tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81331471701819345972024-03-04T23:05:37.950-05:00love,elizabethMy letters to you.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.comBlogger320125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-46109953249881830282013-09-07T14:25:00.002-04:002013-09-07T14:25:33.142-04:00A public stoning<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I witnessed a public stoning last night. It was the cyber stoning of a woman on a "social" (antisocial) network. She posted these alarming words: "Feminism is the radical notion that women are people." There was an anti-woman/anti-feminist cyber shit storm. I put in my you-go-girl two cents and got called names for it. The saddest (yet completely understandable) part was that the woman then cancelled her account and went away. Thus making more real the false belief that the internet is mostly inhabited by young straight white men by making people who aren't those things either pretend they are or disappear.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Weirdly, a lot of the commenters (men) were talking about "free speech" as they shut down hers. Unless you stick to self-selecting sites like G+, facebook, or flickr it's ugly out there in cyberspace.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Laurie Penny, my new hero, who has received threats of murder, rape, and bombing for simply opening her big female mouth, talks about it in her blog:</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #404040; font-family: Roboto, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><a class="ot-anchor" href="http://www.penny-red.com/post/57613813151/on-bomb-threats-and-boredom" rel="nofollow" style="-webkit-transition-delay: initial; -webkit-transition-duration: 0.218s; -webkit-transition-property: color; -webkit-transition-timing-function: initial; color: #427fed; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;">http://www.penny-red.com/post/57613813151/on-bomb-threats-and-boredom</a></span>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-12321161909177057242013-06-30T17:51:00.001-04:002013-06-30T17:51:21.482-04:00Paula Deen’s cultural diabetes<br />
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<span class="userContent">I have a Paula Deen shaped weight on my chest and I have to get it off!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />So Paula Deen has opened up the festering sore of race and racism in our country with her use of the “N-word,” her racist hiring practices, and her clueless “plantation-themed” luncheon plans. Good. Let’s talk.<br /><br />I was on a social networking site the other day and came across this: “As a black dude, it's a little bad, but I expect most white people to have said ‘nigga(er)’ in their lifetime.” So I thought about it, thought hard. Had I ever used it, in jest even? The answer is no, not even once, not even in my head, not even when eenie-meenie-moing. The reason, for me anyway, is that I know my past – MY past. My ancestors owned large slave plantations. Their elite lives were based forced labor, rapes, whippings, and the heartless separation of families. Then, after the war, my gr. gr. grandfather helped start the North Carolina KKK. Another gr. grandfather helped lynch a white politician who was sympathetic to the rights of the freed slaves. So for me the “N-word” is always bound in shackles and brutality.<br /><br />Some people say ‘Oh, well I don’t let what someone in the past did control what I do or say now.’ As if to remember and respect the history of the word is to be a wimpy guilt-ridden white apologist. I don’t feel guilty about it. But I do recognize slavery for what it was and I condemn it, as everybody should.<br /><br />Others have said, ‘She’s a 66 year old woman from Georgia. Of course she’s racist.’ Well, my aunts, great aunts, and grandmothers from all over the South – even (gasp) Mississippi – evolved with the times and became right-thinking, right-speaking human beings, even if they didn’t start out that way. Partly because they weren’t idiots, and partly because they just plain had good manners.<br /><br />And yes, I totally get that minorities using words that the world has used against them is a way to redefine and take ownership of those words.<br /><br />So here’s what I think about Paula Deen. She’s an idiot. It’s 2013 and she needs to bring her cracker (see what I did there?) ass into the 21st century, even if it’s only for her business interests. As my beloved grandmother said to my less-than-perfect grandfather, “Bill-Wayt, if you want any of the grandchildren to EVER come visit, you have to stop talking like that.” Paula Deen is also a celebrity and should know that everything she does is up for public scrutiny. And finally, it’s rude and hurtful and none of us need that.<br /><br />Is she a scapegoat? A bit, in that she’s just the tip of the huge iceberg of American denial about race and racism. Even so, I don’t give her a pass. But I also don’t hate her, just as I didn’t hate my grandfather. People are a mixed bag and if you expect them to be all goodness and light you’re going to live a very lonely life. Can she redeem herself? Can she recover from her cultural diabetes? Of course! Failure and massive public humiliation are an opportunity to learn and to change. (Just ask Bill Clinton.) </span></div>
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<span class="userContent">The first thing she should do is accept the invitation from Michael Twitty of Afroculinaria (see below). Then she should do everything she can to learn about and promote the wonderful food that, as Michael Twitty puts it, “we made together,” black, white, and Native American, all of us.</span></div>
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<strong>An Open Letter to Paula Deen</strong></div>
<span class="caption" data-ft="{"tn":"L"}">afroculinaria.com</span><div class="mts uiAttachmentDesc translationEligibleUserAttachmentMessage" data-ft="{"tn":"M"}" style="color: grey; margin-top: 7px; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">
An Open Letter to Paula Deen: Photo Courtesy of: Johnathan M. Lewis Dear Paula Deen, So it’s been a tough week for you… believe me you I know something about tough weeks being a beginning food writ...</div>
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Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-60544238493099778322012-03-24T00:27:00.000-04:002012-03-25T20:16:54.207-04:00A Caregiver's guide to Alzheimer's<br />
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A caregiver’s guide to Alzheimer’s</div>
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1.</div>
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When the stranger first arrives</div>
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you will go deaf and blind </div>
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rather than accept</div>
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this twin that follows</div>
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close as a double exposure blurring </div>
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the edges of your loved one’s</div>
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life. She may
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if there is someone behind </div>
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her. But like a two year old</div>
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playing hide and seek you will </div>
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cover your eyes and say no, believing</div>
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that if you refuse to see it, it will not</div>
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find you. Forgive</div>
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yourself</div>
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2.</div>
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for soon enough the shadow will gain substance</div>
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and lumber after your loved one </div>
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like a sloppy drunk that will not leave </div>
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the party. Evasive
action is usual and</div>
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futile, followed by</div>
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anger, for which you will be sorry</div>
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one day.</div>
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3.</div>
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At length the illness will become</div>
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a permanent boarder requiring </div>
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accommodation – extra room</div>
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set aside in every part</div>
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of the day. At
table </div>
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you’ll make a place for both</div>
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the loved one and the illness.</div>
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At night you will pray</div>
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for both, though what you pray for</div>
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is your burden</div>
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to carry</div>
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solely.</div>
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In the end</div>
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there will be one again, but not the one<br />
you knew.
The loved one will have been<br />
possessed completely by the stranger. <br />
Only the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">deus ex machina</i>
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can part them now.
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5.</div>
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Waiting with the stranger </div>
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at the terminus, peering into the dark</div>
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tunnel for any approaching light </div>
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you will feel completely </div>
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alone.</div>
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6.</div>
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When the transport comes</div>
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at last, the suffocating shadow will step away</div>
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and memory will restore the singular person</div>
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your loved one was, leaving you trying</div>
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to remember. For
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any small thing – today’s date or</div>
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mayonnaise at the store – </div>
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you’ll start looking </div>
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over your shoulder, wondering</div>
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if you are being </div>
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followed now too.</div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-38296183049295056642011-03-21T01:54:00.001-04:002011-03-21T15:13:06.381-04:00Castles<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEK9Ey6xc7E1_e6l4TP18L2QReDvgxaL7w6CD6I7DOiMe6kEbXBdnbJJDiZSvjTCLJPUA9iQy-aF3K0l0hN9KuN3R7I1V0bCzLvh__p2R8fb1u6CaQgliaAuOVMRN4bvmAFzcHXrxww1k/s1600/cherry+grove+digging.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEK9Ey6xc7E1_e6l4TP18L2QReDvgxaL7w6CD6I7DOiMe6kEbXBdnbJJDiZSvjTCLJPUA9iQy-aF3K0l0hN9KuN3R7I1V0bCzLvh__p2R8fb1u6CaQgliaAuOVMRN4bvmAFzcHXrxww1k/s640/cherry+grove+digging.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Over and over we built our castles, dug moats, made walls, only to see each construction erased </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">by a careless wave, turned</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> back in an instant into unmarked sand. I even laid my body down as a barricade (as I would do for you) but still the waves came on.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I know at least one very dear and patient person is still checking this sorry and neglected excuse for a blog (xoxoxo @ ATWB!), so I'll try to update things a bit more often. So...</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I had a very difficult emergency visit to my mother. She has had two bad falls in the past few months and got lost on a trip to Philadelphia (and by "lost" I mean she ended up in Baltimore). I told her she had to move very soon to Pittsburgh and live with us. She said "No no no." I said "Yes yes yes." I eventually won out because </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">1. I was right</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">2. I'm bossy that way</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">But it's devastating for her. Her grandfather had dementia and (according to her) turned into an old lecherous caricature of himself, still going to his offices and groping all the women in the elevators. Her father, when he was diagnosed with possible senility, committed suicide rather than become like his father. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Of course she won't be groping women in elevators (at least I hope not!), but she has lived for a long time with the heavy weight of fear - as her father did - of losing herself entirely to this disease, or of losing what she considers to be the most important parts of herself. And in ways I see already that she is.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Wish us luck in finding a path together and through this that is more dignified and full of love than the paths her grandfather and father found.</span></span><br />
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</span>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-29322819780452366392011-03-04T13:04:00.001-05:002011-03-04T14:52:09.973-05:00Where I've been<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ6o4t1E0Gbf8uWHgKqhFNM9k4ZrN2HJ1EHgXst9jvmHPywQZ7tbBj1osGLPv15ZTU6YXW4n344QoI1SKXeNk2sR7j70pi4n5KVrVvBP4ax_AH8vDlFugfo8LkEaLrOAEUvxbYjlBtvZM/s1600/Butterflies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ6o4t1E0Gbf8uWHgKqhFNM9k4ZrN2HJ1EHgXst9jvmHPywQZ7tbBj1osGLPv15ZTU6YXW4n344QoI1SKXeNk2sR7j70pi4n5KVrVvBP4ax_AH8vDlFugfo8LkEaLrOAEUvxbYjlBtvZM/s1600/Butterflies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ6o4t1E0Gbf8uWHgKqhFNM9k4ZrN2HJ1EHgXst9jvmHPywQZ7tbBj1osGLPv15ZTU6YXW4n344QoI1SKXeNk2sR7j70pi4n5KVrVvBP4ax_AH8vDlFugfo8LkEaLrOAEUvxbYjlBtvZM/s1600/Butterflies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ6o4t1E0Gbf8uWHgKqhFNM9k4ZrN2HJ1EHgXst9jvmHPywQZ7tbBj1osGLPv15ZTU6YXW4n344QoI1SKXeNk2sR7j70pi4n5KVrVvBP4ax_AH8vDlFugfo8LkEaLrOAEUvxbYjlBtvZM/s400/Butterflies.jpg" width="307" /></a></div>I've been working like a mad woman on revising my novel but also, as you'll read below, dealing with my mother's descent into Alzheimer's. Heart wrenching.<br />
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Specimens<br />
1.<br />
Opening my brother’s specimen room door<br />
to pin a new one to the wall<br />
it always seemed we’d startled a flock<br />
of sunning butterflies. Wings wide -<br />
palm-leaf green, sky turquoise,<br />
sunset orange, star-lit iridescent midnight -<br />
rising up the walls away, forever<br />
stilled. Shadows wavered beneath<br />
them so they seemed to move. Just <br />
a trick of light.<br />
<br />
2.<br />
In those days my mother wore<br />
sun yellow, grass green, American-beauty red<br />
silks. Sleek sheaths, dresses<br />
with tight bodices and skirts that fell<br />
like bell flowers around her knees<br />
fluttering as the ceiling<br />
fans circled. Sinuous lines of cigarette smoke<br />
rose above the chink of drinks<br />
and cocktail party laughter. She floated<br />
from group to group. Hostess’s antennae tuned to<br />
too much, too little, too lonely, too late,<br />
she skimmed each clustered group, landed, moved<br />
on, spreading her bright<br />
self wide. And where she lingered<br />
they stilled and said,<br />
There’s sweetness.<br />
<br />
3.<br />
The doctor displays<br />
a cross section of two brains. “In the normal one,”<br />
he points, “the cerebral cortex and hippocampus<br />
are full.” The lobes spread wide, full and rounded<br />
with nuances of knowing. “But here you see….”<br />
The other is an ugly leering face:<br />
its jagged edges draw the unkempt hair;<br />
scooped-out hollows make the vacant eyes, the mouth<br />
hanging open in sleep. Formaldehyde<br />
also kills without destroying outer form. <br />
I held the jar and watched<br />
my brother put the silken creatures in. I watched them<br />
struggle into stillness. <br />
<br />
4.<br />
This woman moves<br />
uncertainly. Querulously angry she says<br />
“The maid stole my sweater.<br />
I put it here and now it’s gone.” She is<br />
so fixed that I don’t even argue. My mother<br />
would have known that<br />
no one – least of all the pretty Ethiopian<br />
who cleans the floors – stole her old<br />
moth-holed cashmere. My mother<br />
would have soothed this woman struggling<br />
to make sense of an invisible<br />
thief who is stealing<br />
all her memory. My mother’s daughter<br />
would have said, ‘That’s nonsense Mama.’<br />
But I just hold my tongue. I watch <br />
and sometimes see<br />
the shadow of my mother moving<br />
in this stranger, or maybe just<br />
a trick of the light<br />
of my memory.<br />
</div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-66730968378112090282011-01-09T13:09:00.000-05:002011-01-09T13:09:18.737-05:00More pictures from the dynamite crateThere are more of this series on my <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/23097960@N04/sets/72157624364956974/">flickr site</a> if you'd like to poke around my grandfather's world.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUKcZhfmSl4xrSyR_mj7muGtCKv1k5LBGGAySpFQkEpmJuXlgpjPCu-91lyJFuBjQwyBqo-w9xUK8UBABNTw7TQSqSWlxNA1wEz1aeylRKDDkcYtKAiG7eFOkQtd0gqJR9GyQ3k9-14Q/s1600/Lakeshore+%2526+horseman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUKcZhfmSl4xrSyR_mj7muGtCKv1k5LBGGAySpFQkEpmJuXlgpjPCu-91lyJFuBjQwyBqo-w9xUK8UBABNTw7TQSqSWlxNA1wEz1aeylRKDDkcYtKAiG7eFOkQtd0gqJR9GyQ3k9-14Q/s320/Lakeshore+%2526+horseman.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Horseman by the shore, Nicaragua, late 50s</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNcF-FvraDj6s6eglmcbae2Zf2nKjC_sfNl2zqcK-LlCiR-poVF9b6oB4JqMS7DUmMK9yLTAqN0s3JWehBmP5EIbxjKGU_y10VE4YW5mSjeRkJPNU-PMU0k8S4eWg6-sab9UhzODtkauM/s1600/swimming+hole+swimmers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNcF-FvraDj6s6eglmcbae2Zf2nKjC_sfNl2zqcK-LlCiR-poVF9b6oB4JqMS7DUmMK9yLTAqN0s3JWehBmP5EIbxjKGU_y10VE4YW5mSjeRkJPNU-PMU0k8S4eWg6-sab9UhzODtkauM/s320/swimming+hole+swimmers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">People at the swimming hole, Nicaragua, late 50s</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8XXgwOeyb_OFYjEloxqN5HK2KeLlJI9qd4k-D9l1JqDjXMynWEwV-Raate7m5uVDXpNhA_y7Fd6OqL2sMBaYEJwkqCOhXU3v9Kj0CzARWTLY70TfotxUblaBz7POr4kRzOcFOS5rFnks/s1600/Ladies+at+work+Honduras.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8XXgwOeyb_OFYjEloxqN5HK2KeLlJI9qd4k-D9l1JqDjXMynWEwV-Raate7m5uVDXpNhA_y7Fd6OqL2sMBaYEJwkqCOhXU3v9Kj0CzARWTLY70TfotxUblaBz7POr4kRzOcFOS5rFnks/s320/Ladies+at+work+Honduras.jpg" width="314" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Office workers, Honduras, late 1950s</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy6IemKMcODJ1voKP2Go0uxxbUS46ey-kAIMRuAjkW9w-2bqWXhuGHL_moAceKvJNo6TQ6LkLW9lLxi6gFVdR5arhXlhqIhLydkcGMNaMrpkHtw5XaAMpYmIUfed238IhA3fEXEunWprI/s1600/Boy+w+knife.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy6IemKMcODJ1voKP2Go0uxxbUS46ey-kAIMRuAjkW9w-2bqWXhuGHL_moAceKvJNo6TQ6LkLW9lLxi6gFVdR5arhXlhqIhLydkcGMNaMrpkHtw5XaAMpYmIUfed238IhA3fEXEunWprI/s320/Boy+w+knife.jpg" width="204" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boy holding machete, Nicaragua, late 1950s</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mr1hDSIFekLMgtlOrZ0DvDgN6nxFl9Uxo7J44TC6huMR7c2qQBsNf52tct3iBpxCwR39dh-pbynnEtKkTRl2fnlVNhWSnpAP5mS8ti8EwHzbKT7tOatnP_2jnDDirLaa6nR-7BEr_Oc/s1600/Becky+mask+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mr1hDSIFekLMgtlOrZ0DvDgN6nxFl9Uxo7J44TC6huMR7c2qQBsNf52tct3iBpxCwR39dh-pbynnEtKkTRl2fnlVNhWSnpAP5mS8ti8EwHzbKT7tOatnP_2jnDDirLaa6nR-7BEr_Oc/s320/Becky+mask+3.jpg" width="229" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She's a little devil (Cousin in a mask)</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3aWIRGuClaRnjfI9Audr6bCX0pAPOZmup8YX_9szYcqDOLPzaeqMhNcvF1wHKIRsHbuMhrOnaZIDL5Qq2xwjY2H5AHjo9ZTeYPOEORKpAl6NLv0mOcWAx7_vTod64PjBOETiXqY_KhzQ/s1600/Masked+boy+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3aWIRGuClaRnjfI9Audr6bCX0pAPOZmup8YX_9szYcqDOLPzaeqMhNcvF1wHKIRsHbuMhrOnaZIDL5Qq2xwjY2H5AHjo9ZTeYPOEORKpAl6NLv0mOcWAx7_vTod64PjBOETiXqY_KhzQ/s320/Masked+boy+2.jpg" width="209" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Pirate cousin<br />
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</tbody></table>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-3328597670761144162011-01-07T01:43:00.004-05:002011-01-07T10:51:05.436-05:00Peace be with youI got a hateful comment today on a little piece of piffle I wrote some time ago. Generally I'm a pretty feisty person and not averse to mixing it up with bullies. But it's been such a heart-wearying Fall that all I want is to do is to give and receive peace, kindness, heart's ease.<br />
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So to that end let me share with you one of the great bright spots of my life lately. This summer I found, in my aunt's attic, an old dynamite crate full of slides and negatives that my grandfather took fifty +/- years ago, some in Nicaragua where he was working as an engineer, and some in the US.<br />
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Now let me tell you about my Grandfather. He was a right-wing, racist, homophobic good ol' boy just one sheet short of the KKK. But he was also my Granddaddy who taught me how to play chess and poker, bought me wonderful trinkets at junk shops, and put plastic flies on our grits to make us laugh. I might hate some of the things he believed, but I could never hate him.<br />
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And for a right-wing racist homophobe he took some stunning pictures full of love, beauty, and humor. By which I mean to say we are all complex, full of good and bad, and forgetting that makes everyone poorer, makes the whole world a sadder harder place. So enjoy the pictures and the strange and beautiful conundrum of the man who took them.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvsGpW5J68RHfHcQCN0USwG65DNy6bRtO37uvN8OsQP008xghNeLRX3c4vRE7TcZ_LbvNPzFZ-haikwUCnJvGU0RPho4VYde6UIJ5wqZeQ43BXzwYfZA7ZPYrKlSBYV4wvEbB06MuVafU/s1600/Women+on+road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvsGpW5J68RHfHcQCN0USwG65DNy6bRtO37uvN8OsQP008xghNeLRX3c4vRE7TcZ_LbvNPzFZ-haikwUCnJvGU0RPho4VYde6UIJ5wqZeQ43BXzwYfZA7ZPYrKlSBYV4wvEbB06MuVafU/s320/Women+on+road.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Women on the road, Nicaragua 1958</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAY5ro18HJyI51yOB5gL9KSBBXAwkLp5H63cRMw3X-5gV4rONrA8gmmgjc8E-p_Zefr4z0fXG9DFzzCsMuNPhm2YDp0x9F3S1sL9ZIZnZGM12i_QeIGA0LnAPjcbvRKvxKuc99e1EQcE/s1600/rodeo+rearing+horse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAY5ro18HJyI51yOB5gL9KSBBXAwkLp5H63cRMw3X-5gV4rONrA8gmmgjc8E-p_Zefr4z0fXG9DFzzCsMuNPhm2YDp0x9F3S1sL9ZIZnZGM12i_QeIGA0LnAPjcbvRKvxKuc99e1EQcE/s320/rodeo+rearing+horse.jpg" width="269" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rodeo levade, Nicaragua 1958</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8e-WruQIBR9WD0aV1y9baOMknx5btS3Z_Am9vqm_AXuyrUMv4EyqAUljNspNVjvG2B7gcn1kadbtsbfng6Vng5AVAkDh3fScEQczZXGGFhd2zxVI72IjOS1sPkwv7K_vg3Y0uJZEWUJU/s1600/swimming+hole+diver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8e-WruQIBR9WD0aV1y9baOMknx5btS3Z_Am9vqm_AXuyrUMv4EyqAUljNspNVjvG2B7gcn1kadbtsbfng6Vng5AVAkDh3fScEQczZXGGFhd2zxVI72IjOS1sPkwv7K_vg3Y0uJZEWUJU/s320/swimming+hole+diver.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diver at the water hole, Nicaragua 1958</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE2eLa_-4WMBGpPfG6c7-0l5agif9AgMFgQS6GvBq7w5ppSRd7OF63YWaitEQMZIauFVOSYGdHAEkmVNvy4KZvb_6EgactBIMyILoa2t4LYxQO3-d54cE8MepOpnoHyJ-oTO7n1_yZZr4/s1600/Gran+Hotel+diver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE2eLa_-4WMBGpPfG6c7-0l5agif9AgMFgQS6GvBq7w5ppSRd7OF63YWaitEQMZIauFVOSYGdHAEkmVNvy4KZvb_6EgactBIMyILoa2t4LYxQO3-d54cE8MepOpnoHyJ-oTO7n1_yZZr4/s320/Gran+Hotel+diver.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diver, Gran Hotel, Nicaragua 1959</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh21-hM9DAle31HxbIcaIaSRi_A2VCMRBEosCs2j0cSuHqYvPqP-V6-GdCL1MQ6esc9WW4Tsh7WgSr7dZi1kxQ7BoFmLToSuHna9BtWc5bpS0fYPDMyQh35fwHzmDjj-dv74gOW-MyX42M/s1600/Becky+mask+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh21-hM9DAle31HxbIcaIaSRi_A2VCMRBEosCs2j0cSuHqYvPqP-V6-GdCL1MQ6esc9WW4Tsh7WgSr7dZi1kxQ7BoFmLToSuHna9BtWc5bpS0fYPDMyQh35fwHzmDjj-dv74gOW-MyX42M/s320/Becky+mask+4.jpg" width="217" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cousin in a mask, North Carolina 1960s</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-sppztSVkqPBY4cNbWdcY5gxS-d4fSJSzxYYyz6xtIff5LmJBCmBrMTHAHzVE2rBy3mmhsoredm75yrn0PpItuafRW392S5z3qeuCdYiN2jZi5K0VXBjx4Mrzy45dvn0QyaWDoNz_Frs/s1600/Shoe+sign+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-sppztSVkqPBY4cNbWdcY5gxS-d4fSJSzxYYyz6xtIff5LmJBCmBrMTHAHzVE2rBy3mmhsoredm75yrn0PpItuafRW392S5z3qeuCdYiN2jZi5K0VXBjx4Mrzy45dvn0QyaWDoNz_Frs/s320/Shoe+sign+copy.jpg" width="216" /></a>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-37137271755121704932010-11-01T18:53:00.000-04:002010-11-01T18:53:01.891-04:00A (moderately) proud moderate AmericanI wasn't able to go to "The Rally to Restore Sanity" in DC this weekend, but just seeing the coverage of it cheered me up about the way things are going in this country. I mean, hey, a rally of people who don't take themselves too seriously! Now <i>that's</i> my demographic!<br />
Here's a selection of amusing signs snagged from <a href=http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/10/30/the-funniest-signs-at-the_n_776490.html>The Huffington Post</a>. There are hundreds more on the sight. <br />
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</div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-19503563115531046402010-10-26T15:37:00.001-04:002010-10-27T00:31:58.924-04:00A little epigram-poem-thingy I wrote<u>Regret</u><br />
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Regret I<br />
know is just a bone gnawed<br />
clean of its marrow, best buried<br />
and forgotten. And yet<br />
I regret.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-68504557765937361642010-10-25T14:54:00.001-04:002010-10-25T17:10:09.979-04:00And in the midst of it all....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT5WXhApNfwDNTZZFOLgJ_UI5nqcAhpE3kwS0G0SFQVH3pyG2_TA0I1nSRrj4f4EUvlb0Immrj7B7qxIp3TIrMcuXbisXjIivnX-X765Lc_bRa-LWY92u5evfM1bwCzOmcAWVdUfn3xwg/s1600/DSC03686.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT5WXhApNfwDNTZZFOLgJ_UI5nqcAhpE3kwS0G0SFQVH3pyG2_TA0I1nSRrj4f4EUvlb0Immrj7B7qxIp3TIrMcuXbisXjIivnX-X765Lc_bRa-LWY92u5evfM1bwCzOmcAWVdUfn3xwg/s320/DSC03686.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>It's just one of those days. The weather is gray, drizzly, and sodden - glum in a way that only the rust belt can do. I'm supposed to be working on my novel revision (which is <i>finally</i> going well) but I'm jumpy and can't concentrate because my sister in law (who has brain cancer) is in crisis. So I feel guilty about not getting my work done (you know the drill) and heartbroken for my sister in law, her husband, her kids, and her big brother - my dear husband who has already lost one sister.<br />
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Yet.... when I went to let the dog out, waiting irritably in the rain while he did his doggy thing, I saw the cups of the nasturtium leaves, a raindrop gem in each one, like transitory white star sapphires. And in that moment I went from miserable to enchanted, running to get my camera, standing delightedly in the rain (while, in a nice turnabout, my dog waited impatiently for me to finish up my foolishness) trying to capture even a tiny bit of the casual perfect beauty nature made. <br />
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These are the things that save me every day.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-50923314817039689572010-10-17T01:29:00.001-04:002010-10-17T01:31:16.748-04:00I went to the Warhol Museum today.<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Andy says:</span></b><br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And I have to say I agree with him.</span></b></div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-31947191316728536402010-10-13T15:51:00.003-04:002010-10-14T10:52:14.605-04:00Hate mail<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(Advance apologies for the length and seriousness of this post! I won't make a habit of it.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So I just got my first hate mail. And it was for writing a </span><a href="http://art-lifeandlovelizabeth.blogspot.com/2010/07/book-of-jobs-wife.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">poem</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> about the bible. Go figure. I was trying to explore the character of Job's wife whose only recorded words are "Bless God and die" (</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">mistranslated</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> later as "curse God and die"). Those are the words of a devastated broken-hearted woman. And what woman wouldn't be who had lost all ten of her children at once?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was also writing the poem from my own experience as a woman who had lost two babies through miscarriage, both due to toxins in the water supply. After the first baby died, I had a D & C in the hospital under anesthesia. When they woke me I began weeping uncontrollably. They sent a nun in to me who held my hand and told me not to cry because Jesus had wanted my baby. I said angrily (only because I </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">was</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> still woozy from the drugs. Normally I would have just thought it.) "He didn't want it as much as <b><i>I</i></b> did!" So let's talk about God and Jesus and all those things I normally avoid because belief is such a deeply personal thing.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I believe in God. I believe that God is, first and foremost, love - my love for my family and friends, their love for me, and also my love of the stunning beauty of the world around me. These things are God's grace in my life, helping me get through the things that would seem otherwise unbearable. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">What I </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">don't</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> believe is that God put toxins in the Williamsburg, VA water supply to kill my babies as a test or because Jesus wanted them. God made the water and the air, but man poisoned it.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Now lets talk about Jesus</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. I was raised going to church in that habitual not-deeply-felt Presbyterian way. I was baptised, I wore a gold cross through my teens, my mother read me the bible sometimes (and I cried my head off when Joseph's </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">very mean</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> brothers threw him in the pit). It was simply a part of my life. But then people started to tell me that unless I believed that I was born in sin and that Jesus Christ died on the cross for that sin (of being normally procreated and born to a woman) <i>and</i> if I didn't accept Him as my personal savior, I was going to burn in Hell. Scary stuff, so I tried. I went to church and prayed hard to God and Jesus to show me the way. They never did. So I remain what the right-wing Christians would call a "Universalist." And I've stopped going to church because it no longer seems that church wants me.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But here's what I do know and believe about Jesus. He was a beautiful man who preached love and the loving particularly of one's enemies. In the parables, he taught us about the Good Samaritan (Samaritans and Jews despised each other) who took in the beaten Jew when the priest and the Levite left him to die on the side of the road. If Jesus were walking down a road today and saw, let's say, a beaten gay man (Matthew Shepherd or any of the other poor boys who died recently), he would have stopped and taken him tenderly into his care, put balm on his wounds, and tended him back to health with love. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">If there is a Devil, it is hatred. Jesus said, "I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me." I will try to follow his example; to not hate, even those who are hateful, and to walk this Earth in the grace of kindness and love, which I believe is the hand of God in our lives.</span><br />
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</div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-18809877733765091392010-10-10T22:37:00.003-04:002010-10-11T21:12:01.477-04:00National Coming Out Day: The thing that makes you extraordinary<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/HhhTir-UQTQ?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/HhhTir-UQTQ?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="425" height="344" allowScriptAccess="never" allowFullScreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object><br />
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Here is a really touching video made by the pop star Darren Hayes for <a href="http://www.thetrevorproject.org/">The Trevor Project</a> (a suicide prevention hotline for LGBT youth). He says here, "The thing that made me extraordinary made me a target" and it made me think about all the extraordinary gay men and lesbians I know - people who are extraordinarily kind, extraordinarily funny, extraordinarily gifted in so many ways. And I wanted to say thank you to them, all of them, for being survivors even though they were targets. Because we're all "different" aren't we? And as I wrote here some time ago, when I met my first openly gay man, it was like a brisk and sweet-scented wind blowing away all those layers covering my own difference. If they could "say it loud, say it proud" then so could I. I see now that I gravitated to people who had felt within them some deep difference growing up and had learned to embrace it, so that I could learn to embrace mine. I still do.<br />
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My two beautiful teens who also happen to be gay, went through a phase of dressing in girly clothes, wearing make up, dating boys, twisting themselves into some idea of "normal." And they were completely miserable. I'm <b>so</b> proud of them for letting go of that, for having the strength to accept and embracing who they really are. Because they are perfect and extraordinary.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-58617126376308706842010-10-05T11:02:00.000-04:002010-10-05T11:02:38.951-04:00A little girl, her music, and the Dreaded Guitar-Store Guys!This charming short animation is both hysterical and really touching. <div><iframe frameborder="0" height="225" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/13851646" width="400"></iframe><a href="http://vimeo.com/13851646">Lucille</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/taligalon">Tali</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.</div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-29782587358405826082010-09-29T01:01:00.009-04:002010-09-30T12:47:21.146-04:00The firefly tree<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5413wX-2Up1bqJybFEqqL3BdXav43IAVPtKgOWyDnEho0neySoynbNTQruJoTrwzvAlzuezKtJ7ejUpk66jv2AbkAm-Ra92Sa6_OPXi8bmLxqYtyZC4Jw8_vH6A2oy9Fi4w9i_k-77iY/s1600/firefly+tree+copy+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5413wX-2Up1bqJybFEqqL3BdXav43IAVPtKgOWyDnEho0neySoynbNTQruJoTrwzvAlzuezKtJ7ejUpk66jv2AbkAm-Ra92Sa6_OPXi8bmLxqYtyZC4Jw8_vH6A2oy9Fi4w9i_k-77iY/s400/firefly+tree+copy+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>The firefly tree</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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This is a sketch I did tonight of one beautiful moment in my life. It was many years ago when Kirk and I lived in Wiliamsburg, VA. It was also a terrible time for us. We were trying to start a family and, unbeknownst to us, the water supply in that part of Virginia was tainted with a chemical that caused stillbirths and miscarriages. I had two miscarriages while we lived there and was just heartbroken.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;">Heartbreak has been on my mind because my husband has just come back from visiting his baby sister who has an incurable malignant tumor in her brain. He was there to visit her of course, but mostly he was there to help with her eight children. So I was remembering this night in Williamsburg when Kirk and I went on a disconsolate evening walk. We only lived a block away from Colonial Williamsburg so we wandered over there because there was no traffic. As we headed up the dark road through the old town we saw one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen in my life; a massive tree completely aglow with the twinkling lights of tens of thousands of fireflies. We stood still and gaped for I don't know how long and for that time the pure beauty of it erased all our grief and pain and helped me to go on. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: auto;">In times like this, it does me good to remember those rare perfect respites - like coming upon the firefly tree - because it helps remind me that there will be other moments like it ahead. Sometimes I think this is the only way to get through these devastating things life serves up again and again; by leaping from moment of beauty to moment of beauty like someone leaping from stone to stone across a dark fast dangerous river.</div><br />
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</div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-85998570312673625622010-09-23T18:31:00.002-04:002010-10-05T12:19:52.263-04:00Scandalous me!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvey9DlMS06TgUOAcznmFtWK8j5ORe7INCKpJ-dDIIql50-n3RSQrJHfLAwdbuat6_RbQI6kxQIevIsSKkUu9RwggS8Jgi6_mqhmwcB9BWksPaVfBwqIqg8_AtZfCDeTk98Aa5E1sxVso/s1600/Mom+Movie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvey9DlMS06TgUOAcznmFtWK8j5ORe7INCKpJ-dDIIql50-n3RSQrJHfLAwdbuat6_RbQI6kxQIevIsSKkUu9RwggS8Jgi6_mqhmwcB9BWksPaVfBwqIqg8_AtZfCDeTk98Aa5E1sxVso/s320/Mom+Movie.jpg" /></a></div>Someone just tried to register to leave comments here and she reported that she got this message: "Sorry but your website is listed as unsafe for children or dangerous by one of our website rating services." <br />
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First let me say how honored I am to receive this recognition from the Academy. Also I want to thank the big guy upstairs (by which I mean Bill Gates, who has made it so easy for me to offend complete strangers). But most of all I want to thank the gay boys who ensorcelled me into promoting their scary Big, Gay, anti-family (by which I mean pro-family) Agenda by being so kind, lovely, and funny. Without you I never would have scandalized anyone!Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-14552329223766188242010-09-20T09:13:00.004-04:002010-09-20T09:34:38.784-04:00"About suffering..."My husband had a good, hard, exhausting, heartbreaking visit with his sister and her husband and children. She will have surgery on Thursday to try and reduce the size of the tumor and extend her life. But short of a miracle, it seems, there is not much hope, so we hope and pray for a miracle.<br /><br />Kirk said that, because of the tumor, her personality had changed and that he felt she was slipping away. I keep thinking of a story he once told me of being a little boy - three-years old - and looking out his bedroom window to see the EMTs carrying the sheet-covered body of his older sister Laurie, who was five, down the front walk of his house and away forever. And now another sister is slipping away from him.<br /><br />At times like this, I always think of W.H. Auden's "Musee des Beaux Arts," which is, to me, one of the most perfect explorations of human suffering ever written.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheVxVIs00lg-0Ksh6Wd-Pmvv_pR3Q1KG0WYIJIOtqtJD6sYrtIa1Q0zF3Xw58MTrZB8r2h_1s5tST4Ii9YYOo5jireJnvlwS9rK6YECd_YFaZxN-YU50JyY8Q8lAWqrOouBQbvaKMIJuk/s1600/icarus.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheVxVIs00lg-0Ksh6Wd-Pmvv_pR3Q1KG0WYIJIOtqtJD6sYrtIa1Q0zF3Xw58MTrZB8r2h_1s5tST4Ii9YYOo5jireJnvlwS9rK6YECd_YFaZxN-YU50JyY8Q8lAWqrOouBQbvaKMIJuk/s400/icarus.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518983829208747314" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Musee des Beaux Arts</span><br /><br />About suffering they were never wrong,<br />The Old Masters: how well they understood<br />Its human position; how it takes place<br />While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;<br />How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting<br />For the miraculous birth, there always must be<br />Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating<br />On a pond at the edge of the wood:<br />They never forgot<br />That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course<br />Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot<br />Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse<br />Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.<br /><br />In Brueghel's Icarus for instance: how everything turns away<br />Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may<br />Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,<br />But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone<br />As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green<br />Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen<br />Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,<br />Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-38643483429157304302010-09-12T10:14:00.002-04:002010-09-12T10:25:56.751-04:00A sad timeWe've just found out this week that my husband's sister has a large brain tumor. Worse, it's situated in a part of the brain that makes it very hard to remove and has spread into her brain tissue. She has eight children. The youngest is only eight months old. It's a very sad and frightening time.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-42392688532374148872010-09-10T00:19:00.003-04:002010-09-10T00:29:34.381-04:00Yes my dears, this is a real book.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDqiCf8QUgLG9UeCYjPbh_4CH0GnAmB_BJCbFJ9mfvsNBKL5DVz-ByRKT7HXZR6aL9BDXq_IpAh5s86pUnIf5dcdIuxBAdlDmXW13UXIjABe5X5-lk47oEg5Lceq7WvjUsfZapAtaWdWM/s1600/Queerie+queers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 316px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDqiCf8QUgLG9UeCYjPbh_4CH0GnAmB_BJCbFJ9mfvsNBKL5DVz-ByRKT7HXZR6aL9BDXq_IpAh5s86pUnIf5dcdIuxBAdlDmXW13UXIjABe5X5-lk47oEg5Lceq7WvjUsfZapAtaWdWM/s400/Queerie+queers.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515134847759191266" /></a><br /><br />And it was written in 1885 by - I kid you not - <span style="font-weight:bold;">Palmer Cox</span>!<br />I think that shows some real prescience on his part!<br /><br /><br />(Image from <a href=http://www.flickr.com/photos/lolaleeloo/3892454707/in/set-72157606340682594/>lolaleeloo's</a> flickr file.)Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-43711675758087950562010-08-29T23:52:00.003-04:002010-08-29T23:59:30.630-04:00And a little child shall lead themMy husband was chatting with one of our seventeen-year-old twins yesterday about a former babysitter of theirs who used to date women but is now marrying a man. The husband asked, "Why do you think she's doing that - marrying a man?" And our wonderful daughter answered, "Dad, it doesn't matter <i>who</i> you date or marry. What matters is that you love them and they love you." And he felt very proud and very humble.Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-55037581853047822612010-08-27T12:20:00.000-04:002010-08-27T12:20:09.929-04:00It's my birthday!<object style="background-image:url(http://i2.ytimg.com/vi/A7qFZBJN838/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/A7qFZBJN838?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/A7qFZBJN838?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-55670071798906913682010-08-22T00:30:00.003-04:002010-08-22T00:39:14.954-04:0080s dating video<object width="480" height="356"><param name="movie" value="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/video/xdn7ls?additionalInfos=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/video/xdn7ls?additionalInfos=0" width="480" height="356" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always"></embed></object><br /><b><a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xdn7ls_80s-video-ecard_shortfilms">80s Video eCard</a></b><br /><i>Uploaded by <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/plentyofbaggage1">plentyofbaggage1</a>. - <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/us/channel/shortfilms">Classic TV and last night's shows, online.</a></i><div><br /></div><div>I was trying to decide - if I had to choose one of these guys on point of death - which one I would date. So far I'm leaning toward the guy who says "One of my favorite foods is pizza" simply because, well, I do like pizza.... </div><div><br /></div><div>Which one would you choose, I mean if you <i>had</i> to?</div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-17890923830525694242010-08-19T14:50:00.010-04:002010-08-22T22:54:58.626-04:00Lemonade<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Yesterday the husband surprised me with a date night at an expensive gourmet farm-to-table restaurant. Which is a pretty big deal for us for a number of reasons:</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">1. We have those four pesky kids</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">2. One of them is special needs</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">3. And mostly because the husband </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">hates</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> spending money. His idea of a decadently extravagant dinner is buying it all in the frozen-foods aisle at Trader Joe's. So, for him, going to a restaurant where you'll pay $100 for dinner for two is a BIG STINKIN DEAL and it damn well better be transcendent. And since it had been rated as one of the top 100 farm-to-table restaurants in the U.S. by Gourmet Magazine, he was primed for Heaven on a plate.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So, of course, it wasn't. I knew things were not going to go well when the husband, who can't drink, asked if they had anything like lemonade. All they had was booze and soda pop. When the food came it was in those stupid skinny stacks (seriously, who stacks their food?) on huge, mostly empty, white plates decorated with nouvelle cuisine dots and squiggles of sauce. Excuse me, but</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> I do not like my food skinnier or prettier than me, and I like enough sauce so that I can mop it up with bread from the generous bread basket. Which there also wasn't. The final insult (for the husband, who is a crazed foodie) was that the meyer-lemon tart had a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">soggy</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (shudder) crust! It was a major case of hoping for lemonade and getting a big fat sour bunch of lemons. Seriously, the poor boy was devastated. He's sensitive that way.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So after our </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">nouvelle désastre </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I suggested we go for a walk around beautiful (by which I mean impoverished and decaying) downtown Sharpsburg, PA, where said restaurant was situated. Now kids, small-town Western Pennsylvania is not a scenic wonderland but we had the babysitter so....</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For a few blocks things went from bad to worse. We saw a mother pull over her speeding minivan, smack her screaming kid hard, then screech off with the poor kid wailing like a siren. And as we strolled along, the natives stared at us because, I assume, we didn't have tattoos and bleached-blond mullets (not a good look for me).</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Then, just as we were about to trudge dejectedly home, I saw a glimmer of water. From a river. That you could walk to. Which is unusual here even though we are literally surrounded by rivers. Because of Pittsburgh's industrial past, the waterfront is mostly blocked off by (abandoned and decaying) industrial sites. It is almost impossible to actually walk to a river anywhere in town. But there was the river, and there was the path to it, and so we walked.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We went through a long dark tunnel and emerged into a magical place. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcrX1nAhxh2cAQmgUjI0Ljtu5hrY34wmXzNxatAJBBytNSbCu3stXh9YMmtpgDBIv5re29JMnFJTjINNoprkJTq7a_FDo7BCDKDfZ6vPcaF8raXxD0HQseJYj6BT5eml5z5K8N_IMr4o0/s1600/DSC02096.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcrX1nAhxh2cAQmgUjI0Ljtu5hrY34wmXzNxatAJBBytNSbCu3stXh9YMmtpgDBIv5re29JMnFJTjINNoprkJTq7a_FDo7BCDKDfZ6vPcaF8raXxD0HQseJYj6BT5eml5z5K8N_IMr4o0/s320/DSC02096.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507212444097755970" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We strolled over and dabbled our fingers in the miraculously touchable river. Amazing. Then we sat by it and just breathed it all in. People were fishing, feeding the ducks, or just sitting, talking, being there, like us. It was a perfect mild evening. The sun was setting, and everyone around us exuded that special peace that you get near a body of water. There were all classes and races of people, all just so happy to be exactly where they were. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After a while I started chatting with people, as I do. The guy next to us, with the tattoos, the blond mullet and the Lynard Skynard bandana said he was catching small fish, mainly crappies (or maybe he meant that he was just catching small crappy fish!), but added that "I really just came here for the peace." The black woman next to us with the akita and the toy poodle offered me bread to feed the ducks with. As we watched the ducks squabble, a friend of hers told me about taking his granddaughter ice fishing in Minnesota. It was the nicest evening I've had in a long long time.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On the drive home, I thought about lemons and lemonade and how happy I was that my husband and I are generally able to take the lemons we have been given in our life together, some of them pretty seriously sour and, one way or another, made some pretty nice lemonade out of it all. And next time we go to Sharpsburg, we'll skip the fancy exclusive restaurant altogether and take our lemonade - literal and metaphorical - and some sandwiches right to the river and share it all, which, for me, makes everything so much sweeter.</span></div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-476508723626428642010-08-16T16:59:00.023-04:002010-08-17T19:02:00.019-04:00Another poem (what's gotten into me?)It's been a tough couple of weeks here. An old friend's daughter (a victim of spousal abuse) died, and a member of my extended family is struggling through, and I hope out of, a nervous breakdown. Thinking about all this brought me back to a poem I've been wrestling with for some time. It's about my grandfather, who had a nervous breakdown and committed suicide. It's very much a work in progress, but I thought I'd share it with you anyway. Feedback welcome but I also know it's, well, heavy to say the least (!), so no worries if it's too sad to read or comment on.<div><div><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><br /></i></div><div><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><b>What I would say to my grandfather before he jumped</b><o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; ">I know:</span></p></i> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">the unbearable weight of skin,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">heavy as a suit of stone, pins you</p> <p class="MsoNormal">under your smothering despair;</p> <p class="MsoNormal">how your bones feel already broken </p><p class="MsoNormal">by your steep fall</p> <p class="MsoNormal">from joy and your lacerated heart's</p> <p class="MsoNormal">bled dry of all its hope. Madness</p><p class="MsoNormal">brought you to this high and burning room</p><p class="MsoNormal">but not alone.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">I have stood at the same clear pane</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>you stand at now and seen, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">on both sides of it, a broken life; </p> <p class="MsoNormal">the only difference that on this side </p> <p class="MsoNormal">skin covers the keening pain,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">but on the other side your jailing skin </p> <p class="MsoNormal">breaks open and the pain leaks out leaving you</p><p class="MsoNormal">in peace, at last.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Your thoughts whisper</p> <p class="MsoNormal">it’s logical, that step </p> <p class="MsoNormal">up onto the narrow ledge between life</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and its end. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But I know</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">that, if you jump, the window never closes</p> <p class="MsoNormal">over the unanswerable riddles</p> <p class="MsoNormal">of Why? and then Why not?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">So each of us you left in grief <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">must hold tight all our lives against the airless </p> <p class="MsoNormal">vacuum of your fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The open window calls </p> <p class="MsoNormal">till some of us just tire, let go. Without you</p> <p class="MsoNormal">your wife will drown herself</p> <p class="MsoNormal">in a river of drink, a grandchild swallows</p> <p class="MsoNormal">too many bitter pills, I always know</p> <p class="MsoNormal">where the exits are in case</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I need to get out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Still</span> I stay </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Here, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">take my hand, stay</p> <p class="MsoNormal">your feet. This living death will die </p><p class="MsoNormal">away at last.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><span> </span>Stop</p><p class="MsoNormal">your ears against the poisonous Iago</p><p class="MsoNormal">of our traitorous chemistry, close</p><p class="MsoNormal">the window, reclaim the still-breathing body</p><p class="MsoNormal">of moments that make up the rest</p><p class="MsoNormal">of your life; the one you made from</p><p class="MsoNormal">countless things like love</p><p class="MsoNormal">of a girl with brown eyes and a red dress,</p><p class="MsoNormal">three children born with her Indian eyes.<span> </span>Wife,</p><p class="MsoNormal">daughter, son.<span> </span>These words that tell us who we are, </p><p class="MsoNormal">they grew from you.<span> </span>Remember</p><p class="MsoNormal">how you drove across three states, no stops,</p><p class="MsoNormal">windows rolled up just to protect them all</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes">from polio which had no cure. But I</span>f you step out</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">onto that yearning air, what remains of you</p> <p class="MsoNormal">will be just the hollow shattering shell </p> <p class="MsoNormal">of your fall to death on a sidewalk </p> <p class="MsoNormal">among strangers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Stop, stay, remember</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>us. Protect us now, again,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">from the crippling incurable wound,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">the aching phantom limb that you</p> <p class="MsoNormal">become after,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">if you fall.</p> <!--EndFragment--> </div></div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8133147170181934597.post-47761605524822540502010-07-29T23:30:00.007-04:002010-07-30T12:01:32.065-04:00Really peculiar record coversThat I have found over the years. I did nothing to them but photograph them and giggle.<br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); "><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;">Loveless Missionary Adventures</span></b></span></div><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/23097960@N04/3172580002/" title="Loveless Missionary Adventures For Kids by eliz.avery, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1069/3172580002_9e32b7114e_m.jpg" width="240" height="239" alt="Loveless Missionary Adventures For Kids" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">"And in the end, my little ones, the lion ate the missionary. Sweet dreams!"</span></span><br /><div><br /><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><b>Roe v. Hair </b></span></span><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/23097960@N04/3171748303/" title="Roe v. Hair by eliz.avery, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1133/3171748303_9b235a49cc_m.jpg" width="240" height="240" alt="Roe v. Hair" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">(I think the hair is winning.)</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><b>Aunt </b></span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><b>Carmine</b></span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><b> Carmela....</b></span><br /></span></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/23097960@N04/4076505095/" title="&quot;Aunt&quot; Carmela by eliz.avery, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3524/4076505095_3b8b5f02c5_m.jpg" width="240" height="237" alt="&quot;Aunt&quot; Carmela" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">has an adam's apple and wears size 12 shoes.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><b>Prince Larry Valiant</b></span></span><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/23097960@N04/2832529620/" title="Prince Larry Valiant by eliz.avery, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3216/2832529620_25c197f90e_m.jpg" width="238" height="240" alt="Prince Larry Valiant" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Knight of Orlon, Dacron, and Polyester.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">99 Luftwaffe balloons?</span><br /></b></span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/23097960@N04/2876504359/" title="Rockin' soldaten! by eliz.avery, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3201/2876504359_3d7e466c8b_m.jpg" width="240" height="234" alt="Rockin' soldaten!" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;">Those Germans know how to party!</span></div><div><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-large;"><b>And Adam awoke on the first day</b></span></span><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/23097960@N04/4017647968/" title="And the plants of the garden by eliz.avery, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2771/4017647968_7b7cb1b30c_m.jpg" width="240" height="160" alt="And the plants of the garden" /></a></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FF0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">and found he had some morning shrubbery, and it was good.</span></span></div>Elizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11889294120616809157noreply@blogger.com5