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Archive for November, 2007

 
|| November 18, 2007 || 10:12 pm || Comments (2) ||

taking flight

So, my best friend went to Nashville for the day to participate in a suicide prevention walk. I know the park well, and I envisioned her and her family in my mind’s eye, praying peace over the event. I am stunned constantly at how prayer works.

When the Scotland team came back this year, there were lots of stories. I didn’t post many of the details, but there were snags and hiccups and frustrations getting them over there this time. The first plane was struck by lightning, and everything amassed and folded over and in on itself; the group was separated and eventually arrived in Glasgow over the course of three days, in three groups of about five each.

But the snags, it appears on reflection, weren’t necessarily all missteps. Maxim, Scout, our pastor and his son and one other boy (who Scout had mentioned before they left, saying that she would like to get to know him better, as he is a reserved person) were in the longest-delayed group, who saw about four cities more than they initially expected and who all had their first New York City cab ride(s) that weekend.

They remarked that getting bumped up to first class on the longest leg of their trip was God’s reward for their having had to suffer that particular injustice.

So yeah, there were lots of stories, but there is one that leaves me breathless and just humbled in the strangest way and amazed in the biggest one. It involves an older stewardess. This particular stewardess, it turns out, was around when God poked Maxim and said, “Hey. Say this to her.”

So Maxim began writing it down and when he had opportunity, he handed the sheet to her. “The whole time I was writing it,” he said to me later, “I kept thinking, ‘Man, this sure is some cheesy stuff.’” She went away and attended to her duties, but after some time she returned to speak to Maxim and D.

Turns out, Maxim had transcribed near-verbatim a letter that her son had written to her. The guy is imprisoned, and she prays fervently for him. She had asked God recently for confirmation that he would be redeemed, would be okay. It came to her in the form of a note pressed into her palm, while rocketing across an ocean thousands of feet in the air.

That’s not the story that knocked my socks off. This one is: The stewardess began telling them of groups of stewardesses that meet to pray over the cities they are headed to. She also said that groups of them take time to gather and pray –on their approach to them– over the cities they are landing in. Every last time I hear or think about that, I am just so hopeful and so grateful. Even if you don’t believe in God or prayer, you’ve got to be bowled over by the notion of some people crisscrossing the country AND the planet, putting out good energy over its cities and the people in them.

There is a beautiful balance to this world that sometimes astounds me. I can’t figure out if its the simplicity or the complexity of it, but I don’t much care to. Sometimes it is good to just be.

I spent most of the weekend in my studio, bent over this project and that. I rarely slept, and when I did it was only lightly. I think I bathed only once, and that was for church this morning. There was glue on my clothes, cuts and scratches adorned my hands and paint seeped into them, making them a strange and sort of beautiful landscape to look on. I worked until my head was muddy and my back ached, and still the ideas kept pounding away; given the slightest way for entry into my active brain, they zinged back and forth, singing in strange and gorgeous tongues.

I am overtaken in these moments, and I swear that if duty didn’t call, I could spend a twitchy, rewarding week straight in that room, hammering and smoothing and sanding and twisting and painting and cutting. Lips chapped and hair fuzzy, letting my brain hummmm, pounding glass after glass of ice water and eating only when I’ve remembered that I’ve forgotten to.

Happy, so happy, that it is November, that fall has lasted several weeks now, that my muse is out and about and stomping around my innards once again.

 
|| November 18, 2007 || 12:01 am || Comments (0) ||

running (in)to old friends.

“You smell really great….kind of like flowers and bad judgment.” Smiling, without baring teeth.

It would have been a remarkably toe-curling line had it not been so familiar. I believe it was the second thing I ever said to him when we met. Only I used the word ‘musk’ instead of ‘flowers’.

He’s always said he likes the random things that come falling out of my mouth.

“On second thought, let’s not go to Camelot. It is a silly place.”

The other night I heard –on NPR, oh commie radio with the really great content– a rerun of an older interview with Norman Mailer. This cat was fabulous, and I found myself loving a great deal of what he had to say. Had I heard this interview when it originally aired some ten or so years ago, I don’t know that I would have connected so well to the things that he was saying. As it was, in the here and now, I caught myself over and over with a pleased little grin or hearing The Myself inside me saying, “Yes! Just like that.” If you take in something you deem wisdom and find agreement with it, does that mean you are acquiring some wisdom as well?

A specific something Mailer said so perfectly expressed an emotion that I have about writing and what it does to the scribe that I could easily have found the want to burst into tears had I just gone looking: “Much of writing is transformation. Occasionally it is transcendence.”

One thing that I had suspected previously –but have grown certain of in the past year– is that giggling is an international language. One thing I am mourning at the present is that I am full of easy, gloriously plain-worded letters I have never sent. I am too wrapped up in the everydayness to do anything of worth, it feels….and I’m somehow ineptly screwing up a passel of presents I’ve been given lately. Too fallable.

You are an unruly translucent dirty windshield with a shifting view / So many clean running landscapes for my dented door to open into / I just wanna tune out all the billboards, build myself a mental shield / I just wanna put down all the pressures and feel how I really feel

Just show me a moment that is mine / Its beauty blinding and unsurpassed / And I’ll forgive every moment that went by / That left me so half-hearted cos I felt it so half-assed

// Ani DiFranco, “Half-Assed”

There was this story I was telling to a friend a couple days ago; it was too rich to not be told. So-oh, when wrapping it up I was like, “Oh my God, that deserves to be in a screenplay, because it is just too fucking marvelous, you know?”

Now I can’t remember a word of it. Not a damn detail. And that, merciless universe, is why I write.

 
|| November 12, 2007 || 12:39 pm || Comments (9) ||

Yet another lame pronouncement.

I have decided that, in the (unlikely) event that I become a (public) porn star, I would like my screen name to be Flexie Bell.

I’m a damn genius, I tell you.

 
|| November 7, 2007 || 5:48 pm || Comments (7) ||

a little something.

I adore some jewelry by Jes MaHarry, but honestly?

Were a boy to gather up a bouquet of Sharpies in every last color they manufacture, all hanked up in a wide grosgrain ribbon, I’d think that was one of the grandest romantic gestures toward me, like, ever.

 
|| November 6, 2007 || 2:17 pm || Comments (3) ||

(busy fishin’ for my bootstraps)

I came here with a fat lot of things to say, really, but it pretty much boils down to approximately four things…only two of which I have the words for right at this minute:

I don’t have to be happy — I’d settle for oblivious and antidepressed;

I don’t have to be sweet — I’d settle for passive and uncruel.

And to Brynne, Amazing Muffinass The First, congratulations on your news! This next six or seven months will seem tediously long at times, but before you know it you will blink and she will be here. Oh, I’m sorry, did I mention that you are having a girl? My babyometer is one of my flashier, more unwavering talents.

Of course –just like everyone else– I think it would be to her benefit were you to name her after me. You do want her to be sugar and spice and everything kickass, yes?

 
|| November 3, 2007 || 10:26 pm || Comments (2) ||

“I ain’t havin’ it !!”

Scout pierced her own nose one day last week. She disliked it and ended up taking the stud out after half a day of wearing it.

This was all unbeknownst to me until I noticed what I thought was a massive blackhead a couple days later.

After she (immediately and sort of humbly) copped to her transgression I –her tattooed and pretty chill about most things experimental appearance-wise mother — flipped a total bitch about it. See? Apparently even *I* have limits which could possibly be loosely referred to as ’standards’.