Curious

When I was younger, I was a detective searching for signs of a woman who'd disappeared, which was interesting, considering that the woman lived at my address. My mother hadn't disappeared in the conventional sense. Her face hadn't appeared on the back of a milk carton. This was before the days of Amber Alert, and she was too old for that sort of all-points bulletin anyway. She'd gone to the land of men, which meant that she was gone mentally to that place where women go when they are single mothers and miss the touch of a man. She'd gone to Randy Land, which was like CandyLand, only without the sweets.

He was a co-worker, a white polyester-clad worker bee like her at the local nursing home. I don't remember them dating. I don't remember courtship. I remember him moving in all at once, as if the date and the co-habitation occurred on the same day, and instead of bringing candy and chocolates, he seemed to come bearing a car load of belongings. His belongings intermixed with our own, and just as quickly, his need for her began its competition with a child's need for her mother. It seemed that every time I was hungry, he was more hungry. Every time, I had a story, he had a better story. When I was hurting from a skinned knee or some unseeable inner wound, she gave her attention to an unwounded man.

So I often found myself looking for her in the strangest places. When I knew she was downstairs, cuddled up on the couch with him, I searched the neighborhood. When they were at Smitty's Tavern, I looked for her in the apartment. I searched for her in her loopy handwritten notes. I searched for her in the refrigerator in the carton of eggs that became the fried egg sandwich dinners I'd become an expert making. I searched for her by picking up the phone and pretending that she was calling me to tell me she was coming home. I searched for her in her bedroom, which had been my wonderland and was now strictly off limits.

Historical documents refer to B.C. (before Christ), and my mind often went to the time period I dubbed B.R.--Before Randy. The Bedroom B.R.was a place to come running early in the morning. I'd climb into bed beside my mother and revel in all that was woman: silky nighties or bare skin--breasts I wondered at, in awe of dark aureoles and black bush. If she had been out the night before, she might still have the residue of night about her: mascara and eyeliner migrated below lashes, cheeks and lips semi-rouged, perfume whispering come hither half-heartedly. Before Randy, she wasn't adverse to me trying on clothes or standing before her dresser and scooping up handfuls of pearls and gold chains and baubles that reminded me of cartoons--pirates, wenches, chests full of treasure, and walking planks.

Sparkling more than any jewel was my mother's porcelain Elvis. When you turned the base, it plinked out "Love Me Tender." My mom loved Elvis, and when you are a little girl, you love what your mother loves. In coming years, I would not love Elvis. I would make fun of this puffy-haired, sparkly jumpsuited man. I would say he couldn't act. I would condemn him for his sneer and for his suggestive swiveling. I would laugh at the thought that anyone could worship a fat, sweaty side-burned Elvis whose scarf alone could bring a girl to her knees. In coming years, I wouldn't even be able to say for sure if I loved a mother who chose a man over me; I would not be sure if I could forgive her for being the reason I went, at the age of 7 to live with my grandmother.

But in those B.R. Days, when forgiveness wasn't a word yet invented, I begged my mom to tell me about the time she went to see him in concert. She told me they sold vials of his sweat. The thought of it made my nose scrunch. Still, I asked her questions I already knew the answers to: "Did YOU buy sweat?" and "Did YOU catch his scarf?" The answer was always no, but I liked to imagine it anyway: Elvis singing only to my mother. And he did, sort of, as long as we kept that figurine tightly wound. The notes would wrap us both in nostalgia, and she would sing. She knew all the words by heart. I wanted to hold Elvis in my hands and watch him twirl in perfect circles. I wanted to present him to her. I wanted her, for once, to have something she wanted and for what she wanted never to leave. She'd warn me to be careful. "Put it down," she'd say. "It's not a toy." Reverent, as if setting up some holy altar, I would set The King back on his throne.

But during one of those nights when I was investigating a missing person's report, I found myself where I was not supposed to be. After Randy, the room wasn't sacred anymore, anyway. The door was always closed now. On those mornings when I wanted to pad across the cold linoleum and crawl into my mom's bed, I couldn't now because he was there. I couldn't see them, but I could hear them. And it was a confusing sound. It was a needy sound, the type when pups still blind try to find their mother's milk. It almost sounded like pain, and there were many times when I wanted to fling open the door and clobber him, but even then, I think I knew that pain sounds sometimes like pleasure.

On one of the last nights I'd live beneath that roof and before anyone had a chance to call the three of us that terrible word--family--I twisted Elvis until he could twist no more. And he played and played and played. And I sang the song like I knew the words. My world was topsy-turvy, but Elvis would always be constant: perfect pompadour, his bee-stung bottom lip, the guitar literally glued to his hands. And then I could hear the sound of keys jangling in a lock, the sound of laughter, the sound of a man and a woman's voice outside the front door. I had to make it right. I had to make like everything was in its proper place. I was her good girl, so I was going to set the still-turning bisque crooner onto the dresser, but an edge caught. My hands weren't big enough.

The song fell to the floor and continued to play, though distorted among the wreckage. Solemn, I waited for them to find me. I waited for her to mete out my punishment. Surely, a spanking was in order. A grounding. Maybe she'd take away some toy I loved. She picked up the pieces--right guitar-playing hand in one of her hands and the rest in her other hand. She said something about super glue. She said something about tomorrow. She disappeared. She left me stinging with lack punishment. More stinging still: she hadn't even noticed the crime.

What's Essential?

It's that which we take for granted. It's the things we don't notice or value until those things are taken from us. I think of this every Sunday when I make the hour-long trek to Orofino. For an hour, I have the privilege of listening to the radio station of my choice, or when the distance takes that away from me, I have the choice to listen to silence or to pop in a cassette tape (a CD is not a choice in my 1995 Toyota Corolla). I have the choice to sing along, badly. I have the choice to brood about whatever is worrying me. I have the choice to cast my worries out and away, somewhere along a bend in the road or out over the Clearwater--my worries as thin as the filament the fishermen cast from their boats or their solitary spots on the shore.

I think of what's essential when I see the railroad cars and the blackberry brambles and the crooked path the patients at State Hospital North built. I think what's essential is the ability to travel by car, rail, plane or boat when I choose to, with my only concerns being destination and for how long I'll be gone. I think what a blessing it is to be able to walk any path I choose, whether it's that rick-rack sidewalk or Warner Avenue with my dog or across America to raise awareness for a cause. Even those blackberry brambles are essential. Not a month ago, I parked my car and walked along the railroad track and picked those blackberries. They were big as the end of my thumb and sweet, and I had every right to stain my hands with their juices, to scratch my skin with their briars, and to feel their weight on my tongue. I was free to sit and eat them as naturally as the bear or the deer. I was free to gather them and take them home to bake later into a pie.

Contrast this with the tall Americano with one shot of raspberry flavoring that's sitting in my car's cup holder. That's what the patient requested. In the past, what's essential to her has been anything she can get from the outside. I've brought her these coffees before. The first time, I brought the coffee and later found out the second-degree burns on her hands were from her pouring hot coffee on herself--intentionally. I've always known that safety is essential, but I rarely think about keeping one safe from one's self, which obviously is vital too.

I've brought banana nut muffins. I've brought cheese quesadillas and bags of chocolate and more recently a box of graham crackers and a jar of vanilla frosting. Food is essential, but comfort food, moreso. It isn't about nutrients or the food pyramid. They are fattening and not the best fuel, but they are essential to the preservation of one girl and the life she used to know outside the hospital.

The State Hospital North, however, begs to differ on these items being essential. As of October 1, I can no longer bring some of these foods and drinks. They cannot be homemade. They cannot be something wrapped in foil or covered over in a plastic coffee cup lid. They must be manufactured, sealed. When I motion to the coffee I brought (not knowing the new rule) and tell her they'll be confiscating it, she says what she has said before when the take away something she finds essential: "That's bullshit." I distract her from what she's lost by asking her what she'd like next time. Nacho cheese Doritos are essential.

Generally, they place us in a room with 3 locked doors. The room contains the essentials: a table, two chairs, a phone (which the worker instructs me in front of the patient that I can use to call in case I need help), a garbage can, and a clock. The clock ticks, and the red second hand reminds me how essential it is that a person can direct her own use of time. I think that clock must be vast as the ocean for her. I feel a certain sense of guilt that I waste time doing nothing, and yet if I was in here and had nothing to do, I'd feel the difference between my own ability to do nothing with time versus not having the option to fill the time with activities.

Sanity is essential, though I've known my share of writers, artists, and musicians who would not accept sanity as a gift because insanity is a gift that keeps on giving, inspiration-wise. I've had my own bouts with trying to figure out what is real and what is not. I've crawled under the dark quilt of depression and found it simultaneously smothering and comforting. I've taken my share of antidepressants and visted my share of green-sweatered nodders, the ones who say nothing but take copious notes. But it's always been situational, explainable. My sadness could be pinned on the death of my grandmother or the loss of a job or a boyfriend who drove me hard until he wrecked me. Bad times passed, and that quilt got folded and put away. I have never, though, known the sort of darkness that doesn't go away. Keeping the darkness away is essential.

When I started the project, I was told that regular visits and the ability to do art was essential to the patient's mental health. It's something I take for granted. I can do it any time I want to. And I'm not limited on projects. Only my imagination limits what I can do. like In here, patients can paint on a shirt with puffy paint or tool a belt or sew, and if you don't enjoy those activities, well, you're out of luck. In the 3 hours we spend together, we glue, paint, and rip. We rip because I'm not allowed to bring scissors. If we paint, we need to use the cheapest paintbrushes possible, the type without a metal ring that holds the bristles in place. The metal ring is considered dangerous. And with all these restrictions on materials, I realize what is essential. I realize there's no need for fancy products or tools. In some ways, it's the ultimate "fuck you" to the long list of rules, because god damn it, we made something beautiful anyway. Making beauty out of the ordinary is essential.

During my most recent visit, I watched her write messages in the cards we made, watched as she ran her tongue across the envelope flap, sealed it, and handed it to me. She asked me to mail what she'd made, and I realized that the most essential thing is having someone to send that letter to. Mail it, blog it, say it on Facebook, say it into the phone or say it to the face closest to yours. We all need a recipient, that someone who hears what you're saying--right or wrong, crazy or sane, boring or infinitely interesting--and is so glad you're around to say it because you are essential, and the world wouldn't be the same if you weren't in it.

The Sound of Sunshine, Saturday Morning

The Sound of Sunshine is arriving drowsy at 6:30 and greeting the other drowsy vendors--some stoking their fires for BBQ, or arranging produce in edible rainbows, setting out loaves of bread still warm from some distant oven, or hanging their tie-dyes to whip in a technicolor breeze.

Some days, they soldier in wind and rain. Other days they bask in summer's glow and come home with sun-kissed necks. They wait out a breeze, knowing it will pass. It always does. And if it doesn't, the day's money was that much more earned.

The sound of sunshine is the soft hush of money passing from the hand of someone who worked for his money to another who worked hard to make something worth that money. It is the sound of bills getting paid for some and the sound of pocket change for others. It's the sound of the free exchange that takes place among vendors at the end of the day: a plate of tacos for a loaf of bread, a bar of huckleberry soap for a pair of earrings. It is the sound of mutual respect. It sings, "I am just like you."

The sound of sunshine is what I can't see but hear while "manning" my booth: over in the Square, the man in the checkered shirt calling square dance moves to women shaking crinoline stuffed skirts. Or perhaps the old man who isn't a scheduled act but shows up anyway to crack open his case to reveal his set list, which always includes some Dylan.

The sound of sunshine is the sound of shoes of all sorts hitting pavement. They are frat boys and farmers. They are office execs, teachers, preachers, and whores. And all their shoes sound alike. There are babies being wheeled and babies being carried in the blossom of their mothers' bellies. There are women who make their own dresses, who keep their hair in kerchiefs with little girls trailing behind them who look Godly and purposely plain. There are leather-clad, the tattooed and dread-headed. There are motorcycle mamas and soccer moms. There are squeaky clean men and the moses man who seems wise just based on the curve of his spine, and you're sure his walking stick always points him in the right direction, whatever that is.

The sound of sunshine is the leather patter of dog feet. All types of dogs: Great Danes, guide dogs, puppies still learning the ropes. Dogs caught in the intoxicating stew of scent...a food booth wafting Mexican or Egyptian or Greek...the smell of the dogs walking in the opposite direction...the smell of sorority girls walking en perfumed masse.

The sound of sunshine lasts from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. and from May through October, until half past the return of the college kids. And then it moves on, carnival style or gets packed away or forgotten altogether in favor of "the real world" or a real job. Shorts morph into pants. Tanks and dresses divest themselves of warm bodies and get packed away. Mornings get crisper. There's dew on the windshield. Men blow into their hands to keep them warm when putting their tents up. The leaves fall from the trees, and the whole world seems wrapped in a sweater.

The sound of sunshine is a whisper in the ear of those who stroll the aisles. They know it won't be long before the sunshine is gone completely. There's only so long to savor the peach and how its juice drips down your arm. There's a time and place for huckleberry pie, and that time is closing in. Some try to preserve the sound of sunshine in Mason jars or in freezer bags. Some prefer to eat the sound of sunshine while it's ripe. Some know sunshine is best when we miss it most.

Recycling Envelopes

Confession: I've always loved the patterns on the inside of bills. They come in anything from houndstooth to woodgrain to stripes, and they come in many colors. I've been saving them for a long time and thinking there has to be another use for those patterns. After all, scrapbookers spend hundreds (if not thousands) of dollars a year to buy patterned paper for their projects. So I decided to embark on a card-making project using the recycled envelope insides.
I'm not finished with the actual cards, but you can see that I've already cut the envelopes to make 3 3/4 x 5 card fronts. I generally left edges ripped from where I'd used my thumb to open the bill. I like the texture. I'm also interested in the clear acetate windows in the envelopes. I think I can tuck vintage images or sentiments behind those.

I have lots of punches, and I used those to punch out flower and butterfly shapes. If you don't have punches, you can generally find them at your local scrapbooking store. I know our local stores offer studio time, which includes use of such tools.

Finally, I've inked the edges.

This is what insomnia brings! However, I'm now actually getting tired, so making the actual cards will have to wait. I hope my blog readers haven't given up on me and will check in for REGULAR updates. I promise.

Attack of the 50-Foot (But VERY Sexy) Woman

It all started when a friend of mine posted that she was preparing for a wedding. She'd bought some cute shoes and was breaking them in. Her Facebook status boasted, "I've been walking around in them in the house and just chillin in them so that when Saturday comes I can wear them without looking like I'm walking with a stick up my ass......its a pretty funny sight, me in lounge pants and slopp...y tshirts and black pumps.....but my feet will be used to them come saturday atleast ....hopefully!"

For whatever reason, I felt compelled to air my shoe jealousy--I was wistful, bemoaning my inability to wear high heels because of my already stilt-like stature. I'm already 6 feet tall, and I've always felt it I'd look a bit like a transvestite or drag queen if I wore them.

Before I knew it, my friend had posted what amounted to advice column encouragement: "Wendy, 6 ft. Or not, who cares as long as u feel beautiful in the get up.....u just have to find a 6'4" man....mine make me 6'2" and I think its a tragedy for tall girls not to wear them.....we deserve to look cute too!"

Yeah! Damn it! A tragedy! I deserve to look cute too!

Wait! I don't think my concern had ever been that I would be taller than my boyfriend. Actually, I knew what my boyfriend would think. From a testosterone perspective, he'd pronounce it hot. However, his analytical, physical therapy degree seeking self would balk at the footwear for reasons that they wreak havoc on the feet and the body in general.

I'm all for comfort and making sure my feet are happy, but to be pronounced hot...well, that trumps the aforementioned politically correct choice.

I've been wearing orthotically correct (i.e. ugly) tennis shoes and flats my whole life. And I can say that my shoes have never garnered a second look.

We've heard that the suit makes the man. Does the shoe make the woman?

It's not really that I envied those wearing high heels. In fact, I often felt sorry for them. I witnessed the colt-legged college girls teetering from one class to another, ankles doing their ankle version of whiplash. I'd seen my fair share of small-town girls aiming for adult and high class, only to achieve For Adults Only and working girl/high-class hooker.

Yet there's a certain allure, even if the high heel has sometimes negative connotations.

Maybe the negative connotations were a little bit appealing as well. I'm always the good girl. Might high heels make me bad (in the best sense), if even temporarily?

Via boyfriends, I've seen my share of adult entertainment in which the only piece of clothing left on in an intimate encounter is hooker boots or stilettos. They are props, to be sure, and relatively unimportant to the action on the screen or in the pages of a smutty magazine, but still having come from a one-play high school drama background, I can see the importance of props.

I went prop shopping.

Lest you think that I morphed into a sex kitten, I must admit that, the higher the heel measured, the more comical and unsexy I became. I tried on 2", 3", 4", 5" heels, mentally thinking, "Yes, I am the sexy librarian type" and "He'll retire that well-worn copy of Specs Appeal." But then I looked into the mirror and saw all 6 feet of me. Less than ideal. Shopping-worn. Disheveled. Imposing. Out of control. Attack of the 50 Foot Woman. King Kong. I tottered over to the little stool/mirror thinking my gait was some cross between baby taking first steps and the scarecrow in Wizard of Oz.

Maybe if I don't have to walk anywhere in them, I reasoned.
Maybe if I can just strike a sexy pose in them and then sexily take them off.
Then I reasoned that high heels have nothing to do with reason, and so I bought the more modest pair that I'd tried on: strappy, shiny patent leather, open-toed, a solid rather than dagger-like heel.

Like my friend, I'm breaking them in by wearing them around the house. I've spooked the animals more than once with my instability. But instability is sexy, right?

Memory, Pulling

Walking is chaos, not peace. Such is the case, anyway, when walking Zeke. It all starts when I get a pair of socks from my dresser drawer. This is The Sign. It means I'm not going to school, not going out to socialize with others, but I'm going out with him. The sight of socks sets into motion great leaps of anticipation along with a few "woo-woo's."

Then I put on my shoes. The trick is, I can't put them on the floor. If I do, he grabs them and races around the house with them. So I have to hide them behind my back. All the while, he is alternately keening and huffing and puffing and lunging at whichever shoe I happen to be tying.
This is my fault. When I first brought him home from Helping Hands, I was into running. And I thought it would be cool to teach him how to get my shoes for me. I wasn't thinking. I did not know he would bring a shoe to me no matter whether I planned on running or not. I did not know that he would continue bringing one shoe and then another and then another--convinced that, if he brought the right shoe, we would run. Suffice it to say, one cannot let shoes lounge around this house.

Zeke follows me across the kitchen floor to the pantry, where I go to get 3 bags from the poop bag supply. Yes three. One has never been an option, and the couple times I went out with 2 bags, he managed to perform again in a yard, leaving me unprepared. In fact, I had to pull a MacGyver and take the plastic sleeve off a stray Moneysaver and use that. And I had an audience. The homeowner of the yard Zeke had chosen stared out the window, his arms folded in front of his chest. And as I was finagling the waste into the bag, the owner leaned out his screen door and yelled, "I hope you plan on cleaning that up!" He couldn't help himself.
So keeping this uber poop conscious neighbor in mind as well as knowing that Zeke has some sort of supernatural poop producing capabilities, I take 3 bags, which I shove in a coat pocket or in handwarming compartment of my favorite sweatshirt.

And this adds considerable bulk. Visually I gain a few pounds, which is disconcerting, considering that I'm walking to lose a few pounds. And with that we're off. There is no such thing as heeling. Zeke launches to the very end of the leash and digs in. The pose he strikes is much like those strong men you see pulling cars with a chain. He hunkers down, determined. This determination often also results in a sideways lean. He very much wants to dictate which side of the street we walk on. One side smells better, I guess. One side needs to be marked more than the other.

His determination is squashed periodically when another dog barks. This sends him into psychosis on a grand scale. The first time I ever heard there were dog psychologists, I laughed. But I'm not laughing now. If I had the money we'd go. Zeke, part pitbull, is scared. Every time a dog barks, Zeke hunkers down even more and pulls with all the fear in his heart. And I can't shake the need to go all pop psychology. I wonder if he had a good relationship with his mom and dad. Was there some sort of crisis in his puppyhood that scarred him for life? I wonder if there isn't some dark secret hiding in his puppy closet. Was he the puppy from the wrong side of the tracks? Did he get into fights? Or maybe he was bullied (or bull-dogged). I don't know, but it's put the fear of Dog in him.

What I find most interesting is that he fears dogs that aren't there. He fears the memory of dogs. For instance, we go past a yard that used to contain two German Shepherds. Maybe they came out last summer. Maybe they no longer live there. Maybe they are warm inside with their owners. But Zeke still reacts as if they are out in the yard and barking. He pulls. He chokes. He makes me look like an asshole to cars who are driving by. He makes me say, "Would you stop?" He pulls maybe 100 feet beyond that particular yard with the ghost dogs, and then he is normal.

The same is true with his girlfriend. Yes, I am anthropomorphizing, but I believe this would be his girl or baby mama if they had access to each other. She shoots out the dog door, races down the ramp they've made especially for her and sets into motion doggy whirling dervishes. If she was human, she'd be a cheerleader for sure, or at least the popular girl on campus. She's a Lassie dog, a collie with flowing locks and a svelte figure. He wants her, so again the pulling commences. And truthfully, it makes me sad when she doesn't come out. He pulls us to the memory of her.

Which leads me to my main realization for the day. I'm not that different. I'm haunted. I alternately hunker down and try to get as far as I can from the things that scare me, yet I pull hard to get back to what I want--I pull toward beauty. Or a least the memory of beauty. I pull toward the hope that I can get the beauty back. I pull wondering if there ever was any beauty, or if it was a ghost or something I conjured. I pull feeling pissed off that beauty seems to be just beyond where the leash will let me go.

I know. I'm leashless. But more and more, I understand that memory is its own sort of leash. Sometimes it's a comfort to be led. Other times, I feel like I'm being choked.

Home Improvement: 2 1/2 x 3 1/2" at a Time

I've been following Gwen Bell's Best of 2009 Blog Challenge. You can read more about it here.

Day 13 Prompt: Write about the best change you made to the place you live. [Yes, I have skipped Days 11 and 12...I'll try to tackle those tomorrow, after I taken a photo or two to accompany the entry]

In terms of living space, as I've said before, the space is not my own. It's a spare bedroom. As such, it's not something I can remodel and decorate too much. Not to mention that I don't want to get too comfortable here. This is a transition space, after all, and not home.

Meanwhile, I try to make the most of the space I have. The room is cramped with all the items I either can't fit into my storage or items I was positive I needed access to."Necessities" fall into two categories: books and art supplies. As such, I keep an overabundance of books on a headboard that I'm using as a bookshelf. I use the large space below the two shelves as storage space for items with card-making or collage-making potential. I also store such items in clear plastic containers under the twin bed. This is my half-hearted attempt at organizing all of the yard sale and thrift store finds that I bought intending to use them in collages or other mixed-media pieces.

Next to the bed is a large wooden desk, but you wouldn't know it--it's nearly covered over with craft items and projects in all stages of completion.

The room is an exercise in opposites, as it is at once cramped and overflowing with stuff, yet it is also spare. You could use the word plain or maybe austere to describe the wall space. There are no decorations hanging on the walls, but I recently changed that.

For years, I have traded Artist Trading Cards (ATCs), and I've got a collect of them sitting in plastic baseball holders. But I can't see them unless I decide to get the album out and flip through it. To remedy the bare wall condition and the inability to view my ATCs easily, last week I bought a black metal frame that displays 20 baseball cards. I loaded 20 of over 100 ATCs into the holder, and voila! I've got my first official decoration.

It's not a night-n-day change, but it's a step in the right direction. I figure I can budget (even with a 40% off coupon, the frames are $15...) and buy more of the frames until I have a collection of frames housing the collection of ATCs. There are also some interesting ATC display ideas on Flickr.