Friday, July 25, 2014
When you're weary from "the news," when you're thirsty for something hopeful, something good:
Watch this, even if it does take 20 minutes:
via Messy Nessy Chic
Listen to this, William Faulkner's Nobel Prize acceptance speech:
I said, That's too beefcakey. Send me something close-up of your face.
I was going to ask him to take another one, this time of him smiling, but then I decided that would be bugging him, and I don't want to bug my sweet, now-16 year old first son, light of my life, most beautiful child in the universe.
Happy birthday, Henry!
Thursday, July 24, 2014
While I lay on my bed most of the day yesterday, Sophie went off to her first day of Communicamp, Henry and Oliver went up in a World War II plane over Atlanta with my parents, and Obama came to town, grid-locking my neighborhood so that he could have dinner at Shonda's house. I'm not one of those folks who gripes and complains about the security apparatus that surrounds the president, figuring I'm just as complicit as the next American to have participated in this crazy system. I'm sort of grossed out by the money-making machine element of it all and feel sickened when I begin to think that it's all going to start again -- the right-wing crazies crying that we want our country back, the big Hollywood stars opening their mansions to the big donors, all the schmoozing, all the bullshit. But the traffic? The inconvenience of it? I admit it'd be nice if Obama didn't have to travel around in a line of enormous tinted windowed SUVs with the LAPD in full regalia, but what are you going to do? Then again, I wasn't in a car, inching down our little street, but rather sitting on the stoop, blowing my nose, still in my pajamas at 4 in the afternoon. I have a horrible cold, so horrible that I'm verging on a man cold, to tell you the truth, and need some sympathy.
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
That's a brief description of my dear friend and fellow writer, Denise Emanuel Clemens' new mini-memoir, published by Shebooks and available today for purchase. I met Denise years and years ago when we both attended a terrific writing workshop at UCLA, taught by the wonderful Barbara Abercrombie. Denise and I became friends and started a small writing group that met faithfully over the years and that finally dwindled away to occasional beer lunches for the two of us. We have every intention of starting up again -- both the beer and the writing group -- and I can only imagine what new writing Denise has in store. Her experience of having a child taken away from her is unique in its telling of the other side of adoption -- the side that we rarely hear in popular literature or press. Birth Mother is luminous and powerful and painful and above all, generous and loving. You have to read it. I command you to buy it.
Here are the links:
You can also download it through Amazon or on the Nook.
If you don't already, you can read Denise's blog. She's a fine writer, hilarious, moving, wise, and I'm just damn grateful to also call her friend.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
I drove out to Santa Monica this afternoon for my annual mammogram. I had gotten a babysitter for Sophie and turned down some plans to meet with a friend for this appointment. I wanted to get it over with, particularly since very recently one of my best friends got diagnosed with breast cancer from a routine mammogram. I know five people who've recently been diagnosed with breast cancer, and at this point, we all know that lightning can strike twice, that bad things happen to even the beleaguered or women like me who have, already, a lot on their plate. Sometimes, I imagine what I'd do if I got a cancer diagnosis, and I can't come up with anything more than well, of course I do, and that's not to evoke pity or even because I'm pessimistic. I think I've just learned to expect that things can go wrong or crazy, in the snap of a finger. Anyway. I hit a bunch of traffic traveling -- it's summer, and so dang beautiful outside. I imagined all the cars were going to the beach. The imaging clinic has free valet parking. I've always been struck by the meticulous care women's clinics take for their patients. It's in stark contrast to the various neurology clinics, even pediatric ones, that I've frequented over the last two decades, where it's like one horror show over the next. I checked into the office, updated my personal history and sat in a chair to wait. A woman in scrubs came out with a clipboard in her hand and called my name. She sat down next to me and told me that the mammogram machine was down, that she was sorry but that I'd have to reschedule. I almost didn't understand what she was saying and might have said What? and then listened when she told me The mammogram machine is down and you'll have to reschedule. There's not much you can do, is there, but sigh and walk up to the receptionist and reschedule your mammogram. Do mammogram machines really go down? Is there only one mammogram machine at this very prestigious imaging clinic? The thought crossed my mind, later, when I was sitting in the godawful west to east traffic that it wouldn't surprise me if a celebrity in need of a mammogram had come in some back way and they'd closed the place down for her. Musing at a standstill in my car on Venice Blvd, the route I'd chosen over the freeway, I told myself that if that thought just sprang into my mind in that moment, apropos of nothing, it must be true. That sort of thing happens in this city, and I'm one of those people that believes if you can conceive of a soul, there must be one. Does that make sense or does it just sound crazy? It's sort of like a psychic hit -- the kind of thought you have like a bolt of lightning, completely irrelevant to the situation at hand. I have them periodically -- you know, when I suddenly know that the guy behind the counter handing me my prints at the photo shop is a pedophile, or the woman standing at my window in the carpool line is going to tell me that she's pregnant. I probably do sound crazy. I sat in traffic on Venice Boulevard at a near-standstill for a really long time, thinking about these things. I also looked out my window and tracked a woman in a blue-spangled robe and head covering. I wondered whether she was Muslim or a nun. There were the sequins, though. She walked faster than my car moved, and at one perfect second, when the car next to me moved forward and a space opened up, I took her picture. She was on her way home, had some flatbread in her bag, would tear a piece off and eat it once she got inside, wait for her son to call. At least I think so, but I'm pretty sure.
All my stories are about the action of grace on a character
who is not very willing to support it,
but most people think of these as
hard, hopeless and brutal.
Sitting in a car in a flowered dress, I was talking to you as if it were a natural thing, the give and take, the soft laugh, the absence of flesh. There was no talk of being centered, of allowing things to unfold, the kind of Buddha-speak to which those of us who spurn the spiritual gravitate toward as if it will save us. I sort of like the sexism in Updike and Fellini, I offered and I wasn't embarrassed. You listened even as your words tumbled over mine and mine over yours. It occurred to me in my heresy that it was because I sensed vulnerability, there, in the coarse language of Updike, the parade of female flesh in Fellini. You were the one that mentioned O'Connor, those horrific characters, the stories. I have this image in my mind, this character that won't leave me alone, I told you. Remember the scene in "The Graduate" where the mother throws her head back and screams? Yeah, you said, and then you made that noise that she made. She visits me all the time, I said. Not that mother but that woman. She needs a name. She has a helmet of hair. She laughs like that. Throws her head back and laughs maniacally. We had to stop talking. I had to go, get out of my car. There was nothing more than a string of words in that conversation. We aren't most people, hard, hopeless and brutal. There was everything, though, that was soft, of grace.
Monday, July 21, 2014
- Thought: Does my life have a purpose outside of the beautiful boys and girl that I've brought into the world, the children who order my days and nights?
- Thought: What will I do if a missile hits their plane, and it goes down? Will I become a vengeful, crazy woman intent on destruction? Will I be a domestic jihadist, maybe even a conservative? I know this sounds insane, but I'm nothing if not honest. Notice that the above photo is a selfie when the boys landed in Atlanta, so you can disregard any thought of your yellow dog becoming a member of the armed forces. You can tell they were thrilled when I placed my order via text.
- Action: Try the new bakery on the way home and around the corner from the empty house. Order an incredible croissant with roasted tomato, bacon and Gruyere and some coffee for there and a Paris-Brest to take home. Sit down at a long table and pour coffee into beautiful mug from a silver carafe. Drink coffee, eat croissant, page through an actual copy of The New York Times, which feels good in the hands but is so filled with horror that you must push it aside. Gaze at the to-go box with Paris-Brest inside.
- Action: Decide that it can't wait and eat Paris-Brest -- all of it.
- Thought: Know that some friends would call this taking care of yourself and others' emotional eating. As you lick the insides of the box, where the hazelnut cream is smeared, think I don't give a damn about anything in this moment.
- Action: Get home and wander aimlessly about the quiet house, waiting for Sophie to get home from a bike ride with her father. Straighten up boys' room, make beds lovingly, still mournful of their inhabitants' absence. Notice, suddenly, that elder son's clear retainer is lying in the folds of the navy bean-bag chair.
- Thought: I wonder if he's been wearing this thing at all over the last month or so? What the hell? Where is the case? Those $5,000 teeth are probably getting crooked as we speak. Decide to have a few words with the kid as soon as he lands.
- Action: Work for a couple of hours on the project that my friend M gave me. I am so grateful for this work, and it's something so worthy that the work is a pleasure.
- Action: Make barbecue chicken for a friend in the hospital using the broiler in my 1928 oven for the first time.
- Thought: Who knew the broiler worked and was so great? I've raised three children and never made barbecue chicken with the broiler. What the hey?
- Thought: Are we as a culture evolving into persons who will all have breast cancer and autism? It seems that way as five people I know have recently been diagnosed, and I know countless children with autism.
- Thought: I don't make a big deal about the womanly cycles, menstruation, or The Change, but really -- I'm nearly 51, and there don't seem to be signs of it, and I definitely don't need to have any more children, and -- let's face it -- buying feminine hygiene products for 38 years is a drag.
- Action: Take Sophie for a long walk to fend off the blues which are associated, I guess, with the two boys being gone and #12 above.
- Action: Send the elder son a text about the left-behind retainers that were found in the folds of the bean-bag chair.
Reader, tell me what sort of thoughts and actions you're having and doing today.
The above photo has nothing to do with this post, but when I googled vintage house call nurse, in hopes of finding something relevant, I came upon a treasure trove of vintage nurse novels with the above as the first. I believe I posted about these books before, perhaps when I admitted to a Harlequin romance book club membership in my very distant past, but they're worth a visit. I'm also partial to Hootenanny Nurse and Nurse Pro Tem, which combines my fear of the intimidating Latin term and love of international romantic intrigue. Check them out yourself, in those vast swathes of free time that we all have!
Anyway, back to our regular programming:
My Australian friend Michelle posted this on her Facebook page as her status update yesterday, and I just loved it so much that I got her permission to post it here.
Here's what disability services should look like. When your kid gets diagnosed, after a decent interval for tearing your clothes and wearing sackcloth and ashes, a caring human being comes over to your house. They bring a month's worth of groceries and some clean plates. Also cake and coffee. They say: "hi and welcome. Here is every card or identifier you will need for the next...forever. Here is your disabled parking. Here is the key to those swings in the parks they put in but no one can use. Here is a key to special bathrooms made of gold where fairies change your kid while mixing you cocktails. No, no one else knows about them. Here is every bit of equipment you can get, with all the forms pre-filled because we talked to your doctors and therapists. Make any changes you think are best because you're the one who knows your child and their needs most. Here's some money, because hey, society thanks you for taking care of our weakest citizens for us without making them a burden on an overrun and inadequate public system. Here is ample respite care for both you and the child. And here is a support group and some free marital therapy. Call me anytime. Mind if I put on some of your washing? Why don't you go have a lie down?
Can you even imagine?
Sunday, July 20, 2014
I couldn't call it a day without replacing those raptor-headed women on the previous post with these lovely children
Home from camp for less than 24 hours, Oliver was already outside in our yard, watering the lemons and vegetables. We have a serious drought going on, if you hadn't heard, and we're obeying water restrictions. That's why our lawn looks so awful. I wish I could enlist someone to do a complete overhaul of our front and back yards -- make them drought resistant. Maybe we'll do it ourselves in a grand, homeschool-style effort this fall.
Henry and I went to see the movie Boyhood the other evening and then took a bunch of photos on the top of the Arclight Cinemas parking garage. The glorious sunset helped to mitigate the obliteration I felt watching the film. It was incredibly beautiful and interesting, and I haven't gotten around to writing a three-line movie review, but I will. Here's what the sky looked like:
And here's Henry's hand in the sky:
I'm going to miss those boys. They're leaving tomorrow for a trip to my parents' house in Atlanta and then onward to Hilton Head Island. We've been joking all night on when they might catch sight of a person carrying a gun -- legally -- in either state. Good Lord. I will join them for a few days next week, but this house is going to be quiiiiiiiiieeeeettttt, for sure.
One of these things is not like the other
Two of these things are kinda the same
One of these things is not like the other
Now it's time to play our game
Time to play our game:
|Women in Dallas, TX protesting the child refugee problem at the border|
|Hazel Massery, shouting at Elizabeth Eckford, one of the Little Rock Nine over integration|
Little Rock High School, 1957
|President Franklin Roosevelt on the 50th anniversary of the Statue of Liberty|
"To the message of liberty which America sends to all the world, must be added her message of peace."
October 28, 1936
The New Colossus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
Emma Lazarus, 1883
the final lines inscribed on a plaque in the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty and installed in 1903
Saturday, July 19, 2014
For one brief, shining moment there was brotherly love.
Henry told him that "the Dodgers SUCK" (Oliver is a Dodgers fanatic). Then Oliver showed us his bulls-eye and made threats.
My son, the sharp shooter.
Sophie has gone back to doing yoga with Limor, who teaches a special kind of yoga for children with special needs. She worked with Sophie for many years, and then we took a break as Sophie's seizures got out of hand, and we never knew if she'd have one or was sleeping one off. A couple of weeks ago, I decided that it was time, so Limor comes once a week and stretches with Sophie, helps her to breathe, sings to her and otherwise works her yoga magic.
If you want to hear more about Yoga for Special Needs and live in southern California, email me and I'll send you on to Limor.
P.S. I went back to yoga this morning, too, and not at the Y. I went to a Kundalini studio different than the one I used to frequent (the one where Russell Brand sort of took over) at the urging of my friend Nancy. It was fantastic. I feel as if a weight has been removed and something opened up. Thank you, Nancy. Thank you, dear body that allows me, still, to stretch and bend and breathe and smile.
Friday, July 18, 2014
A friend of mine posted this clip on Facebook, reminding me of one of my favorite scenes in one of my favorite movies of all time. In this few minutes of film, there's an answer to my confusion over the Mike Kelly exhibit, the insanity in the Middle East and the Ukraine and all the rest of it -- seriously. Oh, and and there's Marcello Mastroianni.
and let her stare right back at you. Sophie does look a bit weary today, these days -- we're still struggling with a lower CBD ratio oil than we'd like, and she's had a seizure or so nearly every day. We really do think and hope that it's the oil, that once she gets the stuff she had a month or so ago, she'll go back to being seizure free for days and weeks at a time. The good people at Realm of Caring are working hard to help us. Our community learned yesterday that a little one with Dravet Syndrome (the same disorder that Charlotte of Charlotte's Web has) died in New York, waiting for the damn medical marijuana political wheels to move in that state. It's hard to not feel angry or impatient or despairing when children are dying for no good reason, anywhere in the world. That kid with the curly hair, lying contorted on a desolate beach, blood pouring out and into the sand. A child, among hundreds, blown up and out of the sky, landing in bits on this sorry, contested earth. You know I'm not a religious person, and I don't believe that there's a divine reason for every single thing. I believe, most often, in the primacy of chaos -- is there a term for that? I guess you can make meaning out of the chaos, make good out of it or gain some wisdom, let the light of Love in, but it's damn hard not to cling, to desire, to crave -- the root of all suffering indeed. When it isn't a bonfire and smoking hot, anger is like tendrils curling around my ear, edging out my nose as I grow older, at the tips of my long fingers where I grip the wheelchair, laid over the widest part of my foot, bearing, daring, even, the whole thing, my body, to take another step.