Category: ART

He’s actually a grown man now, one I am proud of. I know this, I recognize this — the time flies and it’s hard to believe that he is no longer my sweet rockin’ boy. Is this how my parents feel about me — that I am still their girl even though I am a grown woman of 51?

I am still so smitten with my kids, their charm, their humor, their humanity, the privilege of watching them grow into adults I enjoy being around. I am letting go — slowly, finding my way back to a life beyond motherhood, but man I cherish those memories like nobody’s business.

Told my son about my mondo beyondo last noc over a lovely and leisurely dinner at Wicked. He misses the sky blue ’85 chevy celebrity that was his first car. He doesn’t believe it’s possible to find another one like it — thinks they’re rare. I think otherwise.
When we first got the battle wagon, he felt like a soccer mom — most teen boys want the flashy red sportscar that screams to cops “pull me over.” He was no exception but he grew to appreciate that car as did I. Safe, reliable, good on gas, reasonable mileage, it had been well taken care of, “a grandfather’s car.” It’s long gone and a long story, but I told him last night I am going to manifest another one for him. I told him I’m putting it out to my mondo beyondo community and whomever else is out there. I want him to always believe in the power of dreams.

Took the above photo when A was 17 and still had the battle wagon (an old print transformed though rollip into a polaroid — when he saw the pic last noc, he smiled and said “that’s an awful picture.” Love my kid’s straight shooting honesty.)…I am still so in love with my kids — and he was my first, the apple of my eye, an incredible big brother, inventive, imaginative, a subtle sense of humor, the best son, follower of dreams and a trooper always. Thank you for coming into my world to light my life, babe!

I don’t know if it’s the positivity (is that even a word? Do I care?) of Mondo Beyondo, full on Indian Summer here, connections with friends or what, but I am charged lately. Meaning the crash will come but for now I’m riding the big Kahuna and enjoying it.

I had stopped at the Giving Tree gardens last week before heading home and my cell rang…it was my chum (I like that retro sorta Nancy Drew/Dana Girls word, don’t you? chums are our adventure friends), Sophie. She’s back from California for a couple of months after two years away…we play hit or miss with contacting each other, when something reminds one of us of the other, we give a shout out. Sometimes we connect with a real voice, sometimes we just connect.
I was so surprised that she’d called me…delighted and flattered actually because she’d only been home a day, but she saw Marty out on errands, he reminded her of me, so she called. The call was also very mondo beyondo for me.

Sophie’s one of the bright spots in the Cape Cod world, she gets how small and stifling the cape can be for wild dreamers (Provincetown being an exception, thankfully). More and more I’ve been paying attention to my call to performance art. Art in time or art in space as Nerissa blogs about (couldn’t find the particular post). Maybe create a poetic mystic druid I inhabit for solo productions at festivals, or heck, just busking. Kathryn Rose introduced me to this concept when she performed on the street in Amherst a spring ago. I started researching and started seeing more about one woman performances like The Belle of Amherst.

Sophie’s been in theater now for several years and is an accomplished stage actress (as well as in a Sam Diego’s commercial locally); her call felt like the universe is listening to my whispers. Perhaps she’s my teacher, I don’t know. I feel like the bird in that Dr. Seuss story…”are you my mother? Are you my mother?” only it’s “are you my teacher, are you my teacher?” And I’m still not sure if performance is my thing, or what form it will take if it becomes so. But who cares? It’s kinda fun finding out — like the Nancy Drew mysteries I used to read.

Red Katherine Rose photo from her myspace page

You know how you look and you don’t see? Kick it up a notch into mother mode and then you will. When I’m looking for something for myself, I can miss it even if it’s in plain sight. When I’m looking for something for my kids (or Marty), I am their St. Anthony. I always find it.

Me — I’ve gotta pray to St. Anthony, but he always comes through for me.

“St. Anthony, patron Saint of the Lost and Found, please help me find what I’m looking for.”

Rainy Sunday here on Cape Cod, flood warnings keep coming on in between football games. Right now it’s the Pat’s and Titans in a snowy Foxboro. It’s been a great day, stayed in my pj’s all day, working on a flyer for my women’s group, making comfort foods and lots of tea, catching up on blogs and so on. Did a bit more decluttering (videos), read a little Mondo, and wrote a sort of poem. I was looking through my latest journal last night and saw my answers to a question:

If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d try parenting. (Oh wait, did that already and it wasn’t perfect. We all survived for the most part).

If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d try poetry.

If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d share my work.

If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d do radio.

If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d launch a local cable TV show.

If I didn’t have to do it perfectly, I’d do comedy.

I kind of like the exercise, so since I didn’t have to do it perfectly I wrote a poem this morning, inspired by Mary, of course.

Gray water pouring
flowing over eaves
through gutters
flooding streets
no fair weather friend, my seasonal water view.

“Wouldn’t it be better for you to discover a meaning in what you write than to impose one?”

— Flannery O’Connor

I think the reason her words speak so eloquently to so many is because of her plain language. As she said, she likes plain language. Poetry’s no fun when it’s so lofty and literary that you can’t understand it. I think it’s similar to why Shakespeare spoke to so many in his day and still does. (“Brevity is the wit of reason”).

When listening to Mary Oliver read her poems the other night, it was like listening to a warm conversation, both wild and deep — full of meaning in its blessedly simple language. (And her sense of humor was totally unexpected and totally cool).

Reading poetry and hearing it spoken are two different experiences. Having heard her read them, her poems spoke to me more clearly. I’ve read them, of course, but I’m lazy. I’d rather listen to her say the words. Straight, real and to the heart. Unpretentious.

I believe poetry is language meant to be spoken. Perhaps that’s why the expression “poets and troubadours” moves frequently through my consciousness lately.

** photo from Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts

where my writing’s been all these years — buried in the works of others who spark my soul… and in my life’s journey, er, journals (yes, there too)…it’s time to let the words out and howl the eternal yes…i am a writer (with a capital “I”)….I am a writer! Yes!

…been catching up on Jen Lee’s archives (the creator) as well as Blue Poppy’s (the curator)…

(Andrea’s MB assignment for today was to say yes to something scary — my something scary is putting it out to you, World).

After reading Stef’s post on her weekend with her girls, I thought I’d share a couple harvest weekend shots of my girl — before she carved her pumpkin…and after…I swear I can see in that pumpkin’s face the joy she felt carving it. Something primeval about this time of year…when the kids were little we picked apples, took hayrides into the pumpkin patch to pick pumpkins and so on. I feel rich with these beautiful memories that I can share.

This past spring I found a couple of Polaroid cameras, one at the swap shop and one at Morgy’s (Goodwill, for 5 bucks). No film but what the hey, I found a source for film too. At my parent’s house I found another Polaroid camera, this one with film, including black and white. I love the haunting, otherworldly quality of polaroids.

I walk regularly at an old cemetery near us, lots of old Cape Cod names there — Nickerson, Hallet, Huckins, Bassett, Crocker, Phinneys, Hinckleys and so on.

There’s a beech tree there, probably over a hundred years old. It’s gigantic for these parts. Majestic, mysterious, with carvings in its elderly trunk — I bet it could tell lots of stories.
I’ve been photographing it occasionally, different times of the day, different times of the year. Have to do my fall shots soon.

No one really plants beech trees anymore. They grow very slowly and everyone wants fast growth these days, myself included. I planted all fast growing trees at my house in Vermont — I wanted big fast.

I love trees, and this old beech tree speaks to me of history, of a slower time, of someone who wasn’t thinking about fast and about their lifetime, but perhaps future generations, of eternity, of eternal connection to others. Or not. But still…

When I look at the beech tree, it reminds me of my dreams and I ask myself questions. Questions like, if we don’t plant species or dreams that take a long time to grow, what might the world miss?

(photo was taken 5/25/09 at 2:20PM on a sunny day (I still don’t know how to put a little blurb under my images here in blogspot).