and then added some hinges and joints so it wouldn’t seem so simple.

And my Papaw, my sweet Papaw, wore all that so he could move his fingers.

Without complaint. At least, not within my hearing.

But there’s something in the bandage, something in my fumbling, which have brought this to mind as though it were yesterday. I can see him, in this thing on his arm. He sits calmly at the dining room table and, with the mobility provided by the metal prongs, applies his Chap Stick after dinner.

He really liked Chap Stick.

And I think about him. And I both curse and bless the memory that’s nearly tactile; that causes me to be able to smell the clean bandages, the Chap Stick; to hear the clicking of the metal pieces, and viscerally to be able to see the movements that happen– but not without the metallic medical assistance.

And I think (among a great many other things; including that “how selfish of me, who the hell cares what I think when people get cancer and go through all that: Shut Up, Michelle”): I wish I believed in something.

Specifically, I wish that I could be sure, in the way some people are sure, that we go on and we go on with some knowing sentience about the people we left behind, the people who love us still.

I really want to believe that my Papaw, our Papaw, knows– really, really knows– that he’s still remembered; that, believe it or not, he’s not remembered for the metal monster but the bravery that accompanied it, for the fact that he loved my earrings one time because they had “ice blue” hearts; that he colored a coloring book dachshund with the bittersweet crayon because “what other color would they be?”

I want him to know he’s remembered. I want him to know that he’s missed beyond belief. That every May 19th brings sadness because that’s the damn day. I want him to know every May 13 that there’ s a mental cake that is built for him. I want him still to be connected in a very real way– him, not his body, not his brace, not the goddamned cancer. I frequently want his advice, his humor, his company.

I will accept that I can’t access those things. But to accept that they just exist no longer is a bit much.

And yet…

I can’t believe in heaven. I can’t believe in continued knowing existence.

I want to, very much.

I want to believe; I want to know, that not only do we go on, with resolution (you, my child, did okay with what you knew and what you had. It was a test. You may not have passed but you didn’t quite fail. It was a really hard test) but we go on, still, with connection to those that join us, those that preceded us.

I want to think that my Papaw welcomed his parents to wherever “there” is.

I want to think that he knows what we know and he’s just waiting for us: not the physical, but the part of him that is actually him.

And someday, I’ll go there, and I will be greeted and I will be waiting and I will know, too, just what it was all for, and more importantly, I’ll be able to see the ones I love so very much. All of them. And we’ll be aware enough to know one another, to remember.

And…

I believe in, well, nothing.

I know what I want. I know there’s nothing to suggest what I want is true, which does not mean it isn’t; it just means we can’t know it in the same way we know other things.

And, for the way my self seems to be constructed, well, I can’t know and I know damned well I can’t know.

And so.

My desire is not enough to be faith.

My desire is not enough to be truth. My desire is faulty. My knowledge too limited. My awareness that what is true doesn’t mean it has to be literal and vice versa…

all of it conspires to make me a person who believes only that we (I) cannot know and anything is possible.

In some senses, I believe in everything. Which is to believe in nothing.

And it is not the most comforting non-belief system to be a part of.

There’s no wisdom to this story. There’s quite a bit of embarrassment and humility. If, tonight, you have faith, I hope you find comfort in it. I hope you are right.

And I find myself wishing I were one among you, questioning what it is in my make-up which prevents me having certainty on anything, defying comfort, no matter how hard it is hoped for.

I’ll keep questioning and guessing, hoping I hit on the faith-formula that somehow sticks, but I doubt that it will ever come.

Still, I’ll keep searching. And if you haven’t found your truth just yet, I will hope you find yours, too.

We do what we do here and it matters.

But I wonder, oh, I wonder: what comes next?

So…Margaret Thatcher. RIP. And Such.

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Margaret Thatcher, former British prime minister, passed away yesterday.

You might have heard.

Prepare yourself and go seek a legitimate obit, if that's what you're after.

I am not about to get into a discussion of the late, great Iron Lady's legacy. I am not going to rehash the things she did or did not do, the things one might have wished she did or didn't do. Others have done and will continue to do that, with facts and thought and perspective.

That's just not where I'm going to go with that.

Here is what I'm going to say (you will not have seen it coming unless you also were in Mr. F.'s history class sometime in the '80's. And also, you would have to be similarly pseudo-philosophically inclined and prone to nostalgia, sentiment, and peculiar twists of mind.)

As an unabashed child of the eighties, I will say: nothing, nothing, has made so plain that childhood is dead and said childhood is basically thirty years gone, like the prime of Ms. Margaret Thatcher, the passing of Margaret Thatcher.

(This is not to say we, or anyone like us, is stuck in childhood– just that we, or I, perpetually drop a decade and the fact that our childhood is not twenty but thirty years passed is a constant surprise. Because we– I– still feel somewhere in the neighborhood of 13 to 25. Anywhere between 13-25; they share such bizarre similarities and we– I– have not managed to become somehow fully formed and complete in said thirty [30!] years.)

The 80's have lost their names: Michael Jackson and Whitney have gone. The Iron Curtain crumbled so long ago that teenagers now are shocked it ever existed. Reagan's been gone forever, gone before he was actually gone. Culture has changed so much that the neon and the fashions have come completely back in style. Tiffany went so far out of style she became a reality TV thing– or so I hear from friends and family who ritually enjoy such things. And maybe that is also so far ago that it classifies as “Past.”

But Maggie. Margaret Thatcher. That's the one that seals the deal: the eighties, the innocence of children of the eighties is irrevocably gone.

The eighties to me were many things. And a surprisingly large chunk of them consists of the non-stop doodles of Chris P. If you're in the year 1987, and you are me or someone like me, your days begin with history (social studies) class with Mr. F. Mr. F. has a perpetual white crust around his mouth that you long to remind him of (seriously, Mr. F., check your face before you stand in front of 7th graders: We are very unforgiving and judgmental). Mr. F. will be one of the first and only teachers you encounter before high school to suggest in red-state, Bible Belt Indiana that alternative religions to Christianity have rich and storied histories and equal validity in the world to the stories of and beliefs about Jesus. Mr. F. served in the military but he was never able to be very specific about it, in class and all, and you (the seventh grader) remember that he served and are ashamed you noticed the inevitable white crust and nicotine fumes.

But your days begin with Mr. F. He tells you about Korea (we had a war there, in the fifties), and Hinduism (more people in India believe in it than Christianity and that's really okay). He mentions the Treaty of Verdun and he doesn't make students spit out their gum. He speaks for 55 minutes exactly every morning, 5 days per week, and seldom gives quizzes. He just talks and waves unconcernedly at the chalkboard he would never dream of getting up from his seat and writing on.

And you, you are sitting there in 1987, and you are taking copious, precise notes in pink, purple, or turquoise ink. Occasionally you will check out the megaphone on your Coke watch, the coral reef on your Swatch. Occasionally you will draw a damn good version of Mr. F.'s head on your notes, which are more complete than could be expected from the Lisa Frank notebook (bubble gum machine, very perky, further festooned with Lisa Frank stickers of teddy bears, unicorns, dewy-bubble-eyed and 80's-fantastic.)

But sometimes, you will look over at Chris' messy, paper-everywhere, helter-skelter desk. You will watch him doodling on loose-leaf paper (can't even pull the Trapper Keeper out of his bag and put it on the desk, nope. Too much to ask). You will notice he never– never– takes notes. What he does, all 55 minutes of first period long, is draw.

He draws boxing gloves (Rocky V!). But mostly he draws weaponry. And there's my complete (your complete, if you're like me) pre-90's introduction to foreign policy, on a Mead loose-leaf, wide-rule sheet of ridiculously cheap paper: bomber airplanes, U.S.S.R. sickle-and-hammers, more bombers. The occasional mushroom cloud.

And in a weird way, retrospectively, you've got to hand it to Chris P: the news I saw scattered in the evening between Kate and Allie and My Two Dads was actually very much a story of bombers, the U.S.S.R., and…

Margaret Thatcher.

Not that Chris P. ever once drew Maggie– he wasn't prone to drawing humans.

But still, she was there, like the (threat of the) mushroom cloud, the boxing glove, Red Dawn, and the Wall-pre-torn-down.

There was anxiety, hidden well by Alf, Rainbow Brite, Coke jerseys, and Guess jeans.

There were evenings of news reports that, weirdly and yet again in retrospect, probably really did come down to Chris P.'s drawings of boxing gloves and Gorbachev's birthmarks.

News reports in which Margaret Thatcher's name was a chronic inclusion.

So, on Monday, it was announced she is gone. She has passed: she was sick and now, she has gone. Stealthily, quietly, in 2013.

And that's when it occurs to you– to me– that time has passed faster than you know. I mean, in your head you're fully aware that it's 2013. You don't generally think of the eighties that much, except in your nostalgia fits, nor the '90's or the aughts. You know it's the day that it is. You go to work. You do the laundry. You read the paper. You worry about the future.

But a lot of the time, you feel uncertain.

Like a 12 year old.

And it occasionally dawns on you that the uncertainty you're feeling is the same uncertainty you've had since the beginning, and that you were really aware of, back in the day of Bonne Bell lipgloss and used clothes you hoped would be disguised by Palmetto jeans miraculously passing as your best and only Christmas Guess (by Georges Marciano) pants.

And then–then– it will dawn on you: my god. That was thirty years ago.

Margaret Thatcher is dead.

Acting Class

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I have multiple alma maters. (Winner.)

One of them is the American Musical and Dramatic Academy.

Yep. It exists. Here's a link. They get federal student aid funding and everything.

I went there.

One of my classes was “Acting.” I know, it's crazy. What in the heck would a Dramatic Academy be doing making acting classes mandatory?

Well, they did. And I had to take it. Two semesters.

So I did. (Sheep.)

The first semester was taught by Stuart (Stewart?) Z—-y. (See, in order to protect the innocent, we resort to the methods of nineteenth-century novelists.)

He was the spitting image–the spit!– of Bill Murray.

He was, in all honesty, a very good teacher. Encouraging, inspiring, challenging, occasionally aggravating.

I never had the nerve to tell him not to cross the streams. (It was the '90s so a Ghostbusters reference was outdated, yes, but not yet antiquated.)

Stuart (Mr. Z—y) had us scream “I'm sick of this s–t!!!” at the top of our lungs. I didn't swear then (I was both idiotic and boring. I hope I have the good sense never to publish this.) I tried shouting “I'm sick of this crap.” Needless to say, that was neither cathartic nor effective and I've since learned the stunning efficacy and, yes, brilliance of the word “shit.” Much like Martin Luther, I've discovered it's one of my most favorite and utilitarian of words. (Seriously, read him sometimes. It's everywhere.)

Well. It's like Revenge Against the Needlessly Prudish. I use it all the time now. Coffee's too hot? (Shit.) Fat-fingered a really easy word on the keyboard? (Shit.) Bulldogs lose a game by one point? (Arrrgh. Shit!).

Very useful. Z—y has his revenge. Daily.

Which didn't make me a better ac-tor (emphasis on the “or”).

But that wasn't Stuart's fault.

And I won't even blame my obscene prudishness (a paradox! a paradox, a most convenient…et cetera).

I'll tell you straightaway: I lacked confidence. I lacked conviction. I lacked…(dare I say it?) talent.

I lacked talent.

And I was homesick as all billy-hell.

But here, (finally, gasp, praise jesus), is why I loved, loved, loved Stuart Z:

Assignment 2.5: Go follow someone, anyone. Watch how they walk, how they stand, how they speak. Watch them. For a week. Make notes. Learn them. What does it say? For this I chose Nick. Nick worked at a Greek 24 hour cafe. Nick was 60 going on a hundred. That owl in Clash of the Titans? Nick. Quiet honesty bearing free baklava with the purchase of coffee on weekdays? Nick. Slightly hunched over, dentures, nobility, humility? Nick.

Midwestern stereotype of Goodly Immigrant Cafe Watchman? Nick.

He had thick glasses. Watery eyes. Very thick-soled shoes. Yellowed but supposed to be white perma-press oxford shirts. Nick. Nick. Nick.

Get a falafel for 49 cents next door and then go sit at Nick's for hours with coffee and your free baklava. Nick, Nick, Nick.

I watched for hours. I noticed Nick shuffled with his left foot. His right foot was fine. By the end of his shift, Nick's spine was, roughly speaking, a perfect “S.”

I loved Nick. I loved Stuart because he made me watch Nick for hours.

And I thought, weird and voyeuristic as it was, there was something, actually, real about it. Not for an acting exercise (god, please) but for an exercise in humanity.

I still love Nick. I still love Stuart. Stuart Z.

Stuart taught me to pay attention to the heart and soul, inscrutable and insistent, that belongs to Nicks, all Nicks (and, I think we are all Nicks). Stuart taught me that the sound you notice in jails is the sound of keys jingling on the belts of policemen. (Oh hell, that was a good story to tell the Impressionable Youths. And now, I almost only think of Gob in Arrested Development.) Still.

Acting aside, Stuart took a cow-fed Indiana girl and forced her by threat of a good grade to look outside of herself at someone else. To consider the sound of keys on the ears of those without freedom.

That cost a fortune, FAFSA-wise. And it was priceless. Thank you, Stuart/Stewart.

He also scrawled across my theme paper (AMDA did, on occasion, actually require some semblance of academic pursuits) “Keep writing. You do it well.”

And for the lessons of Nick and for keys; for the love of all things Bill Murray, and for the love of one who was always being told “You know who you look like?”…thank you, Stuart Z.

Thank you.

And now, please, if you could only teach me not to regurgitate words and memory obsessively and publicly, that would be helpful. But perhaps, rather above your pay grade.

 

Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Study Art History

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a.) ‘Cause they’ll never find a job. No, really. Here’s what happens: there are a billiondy art history majors. Some of them will go on to pursue doctorates in something actually useful. The rest of them will become government sops, managers at Ann Taylor, and sundry. The other 5 will get their MFA and their PhD and teach for a living. Which will be great. But only one of the 5 will actually ever make tenure. Turns out, Art History isn’t so useful in a modern economy for the world’s temporarily remaining superpower.

b.) Because this is what will happen:

b.1.)

b. 1.) (ahem) They will drink potentially too much, go to the restroom and see a $10 print of Argentinian-painter-who-paints people-dancing-on-the-beach. This print will be framed, “easily accessible” (in art criticism terms), and it will remind them, every time: art is something for coffee mugs and field trips. Sure, you thought it was an excellent vehicle for understanding the intersection of religion, culture, and history; but no, it’s simply a decorative representation of attractive people cavorting on a beach. In the moonlight.

b.2.) They will then be pissed aggravated because they can’t remember the Argentinian’s name. They will then be pissed at the status quo, which determines what is “Art” and what is “artistic.”

b.3.) Because they will see that painting, in the loo, and realize that they studied the history of the decorative, not the substantial, and even though Dostoevsky said “beauty will save the world,” it’s not true. Hard work, doggedness, decency–these will save the world, not Argentinians in satin, dancing on the sand. Doubly so for those who don’t paint the Argentinians in satin. Those people will do nothing of worth except create more words. As though there weren’t enough of those.

b.4.) They will hit their heads, roughly 3.5 hours after the first drink de choix, “Or was he Chilean?”

c.) Then they’ll encounter… Suzon. (Manet, A Bar at the Folies-Bergère,1882)

c. cont.) Suzon sees all.

You should have studied bandages, corn, and STEM technologies…Suzon sees. Suzon shouts “Mill! Utilitarianism! Be Useful!”

The boy you love…he’ll never know….Suzon sees.

The regret that you daren’t express out loud when you know you’re useless and you’ve gotten it all, like, as in every-freaking-thing, wrong…you guessed it, Suzon sees.

You love…and they’ll never know how much…yep, Suzon knows your secret, you transparent tool, you.

See, Mother, Mama, you who love an Art History major, Suzon knows: when your gal–or guy– has had just a pint enough to know what a waste, that knowledge for its own sake thing, actually is, in real-world terms. Suzon knows, too.

What’s worse? c.1.) Your Art History major knows, too. S/he’s probably written a paper or two on Suzon, for goodness’ sake. So your Art History darling knows that Suzon knows that you know that Suzon knows…

And Suzon sees that, too.

In fact, your Art History darling, when she’s not splitting her limited time on the planet between wondering the best policy decisions for her actual country and the reasons for papal-imperial conflict in the twelfth century in medieval Europe, has spent her time writing 5,100 words to her professor on why he’s wrong (R-O-N-G) that Suzon demonstrates Manet’s impartiality to the world (no, of course she doesn’t: Manet was painting Suzon’s closed relationship to the world as a service employee. There’s a difference.).

And Suzon, (sigh) sees that, too.

Suzon sees every memory the Art History victim has, every disappointment the Art History Failure has inflicted on her family, society, the world.

Suzon sees every failure, hurt, and care in the eyes of the one who observes.

And, dammit, the Art History major staring at the $20 Deck the Walls version of Suzon sees that Suzon sees.

And it’s all infinitely worse from the reflection.

And that, my Mama darlings, is why you (thou) should (shalt) never let your (thine) babies grow up to be Art History majors.

 

 

 

 

Apropos of Dorothy: A Little Moment in Celebration of Crayons of the Eighties

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Crayola crayons were and are always the best. However, in the eighties:

I was introduced to Prang crayons. My friend Megan had them. At first, I spied them suspiciously: they were not Crayolas. How could they possibly be good?

Alas, crayon snob. Prang crayons of the eighties were waxier, it is true. However, their color was far more saturated than Crayolas ever could be. I learned to love Prang crayons. Sadly, they never came in64 flavors colors. That was the drawback of eighties-era Prang.

And circa 1983, in a house of brown on Loomis Avenue in Colorado Springs, I (we, my sister and I) were introduced to K-Mart brand crayons. Yes, their box and wrappers sucked. They screamed of “generic.” But it would be misguided not to give them a chance. Waxier than Prang, waxier than candles, were the K-Mart brand crayons.

But.

There has never been a prettier color, not in nature, nor in artifice, than a 1983 K-Mart brand crayon in Kelly Green.

No, don’t argue. I win. (Who else would care about Crayons of the Eighties?)

And second place? Prussian blue. Also of the K-Mart persuasion. Crayola had nothing of the like.

Why? Because, seriously, that’s the color God chose when he invented the word, the very concept, of color. (Kelly green, K-Mart brand…I know I meander, but, c’mon. Pay attention.)

Crayola is still–will always be– the grand champion of crayon manufacturers. But K-Mart– well, they’re not so very successful now– but they will always be the ones who gave the most beautiful color to the world.

In 1983.

Quoth the Dorothy, “Nevermore.”

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Once upon a time, there was a babysitter. Her name was Dorothy. She was the babysitter for my sister and I when we were about 5. This was on Webster Street.

Dorothy was nice, although not particularly conversant in “young kid.”

Dorothy served us cream of mushroom soup. Canned. (Again, not particularly conversant in “young kid.”)

Dorothy served us cream of mushroom soup in her kitchen. She had a 50′s style dinette set, oval, formica faux-marble top. The chairs were ripped, felt-lined grey cabbage-rose covered naugahyde. (This is purely incidental. All of the above was the same color as the cream of mushroom soup.)

Dorothy introduced us to the Disney channel. In the 80′s this was not a bad thing. This was a pre-Hannah Montana, pre-The-Suite-Life, pre-tween era when such a thing was actually very, very good.

However.

Dorothy gave us a room, her baby-sitting room. This was the playroom. It contained a toy or two and a tiny, collapsible card table sized appropriately for a four or five year old child. On said table, there was a ceramic Christmas tree. It lit up. That was great (I had never seen the like outside of a nursing home. And it lit up. So: winner).

Also on the table? A huge– I mean, seriously, the thing was massive– container of crayons.

You know what? I could eat the nasty un-kid-friendly cream of mushroom soup all day long. You bet. I could accept the complete and utter lack of cake in that place. (Did I mention? Dorothy didn’t give us any cake.) What I cannot–nay, never– forgive, no matter how kind and sweet Dorothy was (and she was), was the fact that she dumped those crayons into one, gigantic, waxen, Tupperware-encased mess of disorganization.

The nerve! As if she didn’t know that crayons belong in their box, in chromatic order, and that periwinkle should never touch melon should never touch sea-green.

But no! Alas, poor Dorothy.

She didn’t know. And that’s why she was the world’s worst babysitter (probably an exaggeration, because she really was kind. Plus she lived on Webster Street, the best street). Dorothy mixed the crayons, the beautiful, amazing, hundreds of crayons. They were thrown helter-skelter, nilly-willy in an un-beautiful heap in a Tupperware container.

The saddest sight my five-year old eyes ever did see.

Thank god she had Disney channel or I might not have made it to age 6.

Going Weird on a Friday: November 9th at the Walmart

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Seasonal Affective Disorder, anyone?

So it happened tonight. You can mark it down in your planners, folks. Tonight was the night for that annual weird thing that happens every single year since I became a fully-fledged adult.

I was at Walmart, as I am occasionally forced to be because they are the only ones in the area that carry my preferred brand of (doesn't matter). Christmas stuff was out (I didn't even look at it) but yet, it happened…

I don't know quite what this is, but every year there comes a day, somewhere between Halloween and Thanksgiving–I'm usually in a drugstore when this happens but this year it hit at Walmart (god help me)–

I'm in an aisle. I'm shopping for bleach and what-not, not even looking at the Christmas merchandise, and Christmas-affective-disorder hits me square in the jaw. Correction, hits me square in the tear ducts.

What the hell is that?

Every year, I, innocently as ever, waltz into a store in November-ish, thinking I am going to pick up cat food or bleach or what have you, and I get blindsided by Christmas pasts and Christmas nevers and my eyes tear up— and I don't know why.

In Gilbert and Sullivan-y terms: or wherefore.

I can't explain it. I'm never looking at Christmas when this happens. But it never fails: one minute I'm shopping in a moment that just happens to be pre-turkey and the next, I'm fighting back tears over dreams of Christmas that happened and I can't get back or dreams of Christmas that I'm afraid I'll never see or creche scenes that I wanted to believe in but somehow couldn't.

Or that Santa isn't real and I really hate that. Or that Christmas comes but once a year and we really need it more frequently…or….

Or? I seriously don't know. I'm not an infrequent guest on the Great Nostalgia Show. So it might be related but I can't tell you.

Does this happen to any one else? Like, you're thinking “Gee, I'm out of scrubbers” and the next damn thing you know, you're hearing Nat King Cole sing “The Christmas Song” about three weeks before you really should and you're, well, just a little helpless for an aisle or two.

Maybe it's just me, but I doubt it. (Not so all-fired special, me.) At any rate, at least the annual episode is out of the way. Same time next year.

 

The Frog Prints

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A Truly Terrible Tale for a Rainy October Night

A long time ago in an Indiana town far, far away (or roughly an hour and forty-five minutes if you go the speed limit or whatever) a boy regaled his classmates with a story so terrific, so awful, and so, well, lasting that I have never, ever, ever forgotten it. Lord knows I have tried…sorta. Because the story took place on a rainy fall day and was told on a rainy fall day, I cannot see a leaf on the ground on a rainy fall day without thinking about it. Now you all can think about it, too. You're welcome.

It was a grey and wet October afternoon and a boy we'll call E, the E Who Shall Not Be Named, said he had an interesting fall walk. He was walking through the neighborhood, crunching and slushing his way through fallen leaves, as one does. What to his wandering eyes should appear among the soggy leaves but one perfectly robust piece of autumnal crispy glory. He couldn't resist it. In fairness, who could? In a fit of adolescent exuberance, he took one big leap in the air and landed square on the big lovely leaf.

There was no crunch.

No, there was a squish, perhaps a splat, coupled with a deep disappointment of the kind that only comes when one is suddenly and shockingly deprived of certain, immediate satisfaction.

That was no leaf. That was a frog.

See, it's a terrible story. And there's no happy ending. Nope. The frog lives on only in memory. Although, you have to admit, that frog would never, presumably, have achieved the kind of celebrity it has since found if it hadn't been for E's foot landing so indelicately on a fateful fall day. (See, at last we get there: frog prints!)

Small consolation for a frog, one supposes. Of course, we'll never be able to ask.

I can honestly say I have never since crunched a leaf with any amount of force or velocity. Or at least, not without verifying that it is indeed flora and not fauna first.

Again, sadly, small consolation for a frog.