The End of the Road

February 9, 2009

I bought a new car today. I’ve wanted a Prius for years. After saving up for London last year, I figured I could do the same towards a new car and put into action all my ramblings about the vile dependency on oil. It is a nice car, I’m not going to lie. But I did this primarily because I wanted to contribute towards the message that we aren’t gonna take it any more. Alternative energy has to become a reality.

I’m picking up Kermit on Monday. Kermit because he’s green… and I think the Prius kind of has a muppet personality. But that’s just me and my odd way of seeing the universe.

That leaves me with the Corolla for two more days. I never named the Corolla. Someone else tried to name her… but it didn’t really stick. She has given me a good seven years… and a lot of memories that I find myself pondering before I hand over the keys.

I bought her in May 2002, four months after returning from London. When I decided that I was going to make a go of it this side of the Atlantic. The car has moved me four times, to Worcester, to Barre, back to Newton… then two miles down the road. I’ve driven it to four jobs, one that I hated with my entire soul, one I didn’t care all too much for, and two that I love very much. I drove to a class reunion, countless weddings, and to say goodbye in several cemeteries. It has carted costumes and set pieces and posters for numerous plays.

I’ve had all sorts of passengers in that car. My Little Sister sat many hours in the backseat divulging all the important details of her week, asking me unexpected questions about the grownup world, or begging me to turn on Radio Disney. I picked up George Herman from school when he filled me in on the week’s next great adventure. The front seat had many a guest star on trips to Trader Joe’s or Christmas tree shopping or road trips to no where in particular. A lot of laughs.

I spent many more hours in that car on my own. Numerous hours to and from Gloucester or Worcester. I would listen to my tapes (I have no place to play a cassette any longer), my CDs, and now my iPod to inspire my brain to try to sort things out or create something original for writing or the stage.

Obviously, it’s just a car. I don’t place a lot of stock in holding too much affection for an OBJECT that has no feelings. And yet… there are memories of places that the car has been to which I no longer go. Or the echoes of laughter from people who are no longer in my life. It is good to move away… and yet… worth it to pause and recollect before it goes to the scrap heap.

veritas et rumusculus

November 19, 2008

I remember studying Henry V my sophomore year of college. It was part of a class using literature to examine war in history. We talked quite a bit about the Battle of Agincourt and the downfall of the mighty French, in spite of their heroic shining armor. Armor that could not move… that was so heavy they needed to be hoisted onto horses with a crane. Or so the professor told us (influenced no doubt by Larry Olivier's cinematic interpretation of that history play). A little less than a year later I found myself working at Higgins Armory, where I learned almost immediately that there were no such things as cranes to hoist knights up on horses while wearing armor. Armor had to allow for agility – especially on the battlefield, especially atop a horse. The problem the French had in 1415 was really… just… mud.

This clarification of history came to mind the other day while reading an article sent to me by a museum colleague. It was an amusing collection of vignettes about the misinformation distributed by guides on historic house tours. Some of the stories had an element of truth from which their yarns stemmed, but most were just the polar opposite of truth. I was amused – not just because I've encountered and no doubt told some of my own hyperbolic tales of the past – but because it goes along with my theory that history is just a bunch of antiquated gossip.

When I traveled around New England with Lady Erica and Lady Catherine, we used gossip as exposition to our armor demonstration. We filled the gaps between mail and combat armor with jabs at the greasy, non-toothed graybeard, the six fingered Anne Boleyn, or the audacious young women who dared to expose their legs. It certainly wasn't the most reverent dispensation of historic facts… but I'm sure the idea of Sir Monkeyface made the concept of ceremonial armor stick a lot better than an explanation of metallurgy.

But none of those two shows were ever the same – whether altered by a cast change or an audience change. The nuance of the history certainly varied each time… especially when there was a determination to suppress giggles from unintentional innuendo or there was a question from a spunky eleven year old determined to prove we were in fact not from the 16th century. So while I like to think I know a thing or two about the era of knights and feasts that served up a cockatrice, I'm not going to deny I would play the story to the audience to make it a little more interesting.

I was – and am on Eastern Point every summer – a history gossip.

The ends to justify the means, I tell myself. Because on the page history can be so dusty and moldy and dull. A little embellishment makes it more appealing and intriguing. Because… isn't it better to walk away intrigued enough to learn more than to walk away bored out of one's mind and never wanting to revisit that corner of the past? Besides, those people are dead and can't be hurt by the distortions of conjecture. I imagine the servants would probably hear one of my tours and laugh with a disapproving shake of their heads. What the hell do I know about Beauport? Really, what do I know? I just imagine myself there… and try to take the tangible objects and put myself in the shoes of the people who were actually able to touch them.

But I can't touch the objects, or the people. I can only imagine. So I fill in the gaps with a clever description or romantic guess about what happened between the walls. I make a disclaimer that some of what I say is a guess… but I know that the disclaimer won't linger so well as the good story. And the good story makes me the center of attention and earns the praise of a satisfied audience. No matter the omission of truth.

But … really… will we ever KNOW the truth of the past? It's hard enough to get it straight with what happened yesterday… never mind nearly six hundred years ago on a rainy battlefield in Northern France. For all I know students in a few decades may be learning that the French were just actually really hungover… and that's the reason they lost England that day.

Who knows? Not even Shakespeare was true to the truth... not even about himself.

viva la vida

November 14, 2008

Two weeks ago I went to my second Coldplay concert this year. I'm not usually one for following the masses – but the energy of Chris Martin is awesome to see live. It's enough to make this old stick in the mud smile without thinking and sing at the top of her lungs along with other tens of thousands of fans. What lingers most about that night – even more than him collapsing on the stage extension in some yoga pose without losing a beat of song, or rolling over backwards to reconnect his body mike, or the streams of butterfly confetti to Lovers in Japan – was the contagion of his good energy. I left the Garden that night in a sardine procession to the Green Line. And… instead of the regular Boston crankiness, people were… happy. That happiness continued into the bowels of the train station, even as the tired masses had to wait for multiple trains to pass to get on. Because in the delirious afterglow of those happy two hours, those tired masses started singing the oh oh oh's from Viva la Vida to pass the time.

Then exactly a week later, I woke up to a second burst of good spirit in the city of Boston. The aftermath of Obama's success put spontaneous smiles on so many faces I encountered on the street, witnessed giving reports on the local news, and spoke with in my immediate circle. Strangers on the telephone had a perkiness in their voice I found startling and refreshing. It was a happy day for so many.

When something like that happens once, I try to mark it and register it for memory's sake. So that when life gets me down and the petty BS of day to day is depressing, I can remember that there are sparks of brilliance in human nature. But twice – two Wednesdays in a row, no less – I have to take a little more notice. There is a lesson to be gained in it.

Recently, I have let the other side of humanity get me down quite a bit. There has been so much pettiness and deliberate cruelty and absent-minded disregard directed at me that I've absorbed that negativity and started to let it leak out in my day to day interactions with people. It's a vicious circle because my hurt ends up irritating the people who hurt me so that they feel no obligation for sympathy or making amends… and thus it continues without improvement.

But now, I'm thinking the oh, oh, oh's in North Station are a better option.

I don't know that I'll ever perform in front of tens of thousands of people. And I definitely have no plan to run for president. But there are Wednesdays when that sense of contagious optimism comes on a smaller scale. I work for two women who host a motley crew to dinner on so many Wednesdays. They don't have big confetti guns that shoot out mulit-colored butterflies. They do give us a yummy meal, laughs, and the freedom to pursue subjects that polite conversation pooh poohs. Most importantly in that conversation, they really listen and really care. And there is always a hug goodbye before the evening ends. In that simple yet meaningful way, they give a smaller group of people a reason to hum on the way home.

But you know, the echoes of all those Wednesdays are smiles.

No Pain No Gain

October 7, 2008

I used to dance a lot in high school. Nearly every Saturday I would find myself stretching muscles and acquiring black and blues with such regularity it didn't phase me at all. In fact, if there wasn't some sort of minor pain, I figured I wasn't working hard enough. Some pains were, in truth, a little more to take than others. But at the end of the day, it was just something I learned to work through as I practiced for the next Saturday.

At the end of last week, I visited a trainer. In the attempt to evaluate my current physicality, I was tested on a number of routines to the point of exhaustion. I woke up sore on Saturday and in agony on Sunday. I moved as though five decades had been added to my years and lost sleep as I felt the muscles repairing themselves after a night of 'rest.' I dreaded the return to work on Monday and the stairs that take me to my office.

The soreness woke me too early today as well. But as I left my car a block or two from our building, I realized that while the walking still hurts, it helps at the same time. I was reminded of those dancing days and my determination to not let the little hurts be an excuse to stop trying, but the motivation to make myself stronger.

It isn't rocket science… and the science is simply that my muscles are repairing themselves after ripping from more exercise than they have been used to the past year and a half. The lesson is pretty obvious in terms of exercise… but I think there is a lesson to borrow a little attitude from my seventeen year old self. To just not let it cripple me and move on.

the quechee gorge

July 31, 2008

Ten or eleven years ago I discovered the Quechee Gorge with Lady Erica. We were on our first outreach to Lebanon, NH. We might have had a rental car and a check from the IHOT that allowed us to set up camp at the lodging of our choice. We found the Quechee Inn at the bottom of the gorge and undoubtedly coupled the northern excursion with a cheap bottle of wine from some local NH grocery store and a long evening of gossip and my recounting novel outlines.

I remember the school was really appreciative of our presentation and offered us lunch between our shows. We also had enough time to kill between presentations to go back to the gorge and take a walk along the lightly snow covered path in our costumes.

Well, we went back there a couple times… and the details of each visit blend together. One trip had us driving through the White Mountains during a blizzard. And there were margaritas at some TexMex place in Lebanon, as well as the Dr. Suess Hamlet t-shirt I did not buy and have not been able to find since…

But the Quechee Gorge has always stayed with me. It probably has been nine years since I've made the trip there, as awe-inspiring as that short trip to the Grand Canyon of New England can be. Nonetheless, it stayed with me after leaving Higgins and outreaches in my past.

It truly is awesome, as that word is meant to describe. The Connecticut River carving itself through rock and forest. Not quite so grand as Arizona… but still breathtaking in its beauty and frightening in its plunge from top to bottom.

For much of my early twenties, I saw myself standing at the edge of that gorge, trying to determine whether to take a step towards crossing it or staying safely on the side without daring to leap to the other side. I imagined the way across like that invisible bridge in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade – impossible to detect, but requiring faith to cross. That invisible bridge was London in my life's allegory … and then I fell off of it.

But the thing about the Quechee Gorge is that it is just as lovely when you walk down into it. There is the water and even the shores of the river are a magnificent piece of nature. The Inn that was subsidized by Higgins was in the gorge… so it isn't a bad place to be… for a while.

Ultimately one does look up and want to return to the top. I think I've had a nice visit below, a chance to mend the wounds of my fall and get my bearings… and lose them again. It is time to start climbing back… but the question is… to go back to the side where I started or the side I had hoped to reach by the invisible bridge.

The House that Jack is Building

July 9, 2008

I've carved a nice 3 mile circle for myself to run/walk through West Newton. There is a nice mix of hills and seeming flatter stretches that inspire me to lengthen my intervals with each attempt – even when I'm jogging through a steam bath. There are lots of big leafy trees to shield the sun and even the random sprinkler to offer a slight reprieve. Not to mention, it is pretty to look at – if I can be bothered to look as I aim for that next emergency call box or street sign.

Right before I crest the hill that starts my run, there is a new house nearing completion. I used to run passed a large green fence that encompassed this property when I went in a different circle back to Newtonville. I couldn't ever see what was behind the fence, except that I knew it marked the end of my third interval.

Now, no matter what side of the fence I were to run along, there is no escaping the HUGE mansion that has been erected over the past year. It stands atop that hill looking over the intersection below it like a castle on a cliff.

I don't know why I try to come up with a poetic simile here. I actually find the thing horrific. Not for any snobbery of historic preservation or theme. Because the thing is so obscenely large and unnecessary.

On the second mile of my loop I pass three more monstrous constructions and one more that is already completed. All of these houses are built on lots once occupied by ranches. Not the kind with bulls and horses – the kind from the 1950's with swanky bars built in the basement.

I don't get it. Well, I do. It is Newton. The rich are still rich, recession or not. But it is Newton, where almost every other car is a Prius. What genius of conservation determines these houses to be a good thing for the environment? Again, they are huge, requiring more electricity, more heat, more water, and more square footage. Square footage that uses more lumber and takes down a few trees in the process. Then again, SUVs populate the roads in Newton as much as the Prius. For all those off road conditions along Com. Ave.

I can't deny the fact these new houses are providing jobs for skilled workers who have fewer opportunities today. But… it still seems such a waste.

I, for one, would much rather have a 1950's ranch with a swanky bar in the basement. And trees.

Wouldn’t it be nice?

February 4, 2008

I know I can be a bit obnoxious in my opinions sometimes. I recognize I let my pride in my intellect override an appreciation of simple fun. But I'm going to ignore that sensitivity and bitch about the Patriots and Patriots fans for a few paragraphs.

I understand that it is something to rally behind a common goal, to see ordinary man work with other ordinary men towards an impressive goal. I understand there is an amount of fun in sharing that with friends and cheering on a hero projected on the television. I get that. I get - even though I personally find the game a huge bore - that it is suspenseful and a thrill.

All that said, I am slightly disgusted.

Wouldn't it be something if the population who got so into the superstition and support behind the New England football team could direct that energy and thought and MONEY towards something that really mattered? Why don't we as a mass care as much about feeding hungry children as we do about a 19-0 record? Why can't we as a collective soul rally behind veterans who have lost their legs and incomes the way we did about Tom Brady's ankle? Why do we care so much about how overpaid athletes spend an afternoon and not spend five minutes worrying about recycling or finding a renewable fuel source?

Yes, I know we think about those things. We talk about global warming, how unnecessary the war is, how it is too bad that little African children don't have clean drinking water or enough rice to combat the hunger that stunts their growth. Sure, we fuel our conversations and rants with these thoughts… but do we ever put that much devotion into making these wrongs right as we do in hoping that the Patriots will win the superbowl?

Watching all these fans group together, shout out their enthusiasm, buy the gear and wear it proudly, I observe that we are capable of banding together to care about something. That people are able to direct a whole bunch of thought and effort towards a hope. Yeah, the Patriots did not win this time… but the point is, people cared. Imagine… imagine if so many people cared about the ozone layer?

I'm not guiltless of this attitude. My fanaticism is directed towards Hamlet and BBC period dramas, on which I spend frivolous amounts of money and time. And I appreciate that all Patriots fans aren't living in a cloud of self-absorption and don't care about those things. I think they do. I just want to see the effort put behind the game put behind something that will make this world better. Because that is a team spirit that won't go away when the season ends and the media moves onto the next professional team.

Well, a girl can dream… or throw a party of her own and build a house.

That's me. Pats fans, what are you going to do? Prove me wrong and show me that I'm just a long-winded intellectual snob. But don't just say it.

Off the soap box now. Go Red Sox… or whatever. I'll still be watching Jane Austen.

Here’s my glove: give me another of thine.

December 18, 2007

We all of us have our moments of clarity – little opportunities to see the world that much more vividly. The choice then becomes to seize on that opportunity or to let ourselves slip back into the happy sleep of day to day.

I went to a memorial service on Saturday. It was for a 90 year old woman, who passed away quietly in her sleep. She wasn't ill and had a sharp mind right up until the end, writing for a newspaper column in her native Hanover, NH. An amazing individual, who by the proof of the standing room only at her service, had touched so many lives in her 90 years. It was a sad occasion to see the end of her amazing life, but heartwarming at the very same time to see the ripple effect of that existence.

She wrote a book that compiled her columns called Everyday Matters. The rector of the church punctuated that phrase in two ways, detailing the dual meanings of the words combined. She wrote about everyday matters, the seemingly banal, ordinary details of her world. And yet… the example of her life and her writing proved that every day matters. There is humor and goodness to be found in those ordinary, minute moments. There is something to be said for the celebration of those moments and not the lingering on their opposites.

I suppose it is a time of year conducive to reflection, the gasp of hope to improve as December rounds to a close. But, the two and a half hour drive back from NH did allow that reality to permeate a bit and make me resolve in 2008 to make some more of those everyday matters really matter.

What I Wish for Christmas

December 13, 2007

A couple mornings ago I saw a story on the news, a hyped up blurb about the Christmas spirit. Apparently at some Starbucks west of here (definitely wasn't New England), a customer felt inspired by holiday spirit and offered to pay for his order and the order of the person following in the drive-thru. That was kind – the random act that is rather sweet at this time of year. The story, however, was that the following 200 customers elected not to take the free drink, but pass it along to the person behind them. Really… those 199 weren't as generous as the first… and honestly, it didn't resonate as thoughtful as the reporters tried so very much to make it seem.

I don't want to knock the Christmas spirit – it is all around as Billy Mack might attest. But it is selective. Tonight there is a foreboding prediction of six to ten inches of snow – which in spite of the fact it may leave us with a white Christmas, fills me with apprehension. I don't dislike snow. I don't regret the choice to live in a part of the world where it is inevitable. I do begrudge, however, the thoughtlessness of individuals in this part of the world when the cold precipitation falls.

I used to hate shoveling. I still do. But I recognize it is a necessary task in the winter months. Plus it will justify some of those leftovers in my fridge later tonight whilst I finish the last depressing chapters of Atonement. And really, it is only an extra half hour of my day.

I don't regularly wish the world would see things through my interpretation. But, I do wish that people would take that extra half hour to shovel a sidewalk tonight. Not doing it will allow one to escape the cold and the aggravation of the activity. But to do it is to think of pedestrians who have to walk to the bus, to the train, to school, to the store… to wherever and not have to worry about falling on their asses, having to walk in the street and risk getting hit by a car, or getting wet feet one has to live with all day long. If this is really the time of year when we think of others, is not safety a pretty good example of that?

That would be a manifestation of holiday spirit I can respect – and won't need news anchors to make me feel good about it.

But I will be surprised, very surprised, if tomorrow morning all the sidewalks are clear. Then again, this is supposedly the season of miracles too.

Something more than poppies

November 8, 2007

As I drank my orange juice this morning and caught the tail end of the weather on Good Morning America, a phrase scrolled across the bottom of the screen to indicate other 'major' stories in the Boston area. This phrase announced that a quarter of the US homeless are veterans. Now, I did not see the story from which this statistic is extracted. Nor do I deny it is a statistic that has not so coincidentally made its way to the forefront of our brains just in time for November 11. And, sadly, that little piece of information that scurried across the screen as the weather shifted to some other top ten news story did not surprise me at all.

I wish that story would get more play in the coming days – when people might decide to raise the red, white, and blue or plaster a yellow ribbon somewhere to tip a nod to the fact we have a holiday observed on Monday. But it isn't as cool these days to do that. The edge has worn off and the numbers of casualties reported on the news just blend into the monotony as the story shifts back to Britney Spears' next custody tribulation.

But it won't. That statistic just proves that stories about veterans aren't captivating and compelling to our attention. Well, there may be the one or two hero stories, a nicely edited piece about someone coming home or overcoming adversity, or even another total casualty list of lives lost. I'm not going to deny the merit of those. But what about all the others? What about the ones who survive and have to come home and live?

There is no clear cut answer to homelessness. Everyone has a different story, a different path that led them to that point – and ultimately some level of personal responsibility to help themselves. Even so, don't we have some sort of responsibility to the men and women who made sacrifices and risks to go somewhere and protect this country? Whatever the war and the right or wrong of the government that sent them there, the fact is these people did something so that we did not have to. So that we could sit on our asses and watch stupid television, or send each other youtube clips about inane pop culture, or read up on politics and render our opinions to expostulate but never do anything to enact change.

Or type a bunch of paragraphs to post on a myspace blog…

Americana Run Amuk

September 29, 2007

Sometimes I am so not a girl.

Today I decided to head to the Natick Mall - I mean, Collection - to purchase some jeans and new running sneakers. I mentioned to a friend that I was that way headed and she leapt with such eager enthusiasm at the excuse to go there, I offered to make a morning of it.

I confess I was delighted upon entering the old mall at the discovery of an Irish import store. It had a collection of all the charming knick knacks, wool, and Guinness memorabilia that I admired in many a touristy gift store on my last visit. And it made me think responsibly of my mother's birthday next month… so that was settled. Then I got my jeans. Then we went to the 'new' mall, er, collection.

Okay. It's pretty. And I think… it may be a sort of green building. Lots of sunlight… but that might be the only thing to qualify it as green. Maybe I misread that somewhere. Because… everything else about that wing just… was too much. Yes, there is an Anthropologie. But… I am so not a girl. I don't get excited about handbags, shoes, clothes. Especially when the price tag comes in three and four digits. Especially for a shoe… that may be pretty… but all I can think is PAINFUL and useless for walking any great distance. I tried to restrain myself from acrimonious remarks as my friend took delight in every retail display. I couldn't linger though. It just didn't seem right.

The bathrooms were pretty. Not skeevy like most public restrooms. Not a cringe factor to touch anything. It was still too much. Leather furniture. A chandelier. In a restroom. In a mall. No wonder the world hates us. It's obscene.

I don't pretend I don't like a new, smart looking outfit. I don't deny I take pleasure in something that is well lit and artfully arranged. But… all the time I walked over the wooden floors and carpeted aisles, I kept thinking that six months from now it would suffer the saturation of salty water and sand embedded in winter boots. The comfortable furniture will have coffee stains and gum stuck underneath. I have little faith in the public.

I didn't get my sneakers because even with all the stores, turns out they didn't have the one for which I have a gift card. It didn't matter at the end, because, honestly, I couldn't leave quickly enough.

So wrong and so absurd. And so… not my thing.

Bollocks

August 29, 2007

Prowling around the Internet to make this afternoon go faster, I stumbled on a story about Ken Burns' upcoming documentary, The War.

There has been no shortage of controversy surrounding this piece. I don't get it. There have been endless films made about WWII. Documentaries, docudrama, fiction, romance, action films that stretch all possibilities of real life… the list is endless. And none of them are perfect enough to satisfy all parties. But, for some reason, this high profile membership lure is plaguing PBS.

Today's story was about the fact that some affiliates are airing an edited version that blips out the profanities from the soldiers' recollections. WTF?

If ever there was a justification to say fuck or shit on public television, I think something relative to the horrors of WWII just might be the case. Who are these idiots who wish to whitewash history? No, who just want to make it sound a little less harsh? Because they aren't asking PBS to edit out the images of dead bodies or explosions. Just the swear words. Who wouldn't be vulgar describing the horrific images of Iwo Jima or Normandy or the Battle of Bulge? Good God. Are these people that stupid?

There has been other controversy surrounding this film, about omissions made. The thing is only fourteen hours long. How can every aspect of that war get fair telling in just fourteen hours? It isn't the definitive story of WWII. But isn't it just simply… important that the story is still being told sixty years later? That we are not letting ourselves forget? That we are trying to remember the horror so that the legitimate profanities of bloodshed and holocaust and devastation do not repeat themselves? Or is it because our society gets stuck on petty little words and not the story… that, in fact, these profanities are being allowed to happen again?

Bloody hell.

Because I need another reason to frequent Starbucks

July 17, 2007

I have an addiction. It's true. It isn't even the caffeine. It is a habit thing. Something about the pretentious language… or the red cups at Christmas… or just the lingering memories of my London routines. Whatever it is, I have Starbucks radar. I see that logo and feel good knowing I can get my liquid crack fix if need be.

As I walked into the big Victorian on Saturday, we were greeted by the host wearing a T-shirt with that logo. I was about to remark about my latte fascination when I realized it was, in fact, NOT a true Starbucks t-shirt. Indeed. They had removed the mermaid and replaced it with Jesus, holding out his palms while bleeding from his thorny crown. The Starbucks and Coffee words were interchanged with Sacrificed for Me.

Ew.

It took me a while to get over the fact they removed the Starbucks word… but an hour later, I realized they removed the female. A mystical female was supplanted by a gory Jesus.

I wore a necklace that day – that my sister had given me years ago. It's a silver treiskele – three spirals that are interconnected. I wore it because she gave it to me… but, okay, mostly because I thought there had to be some representation of metal that wasn't in the form of a cross. I always like that symbol because it has a number of meanings and is Irish in its roots. Yes, Irish… Celtic… when it was a representation of the sun, afterlife, and reincarnation. Another interpretation is for the elements – earth, water, and air. And… finally, the goddess in her three forms – maiden, mother, and crone. Until, of course, Christians determined it was actually the father, the son, and that holy spirit. Commenting on my necklace in connection with that last interpretation, my sister explained a friend of hers actually got the image tattooed on her body to celebrate her sixth year of being born again.

Yes, I am the girl who likes to re-interpret Shakespeare to fit today's world a little better. I'm not a purist when it comes to history, understanding that the many mouths of relaying information distorts the original. But, when that distortion is a deliberate attempt to propagate a belief system and erase another (especially the female)… well, that's just… it's silly.

So, on my way to hell, I will collect several more mermaid cups and wear my treisekele. If the originals are wrong… well, at least I'll be awake enough to appreciate it.

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end

June 24, 2007

Two nights ago I was at my beloved Beauport. It is in the darkness of night when the ghosts seems real. When the house is still and shadowy corners can hide any possibility. I don't know what I believe about the supernatural that haunts that place… but what I feel in the air, in the walls, in the furniture… is the aging memory of when it was a house. When people lived, partied, loved, cried, spoke, sang, wrote… lived. There are many times when an echo of that past creeps into the room for a fleeting second, making it a house again and not the vacant shrine it is today.

Beauport is on my brain a bit more these days… but just now it seemed an appropriate corollary as I wandered through the empty rooms with boxes piled high and scattered remnants of what once occupied the space. There are a number of echoes on this final Saturday at Washington Park. The happy recollection of parties, conversations, movie nights, dinners, guests, solitary evenings, hurricane punch, music, tears, laughter, cooking, eating, drinking, comfortable silences, friendships… and so many more reverberations. So many moments not easily recognized in their passing as memorable… and yet… now… something worth a pause to treasure.

Tonight we took one last walk to Cabot's from the house and settled on the front stoop to enjoy the cool summer evening to eat our ice cream and observe the skulking animals on the park. Another deceptively simple moment that will implant itself in my memory with fond recollection.

I've had a good run here. In spite of the hellacious ending. And as I round out the last few days of plaster dust and takeout to make up for the lack of kitchen (so excited about the new kitchen), I will think more of the evenings here that will echo in my future days… and hopefully in those of the others who have visited here.

Friends, thanks for the memories… and looking forward to the new ones to come!

spacious in the possession of dirt

May 23, 2007

The only regretful aftermath of Mardi Gras this year was someone spilled a cup full of their rum filled punch in my Japanese Evergreen. For two months, I watched it wilt on the bookcase by the window. I watered it and yet found myself pulling off yellow, sticky leaves on a frequent basis.

Three weeks ago I pried the poisoned soil out of the dense roots and refreshed it with new earth. The plant has perked up a bit. Some of the leaves are still sticky, but they no longer wilt. New leaves are pushing their way towards the light. A couple pieces have shown themselves beyond repair and recovery… but ultimately, the plant has come back to life.

Uprooting is a messy thing. In the end, new soil is necessary. It brings weary things back to life and allows them to grow and reach again.

Broken Vinyl

April 30, 2007

The basement was not as much fun as the attic in my grandparents' house. But it was still a treat to spend time there coloring whilst my grandmother ironed and played records on the hifi. I had two favorites. Sesame Street and Mary Poppins. The Mary Poppins record was broken, with a literal chunk missing from the edge. Thus, we had to start playing it on the third - perhaps halfway through the second song. Still, it was special… and worth the missing spoonful of sugar.

That image popped into my head just now… thinking about broken things… and the worth of clutching onto damaged goods. In the case of the record, there was a loss of songs. I'm not even sure that Side B allowed the pleasure of supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. But… there was the chimney sweep song and the lullaby and enough of Dick van Dyke to make me beg and plead with my grandmother to play it again and again.

Some things can't be fixed again. There is irreparable damage… but does one throw out all the music simply because some songs can never be played again? Sure there are scratches and skips… but doesn't some fun remain? Enough of a jolly holiday with Mary to make it all worthwhile?

Or… does there simply come a point when it is better to get a new album altogether? To spare the all too quick passage of time before the needle plays soundless monotony of skips against the papered section of vinyl?

The fate of that album - as well as the hifi - was the usurpation of my uncle's CD stereo/speaker system. Tossed aside for something new and improved. And now even that is approaching antiquation.

It served its purpose, I suppose. It entertained an energetic kid long enough to allow my grandmother a chance to attend to her laundry. And, broken or not, it still brings a smile to my face to think on it.

Not in Single Spies

April 18, 2007

Change happens all the time. I never doubt that. I really don't think that things ever stand still. But sometimes they change without our knowing, slowing weaving into the pattern of life as some things break away soundlessly. Then a few months later, one looks up and sees a different fabric altogether. But then… then there are earthquakes when change rattles and makes its presence known.

There is another cliché (thanks in part to Albert Einstein) that in the midst of difficulty lies opportunity. The challenge, of course, is to see clearly enough through the chaos to seize that opportunity before the dust settles and time has altered things beyond possibility.

Now I'm too tired to think. I don't want to make decisions or choices or raise my arms to grab out to something. And yet… if I don't actively participate in the cyclone whirling around me, things are going to fall where they will and life will change anyway.

Or maybe, in truth, the fact is… I just changed my level of motion. I stopped whirling about and see the fury of life continues without my pull of the strings. A different perspective, wherein lies true opportunity.

The End of Demeter's Mourning

March 28, 2007

Isn't it a curious thing… our memories? How easy it is to forget sensory delight or disdain… of something so commonplace as the weather? I am always startled every year by the exclamations against winter weather, as if forgetting winters previous when there WAS snow? Or bitter cold for weeks on end… as if New England had never endured a blizzard or a plummeting wind chill.

And yet, that convenient memory lapse makes the return of spring delicious every year. I take no less delight than I did at age four to see the crocuses open up to reveal their purples or to breathe in each morning that sweet, damp smell of the earth softening. The sweetness softens the challenge of my long days and rejuvenates my sense of hope for the weeks to come.

Pretty spring. How I like thee.

Mother Nature's Jester

March 21, 2007

Most days, my drive into work is pretty mindless. I sometimes don't even realize the passage of time and find myself already reversing direction on the J-way before I know it. I lose myself in whatever music I play at an inappropriate volume and reconfigure my thoughts to prepare for the day.

Today I was listening to Vivaldi's Summer. I don't know how many people blare The Four Seasons as loudly as I do, but something about those violins… anyway, whilst I was enjoying my baroque music, I was startled into amusement by the sudden appearance of a turkey running up Pond Street, across the Boston line into Brookline. Then, at some point after leaving JP, it stopped – as though relieved to make it out of the city.

Turkeys really are dumb. The birds… and the people. But, well, at least this one started my day with a laugh. Thanks, Mother Nature. I needed that today.

The Lush Life

March 14, 2007

So, I wonder if eating ice cream made from real Bailey's constitutes drinking on the job? There is a warning at JP Licks about alcohol content... but they didn't card me... so maybe not.

Although, I think it is more the sugar than a burn down the throat that alleviates the stress of this manic week.

Not that either is a healthy option... but... I'll render it a tip of the hat to my Irish heritage - all 25% of it!