Just Words

If I may be permitted to speak freely, which I suppose I can here if anywhere: what a pleasure it is to gossip. To praise those we adore or to commiserate over those who had subtly or not so subtly offended us. How much I have missed this simple albeit guilty pleasure. To feel that one is a part of a community and capable of liking and disliking and in the company of others who will listen and weigh and chime in. I have missed this. How wicked.

I am visiting my best friend in the whole wide world, here at her place in Buffalo. She is a busy little thing. I have only nice things to say about her and her strength. She is passionate about dance and candy making and the way sugar dissolves in water even though it is very sticky.

She sings the song that just played as another song plays on the Bing Crosby record. She is passionate about this corner of Buffalo, as we walk a few blocks to the store she gives me the grand tour. She doesn't like sushi (because of the seaweed) but we can't be perfect. Mostly though, I just feel good around her.

Often in my life, I feel like all I have is a few words. To exchange so many so freely, to dole them out haphazardly is a treat.

But when it comes to the proper words, the words I feel so deeply that I shiver with them. I have no way of getting them to her. My awe of her. My sincere support. My total loyalty.

She's all bustle & beauty. And even when I am nearby, I admire from afar.

Isn't friendship amazing? That any of us can keep in touch. That any of us care enough to. That only those few people can make you feel this way. That in a world full of people who pass you by as ordinary, only a few people walk by and then can't look away.

I would give her anything. I want to give her the proper words that strengthen her when she feels weak, and soften her when she feels too hard. But I am giving what I can.

I am giving her all of the words that come so easily when she is across from me. All of the words that I pinch out and stuff back like a miser so often. And it makes me want to be more friendly.

It makes me want more friends and at the same time it makes me want for nothing more than the few good friends I already have.

Bears

I feel a bit lately like I am coming around full circle.

The very first thing I "wrote" in this life I actually dictated to my mother because I couldn't write yet. It took me a while to learn the whole actual writing thing. Letters are too unpredictable, too illogical, I preferred phonics. I often felt betrayed by the language I had already grown to love.

The first thing I wrote was titled "I like bubblegum, my Dad likes watches". It was my attempt at the time to reconcile the already quite stormy relationship I had with my Dad. On the one hand I looked up to him.

He knew the stars, and built things (buildings, canoes, hot air balloons, tepees). He could snap his fingers, he could play the guitar, he could drive a car, he could tell the time, he could put me in check mate in two moves, and (wonder of all the wonders) he could whistle like no one else I'd ever heard (or have ever heard since).

On the other hand, he was a grouch. He didn't like to have fun. He didn't seem amazed at the things he could do at all. And what's more, he didn't seem amazed at the things I was learning to do. He didn't seem amazed with me. He was, in fact, downright angered by most of the things I did.

In the door he would come; I would be waiting there. A big hug ready just for him, a big smile on my cherubic little face. But he was angry.

I didn't understand my father's rage then, and I don't understand it now. But I tried to. I tried to be logical. I tried to figure out all the things I must be doing so wrong to incur his wrath. To anyone who doesn't think kids think through things more than many adults do: fuck you.

He's made plenty of excuses, and I've added several of my own, but I don't think either of us understands.

Yes, I wrote about he must be like the bear. He must not be really angry, he just wants something that I (as a bee) am clearly withholding from him. He just needs to eat. And of course I, as the bee, cannot help but get angry when he comes along demanding whatever it is he needs.

But the small offering ends in a sort of draw. A sort of, we both have our faults so let's compromise. An offer I don't remember ever getting in return.

No doubt I pulled the metaphor from Winnie the Pooh, or Yogi Bear. I learned to write through imitation, and yet was always credited with great imagination.

In life we don't choose how we are perceived. We can only try to understand and then move on. This is a lesson I am finally learning, all these years later.

Gingerbread Bees

A sweet Polish fairy tale: The Gingerbread Bees.

And now for the bitter:

Isn't it wonderful how we never recover?

Do me a favor. If you have a home, when you're home, later, avoiding your family, staring at the dog, and they ask you where you've been, please just don't say that you were out somewhere watching someone being clever, watching some smart-mouthed nobody work himself into some dumb-ass frenzy. Please say instead, when you don't say anything because no one asked you, that you saw someone who was trying. I choose the word with care. I'm trying. A trying man. A feeling thing, in a wordy body. Poor Thom's a-trying. Poor Thom is fucking cold. I imagine you people have some experience with the Elizabethans. Some experience with cold...

I may have plans anyway. So forget I said anything. Or imagined you at all. Forget I thought or felt anything...

But so that morning, the messy morning of the messy night, that morning on a walk through a meadow, the boy was attacked by bees. A nest had fallen onto the ground and he had kicked it by accident, his eyes shut because of the sun and maybe some other reason he had. Is it clear I love my little subject, and therefore don't pry too hard into his reasons, his empty head, his stupid little agenda on earth? Anyway, the bees. They swarmed into his eyes and mouth, stung him on every skinny surface. The boy did not, at first, make any sound. The poor thing did not understand. He thought, out in the meadow, that he had done something wrong. He thought that the pain was already in his body and was only coming out then to punish him, that the bees had only happened along later and were trying to help. His body was exploding in painful sores, which the bees were trying to salve, to soothe... Kind of beautiful, if you like that sort of thing. If you like the idea of a little boy desperately spreading stinging bees over his bleeding body. Desperately yelling "Help me, Bees, Help," and putting his little swollen hand into the hive for more.

We've all made similar mistakes. Mistaking the bee for the flower, giving our heart away to the first prick or bitch to come down the trickling river. Anyway, the boy crawled enough away, almost died, lay there until evening, neither crying nor laughing, a thing of nature, in pain among the crickets and frogs...

One night, picture it a winter night, one night in a park, walking off the day's food poisoning, he came upon some vomit, vomited, and then collapsed. He wondered, as he shivered on the freezing ground, covered in stomach fluid, saliva, and bile, if there might be, you know, more to life than this. Nearby, a brightly-lit skating rink. He lay there, in the slush, listening to Christmas music and chirping elegies to reindeer and snow. The shivers of his childhood came, then went, then returned redoubled and stopped. He got up and went over to the rink, leaned on the side. Families glided by. Couples. Call it the Christmas spirit, call it a coincidence, call it whatever you like, but, suddenly, in the bright light and beautiful music, he got sick and collapsed again.

You're a nice-looking crowd. I see we have some couples here tonight. And on came the animals, two by two. Good for you...

I know this wasn't much, but, let it be enough. Do. (Spoken normally and quietly,) Boo. (Brief pause.) Isn't it great to be alive?

-Excerpt from Will Eno's Thom Pain (Based On Nothing)

My husband and I saw this monologue, done exceedingly well, for our first date. If you ever get the chance to see it, do.

Part Three

The weekend after Thanksgiving we traveled down to Kansas, to visit my husband's family. His mother made it a delicious & delightful weekend. There is always comfort there. There are always woven-things and trees.

On top of all that my mother-in-law gave me some beautiful polish pottery! It reminds me of artichokes & Celtic magic. The design is called "rhine valley".

Now I've been reading Polish fairy tales, watching Lolek en Bolek, & admiring books. Not to mention baking meatballs in this beautiful dish & in general taking great joy in it.

The picture at the top reminds me of my mother-in-law. Thank you magic-weaver!

Chai

Perfect time of the year for Chai and for Tessa Rumsey:

Your Diamond Sutra

Once the mirage was endless--once the horizon was distant--once you arrived on the landscape and believed that without you the landscape would cease to exist the road is wide, straight, bright, crystal, and the sun is at the end of it--out of you, out of tune, radio moon transmitting winter to the naked maples outlined in snow, cold bandages for the abandoned, pale attempts to fill the hole--rowboat suspended above the blank meadow--you passed through the cathedral your soul was carried by sparrows--halo held up by air, field of rusting poppies but no stems appear, horse without a rider, breath without--lost world shimmering, a pot full of copper pennies--pressing close to you, as if you were cold, flying over the snow--one radiant coin placed upon each believer's tongue--what is the body, what have I done--dying to remember--your eyes in December--blue fish frozen inside such white and frozen ponds--where does the body go, where have you gone--(Later, in the death field, such black and poppy horses---) how will I find you when I become the dust?--but the sun--the sun--the sun is at the end of us.

-Tessa Rumsey

Honey

Cézanne The Irish lady can say, that to-day is every day. Caesar can say that every day is to-day and they say that every day is as they say. In this way we have a place to stay and he was not met because he was settled to stay. When I said settled I meant settled to stay. When I said settled to stay I meant settled to stay Saturday. In this way a mouth is a mouth. In this way if in as a mouth if in as a mouth where, if in as a mouth where and there. Believe they have water too. Believe they have that water too and blue when you see blue, is all blue precious too, is all that that is precious too is all that and they meant to absolve you. In this way Cézanne nearly did nearly in this way. Cézanne nearly did nearly did and nearly did. And was I surprised. Was I very surprised. Was I surprised. I was surprised and in that patient, are you patient when you find bees. Bees in a garden make a specialty of honey and so does honey. Honey and prayer. Honey and there. There where the grass can grow nearly four times yearly. -Gertrude Stein Consider trying on another blog: here or here. Afterthoughts: Neither honey nor bee for me. -Sappho From the fact that honey appears bitter to some and sweet to others Democritus argued that honey itself was neither sweet nor bitter, but Heraclitus said that it was both. -Sextus

Please do consider reading Anne Carson's Eros the Bittersweet.

Part Two

(Yeah, I know, Thanksgiving is really over and done with. But my story isn't. I suppose you could skip this post until next November, if you'd like.)

My Grandma Vera was an honorable guest at our humble apartment Thanksgiving Day. She was wearing a charming outfit complete with lariat necklace (like this only better).

She was bustled in for some Whole Foods coffee, which we have found to be delicious. Served in our Fuel mugs, which we have had for a few years and are full of fond memories of Mount Vernon, IA.

She was given the grand tour of our two bedroom apartment. And she seemed delighted. "Of course Hope would have a game room!" "Ah! There's my attempt at abstract art, which failed!" And my favorite comment of all: "Your apartment is so comfortable!" or "Their apartment is so them!"

My Grandma Vera really knows how to be a gracious guest, as much as she is usually the charming host. I adore her apartment, it changes subtly seasonally but it also has many things that never change. She obviously has put a lot of thought into the details, and a lot of herself.

To hear my Grandma Vera, the person I look up to when home decorating as in so many other areas, compliment my home... best feeling ever.

Bob and I both agreed, after she was whisked away by my parents, that the best compliment we could receive was that our apartment is comfortable. It is a common goal we share. That our apartment can be welcoming, even rejuvenating, possibly someday inspiring, but also very personal to us. To complete that balance of a safe haven with a balance of our personal expression. So that anyone can feel at home, but it is still definitely our home.

Bob and I had the best conversation about all this, and about other mutual dreams we had never before discussed for how our home would be decades down the line.

All the while my brother prepared the turkey at my parents house, and we were away from the stress of it all. Then we arrived just as it was coming out of the oven.

We contributed: stuffing, mashed potatoes (sticky), gravy, and Brussels sprouts. I think I won over a few more people with the Brussels sprouts, an under loved vegetable in my opinion.

I couldn't have asked for a better day!

Atmospheric Thanksgiving Part One

(One of my Grandma Vera's boxes, given to me with most of her collection)

It is one of those case of having too much to tell. Though Thanksgiving growing up was never much of a holiday for me, even up to graduation from college, it has become a day (or really a week) that I cherish. For the past several years I had the privilege of putting on Thanksgiving, and between the sticky potatoes and often-cold side dishes there have been some special treats and hearty laughs. This year, however, it was somewhat out of my hands.

It was a nice break, but I intend to take the reins again next year despite this success. I simply love putting on Thanksgiving. And here's why: I love creating environments of comfort and inspiration. Few holidays present such an opportunity for this type of environment, in fact I have a theory that Thanksgiving is really all about the harvest. We celebrate the comforts the last several seasons have left us with, which we hope will get us through the difficult winter come-what-may.

Really we had at least three different Thanksgivings this year, and I want to share a bit of each here. First, we visited my Grandma Vera's retirement home for a free Thanksgiving feast the Sunday before the big day.

My Grandma Vera was married 74 years ago on Thanksgiving. They had oyster stew, and then climbed into a car to drive across state to my Grandpa Elof's new job. Along the way the back of the car made a racket, but they assumed it was tin cans tied to the bumper. Actually it was their car falling apart, but they made it anyway.

When they arrived in town, the man my Grandpa Elof was to get the keys to their new apartment from was not there. The neighbors spotted them as "the newlyweds" and word traveled down the street as they yelled across from their windows. The man with the keys was discovered.

Unfortunately, Grandpa Elof died when I was a freshman in high school. I certainly wish he'd had more time. My Grandma still remembers him, still tells stories about things he would do or jokes he would like. She manages to include him somehow in everything. I have a lot of respect for both of them.

It became clear throughout the Sunday dinner that Grandma Vera had forgotten her invitation to Thursday's Thanksgiving and she was most happy to be reminded. To sweeten the deal my sister and I invited her to visit our apartments before the feast. At this point my Grandma Vera was glowing, which is always so beautiful to see.

She began to happily chat with us, which is rare since she is a bit shy and so are we. She discussed how fascinated she is with today's technology. She seemed particularly interested in our cell phones. She talked about how different things had been when she was born. Born into a sod house with no running water. I love it when she talks about her past, which she does more now that I have conveyed to her my genuine interest.

(Recently she showed me pictures of my great grandparents. I have my Great-Grandpa Charles Elof's nose!)

After the meal, my siblings had to leave. The rest of us played a jolly game of Pinochle. Games are another link I have to my Grandma Vera and Grandpa Elof. Gaming runs from that side of the family, though my Dad never likes to play games and didn't even when we were young. My Grandma is still quite cunning competition in Pinochle. Though, you can tell ever so slightly her memory is starting to give out around the edges.

All I could possibly hope for in life is that I live as long, as well, and as healthfully as she has.