Saturday, October 29, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Paul Metsa
Memoirs are nonfiction stories written to share the knowledge gained from personal experience. Author Paul Metsa said, “Memoirs are constrained by the truth.” They hopefully engage and entertain the reader, but they also might be written for therapeutic and utterly selfish reasons by the author. The deep seeded conviction that their story needs to be told, telling their story will probably not change one and all. They are also written to make money for the author and the publisher. They wouldn't be on the shelf if a publisher didn't think some profit were to be made from the author's life story. When you look at the bins of clearance autobiography and biography books you wonder why some lives were chosen to sell. The appeal of some lives seems limited (that sounds so horrible and scathing, but ask yourself, is it worthy of $25.95 and three days at minimum of someone's life to read?) and clearly so, since no one bothered to buy their books. Memoirs are somewhat of a gamble in their enjoyment factor. I believe readers of memoirs are always comparing their own lives and justifying the importance of the lives in print to their own. They also want to figure out how to achieve that same level of success.
The panel assembled on October 15th to discuss their Minnesota Memoirs at the Rain Taxi Twin Cities Book Festival was varied in their memoir styles. They had works that were either: humorous, sad, touching, inspirational, reflective, or motivational. From excerpts read, some piqued my interest, but others I know I will not pick up. I might not like a writer's style or craft, but I always give kudos for getting it published. I believe the writer had to have some chutzpah and charisma to get it sold. The panel consisted of: Patricia Hampl - The Florists Daughter, Paul Metsa - Blue Guitar Highway, Martin Kihn – Bad Dog:A Love Story, Nancy Paddock - A Song at Twilight: Of Alzheimer's and Love, Theresa Weir – The Orchard, Mary Rondeau Westra – After the Murder of My Son.
The panel answered questions brought to them by moderator Patricia Hampl. The authors had different approaches to the craft of memoir and varied responses to the questions. Patricia fielded a question from the audience that asked, what do you do after your memoir is finished and published? Kihn answered that he has concocted different experiments to aid in the process of creating maybe more memoirs and retellings of certain aspects of his life. I felt that he was a crafty writer that will always know how to sell himself. Nancy Paddock said she would go back to poetry and not write another memoir. She had stated her thoughts on her life and that was enough. I felt that her memoir was poignant and her last hurrah about that relationship. Theresa Weir stated that she had one story to tell and she had told hers for now, but that could change. I felt she was realistic. She is young and life has a lot of stories to give you.
The next question was what is the role of editor? Metsa answered that an editor will take 1500 pages and bring it down to 400. He stated that his sister editing his work was like Mother Teresa of Calcutta editing Hunter S. Thompson. Mary Rondeau Westra responded that you have an obligation to leave your reader at a good place after reading your words and an editor helps you find that place.
Hampl felt that an editor centered her and reigned in her craft. I learned limitations have to be placed on the work in process or egos will surface and the author will ultimately think all is very important and nothing should be edited.
The most important idea I grasped out of the panel's knowledge was the words of wisdom from Paul Metsa's Dad and Kihn. Metsa was worried about how his words would be perceived by his Dad. His Dad responded, “Just tell the truth son.” Kihn said, “You cannot undo the truth, so let it be.” How eloquent and simple are those words? I think writers worry about having the sales and monetary rewards for their stories and that encourages them to embellish. If you write what you know and you speak the truth, no one else will tell the same story. Your story will be the unique and your own.
Paul Metsa the author came to Magers and Quinn bookstore to do a reading from Blue Guitar Highway. Metsa is a local music legend in the Twin Cities and northern Minnesota. An Iron Range boy that made it good in the land of rock and roll. When Paul walks into the reading he looks weathered and worn. He still has his hair, but it looks like it has lost it's natural blondness. His skin looks reddened, he has the crimson tone that years of drinking can do to one's complexion. He has glasses to see and a wide circumference to his torso. Hopefully, he has replaced his bottled demons with food. At least he doesn't have the sickly thinness of rockers that are on the needle or up the nose. He still sports the leather and the smugness of cool still clings to his weathered soul. You can feel the audience's apprehension of failure in the room. He is a writer of lyrics, a poet of songs. Is he a writer of substance that can carry a memoir or was it someone else? Did he have a ghost writer? The audience visibly relaxes when he says his introduction and performs a song. They realize his vocals are still intact. They haven't been damaged as much as his facade. He then begins to read and his charm begins to seethe from his pores and the audience gasps at his humorous attempts to downplay his demeanor. Paul Metsa can write!
He depreciates his life in his reading and that draws his audience in even further. He is a master of making his audience seem worthier than him. He is the boy that grew up poor and didn't realize his potential. He only realized his determination to get the hell out of the Range. His gravelly voice gives credence to his words as a rocker that has seen hard times and won. Paul Metsa is an artist that gives the people what they want. He did that as a singer and lyrical mastermind. He is no fool and knows what people want to hear as a writer. He begins with his words and the audience is entranced. That is what makes a great memoir writer, the reader wants more. His story hurts. We all might of failed in our promise, but his demise was worse, because he had a grasp on that chance of fame and abused and lost it.
His memoir will do well in Minnesota. I am not sure how well he'll do outside the Midwest, but one never knows. The book should interest musicians, rock and roll aficionados, young adults and memoir enthusiasts. His book is a reflection of the choices he made in his life. Memoirs are memories of lives transformed into stories that are personal or public. If you choose to share, make sure you are truthful in the memory and try not to hurt. Tell the truth and it will set you free.
The panel assembled on October 15th to discuss their Minnesota Memoirs at the Rain Taxi Twin Cities Book Festival was varied in their memoir styles. They had works that were either: humorous, sad, touching, inspirational, reflective, or motivational. From excerpts read, some piqued my interest, but others I know I will not pick up. I might not like a writer's style or craft, but I always give kudos for getting it published. I believe the writer had to have some chutzpah and charisma to get it sold. The panel consisted of: Patricia Hampl - The Florists Daughter, Paul Metsa - Blue Guitar Highway, Martin Kihn – Bad Dog:A Love Story, Nancy Paddock - A Song at Twilight: Of Alzheimer's and Love, Theresa Weir – The Orchard, Mary Rondeau Westra – After the Murder of My Son.
The panel answered questions brought to them by moderator Patricia Hampl. The authors had different approaches to the craft of memoir and varied responses to the questions. Patricia fielded a question from the audience that asked, what do you do after your memoir is finished and published? Kihn answered that he has concocted different experiments to aid in the process of creating maybe more memoirs and retellings of certain aspects of his life. I felt that he was a crafty writer that will always know how to sell himself. Nancy Paddock said she would go back to poetry and not write another memoir. She had stated her thoughts on her life and that was enough. I felt that her memoir was poignant and her last hurrah about that relationship. Theresa Weir stated that she had one story to tell and she had told hers for now, but that could change. I felt she was realistic. She is young and life has a lot of stories to give you.
The next question was what is the role of editor? Metsa answered that an editor will take 1500 pages and bring it down to 400. He stated that his sister editing his work was like Mother Teresa of Calcutta editing Hunter S. Thompson. Mary Rondeau Westra responded that you have an obligation to leave your reader at a good place after reading your words and an editor helps you find that place.
Hampl felt that an editor centered her and reigned in her craft. I learned limitations have to be placed on the work in process or egos will surface and the author will ultimately think all is very important and nothing should be edited.
The most important idea I grasped out of the panel's knowledge was the words of wisdom from Paul Metsa's Dad and Kihn. Metsa was worried about how his words would be perceived by his Dad. His Dad responded, “Just tell the truth son.” Kihn said, “You cannot undo the truth, so let it be.” How eloquent and simple are those words? I think writers worry about having the sales and monetary rewards for their stories and that encourages them to embellish. If you write what you know and you speak the truth, no one else will tell the same story. Your story will be the unique and your own.
Paul Metsa the author came to Magers and Quinn bookstore to do a reading from Blue Guitar Highway. Metsa is a local music legend in the Twin Cities and northern Minnesota. An Iron Range boy that made it good in the land of rock and roll. When Paul walks into the reading he looks weathered and worn. He still has his hair, but it looks like it has lost it's natural blondness. His skin looks reddened, he has the crimson tone that years of drinking can do to one's complexion. He has glasses to see and a wide circumference to his torso. Hopefully, he has replaced his bottled demons with food. At least he doesn't have the sickly thinness of rockers that are on the needle or up the nose. He still sports the leather and the smugness of cool still clings to his weathered soul. You can feel the audience's apprehension of failure in the room. He is a writer of lyrics, a poet of songs. Is he a writer of substance that can carry a memoir or was it someone else? Did he have a ghost writer? The audience visibly relaxes when he says his introduction and performs a song. They realize his vocals are still intact. They haven't been damaged as much as his facade. He then begins to read and his charm begins to seethe from his pores and the audience gasps at his humorous attempts to downplay his demeanor. Paul Metsa can write!
He depreciates his life in his reading and that draws his audience in even further. He is a master of making his audience seem worthier than him. He is the boy that grew up poor and didn't realize his potential. He only realized his determination to get the hell out of the Range. His gravelly voice gives credence to his words as a rocker that has seen hard times and won. Paul Metsa is an artist that gives the people what they want. He did that as a singer and lyrical mastermind. He is no fool and knows what people want to hear as a writer. He begins with his words and the audience is entranced. That is what makes a great memoir writer, the reader wants more. His story hurts. We all might of failed in our promise, but his demise was worse, because he had a grasp on that chance of fame and abused and lost it.
His memoir will do well in Minnesota. I am not sure how well he'll do outside the Midwest, but one never knows. The book should interest musicians, rock and roll aficionados, young adults and memoir enthusiasts. His book is a reflection of the choices he made in his life. Memoirs are memories of lives transformed into stories that are personal or public. If you choose to share, make sure you are truthful in the memory and try not to hurt. Tell the truth and it will set you free.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Books for MEA
The first book i finished on my MEA Holiday was MICE by Gordon Reece
I read it like I read ROOM, by Emma Donoghue. I have a hard time reading about kids that suffer trouble and skim through books that highlight this. This is a book worth reading, like ROOM, but it is hard to read. As a mother and a teacher, these things really eat me up.
http://www.caribousmom.com/2011/08/22/mice-book-review/
I read it like I read ROOM, by Emma Donoghue. I have a hard time reading about kids that suffer trouble and skim through books that highlight this. This is a book worth reading, like ROOM, but it is hard to read. As a mother and a teacher, these things really eat me up. There are plot things that I did not like and writing that had heights of excitement, but then went down to mediocre. It was a good premise for a first book.
I read Tangerine on the way home from Duluth and it went by in a heartbeat. GREATNESS!!! And I know, I am late to the bandwagon. Sometimes with YA there are some topics that hurt your soul and you have to take a break from all of that. I stayed away from Tangerine because I knew it was great, but I knew it would hurt. It fulfills both prophesies.
This is a deeply moving and heart felt book. It is in the Chris Crutcher genius mode, that made me want to be a teacher and writer. Great characters, plot twists and emotional YA thought processes wringing through. The ending made me want a different resolution to the character's problems, but it was satisfying non the least. Read it.
Schooled immediately grabbed me with the characters in it's drama. Cap Anderson is a boy whom I would love all children to be. Let's go back to that day of innocence. Let's go back to that time of no expectations for our kids. I do not like what I see of the mounting pressures our kids face as young adults. Things have gotten so amped up. Situations that use to happen as sophomores now occur to seventh graders, especially with girls. Girls need to take a time warp vacation and chill.
This is a book that will make kids look at the kid that is overlooked all the time. The kid that is smart, but strange to the norm. The kid that might irritate, but why is that irritating? Is the only reason it's irritating is because they are different? I am not perfect, and when I was young and was picked on, I struck first before being the one struck. Maybe that is why it hurts so bad to read these YA books. I was those characters. The good and the bad. Maybe we are these characters through all of our lives. I want to be the good ones and I hope more people do too.
http://www.caribousmom.com/2011/08/22/mice-book-review/
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Mary - God chose well.
Were you scared when God spoke to you?
Did you about faint when he said you were going to be pregnant with his son?
Oh, wow! I would have freaked!
What were you going to tell everyone?
Were people mean?
It seems like it would have been horrible, but you were so brave.
I always think, what if you had said, no.
Joseph seemed like a nice guy, but he was old and a stranger too.
That must have been weird to have God pick your husband.
You don't know anything and then, WHAM! BAM!
An instant marriage for you, my dear.
You didn't even get to fall in love.
I always think, what if you had said, no.
The biggest thing that would have made me back out
of the whole deal,
is knowing Jesus would have had to die to save everyone.
Really?
Would I give my son up to be slaughtered?
I don't know if I could do that.
I love my sons.
I will protect them, hide them, and die for them.
I know you felt the same way.
You must have had faith stronger then anything I could ever imagine.
I always think, what if you had said, no.
There would be nothing.
No Jesus and his life, death, and resurrection.
We would not be saved.
There would be only darkness and evil.
You were one in a million.
God chose well.
Mary, thanks for not saying, no.
Did you about faint when he said you were going to be pregnant with his son?
Oh, wow! I would have freaked!
What were you going to tell everyone?
Were people mean?
It seems like it would have been horrible, but you were so brave.
I always think, what if you had said, no.
Joseph seemed like a nice guy, but he was old and a stranger too.
That must have been weird to have God pick your husband.
You don't know anything and then, WHAM! BAM!
An instant marriage for you, my dear.
You didn't even get to fall in love.
I always think, what if you had said, no.
The biggest thing that would have made me back out
of the whole deal,
is knowing Jesus would have had to die to save everyone.
Really?
Would I give my son up to be slaughtered?
I don't know if I could do that.
I love my sons.
I will protect them, hide them, and die for them.
I know you felt the same way.
You must have had faith stronger then anything I could ever imagine.
I always think, what if you had said, no.
There would be nothing.
No Jesus and his life, death, and resurrection.
We would not be saved.
There would be only darkness and evil.
You were one in a million.
God chose well.
Mary, thanks for not saying, no.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Middle School Ride
Middle School is the purgatory
carnival that you dwell in
before you become a teenager.
Kids jump on it's roller coaster ride,
hoping it will be the coolest trip of the lives.
It can be a nightmare in which the car you're riding in
suddenly flings itself off the rails and hurtles you to
the ground.
Don't buy that ticket too soon.
Girls in middle school say, “I want”.
I want to wear make-up.
I want to go to dances.
I want to date.
I want to be beautiful.
I want him to call.
God, please make him call.
Boys in middle school say, “I don't”.
I don't want to ask a girl out.
I don't want to do homework.
I don't want to clean my room.
I don't want to kiss you good-bye Mom.
I'll just grunt and walk away.
Should they jump on that ride?
There really is no choice, but be leery how fast you travel.
Buckle up and strap yourself in.
Follow the rules and you'll
be safe.
You might even have a great time
over some hills and turns.
Or barf.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Weren't You My Friend Yesterday?
Weren't you my friend yesterday?
Everyone
noticed the look you gave me
Really?
What was that about?
Every
time you do that, it hurts
Now
I hate being here
Take
me home please!
Yelling
loudly, just to be cool
Outrageous
outfits you wear
Useless
gossip you spread around these halls
My
best friend is now on your side
You
always bribe people to be your friend
Forgiveness
is hard for me
Rarely
do I let things go
Insecure
about my life, I guess
Every
time you talk about me
No
one ever listens to my side
Down
the hallway you spread your lies
You
have nothing better to do
Eventually
you'll get bored
Set
your sights on someone else
Today
it's me, tomorrow it's her
Each
of us glad you tire quickly
Rarely
a day goes by we don't wish you were gone
Dreaming
of the day you would be done
Attacking
us for being who we are
You
need to grow up, please
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
New Poems - exercises from class
The first line of the poem is used as the first letter of each line of the poem:
Mother to Son
Sing the paean of mothers to my son
Incite the strength and sorrow of matriarchal warriors long ago
Nuances that spill clever from your mouth son, mean nothing to me
Gestate the idea that I will triumph your fantasies and you will lose to the ignorance of wisdom
Together we will unite after this battle of misdeeds
Help this boy that fears my love and challenges it
Eloquence awaits him, after he chooses not to succumb to the trash of the city's adjectives
Prejudices of the young against the ripened seem insurmountable
Alienating mother from son once again
Exacting all feelings from seething hate, to serendipitous worship
All is forgiven once the time has passed, the allegiance solidified again
Negotiating our territories until the next crusade
Or is he just a boy that doesn't realize how easy cruel is?
Forget the searing sarcasm that came from my DNA, that would never be tolerated.
Maybe my dad wouldn’t be so cruel, but I disagree.
Or how about my mother run amuck?
The gene that gives us our loquacity
has bred in us a virus, that sometimes seems overreaching,
ever seeking the potential victim.
Random you think? Not really
So ready to strike first, to protect our own.
To all my offspring, be ready.
Origins of my faults are ready on display, I do not choose them for you.
Maybe you can pretend you are the neighbor's child
You are too beautiful to deny our genes and it will be unearthed.
Someday, you’ll realize that you're better then the rest,
only then the good in you will reign, mistakes will be forgotten
Never forget you are my son, my glory on this earth.
Look at what you’ve become!
Look at what you’ve become!
Outgoing young thing, you have no fear
Outrageous slang spews from your lips
Kicking lesser foes to the ground
Admiring boys strut on by, whistle and coo
Tenaciously touching you with their eyes
When did this transformation occur?
Hidden for years by youthful bliss
Awareness of your power slowly begins
To rise and tantalize those around
Young women beg for your attention
Only you choose who rises
Useless drones fall to the wayside
Voices call, but you ignore
Encouraging their worship of you
Bewitching siren whose power
Electrifies and ignites
Come and show the world what you have become
Outlandish and wild one day
Moral and melancholy the next
Enjoy all that you will become
Outlandish and wild one day
Moral and melancholy the next
Enjoy all that you will become
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Creative Writing Course - My present to Kathy because I love her
PHOTOGRAPH - Amy Clark
The image was a mere illusion of what it use to represent. The photo had set on the windowsill for the last twenty years at the cabin. It had born the brunt of the sun’s ultra violet tentacles massaging its surface until it had sucked the ink from each pore. The image was that of the first grandchild, a promise of greatness and potential to be cultivated.
The child was born by emergency C-section. A choice had to be made to save the mother or the child. My Father chose my Mother. I think he was more afraid of losing someone he knew than someone who was only an idea to him. The baby was a dream, a thought that was in the future. His wife was cut open and losing blood fast. He had to make a decision and not waver. He had wavered on every issue in his life so far: college, the army, jobs and getting married. He never had finished anything in his life that had the stamp of respectable mature decision on it. Even the wedding was more about the reception. He liked a big party, a social event where he could tell a good story, smoke cigarettes and have a good stiff drink. The stroking of egos, the laughter and the tears streaming down their faces was their seal of approval of him after a good joke .
So he chose my Mom, but the baby wasn’t about to head out to pasture that quickly. She was a fighter and must of wanted to stay with my Mom. I hope she didn’t overhear the decision, but maybe that made her fight even harder. Imagine hearing that you have entered a world that you didn’t want to enter to begin with, and then be given a death sentence because you were deemed not as important.
They both survived . Both had to stay in the hospital a while longer to get stronger. I think my dad always felt a bit guilty every time he looked at my sister. To be honest, I think everyday he was surprised she was still here.
Inchworms and God
There was no fear blanketing our lives when we were ten. We saw images of a country called Viet Nam on WCCO when we ate dinner on our TV trays from Shell Oil, but that would go away at the turn of a knob. Mr. Gufterson’s son supposedly went to a party and someone had put LSD in his pop, but he was sent away and would never bother us. Macalester College was planning another demonstration, and we could watch unless they brought out the tear gas again or the dogs came with the police. Life was simple then, because if it got uncomfortable, it could be made to go away.
We were all sitting on the curb waiting for the inchworm man to come. That summer millions upon billions of inchworms had infestated the elm trees in the Macalester- Groveland neighborhood. The first truck had gone by warning all kids and pets to go inside, so you wouldn’t get poison on you. It never made us sick. We loved all the clouds of spray the truck would make and we delighted in watching the inchworms drop in masses from the trees. It was like a scene right out of Horror Incorporated. We then played Night of the Living Dead and put the dead inchworms all over us. We loved a good reenactment with the right theatrical props highlighting our talent.
On this particular day of inchworm slaughter, we were in front of our buddies house. Their house was on Stanford and had a better proximity to the street compared to mine that was surrounded by a fence. My buddy’s house also was crazier than ours. They had eight kids, all a year apart and a mother who was nuttier than squirrel with rabies. She alternated between being a long suffering Catholic wife who bore the children dutifully and a mother’s little helper addict who was meaner than a honey badger in pursuit of a cobra. Honey badgers look sweet and cute, but will rip the guts out of anything when hungry or just plain bored. If you never seen one in action, check it out on Youtube and you‘ll be amazed by the sheer savagery. Honey badgers and my buddy’s mom would slice you open if it came down to it. Honey badgers would if they were hungry, my buddy’s mom if you interrupted her soap operas, sat on the wrong coach or ate the last of the Hamburger Helper with potato chips. We never had Hamburger Helper with potato chips at our house, so I got slaughtered with verbal lashings constantly. I loved the new technology breakthroughs they were having in the seventies with food products and preservatives, so I took my beatings gratefully. My mother insisted all those new products such as spaghetti o’s, Trix cereal and Tang were fake foods. Didn’t she know that the astronauts drank Tang everyday and 9 out of 10 essential vitamins and minerals were included with the Trix rabbit? Geez, if she would put down her books and just turn on the TV she would be so much smarter. She was a meat and potatoes eater, a card carrying member of the Guild of Catholic Women Altar and Rosary Society and a book snob. She did not fit into the free and groovy life of 1975.
We were all Catholics in our neighborhood and pretty much knew that God was our savior and he had pretty strict, but decent rules. They all seemed fair enough, so we abided by his rules and skirted around the lying and obeying our elders commandments. We made sure we didn’t kill anyone or covet our neighbor’s wife, but who really in their right mind would want old honey badger herself, my bud’s ma? We worked our beads and went to church and we were all basically just trying to stay out of hell. We were unprepared then, while waiting for the slaughter of the innocent inchworm infestation, when God spoke to us.
The voice boomed from above, “Children stay where you are and look at the ground! Do not look up and question who is speaking to you. This is the Lord who spoke to Moses like in that burning bush with Charleton Heston, all the plagues and that freaky angel of death!“ We all stayed still and looked at the gravel in the gutter in amazement. “Do you really think it’s God or the inchworm man?” said my buddy. “I think it could be God because he tends to come out of nowhere and scare the bejesus out of people.” Above us God started singing Godspell and we sort of hummed along with it. The urge to look up was getting greater and greater. “Let’s take a peek at God” whispered my buddy. “What if we die and we don’t get to watch our Friday night shows. You know this is the night the Brady’s go to Hawaii. I am not missing Greg on a surfboard!” I said with a vengeance. I was totally in love with Greg Brady and maybe Peter. Peter could be kind of weird and his voice was changing, so maybe not that much.
God was done singing Godspell and was on to Nights in White Satin when the police came to a stop in front of us. My buddy put his hands in the air and yelled to the police not to look up. The police looked at us kind of strange and asked what was going on. “We were waiting for the inchworm man to come and God started singing to us and telling us to look at the ground.” my buddy said. “Does God sing to you two dirt heads all the time?” he asked sarcastically. “Well, no. Come to think of it I’ve never really heard his voice. I always thought he sounded like Father Tiffany or Monsignor Steiner, not Peter Frampton.” my buddy said. “Well geniuses, it’s not God. It’s a kid on a roof with a Mr. Microphone, hopped up on goofballs or smokin’ the wacky weed. I suggest you two get on your bikes and go to the park until the street lights come on. Understand?” We jumped on our bikes and pedaled as fast as we could down to Mattocks park and rec.
While we were throwing rocks and talking about what God really would sing if he was on American Bandstand and if he would wear a fringe vest or not, the cop cruiser drove by. My buddy’s oldest brother was in the back swaying back and forth and looking not so distressed by the whole situation. We got back on our bikes and headed back to my house to watch the Brady Bunch. We forgot about my buddy’s brother, drugs, God and the cops. Life was easier with Mike and Carol Brady in Hawaii, so we joined them in front of the console on my living room
We were all sitting on the curb waiting for the inchworm man to come. That summer millions upon billions of inchworms had infestated the elm trees in the Macalester- Groveland neighborhood. The first truck had gone by warning all kids and pets to go inside, so you wouldn’t get poison on you. It never made us sick. We loved all the clouds of spray the truck would make and we delighted in watching the inchworms drop in masses from the trees. It was like a scene right out of Horror Incorporated. We then played Night of the Living Dead and put the dead inchworms all over us. We loved a good reenactment with the right theatrical props highlighting our talent.
On this particular day of inchworm slaughter, we were in front of our buddies house. Their house was on Stanford and had a better proximity to the street compared to mine that was surrounded by a fence. My buddy’s house also was crazier than ours. They had eight kids, all a year apart and a mother who was nuttier than squirrel with rabies. She alternated between being a long suffering Catholic wife who bore the children dutifully and a mother’s little helper addict who was meaner than a honey badger in pursuit of a cobra. Honey badgers look sweet and cute, but will rip the guts out of anything when hungry or just plain bored. If you never seen one in action, check it out on Youtube and you‘ll be amazed by the sheer savagery. Honey badgers and my buddy’s mom would slice you open if it came down to it. Honey badgers would if they were hungry, my buddy’s mom if you interrupted her soap operas, sat on the wrong coach or ate the last of the Hamburger Helper with potato chips. We never had Hamburger Helper with potato chips at our house, so I got slaughtered with verbal lashings constantly. I loved the new technology breakthroughs they were having in the seventies with food products and preservatives, so I took my beatings gratefully. My mother insisted all those new products such as spaghetti o’s, Trix cereal and Tang were fake foods. Didn’t she know that the astronauts drank Tang everyday and 9 out of 10 essential vitamins and minerals were included with the Trix rabbit? Geez, if she would put down her books and just turn on the TV she would be so much smarter. She was a meat and potatoes eater, a card carrying member of the Guild of Catholic Women Altar and Rosary Society and a book snob. She did not fit into the free and groovy life of 1975.
We were all Catholics in our neighborhood and pretty much knew that God was our savior and he had pretty strict, but decent rules. They all seemed fair enough, so we abided by his rules and skirted around the lying and obeying our elders commandments. We made sure we didn’t kill anyone or covet our neighbor’s wife, but who really in their right mind would want old honey badger herself, my bud’s ma? We worked our beads and went to church and we were all basically just trying to stay out of hell. We were unprepared then, while waiting for the slaughter of the innocent inchworm infestation, when God spoke to us.
The voice boomed from above, “Children stay where you are and look at the ground! Do not look up and question who is speaking to you. This is the Lord who spoke to Moses like in that burning bush with Charleton Heston, all the plagues and that freaky angel of death!“ We all stayed still and looked at the gravel in the gutter in amazement. “Do you really think it’s God or the inchworm man?” said my buddy. “I think it could be God because he tends to come out of nowhere and scare the bejesus out of people.” Above us God started singing Godspell and we sort of hummed along with it. The urge to look up was getting greater and greater. “Let’s take a peek at God” whispered my buddy. “What if we die and we don’t get to watch our Friday night shows. You know this is the night the Brady’s go to Hawaii. I am not missing Greg on a surfboard!” I said with a vengeance. I was totally in love with Greg Brady and maybe Peter. Peter could be kind of weird and his voice was changing, so maybe not that much.
God was done singing Godspell and was on to Nights in White Satin when the police came to a stop in front of us. My buddy put his hands in the air and yelled to the police not to look up. The police looked at us kind of strange and asked what was going on. “We were waiting for the inchworm man to come and God started singing to us and telling us to look at the ground.” my buddy said. “Does God sing to you two dirt heads all the time?” he asked sarcastically. “Well, no. Come to think of it I’ve never really heard his voice. I always thought he sounded like Father Tiffany or Monsignor Steiner, not Peter Frampton.” my buddy said. “Well geniuses, it’s not God. It’s a kid on a roof with a Mr. Microphone, hopped up on goofballs or smokin’ the wacky weed. I suggest you two get on your bikes and go to the park until the street lights come on. Understand?” We jumped on our bikes and pedaled as fast as we could down to Mattocks park and rec.
While we were throwing rocks and talking about what God really would sing if he was on American Bandstand and if he would wear a fringe vest or not, the cop cruiser drove by. My buddy’s oldest brother was in the back swaying back and forth and looking not so distressed by the whole situation. We got back on our bikes and headed back to my house to watch the Brady Bunch. We forgot about my buddy’s brother, drugs, God and the cops. Life was easier with Mike and Carol Brady in Hawaii, so we joined them in front of the console on my living room
Fame
Where is my muse?
Will it arise like a phoenix
or continue to be the Grail
that eludes and beseeches.
Obscure imp named Fame,
be gone!
He who tugs at my heart and
deceives me with dalliances
and charades of fortune.
I am worn and tired with this amusement of yours.
Your little carnival of my desperation for sale.
Why do you play this game with me?
Leave me alone, if you will not let me win.
I am tired of the glimpses, the illusions of grandeur,
and the eternal fantasies that end in nightmarish rides
through the hell of my ego-centric mind
Abscond from my heart.
I will paint for me and
banish my demons.
Find some other fame monger who will
Pay your price.
I am done.
Early Morning Journey
The early morning dawn holds visions of promise:
Vibrant cobalt skies, hoar frosted dew on the ground,
birds beginning their requiem soliloquies,
and no one awake to stir the pot of despondency.
Inspiration, creativity seething to the mind
brings an introspective, a relevance
to the notions of ingenuity
in solving the mind boggling riddle
that eludes the deduction apparent
by even the basic of apprentices in the game of art.
Monet, Hokusai, Renoir, Picasso, Hopper,
Kadinsky, Van Gough, Michaelangelo
Suffered ragged doubts of depression because
their muse had hopped a bus taking a long
serendipitous journey to visit
the other turpentine linseed oil
saturated fame seekers of ill rebuke
that huddle and amass in small pockets
of decrepit city ghettos and urban communities that
serve as their own Winchester Cathedrals to their
Souls.
I keep walking this morning sojourn with
My faithful Retriever Labrador companion
Who guards me as if I were Guinevere and he, Lancelot.
He knows we are on our daily quest to
solve our continuous conundrum for the day.
We hurry back and hastily apply the layers of acrylic and oil
before the answer slips away and the thief of evening comes
and takes the luminescent light away
to shroud us in our blanket of midnight ebony.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
A Present from Janet
If you just want to watch the movie trailer, you can do so at...
http://www.oneforthemoneyfilm.com/
http://www.oneforthemoneyfilm.com/
Enjoy!
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