Giant Lily Pads

The lily pads in South America,
specifically the Amazonian rainforest basin,
can reach up to 7 ft in diameter.

I've seen a picture of a young child
laying comfortably in the center of one.

The Iguazu Falls are actually located in
Argentina, rather than Brazil--geez.

And only two countries in South America
lack a shore line: Bolivia and Paraguay.

Sigh. A round trip ticket from [here]
to Brazilla is around $1800.oo--can you imagine the expense
for a group of, say, 5 or 6?

The Amazon runs west to east,
from the Andes in Peru to the Atlantic Ocean.

Why is it in my mind that a trip down the Amazon
on a lily pad would be comparable
to a ride down Canoochee Creek [read relaxing water park ride]
on an inner tube
with a fruity mixed drink in hand?
Somehow I really don't think such a journey
would be quite comparable.
But it may make for an interesting novel . . .

Let's Get It On, II

Sorry to have interrupted your regularly
scheduled program,
but that was some nasty sh*t you just don't forget [WS, MIB].

But I have Lysoled my foot, and the spot in the hallway,
so all should be good, right?

On with life.
You know, between us bloggers,
I'd probably feel better if I could let out
a tremendous howl . . . my partner _has_ left for work . . .

If you must know, here are a few things going on with me,
in my mundane life, right now:


[*] a friend of a friend's daughter is turning 13 on July 9th.
This is a wonderful, special young girl. My friend's friend wants
to do something special for the daughter, but after 13 years, has
ran out of ideas. At the same time, I've talked to the daughter
and she would just be happy with a few friends over--she thinks.
She really doesn't know what she wants at this age.

What would be a fantastic way to celebrate 13 wonderful years?

{btw--I can still feel the bird's squirminess under my toes}


[*] I imagine that if I had my own children and we were trampling
around South America this week, it would be much harder than I expected.
A stack of books about the Amazon would be on the coffee table,
but the kids would probably lay around on the floor
begging to go out in the pool or to play a video game.
I bet it would be so hard just to get
the little buggers to remember 5 facts about South America--not alone
complete projects like imaginative narratives and mosiac masks.
Sigh. But I would try.
I bet Twin A would be a little frustrated on Day Two of the trip
and ask when we were ever getting on the fricken plane.


[*] I'm making vast progress on putting together
my classes for this fall. Seriously.
I start each morning at 9am and finish by either 1pm or 3pm.
I've looked at the pics of some students
and have vowed to learn their names before the first day.
Soon I will have interesting tidbits
from my WS and ENG152 to post on here. Soon.

[*] I haven't started Html yet. Figure.

[*] Habitat for Humanity finally called back--what to do???!

[*] My yoga stances are becomeing more strengthened, more centered.
Meanwhile, I have pushed my spirituality to the corners of my mind.
This bothers me, but I can't quite face up to it--

[*] I _am_ reading. And I am thinking about what I read.
I just don't want to talk about it. Haven't seen any good films lately.
Although, I have heard alot about _Lava Girl and Shark Boy_ . . .

[*] I've begun a project in the basement. It's not a
TOP SECRET project or anything.

[*] Sigh. I haven't felt "it" (the desire to blog some insight)
since I came back from NC . . . well, except the grocery post--
which was fun, but days ago. I think it's all the summer anesthesia.

~~Gotta go: I have an urge to go spray my foot again~~

Ok Punks, Let's Get It On

Guess what I just stepped on?
Walking down the hall this morning,
thinking only of coffee, blogging, and my sister's children,
who are set to arrive in three hours,
I stepped on a small fuzzy, moist object
with my bare feet.

D*mn the cat, leaving out it's toys.

I sat down here to check my mail,
went to the restroom,
and then it hit me:
that isn't just some small yarn mouse
laying in the middle of the hall way.

When I peered closer
I discovered the object to be a wee tiny birdling
still gaping its beak, rolling its eye,
with its own feces near by.

Prepared the freak-out,
but it didn't really come.
I think I'm in shock.

As I type, my partner has just informed me
that it looked like a baby vulture.
"Vul--??"
The high pitched shriek is there,
but I've got it in check for the moment.
Will not give into the satisfaction.
Get real, a vulture?

I should have suspected this actually.
Zizek, ali Dragon, was extremely loving to me last night.
He slept at my feet.
I awoke around 4am and even pet him awile (which I never do).
And this morning he kept trying to get my attention,
but I just thought his fat butt wanted more food.

Little did I know that he had brought me a gift.

Fun Blogging Material

This ain't it.

Just for You~And You~And You~And You

yikes--i have been blog surfing for over an hour--
a real treat as of lately--
and I had such a frantic thought:

what if I leave a comment on someone's site
who hasn't been to my site in a while
and the said person follows my comment
back to my site
and finds some lame sh*t posted??

as soon as i had that thought,
i raced back here and posted,
well, this.

hope i caught you just in time . . .

Where the Wild Things Smell

An older couple walked along the beach
the last day we were there
and carried two dead dog sharks
for small children to look at and touch.

The smell was horrendous.

I don't understand why they approached me.
I wouldn't go near anything that smelled like that.
When I was quite younger,
among my first trips to the coast,
a friend and I hoarded a small cashe of seashells.
It was Spring and the perfect season
for shelling.
I found a star fish washed up among the shells.

I took this star fish back to my room,
rinsed it, left it in the sink,
and then went out to eat.

The smell, upon my return, was horrendous x2.

In Huxley's _Brave New World_ smells (aromas in this case)
are paramount.
Luxurious.
Do pleasant aromas distract us from the smells of death??
I want to be bathed in some new scent--

Two Lumps at a Metropolis

How much weight can a person gain
with two extra teaspoons of raw sugar
added to each cup of coffee?

Just wondering.

I ran out of suger substitute earlier this week &
like most nutritional choices in my life,
I could either consume empty calories or do without,
eat/drink what's available or go to the grocery.

I hate grocery shopping with a passion of a thousand suns.

Because I don't go to the grocery very often,
I'm always floored by the cost of a gallon of milk.
"Outrageous!" you might hear someone exclaim.
I further dislike the grocier in these parts because
the insides of the buildings are always so cold. Fridged.
Especially in the summer months.
In the summer, I like to wear as little as possible, so
when I am caught suddenly in a grocery store unaware,
I freeze goose flesh and feel ill to my stomach.

The only fun I could ever imagine at a grocery
would be if I had little children.
Then I could teach them the names of all the whacky
new, genetically modified fruits and vegtables
in the garden section, which, by the way,
is the only tolerable section.
In fact, I can imagine picking up a new veggie
and taking it home to cook . . .
But it would probably sit in the fridge until it rotted,
dripping dark liquid, on the fridge shelf,
and across the floor to the trash,
when I finally took it out.

The most heinous section of the grocery, of course,
is the meat section with all of its dripping juices,
amid the threat of eboli (or whatever).
That's also where they keep the lobsters.
Of course lobsters are yummy, but I can't bare to look at them
and acknowledge that they are boiled alive.

Why can't creatures in captivity self destruct?

Lucy Grealy's autobiography isn't half bad;
actually, it's rather a relaxing read with enough
liberal tropes sprinkled about that I should be able
to use it quite nicely with this fall's freshmen.
Totally accessible--a springboard for discussion.

I want to write about the Cadmen NJ boys
who were found in the trunk of that old car,
but I am too shocked.
I believe they were simply playing
and locked themselves in.
The search party never checked the trunk:

yahoo.news

Further, I want to quit reading such news stories because
I really do believe there is some sick facination at play,
but at the same time, these are not just news stories.
These are real people who need our thoughts, prayers, and energies.
By being informed (of what precisely may be the question)
I hope that one day I can be a part of building a better society
(in this case, where a search party in my home town
would check every nook and cranny).



I'm running two hours behind today
and I haven't got to visit hardly anyone's blog in ages.
I need a blog nite out.

Nah--This Isn't Me!

My partner thinks this is me:

an ugly man in a goofy yoga comic.


Who knows me better than that?

The Visit; Post 1991

Didn't go as well I had hoped or expected.
I saw a picture of my sister and the father of this child
and noticed it was a prom picture from several years ago:

"Is this Chris? You went to a prom with him?
How? Explain--"

The entire story trailed through four men
and three children
[I feel horrible--not cathartic--at the moment],
and worse yet, exposed the naked violence of my family.

Yes, violence.

It all began when my 4'8" grandmother
with the flaming red hair
bit the tip off from a neighbor's finger
who was stupid enough to point it in my grandmother's face.

She also shot a lover, in the fog, on a bridge.
As a child, I stumbled across the newspaper clipping
tucked away in an old Bible.

That (when I found the clipping)
must have been sometime after my father
wrestled her to the ground,
breaking 2 of her ribs,
as she pulled a shiney black pistol on us
from a fake fruit bowl on her kitchen table.

She had a habit of biting her wrist when she was angry.
The list goes on.

Yet, because of Irish stereotypes that flatten women
into predictable balls of rage,
young girls born with red hair in my family are, well,
feared.
Every tantrum is magnified into a magnificient story
of ferocious glory:
the most recent?
My neice takes a pair of siccors (blunt, thankfully)
to a preschool teacher's arm
as the teacher tries to correct my neice's cutting.
She had lobed off a paper giraffe's ear accidentally.

My point is that red hair signifies(ed) an expectation
of violence and defiance of women
in my family born with red hair. Is this making any sense?

Sigh.

Only, instead of seeking professional therapy,
or any other type of outlet I supose,
my family remains caught up in this false pride,
a false sense of lost glory days (before the INCIDENT 1991).

It's No Secret Yoga Helps Your Putt Putt Swing

I've been estranged from my family for
the most part of 12 years.

I'm treking off to see my sister today
amid feelings of ambivalence;
admittedly, I am curious about her life.

This is the little snitch that ratted me out for years
and thought school work was a joke.

A few weeks ago, her second daughter had a birthday
and I was finally invited.
Her home, a two-story, converted antique shop
is quite beautiful--country setting, small pond
full of carp,
nice deck, lots of full trees, some stone work.
Still, a fixer-upper.

She's preggers with her third child, and third daughter.
She's six years younger than I.
And a total wildcat. [I know I shouldn't reduce women to cats,
but I respect cats--well, mostly--
I'll think more about this aspect later.]

The fact that's really bothering me?
She smokes.
I feel like it's a dirty secret;
She is smoking while carrying this child.
Just like she did with the other two.
How stupid is that?


If yoga helped my putt putt swing,
should I try golf again with my partner?
I only tried once, years ago,
when I thought I would show my partner how it's done:
Tiger I am not.
Could not even connect the club with the ball &
almost wrapped the club around my knee in babyfit anger . . .
But perhaps yoga could change that?

This Gig Ain't So Easy Anymore

Is it just me,
or did I just notice this copywrite:
"Copyright 2005 The Associated Press. All rights reserved.This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed."

Duh, does that mean I shouldn't by copying/pasting this stuff onto my blog??
It's the whole "redistribution" clause that makes me hesitate.
So I guess I gotta go back to links?
Bother.

So I see a connection between these two stories:

Oprah's Crash

and

The Lions from the Jungle

but I'm not sure what the connection is . . .
[besides the fact that I wouldn't have believed
either story if it would have come to me by word of mouth].


On a more personal note,
it simply cannot be June 23.
I still have html to learn this summer.
I need to quit sleeping.

Do You Krump?

Do white girls krump?

Can Latinos? Polynesians?
Could Keanu Reeves, Molly Ringwald, or Collin Powell krump?

What's with the search for something new?
At the very moment a fad is labeled, categorized,
it becomes shelved--no?
A few summers ago it was STOMP . . .

I don't really understand the world of dance--
I barely understand the relationship
between anger & bodily expression.
The urban experience.
Can pain be tranformed into beauty?

Black Beard the Booga Booga Pirate

Ok, so I spent my entire morning on another
friend's blog--but oh what fun!

That only leaves a few moments for my own,
so I will leave you with this cheesy tale and pic:

My sis-in-law,
who fancies herself an authentic ghostbuster,
went on a haunted tour of Beauford,
arg, home of Black Beard the Pirate.
She took some great pictures. Pictures with "orbs" in them.

"Orbs," for those who may not know, geez,
are little specks of light that can be found in film
that often indicate, yes, a haunting.
An aura of energy--presumably from a spirit.

The picture below was taken from an infant's grave
dated in the late 1800s.
The story goes that unknown visitors
still cover the grave with toys
(and shells apparently)
every evening, yet by day break,
booga-booga,
the toys are scattered about the grave yard
(definately not a memorial garden--
although apparently people are sometimes married here
because it's so beautiful??)
as if the young child had been playing in the night . . .


Cheers,
SQMojo

The grave--can you see this? 

Page Four

Gulp.
Why am I so blog shy?
And hungover?
I'm on my 3rd cup of coffee
and I didn't get up until 8:30 . . .

Groan.
Page four.
Type, d*mnit, type!

I'd rather finish my laundry . . .
what's wrong with me??
I'm blogging laundry. Enough.

Page four:
EXIT 197 to Winston-Salem
I-40 @11:40am

Why don't I like swimming past the break anymore?
Is it the water temperature this early in the season?
Why don't I want to go out, past my chest?
Stretch my body out in the heavy salt.
Let my wet hair wrap around my neck and ears.

Instead, I keep mostly dry, my eyes to the shore, the sand.
The people--mothers and children. Kites and castles.

The water is murky when you come to it.
The blues are simply illusions,
illusions caused by the untouchable sun
reflecting through the cresting waves.
I watch these blues from the deck and they look inviting.

Up close, I can't see the bottom.
Even if the water feels clear,
I can't see what's really underneath.
I feel the lovely gritty sand,
yet I can't see what's holding me up,
or what might be sharing this space with me.
What's worse: I can't tell if sea creatures
are friend or foe.
Benevolent or malevolent.
It's only a prefix.

Watching the endless horizon, blue defined by blue,
well, hurts in it's dullness.
I should be awed. I look west
and see four layers:
surf, sand/people, houses/structures, sky.

I am between. Caught in a liminal space
of which I cannot define.

What Did I Learn?

I mostly like me.



I have 5 pages of scattered notes I made
on the trip back to share ~~ only,
where to begin?

Off to See the World

Well, a small part of it--again.
This will be my 4th trip to the outer banks.

Just wondering, am I the only one
who, when she goes on vacations, or even
the briefest of trips,
hopes to find . . .

something grand.
something spiritual.
something hopeful.
something fond about another.
some kind of new energy.
some kind of new self or understanding . . .

clarity?


I'll be back on the 20th to let you know how it went.

12:38: What was I Thinking?

No one will probably contact me today.

What was I thinking?

I pre-empted the class with an email last night that
told them the grades were low b/c yadda yadda
& that before they email me, they need to pick
up their papers
to review yadda yadda . . .
that I would be out of town until the 20th.

No one will do that much work--yet.

Instead, they will wait until they go home and
their parents see the final grade . . . exploding
into tiny bits.
So even though this is the quarter that will probably never end,
I won't hear from them right away--oh no.

It'll hit when I least expect it.

Do other teacher fear for their lives
when they feel forced to hand out bad grades???

Well--enjoy your Thursday, I'm cutting the PC string.
And off to pack.

12:35pm: Still No Peep

Is this so smart?
Regardless:
Here's a Stroy/Movie just waiting to Happen:



For Celebrity Convicts, a Safe Space Behind Bars By Henry Weinstein and Mark Arax Times Staff Writers
Thu Jun 9, 7:55 AM ET

CORCORAN, Calif. — If Michael Jackson is acquitted of child molestation and related charges, he'll probably return home to his whimsical Neverland ranch in Santa Barbara County.

But if he is convicted of any of the 10 felony counts against him, he will probably land in the most secure prison unit in California, designed to protect famous convicts from attack by other inmates, prison officials say.

Corcoran State Prison is set in the middle of America's richest cotton fields, about 50 miles south of Fresno.

Its Protective Housing Unit is considered the safest place for an inmate in the California prison system, and therefore the home for mass murderers such as Charles Manson and Juan Corona — and any inmate whose notoriety would make him a trophy for other inmates, Corrections Department spokeswoman Terry Thornton said.

The special housing unit at Corcoran is a strange prison within a prison, where some of the nation's most infamous criminals and gang turncoats rub elbows, play board games and devise elaborate legal strategies they hope can one day set them free.

Those who were once fearsome criminals, however, are largely defanged inside this weird setting known as the PHU, opened in 1992. Although former guards and inmates assigned to the unit agree it is safe, they say it requires a high degree of wariness and guile to survive.

Counting Manson and Corona, 20 inmates are living in the unit at the far rear of the sprawling facility, surrounded by miles of San Joaquin Valley farmland.

Sirhan B. Sirhan, who assassinated Sen. Robert F. Kennedy in 1968 and was one of the first inmates placed in the unit, spent years playing chess and working as an administrative clerk for 13 cents an hour.

Last year, after an infraction, he was moved to a segregated housing unit within the Kings County prison.

"Inmates in the PHU basically can't live on any other yard in the state," Thornton said. "It is the only true protective housing unit…. It is the highest protection we offer."

California prison regulations set several basic requirements for eligibility for the special unit, Thornton noted: "The inmate has notoriety likely to result in great bodily harm to the inmate if placed in the general [prison] population," and "There is no alternative placement, which can ensure the inmate's safety and provide the degree of control required for the inmate."

The Corcoran unit can house a maximum of 47 inmates, some in single cells. Each cell has a concrete bed, sink, desk and toilet.

For years, the residents have included Manson, who orchestrated the grisly murders of seven people, including actress Sharon Tate and coffee heiress Abigail Folger in 1969; and Corona, found guilty of murdering 25 migrant farmworkers in the 1970s. Manson and Corona are now in their 70s.

The Protective Housing Unit sits alongside a section known as the Security Housing Unit, where California incarcerates what officials consider some of its most violent and problematic inmates. The only thing that separates the security unit inmates from the protective unit is a single door operated by remote control.

In 1999, a guard left the door open and several security unit inmates ran into the protective unit yard, beating Corona and smashing Manson's guitar.

But, in general, the unit is a cocoon. The incident was the only one prison officials could recall in which the protective unit's security was breached.

"It's a quiet, well-behaved yard. They rarely have any incidents," Thornton said.

In most prison settings, said Richard Caruso, a former correctional officer at Corcoran who guarded protective unit inmates in the early 1990s, informing on a fellow inmate would probably result in quick reprisal or even death. But inside the unit's safe confines, many snitches operate with impunity.

11:47am: No Email; A Swig of Caffeine

Why do I clean out my car before
a long drive?
It's only going to be disgusting
by the time I get to NC anyway.


But I do find it rather distracting
from watching the email box!


The administrative assistants
assisted me with delivering my grades--
so it's a done deal.
Fs galore.
Ok, 4 Fs, 2 in each class.
I just really can't understand why everyone
doesn't get an A in my class.
Rewrites are always an option--
I negotiate grades . . .
I give bonus assignments.
I tell myself nothing is final--
I'm up for reevaluating a student
if he or she would request it--
even now.

Why do I get so tore up about it?
If you are sick of reading it--imagine me! living it!


Ok, must focus ahead.
Guilt guilt.
To vacation.
Why must I live in guilt??? I'm not Catholic!

grrr.

People are coming out of the woodwork this summer
offering me books;
only, they are not offering a choice: "You need
to read this Squirrley. I'm giving it to you.
You have to read it on vacation if you love me.
Don't worry--you will love this or, or, I don't
know, there's something wrong with you."

Great.

One of the titles? _Remember_ by Karen Kingsbury
with Gary Smalley.
"With"--WTF? Who wrote the book?
The cover looks like a romance.
A rustic, summer home.
Sunset.
American flag.

I owe this friend, or I wouldn't touch this.


One of the perks to my job is that I can order texts
from companies to review.
From Norton (the cannonized police squad--I know),
I ordered _Picturing Texts_ and got it in the mail
within 2 days. But it will cost the student $60.oo+.
So I don't know.
It looks facinating!
But how much time could I put into
developing such a class (lots of powerpoint, I suspect).


I found Lucy Grealy's _Autobigraphy of a Face_
in my mail box yesterday.
Freshman are required to read one "common novel"
by the university in order to have something
academic in common.
Looks too surfacey. I'll give it a few minutes.
What do I know?

Also, surfing for short fiction for WS. Read a fantastic
short by Alice Walker, "The Abortion," which was
nothing like I expected.
I was (still am) absorbed.
I pray I can find more fiction like that
to sooth my thirsty soul!


And last, but not least, I found it!!
Woo-woo!
When I was out with my peeps,
we all picked up Marilynne Robinson's
_Housekeeping_.
I thought I lost it--now it is found & I can't wait.

OK! It's been 19 minutes,
time to check my email--
waiting for the shoe to drop!

10:06am & Absolutely NO Emails . . .

The calm before the storm?
I dunno, but lets just say that
I didn't even need a drip of coffee this morning--
even after 6 hours of sleep.


I'm doubly bad too-
right now, I'm on the phone w/my sis-in-law
(she takes for ever to get off the line)--

Narnia! Coming soon?! When?
ok--now she's facinating again, hold on--
CS Lewis & The Wardrobe--
The Inkblots--


Thanks RainyPete
for your kind words--
your comments are helping me to keep my skin on.

A Few Stray Thoughts

Grading sucks.
See last post.
Failing students is the worse--
enough to make me want to quit.


Russell Crowe is an ass.
I hope he goes to prison for 7 years.
I bet he beats his wife.
If he did go to prison,
perhaps it would send a strong message to celebs:
"Don't hit people in the face with phones!"
Ass.
Boycott his films. I always do.


I can't imagine finding a leg, hip, and part of a spine
in my yard
fallen from some jet.
I adored the quote from the woman who did:
"But I am very glad that I live where I do,"
she said,
"so I don't have to run for my life
like this man probably was doing." [CNN]
She sounded very sympathetic
to stowaways.
People stuff themselves into luggage and everything else.
I remember a group of people who died
in a tomato truck--lack of ventilation.


Last night, on the drive home at 1:00am,
I thought of the 6 year old girl
who was killed
while trying to save a turtle from a busy highway.
I've stopped to save turtles before.
Her mother shouted for her to get back in the car,
but she just leaped out.
I've got to call a friend--
her little 5 year old is named Emily too
and would do the same . . .


Well, I suspect I will be glued to the PC today.
I released those grades in order to be more transparent.
I figure that I will get tons of angry email---

Will keep you posted.

Where's the Booze?

It's 8:01 AM and I need a drink--
but I'm not a drunk--
I'm still physically ill over last night.
Didn't get in until 1:00am.

I computed the grades.

What happened to my students this quarter?
This is horrible, just horrible.
It may take me years to figure this out & get over it.

Five people in 152 failed their final.
Five. This is outrageous!
I couldn't help it--
when I graded the papers,
I laid each failing paper aside
and tried to scrape extra points for these people.

But, they simply did not do the work.
For example, the final paper was a critical reseach paper
(I graded on intext citation, work cited page, and format),
and one student refused to add a SINGLE source.
Nadda.
Not one. Just four pages of blathering.
And the font on these papers?!
Huge.
One young person is extremely wealthy
and well connected (yet, I've expected plagerism
all quarter so I don't feel too badly)--
I've been down that road with parents before:
"I'll have your job!"

I am so sick. I suspect these students were tired
and thought they could slide past in the last moments of the game.
Did they really believe they wouldn't fail?
This is horribly not fair! My class: Follow a few simple directions,
get nothing lower than a B, and go on!

I will keep you posted on the altercations;
I suspect a couple may want to take me "to the dean."
It's not that I can't handle confrontation--
it's just feels as if this quarter will never end!

It will be Spring Quarter 2005 forever and ever and ever

I Love You People

What Thinkers!
I so enjoy your comments and posts--
cyber hugs all around.


Now try this on for super-size[I know--I'm a couple hours behind]:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/chain_saw_border;
_ylt=AoHMx8M2Vcox.xzjjUpu73cDW7oF;
_ylu=X3oDMTBiMW04NW9mBHNlYwMlJVRPUCUl

Boarder Patrol:
"Ok, yeah, he lookes a little freaky in the eyes, sure,
but we don't want to discrimate--after all he is white . . .
you--give me the saw and go on through."


You know, it'll be one year this month that my
sis-in-law has waited for her nerdy Canadian hubby to cross over--

This Post Isn't Really Saying What I Want It to Say About SwimSuits

I'm a bit sun dazed,
so read this with a slight slur.

Setting: Our city has a wonderful pool/water park space
where people from all walks of life come together
to enjoy the water in the heat.

Today, instead of goggling at the perfect bodies (only),
young, brown, firm, proportioned, and accessorized,
I choose to look at *everyone.*
Really try to see people.
The whole spetrum, so to speak.
What do I understand and think about people,
their bodies,
and, well, my own.

Ok, I've tried specifically to avoid bodily identification
on this blog because I do not want to buy into this culture's hype--
body focusing,
body demoralizing,
and even body dismemberment (looking in the mirror
at one particular body part & lamenting--ie, hair,
lips, ears, butt, thighs .. .).
Yet, after today, unable to avoid
the pressures of swimsuit season
I feel this post warrants ,
such attention.

So what did I see?
Everything we are taught not to stare at:

disabled children with palsies all waving their hands

fat bodies in two piece swim wear (lots--good for them)

utterly humongeous bodies, people who looked unhealthy

scarred women, one who's leg had been ripped up the side

bald men, even a balding man w/permed mullet

tattooed people, orange suns, moons, blue butterflies, dolphins

more tatooed people, skulls, hebrew, chinese, crosses, roses

balding women who were an array of thinness at top

brown men and women with white, asian, and mexican partners

black children with wonderfully, proud nappy hair

pink chubby white bodies seared in the sun, straps crisscrossed

sculpted bodies walking out from air-brushed magazines

poor bodies in cheap, faded jeans instead of trunks

old women with sagging arms and throats

tall men all skin and bones

pale people who have only now seen the light of day

body piercings galore--especially navel

athletes with straining muscles

pregnant women who looked as if they could drop

lovers and fighters; quite whispers and loud shouting

people who jerk arms and point fingers, call for their friends yards away

children who dance

teens with crossed arms, rolling eyes

jumpers and divers; huggers and shunners

bodies who splash


and it's hard to talk about all of these bodies and peoples without talking about hair, legs, big ears, suits, and even teeth individually--but I know better than to disect people, because they are each a part of me and I am a part of them--they become a part of my day, I become a moment to them--will I smile and nod or turn my back in snub?

Why are we taught it's not polite to stare? ok, to look? to realize that people are different, really different? is non-looking really the best policy? i wonder.

Seeing someone in the eye and acknowledging their existance seems right.

And finally, how would I fit in if I didn't, er, know me? One little girl asked if I was a life guard; why did I think that such a grand compliment?



On a lighter note: how horrible for those who came of age during the 80s.
The radio station at the pool played every hair band known--
thankfully, I can't even imagine what it must feel like to repeat that era. ;-)

Kissing Between the Tongues

I imagine if I ever did have a child,
some unimaginable event would scar my sex life for ever . . .

For example:

In my liberal attempts to expose my six-year-old
to the "realities" of our culture,
I might have, say, let him watch a harmless episode of _Lost_.

The lead female, at one point,
would reach into kiss one of the lead males,
and it would be an open mouth kiss . . .
a long sensuous, open mouthed kiss.
Even though I may have been socially constructed
to feel incredibly awkward at this moment,
I would resist the urge to "shield" him from the kiss.

Our culture is so screwed up in the way we look at sex
as compared to violence, no? Sex is wonderful & "natural."

Weeks later.

The second day of summer break would find the child
crawling into bed with us as the daylight began to break.
Snuggle snuggle.
I peal open my eyes and see his angelic face
melt into grins.
I turn my head and see my partner in the same light.
Glorious summer morn.
Yet, as I peck my partner good morning on the cheek,
I would probably hear something, well,
mortifing from the child behind me like:

"It's ok if you kiss between the tongue, right?
You are both 30, right?"

The Veggies of War

I have a friend who insists that
her children must eat all of their veggies
before they leave the table;
the fuuny thing is,
these veggies are almost always canned.

Are canned veggies nutritionally worth the trouble?

My street sounds like a war zone this morning:
choopers flying over head,
police and EMT sirens blaring across the way,
and a humongeous street cleener right outside the door . . .

wait. I bet the people of Iraq *wish* they had
a street cleaner & co. Perhaps "war zone" isn't the proper metaphor.

Do You Know Where Your Underground Hiding Space Is?

Why is this big news:

U.S. Marines and Iraqi soldiers have uncovered a half-million-square-foot underground insurgent hideout in central Iraq containing large stores of weapons, ammunition and supplies. [CNN Website]


Everyone has one of those.
I mean really. Well, perhaps not quite so large.
But still.

I know where my town's underground insurgent hideout is,
do you?

I Am Trying Not to Blog

--particularly on Friday and Saturday.
I want to give the pretense that I have a life.
A life out side of Blog World International.

But . . .
our PC is constantly accessible.
Five minutes here--ten there to check my mail.

All connections made
inbetween fantastic social events, of course . . .

As I Eat Leftovers--and Cucumbers, mmmmm

There is some serious,
serious,
political sh*t going down in my State Capitol.

Unbelievable. It hasn't hit mainstream news yet--
which is even more worrisome.
I may have to break vow and reveal my state,
because this scandle goes clear to the top and
clear to the West Coast.
And even if you don't know who I mean by that statement,
trust me,
you know who I mean.
So, I will keep my ears and eyes open for you.

Meanwhile, what's all the blabber about
Tom Cruise and Oprah?
Was he a pet monkey?
Someone give me a link.

Also, did anyone hear Clinton on NPR this afternoon?
Nice.
Yet, he seemed to have 3 agendas:
1. Promote the paperback release of his auto
2. Promote his "Intellectual Gathering" coming up
3. Indirectly promote "Senator Rodham"
But I still enjoyed listening to him speak.

I meant to comment/complain about NPR's programming
yesterday, which included the following stories:

A. The modification of America's new Ford Mustang~
stream lined with widerseats and longer waist straps
for those "target costomers"--you know who you are.

B. North Korea's famine and millions who may starve this year.

C. Zimbabwe's new policy of "trash removal" in its
cities' shanty towns--thousands are becoming homeless as
bull dozers (think of _HitchHiker's Guide_) have plunged
into the poorest places and torn down shacks.

Now which of these stories seems out of place?

Ok, and now for the Local Kicker:

Within a One Hundred Mile Radius from where I live,
two police officers were called to the house
of someone's old relative who hadn't been seen in
3mos. Yeah. She was 84.

When the police officers arrived on site,
her young nephew (30ish) came to the door
and told the officers that she had been terribly ill
and bedridden--to wait while he made sure she was dressed.

A few minutes later--the officers heard one single shot.

The nephew had shot himself in the head,
in the living room,
with the 3month-dead Aunt sitting in a chair nearby.

Fo*real* Hitchcock, I sh*t you not.

Last note:
If I ever did have twins,
I'd know better to let them play outside
unsupervised with a new baseball bat and T-ball set.

And if something bad did happen with the baseball bat,
I'd know where plenty of ice was
and some Charlie Brown cartoons . . .

HangOvers

what would I be doing at 8:49
the morning after?

would I be searching google,
picking up broken crayons,
plastic cups, mac and cheese
from the carpet, or . . .

what?

what would I be doing
after she told me: /20 years ago/
/incest taboo/
and the reconciliation between her
and the grandmother . . .

brought to my face,
after having discussed the tropes
of shame and silence,
the myth that it only happens in
lower-class families,
brought to my face
only the night before by some text book?

I must believe the fibers
of my being are woven~
meaningful beyond my understanding~
why else would I read
and teach
so much of what I live?

Will-Lover . . . Will-Lover!

Now it all becomes perfectly clear!
I was wondering:
who is Will?
who loves Will?
Will Weaton?
why is a Will Weaton fan posting on my blog?
how did I attract a Will Weaton fan?
a Will Weaton fan who falls
out of hammocks?

Why didn't I see it before??

Duh--"Will." The Big Will.
I was thinking in terms of "will power . . ."

But--Yeah. Will. ie "Willy Baby," to me--
to you,
never so irreverant. ha!

I would have never discovered you
had you not left the two-headed clue . . .
now clue me to your fine blog . . .

I think the 4 classes is a wonderful, um,
orchestration from on High.
I haven't spoken to _anyone_ about this
most recent development,
so mum's the word.
Is it allowed?
Can I handle 4?! I plan to, and well.
Come September, I'll find out.

But, in the meantime, it's June 02!
Woo-woo. Why am I blogging? Where can I party at this hour?

All I Can Say (For Now)

Why do I find myself
pondering the relationship between
Marla Singer and the Narrator
from Fincher's _Fight Club_:

"Expose me, and I will expose you"?

*
*
*

I've never even smoked.
Nor do I plan to.

*
*
*

The Fall schedule is out, quite appropriately
on the last day of classes this year:

Shhh--I got 4, count them, 4 classes.
Scheduled perfectly.
The plans, the plans!
I will be the best teacher yet!
Muuuuahahaha.

*
*
*

But for the moment,
I'm emotionally exhausted--you too? Why?

I saw another filthy unicorn
on the way into work today.
This one once had a white coat,
obviously,
but you could tell she had never been properly groomed.
Tied to the butt end of a trailor
with her nozzle in a slop bucket.

Her tits were hanging rather low--
I could only guess where her foal was.

I pulled the car over, on the birm of the freeway,
just to get a closer look.
I had a digital with me,
but it's battery was uncharged.

I slipped through the wirey fence
close to a line of trees
and looked around.
My bowels tingled a bit
when I noticed the still air and the lattice work
around the trailor.

I felt like I had been here before.
My sandles were no match for the briars.
I squinted ahead.
The horn had mud caked around the base.

Just as she noticed me,
I snagged a piece of my ankle.
When I looked closer at myself, I became astounded:
the intracellular microfludics I had long expected
were finally exposed
in all of their brilliant greeness.

The Kindergarten Scene

I imagine that somewhere
out there
is a kick *ss Kindergarten teacher who
would do absolute circles around me.

I imagine she would have her group of 5 & 6
year olds reading before Christmas--she'd
have them writing out 3--count them--3 sentences
in their daily journals.
And as the year progressed, their "kid" writing
would look more and more like my own.

Math and acience would be an adventure.

She would be the type to allow her
students to stand, walk, and talk during lessons.
She would treat every child as an equal.

I imagine that on Kindergarten Celebration Night,
just two days before kids let out of school,
she would not only have her own celebration back in
her wonder land classroom,
but she would also put together a PowerPoint
presentation of the children's school year set
against a great sound track.

There would be tears.

And, if I could ever witness such an event,
I would begin to wonder all over again
what real teaching is about.