Monday, May 30, 2011
Everyone has one. Even Derrick, who came this close to eating this big mo-fo of a fly earlier today. Who knows how they worked it out, but the fly flew free, and may even be hiding in my shoe right now. I'm not sure I would have let it get much further though, 'cause I am not like those people who film "When Animals Attack" et al and watch the whole thing going down. And you're all crying because the baby cheetah cubs, who hardly stood a chance in the first place, have been killed.
Oh. my. Sorry to end on such a bummer note.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
At first I was so struck by how cheezy this mural in the Asheville, NC, airport is that I failed to realize it depicts an activity I think is cruel. And what's worse is that this was my best photo of the entire trip, even better than the one of the soda machines next to it.
Monday, May 23, 2011
It’s sort of ironic that the timing’s not right for this post. For one, it’s technically Meezer Monday, and secondly, who the heck is ever ready to write—or wants to read some shyster’s (scheister’s?) blabberings—about time? The topic’s so freakin’ big, no wonder people have to wear watches to make sense of it. But c’mon, people, are we that lame that we need to see the tick-tick-tick and the second hand all herky-jerkying like Buster Keaton in order to understand that we’re all moving over/under/sideways/down/all together now?
Honestly, I tried to write this post last night, but I was too tired after a) dancing for two hours, b) watching the Yankees beat the Mets, c) writing & editing, d) chanting and e) eating a size and a half too large piece of red velvet cake. Everything I wrote was even more stoopid than this is, but heck… that’s what blogs are for. Unripened cheese.
So yes, I meant to post this last week because it was then that I was reminded of my favorite Brian Wilson-ism, and my own dorky, quasi-poetic variation on it.
Brian’s: “Time is fine when it’s in cadence.”
Pune’s: “Time is fine when it’s in candles.”
Of course, I agree with Brian. That’s a given. Anyone on the street plugged into an iPod and walking into various signage and other pedestrians because, hey, they’ve got the beat, would agree, too. Or do you even need a iPod? How many of us, I wonder, are constantly moving to and counting out an 8-count (is that too Western Civilization of me?)? Do you always have a song—or at least a rhythm—in your head, or is that just me? (And of course your heart’s your very own mini beatbox.)
You don’t have to have been around a long time to get it. Actually, longevity probably makes it worse. On Friday, one of my favorite students from the dance class I assist in was telling me how she feels when she dances. “You just hear the music, and I don’t know, you get all these butterflies in your stomach,” says this 9-year-old goddess. “You can't stop it--your feet have to move to the beat.” She’s clearly fine when she’s in cadence.
(In contrast: Taxi time is NOT in cadence. A polluted arrhythmic arithmetic of stop and start and no deodorant and pavement and worn-out shocks. Immotion sickness.)
Candle time, on the other hand, is so expansive. You can fill it with all sorts of things you wouldn’t say or do in the bug-zapping light of high-noon. Not necessarily THOSE sorts of things, you pre-verts! I mean thoughts that are a little kinder, broader…untied and diffuse and…defuse. (Um, is that a word? I guess it is now.) They're tall like exclamation marks, beginning and ends in themselves, with no record but our memory, measuring our prayers and rituals and kisses. It’s glow-as-you-go.
So, yeah, that’s Derrick last week, contemplating candle time. I love how he had to get up so close in order to figure the whole thing out. I open my eyes and he’s all cat-meditating, whipping my a$$ on that front like there’s no tomorrow.
Well, you know, maybe for him there isn’t. That big lout’s already staked his claim on the ever-present, and I can assure you he’s always got something to watch but doesn’t wear one.
Time's measured in hair here:
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Monday, May 16, 2011
Here's Derrick, lookin' mighty guilty after I caught him in the middle of not one but two naughty moves: A.) Opening the cabinet door so he can knock down the Cap'n Crunch, which has been there for months, and B.) Rustling the cellophane wrapping on the amazing vegan birthday cake (chocolate and orange!) my friend Phyllis made for me. Now, he really doesn't need to be that worried… He does these things with such joy that I never get mad, especially since his needs are pretty easy to meet. That includes the correct positioning of his kitty bed (I actually bought it for Bing but Derrick fits in it in such a way that he looks like some sort of furry bumper car) on the right-hand corner of the rug and going outside in the hallway in hopes of running into his dog friend, Jiggity. She's cute and always wears a blue bandanna.
Anyway…I was trying to think if I've ever been caught in a similar situation… Not exactly--but it was certainly with more malice than joy that I stole a Third World cassette from a party I went to one summer during college. That sounds pretty tame/lame now, but I took it for all the wrong reasons. Because the host's house was like ginormous and on the beach, and I figured, well, he'll never miss it and it's perfectly fair that a have-not should take from a have. Ewwww, right? My friend Petra took another one, and somehow they figured out it was us all along. If it's any consolation, it wasn't that good, and I'd gladly replace it now. If you've never heard Third World, I dunno, maybe they play it at Starbucks.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
A couple months after I made my First Holy Communion, I was stopped by our parish priest, Father Huntington, on my way home from school. I can still remember walking next to a vacant lot between our house and the Larsens’; it was all lion-colored dried grass, a nice big mighty zero with plenty of space to hold my intense little-girl thoughts.
Anyway, Father Huntington, tall and stern and white-headed and looming large a la Snow Miser in "The Year Without a Santa Claus," stopped me to tell me there was a problem with my behavior at mass.
It seems I was biting his finger in my fervor to receive the Body of Christ.
Oh, groan. Even now I cringe for my younger self, and how completely embarrassed I felt at the time. I had an eating problem as it was, getting up at 5 a.m. to stuff my face with miniature Reese’s peanut butter cups out of the freezer, so I somehow tied that intense, insatiable, shameful hunger—for what?! Oh, so much!—to my priest-biting tendencies. I mean, it’s gotta be bad when the communion host is viewed as an hors d'oeuvres. We then practiced the receiving of communion multiple times, right there on the street, until I could successfully slide my tongue back into my mouth without grinding my teeth together like some sort of rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth creature.
Ha ha now, but then--not so much. I went home crying, this strange mix of shame and excitement that someone paid attention to me, and told my parents. They thought it was funny, but what do you expect? The last 4 digits of our phone number made the sign of the cross, for chrissake. (Oops. Sorry.) I hope we’ve made up since, but I really felt like I’d fallen out of favor with Jesus & co. Transubstantiation? More like a lil’ snack from a Catholic box of Rice Chex. I know, I know, that’s not funny. My 7-year-old self just couldn’t fully fathom that level of miracle/mystery.
Fear biter? I don’t know, but it’s funny how the sacred and profane are always meeting up. It’s like if you don’t invite them both to the party, whoever didn’t get the invite is gonna crash it anyway. Like I recently found this completely ridonkulous poem I wrote oh so long ago (musta been circa 1995 per the title), and it’s sort of a strange but fitting running mate for my communion story… I don’t think I’ve showed it to anyone before, so please go easy on me. (I have no idea what prompted it, but boy, I must have been PMS or just read The Handmaid’s Tale!) Go ahead and laugh—I promise I won’t bite ; )
i am sick.
i swim in
the dizzy bright white of nausea,
catch a breath and vomit
gallons of sperm.
every last drop
swallowed by the whole of womankind,
now i know why smart girls spit:
it’s hard on
so, yes i drool and
sigh as it inches down a thigh,
wormsquirming past my knee only
to stall at a phlegmcrawl, stuck in unshaved traffic.
oh and at the time i meant to scream
but all i got was a mouthful.
next time will be different:
one false move and off with his head
Brian on the above song, the vocals for which were recorded in 1966: "I was sitting at my piano thinkin' about holy music. I poked around for some simple but moving chords. The boys were overtaken by the arrangement. I taught it to them in sections, the way I usually do. The purity of the blending of the voices made the listeners feel spiritual. I was definitely into rock church music."
No post on the sacred/profane is complete w/o a Prince song. I know, I should have gone for the cheap thrill and featured "Head," but that's just so obvious, isn't it? You can always find it on YouTube and read the comment from the poor guy who sang it, when he was 8 and didn't know what the lyrics meant, at his grandfather's birthday party.
Second time I'm using this song in a blog. Who's gonna complain?
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
...and lead me anywhere? Now, I'm not a literal-speakin' person--my own conversational speech being a ridiculous mix of metaphor, illogic and senser-feeler mental gymnastics--but no, no, no, that lyric just doesn't make sense! Have little girls (or big girls, for that matter) ever put chains on teddy bears? I'm not gonna blame Elvis, since he didn't write "(Let Me Be Your) Teddy Bear," but I'm sorry, I just can't play that one here.
And technically you can't run your fingers through a bear's hair, since bears don't have hair. But I might, if I really try hard, be able to imagine these guys with pompadours. And the kitty with, uh, some sideburns.
Photo taken in front of flower shop on 37th street.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Remember I was ragging on that stoopid book about what sort of make-up and accessories all women should have? Well, it went into great detail about something I had never thought about before. Apparently, if you're shorter rather than taller, you ought to have a corresponding petite-sized bag or you will look all wonky. I'm sure I'm committing all sortsa sins with this...
P.S. Yes, the telephone really works!
P.S.S. It's kinda pop-arty, hence the wormhole we go down with this:
Monday, May 2, 2011
It's been said that cats are self-sufficient, but geez Louise--doncha just love when they make little handlebars with their tails, just in case you need to grab-and-go really quickly? It's the cat equivalent of the self-belt in fashion.
I used to think a lot about what I'd do with my tail if I had one. Well, that's really not such a stretch, since we humans did used to have them. If I really focus on it, I can almost feel it wagging, at the place at the base of the spine where it would have been. (Remember Linus from Peanuts being "aware of his tongue?") Anyway, I'd really like a tufted tail, like a lion's, but with gold sequins. And it would jingle when I'm really happy.
Or--oh.em.gee--I can't believe I nearly overlooked this…the best tail of all belongs to Tigger!! His is a built-in pogo stick, and that would really save me on train fare.