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.
Amy, I'm so impressed. I love the depths we're glipsing outside your usual mode of expression. How well they compliment and bring out each other's unique beauty. Thanks for sharing yourself. You're beautiful!
ReplyDeleteLove Kathy