Talking to Strangers

4/12/06

In the grocery store today, I spied a young woman on roller skates, pushng her stroller. It reminded me of my teen years, when roller skating was the rage and I had personalized a pair of old white leather ones with magic markers, skated everywhere and drove my mother nuts. So I told the woman how cute she looked, we got to talking, turns out she's from Switzerland and even though I'm probably twice her age, I felt a connection based on the shared inclination to do something unusual just because it feels good. We should all skate through life if we so choose.

We should also talk to at least one stranger a day. It's amazing how many humans we come into contact with, yet pass by without so much as a nod or aknowledgement. All the more easy to do in LA where we're all in our cars, but still we do get out every now and then. I loved that energy in New York, which I miss here. Of course, one can't greet every one of the hundreds one meets in teh course of navigating her streets, but one does draw a kind of psychic web throughout a day of crossing streets, taking the subway, riding an elevator, sharing a store aisle with other city dwellers.

I wonder what it would be like if people skated, skootered, boarded, bicycled, skipped and danced through their days, instead of plodding along as we tend to do? Wouldn't we be more likely to enter inter-act as we pay more attention to how we navigate on these varied modes of transportation? When we're all on auto-pilot, we miss so much, so many signs of life. And we're all craving those connections, no matter who or where we are.

Talk to a stranger; strap on your skates; reach out and catch teh wind in your sails.

The Brocade Dress

4.10.06

It was teh yellow thread that caught her eye; it glinted like the tulips she had once grown in her garden. She was passing the fabric shop on her way to a lunch date when her ankle twisted on a pebble, causing ehr to catch herself before falling into the plate glass window. There she was, face to face, with reams of gold threaded brocade fabric. Rubbing her ankle she let her eye wander across the rippling cloth, bolts laying one along the other, like jewel sandwiches. The colors were liquid, intoxicating , but it was the yellow which made her stand straight and enter the store despite the pain in her swelling joint.

The crinkly fabrics were knobbed with threads of varying thickness. Trailing her finger across the patterns she could feel teh stripes, the pin dots, teh whorls of each design. Their terrains were familiar, like her lover's body, for she had sewn many dresses in her youth. She imagined his chest hairs as coarse threads passed under finger tips. A small section of silk reminded her of the soft skin of his shoulder blade. And a long stretch of smooth satin brought back the feel of his hardened penis. This was teh cloth she would buy.

The four yards of yellow, gold flecked and white specked brocade lay on her table. She had wrapped her ankle now, tightly, and needed only a moment to plan the pattern in her mind. Her sharp shears cut quickly and precisely as she simply eye-balled the shape of her own silhouette against the cloth. She required only a flash of herself lying stretched out on the table to know where to cut for the waist, the hips, the knee length of the hem. A blush came as she imagined her lying on him while her scissors cut away teh chaff. Then quickly she pinned the pieces and held them up against her frame and looked in teh mirror. Her black hair fell past her shoulders onto the shining cloth and her dark eyes flashed in contrast to the sunny material. She could imagine how different she and the dress would look by candlelight, more like dripping honey than the daisy she saw before her. But she was pleased to see she hadn't lost her touch. The fabric lay against her skin like a slip; it was ready to sew.

The little machine sat by her window and hadn't been used in a long time. Her lover had left years ago and she never imagined seeing him again. She was happy now, with the simple black shifts she wore and the matching pumps. A little dust had collected on the machine and she blew it off with warm breath. By luck, a spool of golden thread lay ready and she quickly ran it through the needle. She primed the foot peddle and found the right tension for the bobbin before carefully placing the first seam on the sewing platform. The fabric crinkled and grabbed at the stitches almost before she began. It was a dress waiting to be born and she tended to it like a primigravida. As the needle flew up and down and the seams passed through her fingers, flashes of skin against sheets came to her minds eye. She blushed again to think of these things again, but let them linger a moment before turning a threaded corner. It had been years.

The sun caught itself in the moving gold flecked thread, like the sun setting on a Venetian Canal. More memories returned of held hands and caresses and soft licks; she was almost afraid to finish sewing lest the dream end forever. But her skin needed it now, to feel this long lost cloth against her legs, her waist, her breasts, her hips. It was quickly done; the simple high necked, mandarin collared curve hugging shift. She could barely take the time to properly hem it but the old skills came back and it was easily done. A long zipper ran down the back and even without sizing, she knew it would fit. She turned the machine off and held her breath.

It was perfect. She hung it lightly on the back of her chair and dropped her clothes, her pants, her shirt and now her bra. She would need no support with this dress; it was that well fitted. ANd so, in only her white lace panties she gently stepped into the shift, feeling the cool almost scratchy fabric crawl up her legs, her hips, her stomach and now her bare nipples and then her arms as they passed through the sleeveless opening. It made her shiver. She reached behind her and found the zipper, slowly dragged it up her spine until this second skin was now a second breath. Quickly seh caught her hair up in a clip so as to clasp the back of the collar and then, she took a look.

She gazed in the mirror and saw what she knew, but it still surprised her. There, standing in front of her was a ray of sunlight, curved around a woman's body. With each breath she heard a whisper of the fabric, as the brocade shifted against itself, teh threads accomadating teh living flesh beneath it. She looked different somehow, and not just from the new color against her skin. It was as if the dress had found her, after being cruelly separated years ago, and now was clinging to her for reassurance. She shifted her weight and it sighed in recognition. Yes, these were her thighs crossing slightly, her knees tickling the hem line, her soft armpits in the sleeve holes, her spine, her ribs, her hip bones all being contained by their rightful owner. She smiled and felt at home.

The clock ticked loudly and she knew it was time to go. It was going to be cool out but she didn't even take a shawl. She knew she would be warm enough, wherever she went. The dress was all she needed, for she had made it with her own hands, from the fabric of a memory and the love of one who had known her, had known the stitches and the seams of her cloth and how they held her together.

Slither, Slaw & Scream

4/5/06

What is it with these slasher movies? The poster for Slither, featuring a shapely woman's leg dangling over the side of a claw tooth bath tub with blood red, penis shaped worm/sausages crawling either over and out of the porcelain rim or up and into it from the floor, reminds me of so many similar "women in distress" themed films. This one sheet however, borders on comical; is she giving birth to these creatures or are they invading her space, phalluses on the march toward their target? Since the Perils of Pauline and I suppose a myriad of myths, stories, poems and tales tall and short, women have been made heroine in their abilities to resist a variety of marauders. Maybe I'm only aware of this take on the Hero's Journey as I can relate to a female perspective and don't look for stories about the equivalent male quest but I think I'm correct in my take that most horror movies are about women being sliced and diced, raped, disemboweld, tortured and otherwise assaulted horrifically, not men. And these women are typically succulent, young cheerleader types, not your menopausal or middle age or grandmotherly types. And their attackers seem to be either young or middle age white men.

So, in this great nation of "equal rights" "women's liberation" and "gender equity" why are we still so titilated by the sight of a woman being taken apart? (Is there any relation between teh word "tit" and "titilate"?) Are women that powerful and awe-ful to men that the only way we can handle them is to "cut them down to size?" But it's not just men who watch these shows; women are actually a higher proportion of hte movie going audiences that see them. Is it because it allows us to experience terror in a safe environment, on our boyfriend's arm, and vicariously survice, triumphant? Are we less threatened by the imagined carnage, going through our monthly bleeds, our labors, our child-rearing and care taking rituals as we do? Do we really want, deep down, on some unconscious level to be taken in this way, yet can't own that desire in a culture that still can't quite handle a woman's sexuality?

What do men get out of watching these films? Do they get to act out their rage against women or imagine rescuing them along side the hero? So often it's the nerdy, dweeb type who is triumphant after the handsome, jock gets too cocky and ends up as appetizer for the main salami fest. Does this give the little people a sense of power? When the female protagonist ends up triumphant, rather than allowing herself to be rescued, when she saves the day, I can see the appeal to that half of the audience. There has to be some gut level reason we enjoy this stuff and I'm prompted to think of all the hardships and phsyical challenges humans have had to face as we evolved. How many of us have been slaughtered by wild animals, opposing tribes, farm machinery, factory cogs, blood curdling viruses, childbirth and now modern warfare over the centuries? We have it in our DNA to face and survive such trauma and perhaps, like earthquake preparedness drills, we need to be reminded of our inate abilities to overcome horrible events. So in our safe little wombs, those multi-plexes across the nations, we get to imagine outwitting the latest plague, ax wielding social reject or psychotic soccer dad. All power to us women though, because while we continue to be slashed, sawn and sauteed for the amusement of milllions, the very fact of being rendered victim, whether on the movie screen or the screen of our imaginations, gives us even more chance to exercize and practise our incredible ability to survive. They say the meek shall inherit the earth; I disagree. It will be the cheerleaders.

My Father's Forest, My Mother's Garden

4/3/06

My father's forest is wild and deep and strong, with massive trunked trees and huge green canopies. The floor is wet with dead leaves, tightly knit mosses and dewy, soft lichens clinging to bark. It is dark and cool where the trees are dense but also, in places, dappled with the light that makes its way through the foliage. There are creatures who live here, although I have not met them all. Snakes and squirrels, owls, bats, a bear or two and frequent wolves. Insects love the fallen logs and beneath, the earthworms churn up soil in their stomachs, defecating a richer mix. It is usually quiet, except when you walk and hear the snap of twigs and the crunch of fallen branches underfoot. After a rain, everything sounds spongey, fecund with now loamy dirt. In winter, when the leaves have fallen and more sun can hit the ground, it can be cold underfoot, but also soft with snow. And autumn, of course, the candy colored leaves swirl and drop all around you, like a cloak, plastered against your back, in your hair, against a cheek. You want to hold someone's hand in this place; to walk with them, to lie down with them and be silent as you wrap the forest around you. You want to be naked in this place. You want to make love in this place. You want to take and be taken.

In my mother's garden there are many different flower beds of various shapes, height and dimensions. They are well placed for strategic access to the light. The peonies take center stage, with their oversize, bulbous petal balls, seemingly too heavy for their stems. When they explode in the spring, you wonder if they will have room for each other, or will simply knock themselves down under the weight of their pride. Jonquils started in one place, upright dwarfs in yellow and white hats, and then spread out their troops. We're careful not to knock them over. The poppies, red and yellow and orange, do their weaving dance with those fuzzy, curving stems. Leave them alone to hug and wave. Some very sad looking roses try to make their way up the side of the house, but they've gotten in the way of the windows and had to be trimmed. Their thorns prick lightly as you try to organize them and you wonder what's the point for a few pretty buds. Now the bluebells are a sweet carpet out of which the Tiger Lilies loom, the tallest plant in sight. Huge orange petaled, black spotted trumpets, these watch over the rest of the garden family. They are handsome and haughty and don't like to be cut.. The bees love this place and a humming bird visits in flighty spurts. It is an open space, a place to lounge in, sip iced tea and, with care, play croquet. But it must be watered and weeded and tended to. It is unaturally situated in an fairly inhospitable climate zone; but you can make it work, especially if you bring in extra dirt to balance the too sandy soil. It has moments of beauty, this garden, then lays fallow for months. You know it will be there come spring and you know you will have to work very hard to restore it. It is a place to look at, to admire, to appreciate. It is a place to think.

In the forest of my father and the garden of my mother I have been scratched by bark, stubbed toes on roots, been stung by bees and pricked by thorns. My father built boats, chess sets and tuaght us to carve from the wood of those trees. My mother painted her favorite Tiger Lillies on canvas and kept her vases full all spring and summer. They are both gone but I visit these places. The garden is long overgrown and untended over the years. A stray peony or poppy shows up to remind us of their former hey-days. However, the forest endures; it needs no human intervention, except for preservation. It regenerates on its own. My father's forest and my mother's garden are places that I know. There's a well trodden path between the two. I will set up camp one day.

Cultivating our Garden

4/1/06

A glorious, post rain day, with moist, black clay steaming as the sun hit. A poor, dead tree required removal and a requiem, so I armed the kids with 2 saws and a keen eye and watched them bring her down. Of course, no task is complete without turning it into a story, so they took on the roles of Claus & Sunny Baudelaire, of the Limony Snicket series, with me as the older sister Violet. We complained in our faux British accents about the terrible chores we had to do for the wicked Count Olaf while whacking and sawing away at the dead wood. I love their imaginations and enjoyed being in their world of lost orphans, with no hope for the future. Hanah collected dead twigs to make both a bird's nest and popsicles with and Noah relished feeling fierce in felling the major limbs of the tree. He and I plowed under the stump with our shovels and cried out triumphantly as we unearthed the root ball. "That was fun, Mom. Can we do it again, tommorow?" This from a kid who dreams of nothing more than getting, finally, an X-box and has made it very clear that he would prefer boarding school to this "ugly old house" anyday.

Gardening mission accomplished, we then take our weekly walk to the video store rating everyone's gardens. Now, ours has returned to "worst" status in Noah's eyes, because it's so "raw" (read xeriscaped) and the kids argue the entire 4 block route. I sigh, take a deep breath of teh grassy air and note the late afternoon sun as it dances across the sidewalk. The quixotic moods of a 9 year old are no match, however, for the exuberance of 7 year old Superlative Girl. She seems to know no place but humor, joy, curiosity and the love of living. Had I plucked her from a cabbage patch at birth, she would have been covered in the richest fertilizer. She shines.

Noah's learned the earthworm "dance" that squirming, flip-flop move one does on the ground that propels one forward in an undulating motion. He demonstrates on every green patch of grass as we go. So limber, so silly; I laugh the whole way. Hanah gives this new move a try and looks more like a beached trout, but finally gets it down. We inch our way towards our destination.

On teh way back, we stop to admire a wonderful succulent garden being tended to by teh owner. It's so densely packed with cacti and bamboo, lambs ear, jade and other desert loving plants that the sun can't reach through. The kids meet his 2 dogs, he and I talk about how theraputic weeding is, and I am reminded, again of Candide's mandate that "we must all cultivate our gardens." Getting our hands into the loam of life, making something grow, smelling, feeling, even harvesting our plants for consumption; there seems nothing more elementally important than this. I think of Victory Gardens and Alice Waters and her school vegetable garden projects and the absolute miracle of life sprouting from pin point size seeds, turning into huge pumpkins or peonies or teh California Poppy. We finally introduce ourselves and Robert gives us some cuttings to take with us. With thanks we head home as the sun sets and suddenly Noah wants to plant these new friends and make our house the best looking on the block. He decides where to put them so everyone can see them, and proudly plants his. This only an hour after having complained about ours being the ugliest front yard in the neighborhood.

Transformation. He got to remove the deadwood and plant anew; and is now invested in our tiny plot of earth. From window boxes in blighted inner city neighorhoods, to Hollywood mansions and Iowa housing developments, we need to feel some connecting to the earth and the rhythms of nature. My kids, in their earthworm dance, plow their way through life, learning to weed, to prune, to fertilize, to cultivate the gardens of their world. I am blessed to witness this cycle of fertility.