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mighty hearts

I liked this article in Springfield’s Valley Advocate about the poet/activist Maurice Taylor. Some people that survive childhood abuse and live to tell remind me of boxers in their everyday resilience, strength, and grace. Getting up off of the mat to face another day and potential rounds of  anxiety, random flashbacks, and repressed pain is utterly grueling.  I would love to sit down and chat with this man.

And I really fucking hate abusers who damage little children. Makes me feel positively homicidal.


keeping it light

I was recently reading the editor of Saveur magazine’s list of five embarrassing comfort foods. I have five. But unlike he, I’m unembarrassed.

1. Cottage cheese and potato chips. Preferably w/salt and vinegar, but as long as it’s not barbecue. I think Roz got me hooked on this. I try not to indulge in front of other people, who think it’s disgusting. Kiddo, included.

2. Grated potatoes w/garlic and onions, with a side of sour cream, bleu cheese dressing, or ranch, in a pinch. Roz started that one also.

3. French fries and bleu cheese dressing. Preferably large steak fries, or crispy wedges. But I’ll take any fry I can find, when the mood strikes.

4. Stove Top stuffing. I lied. This one’s embarrassing, a little.

5. Butterfinger candy bars, which, like Oreos, must be eaten in a certain way. First the chocolate shell is nibbled at all over, then I chip away at the inside. I let the little flaky bits of peanutbutter goodness melt, and it’s heaven.


Fiona covers. She’s such a chanteuse! Even the kiddo likes “A-Ona” Apple. Lady Gaga?!? Katy Perry?!? Taylor Swift?!? pffft!

Bill Wither’s Use Me

Why Try to Change Me Now

I Walk a Little Faster

You Belong To Me

Another of those wise, wild Welshmen….

-The more I study religions the more I am convinced that man never worshipped anything but himself.

-Home is where the books are.

-A man that hoards up riches and enjoys them not, is like an ass that carries gold and eats thistles.

-Richard Burton

better than the originals

remakes that I think are better than the originals:

Sinead O’Connor’s cover of Elton John’s  “Sacrifice”. I like this song anyway, but just like she does with Prince’s Nothing Compares 2U, Sinead eclipses the original. Probably my favorite cover. Ever.

I was listening to this today and it gave me the idea for this post. Sara Polley’s One More Colour. Jane Siberry’s voice is so much fun to listen to (love Map of the World). But Sara’s lingering delivery lends it some grace.  Alot of good remakes happen when the delivery is slowed down.

Mitch Ryder-“When You Were Mine”. Poor Prince. He writes these great songs, and other people sing ’em better than he does. Sometimes. The voice makes the difference on this one. Ani Difranco does a nice cover of this too. But NOT Cyndi Lauper.  I do think Prince could do an incredible job on Amy Winehouse’s Love is a Losing Game though. It sounds like something he’d write.

“After You’ve Gone”. The video is pretty crappy, but listen to it anyway. I wish Fiona would do an entire album of either standards, or her own lyrics delivered in this sort of style. Fiona also does a hair raising version of Elvis Costello’s I Want You that gives him a run for his money.

just because…

I love this quote. It’s from one of my favorite movies, The Ice Storm:
When you think about it, it’s not easy to keep from just wandering out of life.

It’s like someone’s always leaving the door open to the next world, and if you aren’t paying attention you could just walk through it, and then you’ve died.

That’s why in your dreams it’s like you’re standing in that doorway…and the dying people and the newborn people pass by you…and brush up against you as they come in and out of the world during the night.

You get spun around, and in the morning…it takes a while to find your way back into the world.

nurture, by nature

Bought my first ever rose bush yesterday. Not some cute little supermarket miniature thing. But an honest to god, prune it back once a year and feed it coffee grounds/eggshells/banana peels/filet mignon and oysters on the half shell thing. This is serious. She (aren’t they all she’s?? I think they are.) is  a fuschia colored lady by the name of Rosa Knock Out. Sounds like a collision with a tomato.  Actually, more like a stripper, right? C’mon, you thought it too. Rosa is purty. And blooms all summer long. That was the seller.

I’m not by nature a rose lover, never have been. I like flowers for scent, mostly. Lilacs. Lily of the valley (so delicate and demure. Woodland). Or texture (poppies, so paperlike…showy, but kind of shy looking. Soft.). Foxgloves and spires like salvias, speedwells, and royal candles. Soft, green mosses and ferns. The garden this year has become a project. A mission. And it’s not about me. But, with almost anything I undertake, it has to be about something.  This is about someone. A she. Who happened to like roses. And irises (I do too. There will be irises. Many irises). And the second it became about her, the more passionate I became about this.  I knew exactly what to add, subtract, compose, compliment,  and so on. So a showy, fuchsia number; a flower with a sort of status and tradition, and with a  romantic girly-girl, queenly sort of rep seemed a fitting ornament to my memorial.

I don’t know a lot about roses. I have read that they are fussy. And don’t like to be planted where other roses have died (however do they know such things??? Supernatural Oiija  boards???? Esp?). I laughed at myself as I roamed the two plots, looking for the perfect spot. “You’ve gone and gotten yourself something else to take care of,”  I said to myself. Hover over. Pamper. Nurture.  And, predictably in this life of mine, in timely fashion.

The kiddo, at long last, has started to assert herself. Mature. Take initiative, as they like to say in school. She doesn’t rebel (unless it’s over yet another beloved pair of black, holey pants). She hasn’t rejected Mommy (unless she spies Mommy waving idiotically, enthusiastically, as the bus pulls away in the morning….then my dearest pretends she doesn’t see me)…but there’s that nice big bed she likes to wander into, and the weekends with Mommy, all to herself (heaven on earth, actually for both of us).  But I don’t have to ask her to do things anymore. She does them as a matter of course. She doesn’t need mommy outside, not with a passle of boys to run around and rough house with. Mommy is for the occassional cuddle.  Or for doing things she doesn’t feel like doing, if she can get away with it (SWEETIE!!!! Turn that television down! I can’t concentrate! To which “sweetie” replies, without a trace of rebellion, quite matter of factly…almost diplomatically: “Welllllll, YOU’RE the one who wants it turned down….why do I have to do it???” Nice try.).

Yesterday she pattered into the house, announcing her hunger. What did she want???? “I know”, she answered, as she rummaged the kitchen’s contents. “Well, what can I get you???”, I pushed. “Don’t worry about it”, she sang, as she pulled out two spoons, and a loaf of the despicable white bread she insists upon. I nodded. It was quiet. I approached the kitchen and found two jars; one of pb and one of jelly. “That’s a little too much jelly, sweetie. You’ll end up wearing it”, I said, holding myself back. “Oh. okay”. Two tablespoonfuls came off. And that was that. She let me get her a plate, then she trudged over to her chair and munched away. She did end up wearing a dollop of jelly, after she tore her sandwich in half and chomped heartily into the heart of her creation (she doesn’t like crusts. But didn’t even bother to ask Mommy to crimp the white meat of the sandwich with the special Pampered Chef cutter. Sniff!)She was so proud.

I hope it was the best pbj she ever ate.

July 2018
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