Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly... All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise... blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these sunken eyes and learn to see all your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free

Thursday, October 28, 2004

I'm wearing my M.A.R.T. shirt are you? I won't say much but to point out that the CityPages has a great article about our favorite taxidermists this week!

Monday, October 25, 2004

"You are a strong person and this is a learning experience" (The Sweater)

It was Saturday and we were sitting at Bob's Java. I had just taken the last sips of my iced chai and we had switched seats in order that she might better see her computer screen while she wrote. The window was open and it was one of those early fall days when the cool air still felt refreshing and I felt no resentment towards it like I knew I would in the months to come.

"Sometimes...” I said and looked out at the people passing by, "sometimes I just want to be written."

She seemed to know what I meant even before I started babbling my explanation.

"I want to be written in that way that so many women before me have been written. I know that I have written him and I know him, bits and pieces of him anyway... the same way that people talk about the one they see in their dreams. My dreams happen on paper. I don't have him planned out and I know that he will surprise me much like a punch in the throat . I want him to be amazed by me in all my oddness and strange moments - when I can't sit still and keep my mouth shut to when I feel speech unnecessary and would rather just take it all in. I don't want to be written in the way that is planned and expected, but rather discovered and rejoiced at."

I am a hopeless romantic, a mutant whose heart is pinned to her sleeve instead of laying protected beneath my skeleton. I am not a science experiment. Do not put me in situations to see how I'll react just so you can transcribe the moment - I do that to myself already.

Thursday, October 14, 2004

***Don't forget!***
The much awaited and anticipated Minnesota Association of Rogue Taxidermist opening show is tomorrow night from 6-11 at Creative Electric Studios. My good friend Scott Bibus will be showing many things from his collection of preserved creative oddities.

In other news...

These delicious oatmeal chocolate chip cookies just got delivered to the office I'm working at with a half gallon of milk. The guy who delivered them was adorable in that hip dad kind of way and then he zoomed off in the little mini cooper. I wouldn't mind working for these people... or having something of my own that is similar.

MRD's newest addiction is Go there for all your amusement and time wasting needs. I especially recommend checking out the llama short film. (llama llama llama cheesecake llama...)

Last night during the debate we had a discussion on the right of people who have been incarcerated (because of a felony) to vote. It turns out that we are not the only ones who are unclear about this matter. In most cases you just have to be finished with parole in order to regain your right to vote. The Village Voice has more... The Ripple Effect.

Also... the article What does marriage mean? by Dan Savage in Salon is a very interesting look at what people want/expect out of marriage and what other people are really fighting so hard against.

I've been reading (ok. skimming) the New York Times almost obsessively lately favorite article so far today... the Turtles! The beautiful olive ridgely sea turtles!

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

Another interesting article (NYT of course), this one on Call Girls, Updated.

The sex industry is always an interesting topic, what with all the glamour and intrigue commonly attached to it. It is funny that the madame interviewed "Chae Lee" mentioned raking in about $20,000 in a week. This is about twice what a friend of mine made the entire year a a bit ago doing her part to keep kids out of prostitution and into stable housing up on the north shore. Funny how the other half lives.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

This article from the New York Times today is fascinating: Murder Downsized.

I never had a doll house; well at least not what most people would consider a doll house. I had a combination of rigged up cardboard boxes of all shapes and sizes, mom's tupperware (her pie safe made a great swimming pool), and whatever else I happened to scrounge up and assemble together. I remember that the plastic case that my brand new Mickey Mouse watch came in made a wonderful coffee table. It was great because I could expand and remodel as I liked with no limitations on size really or shape of the house.


Minnesota is Dope

This year (the past two months in particular) I've done quite a bit more driving/hiking around Minnesota and I am struck again and again how incredible this state is. I have visited the north shore of Lake Superior (almost to Canada!) twice this autumn, and each time I fall a little bit further in love with MN. And it continues to amaze (and inspire and joyify) me that there are waterfalls and lush forests and lakes in the middle of this "big" city -- and I'm not talking about square cemented parks with some patchy grass and benches, and maybe a fountain if you're lucky, here you'll find dense wooded areas with bird sanctuaries and paths padded by leaves and springy undergrowth. Places where the quietude is palpable and the breezes carry a little more oxygen. It should be wonderful to realize the place you live is this amazing, and yet it scares me. I harbor a conflicting desire to uproot and move West, leaving behind friends and loved ones to forge a new path in an unknown place. But does it get any better than this? And why uproot when so many of the things I cherish are right here? This has been a constant battle waged inside my head and right here, in sporadic fits of blogging. I've become further conflicted the past months as I've reveled in the burning autumn leaves and anticipate another change as the land sheds its leafy warmth and dons a white (yea, more often grey) coat of icy solemnity. I find myself even looking forward to the stark branches outlined against grey frozen skies, the near-frost-bitten toes and cheeks, and to being warmed by cocoa and thick sweaters. These roots that I've convinced myself need pulling are steadily reaching downwards, gaining strength and nearing permafrost.

Friday, October 08, 2004

My Dad is not dying.

It just so happened that we didn’t read the pieces chronologically. Much like when I’m flipping through a magazine I started near the end. In fact this could have nothing to do with it at all because I didn’t even pay attention to the days of the week next to each installment until after I had read most of them through. The point of me saying this is that I read the cancer one first. It’s a portrait of a conversation between a son and a father. The father signifies that it was a good day because he was able to eat a sandwich. My dad isn’t like that (I mean he’s not so sick that he can’t eat. He can eat.), but still.

I never want it to be that bad. No one wants it to be that bad. I never really allow myself to think about it though, because if I were I don’t think that I would be able to function in a normal way. I could be fooling myself right now into thinking I still am functioning in a normal way. In this way I think the repression is working for me, not against me in that way I learned was not a good way to deal with your emotions when I was a child. You have to repress a certain amount I believe. Although this leaves me with those moments when I’m least expecting it and I’m left crippled and feeling insane, my body rocking with sobs and my friends holding me together. (The first time this happened was in the movie theatre. I was embarrassed because no one else there seemed to be reacting quite the same way to the end of Big Fish. Thankfully when I called my brother he had just seen it as well and been in the same boat as me.) They’re doing their best to hold me together at these moments. These are the times when you can actually see me unraveling because the threads are coming loose more at a time than usual. I’m certain that it is happening all the time when I’m not allowing myself to notice. Or it is in such tiny bits that a simple thread might be falling and no one can even notice when it is happening.

I stayed and stared at the piece and I wanted to say something. I wanted to grab him, bring him over to where it was hanging there on the wall and bark, “ Do you know? Do you really have any idea?” Because for me this is how the conversation usually goes ---

-Hi Dad.

-Hello my daughter. How are things?

-Fine, just got back from the weekend up north. The colors are changing. It was good to get away. We made these meals that lasted for hours – the cooking and the brilliant conversation. Not a moment felt like it was wasted whether we were sitting around reading or climbing waterfalls. We didn’t look at the clock until it was time to leave. How are you doing?

-This is the worst that I’ve felt yet.

I pause. I don’t know what to say. What are you supposed to say? I’m sorry just doesn’t cut it anymore.

-You want me to be honest right?

He says this with such sympathy in his voice that I can’t believe that I’m having the hard time with this, when he is the one living through it.

-Of course…

-Went up to Fargo today for another treatment. She really burned me – had the setting up too high. I just itch. I never feel good in the evening anymore.

We pause again.

-I’m just glad. They told me that it wasn’t hereditary. You kids have nothing to worry about. I’d feel so awful on top of it all if it was hereditary.

Later we talk about books. What books I’m reading for the book clubs and the ones that I’m reading on the sly. He gives his suggestions on what I should be reading. He’s not reading as much lately because the cancer is now located right around his eyes (its been chased away from everywhere else on his body, but his head). It comes up through the skin and creates sores that not only are putting pressure on his eyes, but weep some too. His eyes are now being affected so it’s hard to focus on the words in a book. Before it was bad enough when his hands couldn’t be held steady enough to work on his stained glass projects anymore. That was even before he was diagnosed. That was just from the shear uncomfort he was in due to the eczema. He makes candles now. They’re great candles. If you have any leftover wax give it to me. My dad will make you a beautiful candle. He needs some sort of outlet.

I don’t know how to help him.

Tuesday, October 05, 2004

What? You want me to feed you dinner?

1 small can of sliced mushrooms
2 artichoke hearts (sliced)
2 largish cloves of garlic (knife smoosh them then slice)

----> Saute these things

2 C. Roasty tomatos (herb de provence style) recipe from Clotilde
1/2 can tomato sauce

----> Simmer

Pour over radiatore pasta and sprinkle with a little bit of monterey jack cheese.