A Clock and A Time When Time Was Important
When I was in college, there was a clock in every classroom, so I stopped wearing a watch for a while. It took some getting used to, since I kept looking by habit at my left wrist and seeing only a band of lighter skin, but I managed to get to my classes on time somehow.
Then, however, I decided to try wearing contact lenses. Suddenly my appearance was more important than the familiar security of my specs. I can't quite remember what prompted this decision. Maybe I had recently become lovers with my roommate, and the glasses were awkward. However, I needed to be very accurate about how long I wore the lenses while I was still trying to break them in, and back came the watch. Just my luck, my eyeballs are too delicate for contact lenses, hard or soft, so I gave up on them, but kept wearing the watch.
Nowadays, younger folks use their smart phones to tell time, and the only ones who still wear wristwatches are old fossils like myself. I must confess, though, I carry an ipod touch in my breast pocket, mostly for reading and sudoku, and I do occasionally resort to pulling it out to confirm what date or day of the week it is, and, if it's in my hands already, I will sometimes press the button that brings up the time in digital format, instead of turning my wrist to read the time on the face of my analog watch.
I also use the itouch as a timer when I'm sitting with kittens in the medical wing of the SPCA, and my watch is covered by a plastic gown and latex gloves. The alarm tone on the timer lets me know when my visit is complete, if I remembered to start the timer before starting the visit.
Nature and Self-Worth
Are you a religious person? Does the spirit move you to pray when you meet the beauties of nature, in forest groves, or when being misted by a waterfall? God creates such wonderful beauty, and some creatures reveal her sense of humor, and yet we so seldom think of ourselves as beautiful parts of God's creation.
On the other hand, something rubs me the wrong way about some people who seem too pleased with themselves, too comfortable in their skin, too perfect. I get angry with them - want to point out the mistakes they will make, that they'll grow old and die, like the rest of us. I get defensive when I compare my insides with their outsides.
I want to really believe that I'm doing the best I can with what I've got to work with. But there's a critical slave-driver sitting on the committee in my head, who always thinks I could be doing more, doing better, in justifying my place on earth. But waterfalls don't have to pass tests, forests don't have to meet quotas. They simply
are, valuable and beautiful as they were created.
What I really want to say is to wonder what would happen if I really accepted myself as I am, if I didn't compare myself with Mother Teresa or Bill Gates, but simply lived out being Dana. Would I stop contributing anything to the world and lose all self-respect? Would I become the self-satisfied, smug sort of person who grates on my nerves?
The Natives are Restless
There was a wildlife convention this morning in my backyard. I saw this mid-sized, mid-brown bird pecking at the recently cleared dirt next to the stepping stones. I grabbed the binoculars that live near my back windows, and tried to focus my weak eyes on it as well as I could. It pecked at the earth, and also seemed to be digging in it, with both feet at a time, in a hopping move. I really wondered what it was doing -- digging for food, digging a nest, performing a display of territory or courtship? Whatever it was doing came to a halt, and it disappeared.
A few moments later, I saw more motion, on the side fence. It was a squirrel, standing atop the fence and batting at the neighbor's tree with its paws. Also quite mysterious.
Finally, I saw a pair of smaller birds, back on the ground, pecking at the pink knotweed that the gardeners had cleared of weeds. Were they finding insects on the blossoms or sipping nectar and pollinating them? Heck if I know, but this morning I saw more animals not our cats than I've seen in the entire previous year.
Monday, September 15, 2014
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Write Now!
So I joined this writing group that meets at a bookstore on 24th Street once a month. I wasn't taken with anything I wrote last month, but here's something kinda nice that I wrote last night.
Soundtrack of My Life
The music that comes to mind from my Harrisburg years is Broadway show tunes, played on a stereo encased in a wide wooden cabinet that matched the rest of the furniture.
The music that comes to mind from my Berkeley years is Laura Webber's folk guitar instruction book, which I wrote to the TV station for, and folk songs that I sang with Joyce Roop and her mother (and her sister, before her suicide). I still remember when we were singing for some people and I began the song alone, an octave too high, and Mrs. Roop stopped and corrected me.
The music that comes to mind from my Santa Monica years is Eric Coates' London Suite, and whosit's Grand Tarentella, that mother put on the record player to enliven our efforts at housecleaning.
The music that comes to mind from my UCLA years I listened to in the music laboratory, which had maybe 20 stations with headphones where you could listen to the assigned music, and I chose to work on my musicianship with the Rutgers University Music Dictation Course. I also sang with the UCLA Madrigal Singers one year, and the Brentwood Church Choir for at least two years, including challenging music like Poulenc's Stabat Mater and Mozart's Requiem.
The music that comes to mind from my law school years is hymns and anthems I sang every week with the church choir, and played on the bass recorder with my tiny hands because I was the only player who knew both the bass fingerings and the bass clef. I also remember singing Britten's War Requiem with the Civic Chorale.
Post-law school, the music that comes to mind includes what I worked on in voice lessons, like the duet from Delibes' Lakme, and what I played on the recorder at the memorial for a friend's mother - a Bach selection that was just a bit beyond my capabilities.
Nowadays, I enjoy whatever music the classical radio station sends my way.
Soundtrack of My Life
The music that comes to mind from my Harrisburg years is Broadway show tunes, played on a stereo encased in a wide wooden cabinet that matched the rest of the furniture.
The music that comes to mind from my Berkeley years is Laura Webber's folk guitar instruction book, which I wrote to the TV station for, and folk songs that I sang with Joyce Roop and her mother (and her sister, before her suicide). I still remember when we were singing for some people and I began the song alone, an octave too high, and Mrs. Roop stopped and corrected me.
The music that comes to mind from my Santa Monica years is Eric Coates' London Suite, and whosit's Grand Tarentella, that mother put on the record player to enliven our efforts at housecleaning.
The music that comes to mind from my UCLA years I listened to in the music laboratory, which had maybe 20 stations with headphones where you could listen to the assigned music, and I chose to work on my musicianship with the Rutgers University Music Dictation Course. I also sang with the UCLA Madrigal Singers one year, and the Brentwood Church Choir for at least two years, including challenging music like Poulenc's Stabat Mater and Mozart's Requiem.
The music that comes to mind from my law school years is hymns and anthems I sang every week with the church choir, and played on the bass recorder with my tiny hands because I was the only player who knew both the bass fingerings and the bass clef. I also remember singing Britten's War Requiem with the Civic Chorale.
Post-law school, the music that comes to mind includes what I worked on in voice lessons, like the duet from Delibes' Lakme, and what I played on the recorder at the memorial for a friend's mother - a Bach selection that was just a bit beyond my capabilities.
Nowadays, I enjoy whatever music the classical radio station sends my way.
Friday, August 22, 2014
New Poems
I write about what's on my mind. See below.
Unrest
My legs ache
when I sit too long
in most chairs.
The ache starts
in the backs of my thighs
and steadily grows.
Stretching doesn't help
jiggling my legs doesn't help.
The only thing that helps,
sometimes,
other than getting up and walking,
is propping my feet
on a footrest,
to get the pressure off
the backs of my thighs.
A Few Good Things
My mother learned
a few good things
in those twelve-step rooms,
while smoking like a chimney
and swimming in coffee.
She learned to avoid
getting too Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired.
She learned to seek out others -
"When I'm alone, I'm in bad company."
She learned the trap of stillness -
"Action is the magic word" and
"Pray for potatoes and pick up the plow."
She learned that you can choose
how to respond to challenges -
"Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional."
She took care of herself
and her sponsees -
her children, not so much.
Unrest
My legs ache
when I sit too long
in most chairs.
The ache starts
in the backs of my thighs
and steadily grows.
Stretching doesn't help
jiggling my legs doesn't help.
The only thing that helps,
sometimes,
other than getting up and walking,
is propping my feet
on a footrest,
to get the pressure off
the backs of my thighs.
A Few Good Things
My mother learned
a few good things
in those twelve-step rooms,
while smoking like a chimney
and swimming in coffee.
She learned to avoid
getting too Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired.
She learned to seek out others -
"When I'm alone, I'm in bad company."
She learned the trap of stillness -
"Action is the magic word" and
"Pray for potatoes and pick up the plow."
She learned that you can choose
how to respond to challenges -
"Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional."
She took care of herself
and her sponsees -
her children, not so much.
Friday, August 15, 2014
Fun with Haiku and Tanka
Another evening at the poetry class, and I learn that the haiku form, which I've known about since high school, descended from a much earlier Japanese poem type called tanka.
Longer than the 5-7-5 syllable lines of haiku, a Japanese tanka has five unrhymed lines of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables, but English writers of tanka take more freedom with the syllable count, and mostly produce five-lined poems with lines that are short-long-short-long-long, with as few as ten syllables total, up to the standard size of 31.
Anyway, we had some time to write, and examples ranging from classical descriptions of nature to cynical and angry poems about modern life. Here's what I came up with:
Stomp brake pedal down
Omigod; where'd that come from?
This time, I still live.
White mold on my cheese.
I guess it has been too long
since I cleaned the fridge.
Smallness is Asian
My cars are all Japanese
I'm really quite short.
Sturdy old Bay Bridge,
Rust like cancer in your bones,
Please don't fall on me.
I'm on a Segway
Lean into the turns
Can't seem to shift my weight forward,
My feet hurt too much.
Oh boy, a panic attack.
I can write haiku;
English class in seventh grade.
Tanka not so much
Because I'm used to ending
after the third line.
Naked ladies grow
Next to the Berkeley sidewalk,
Shiver without leaves
But beautiful nonetheless
Even as the blossoms droop.
Why would a cop shoot
A boy with his hands in air?
Bigotry unleashed
Little man with a big gun
His guilt has turned into fear.
Convoy of white trucks:
Humanitarian aid
or troops with more guns?
Longer than the 5-7-5 syllable lines of haiku, a Japanese tanka has five unrhymed lines of 5-7-5-7-7 syllables, but English writers of tanka take more freedom with the syllable count, and mostly produce five-lined poems with lines that are short-long-short-long-long, with as few as ten syllables total, up to the standard size of 31.
Anyway, we had some time to write, and examples ranging from classical descriptions of nature to cynical and angry poems about modern life. Here's what I came up with:
Stomp brake pedal down
Omigod; where'd that come from?
This time, I still live.
White mold on my cheese.
I guess it has been too long
since I cleaned the fridge.
Smallness is Asian
My cars are all Japanese
I'm really quite short.
Sturdy old Bay Bridge,
Rust like cancer in your bones,
Please don't fall on me.
I'm on a Segway
Lean into the turns
Can't seem to shift my weight forward,
My feet hurt too much.
Oh boy, a panic attack.
I can write haiku;
English class in seventh grade.
Tanka not so much
Because I'm used to ending
after the third line.
Naked ladies grow
Next to the Berkeley sidewalk,
Shiver without leaves
But beautiful nonetheless
Even as the blossoms droop.
Why would a cop shoot
A boy with his hands in air?
Bigotry unleashed
Little man with a big gun
His guilt has turned into fear.
Convoy of white trucks:
Humanitarian aid
or troops with more guns?
Friday, August 1, 2014
First Fruits of a Poetry Class
Either I just noticed or I just became interested, but last night I started going to a poetry class that's part of Roke's Feminist Arts festival. It was especially attractive since it includes not only the opportunity to perform a piece or two, but also to have it published in a booklet.
Anyway, we're trying to write portraits of a person, place, or event that reveal the pertinent emotions. My memory being nearly as bad as my imagination, I figured I'd start with something recent that I wanted to write about anyway - the dance at the OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change) gathering that I attended last week. So here it is.
Old Lesbians’ Dance
I had a high old time
the other night
at the Old Lesbians’ Dance.
I duded up,
jewelry and all,
and tucked my stuff
in a fanny pack
to clear the decks for action.
The band played a few songs
I recognized from the 70s
and it was way too loud
for talking.
Most women were eager to dance,
and we danced together or apart.
Scent-free, of course -
this being a lesbian feminist gathering.
At one point, I found myself
dancing next to a petite white-haired
firecracker; we sang
“Rolling on the river”
to each other
on the choruses.
We began to glow
with our efforts
as the evening wore on;
breasts nestled against breasts
during the slow dances.
One partner started
to intertwine her legs with mine,
but my inhibitions
intervened.
A 92-year-old woman,
looking mighty fine in her
embroidered vest and smile,
leaves her scooter to dance
by attaching one hand to her partner
and the other to her cane.
I surprise myself
by lasting through three or four
dances before heading off
for a cup of cold water
and an upholstered bench.
Women from my past
swim into view,
fellow recorder players
a lesbian studies professor
women from my synagogue
the author of a play I acted in a few years ago
and two others from the cast.
I notice one old friend
wasting the dance floor
by talking with others.
I nip over to her
and plant one on her kisser,
surprising the spit out of her.
There were no snacks,
and I skipped the wine,
but I got plenty high
on the women
and the dancing
and belonging.
Anyway, we're trying to write portraits of a person, place, or event that reveal the pertinent emotions. My memory being nearly as bad as my imagination, I figured I'd start with something recent that I wanted to write about anyway - the dance at the OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change) gathering that I attended last week. So here it is.
Old Lesbians’ Dance
I had a high old time
the other night
at the Old Lesbians’ Dance.
I duded up,
jewelry and all,
and tucked my stuff
in a fanny pack
to clear the decks for action.
The band played a few songs
I recognized from the 70s
and it was way too loud
for talking.
Most women were eager to dance,
and we danced together or apart.
Scent-free, of course -
this being a lesbian feminist gathering.
At one point, I found myself
dancing next to a petite white-haired
firecracker; we sang
“Rolling on the river”
to each other
on the choruses.
We began to glow
with our efforts
as the evening wore on;
breasts nestled against breasts
during the slow dances.
One partner started
to intertwine her legs with mine,
but my inhibitions
intervened.
A 92-year-old woman,
looking mighty fine in her
embroidered vest and smile,
leaves her scooter to dance
by attaching one hand to her partner
and the other to her cane.
I surprise myself
by lasting through three or four
dances before heading off
for a cup of cold water
and an upholstered bench.
Women from my past
swim into view,
fellow recorder players
a lesbian studies professor
women from my synagogue
the author of a play I acted in a few years ago
and two others from the cast.
I notice one old friend
wasting the dance floor
by talking with others.
I nip over to her
and plant one on her kisser,
surprising the spit out of her.
There were no snacks,
and I skipped the wine,
but I got plenty high
on the women
and the dancing
and belonging.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
More Writings with Roke
So, I've been to several sessions to create and plan this year's Siren Project adventure. In several writing sessions, the following bits manifested:
Asked to write why I'm involved in this project, I wrote:
I want to make people laugh. I want to share my trials and awaken recognition in others -- surprise, validation, the feeling that I'm not the only one after all.
I want to be clever and wise, and have folks laugh at the cleverness and have the wisdom sneak up on them later.
I want to take cultural narratives of femininity and rework them until they relate to me and my life, letting folks see what a prison they can be and what freedom can look like.
I want to have fun, get to know some women batter, use my theatrical and other experience to help them realize their intentions.
I want to listen to what others have to say and learn from it. I want to hear in what they say something that I recognize as universal and wise.
I want to learn what others see and hear when I speak, so that I can get a true appreciation of myself and my gifts - one that is skewed neither by unfounded pride nor by baseless self-criticism.
____________________
Here are two other little bits that came out:
Part of me want to write about my softness fetish - for really soft sheets and towels, for fuzzy plants and my cat's fur. My nearly irresistible urge to pet a cute crew cut - on a man or a woman, or to stroke velvet or fur that's being worn near me.
My theory is that I was seriously deprived of cuddling and holding as an infant, so that now I'm driven to seek comforting contact to make up for the lack.
I also wonder about my thing for silver foxes. From my 30s, at least, I've had a soft spot for women with shortish silvery hair. So much that my longest relationship was with a woman 15 years older than me. I really lost out on mothering as a child, so I'm probably still seeking mothering that I missed. But now I'm the one with short silvery hair. Maybe I can be the mother that I've been looking for.
___________________
Asked to write why I'm involved in this project, I wrote:
I want to make people laugh. I want to share my trials and awaken recognition in others -- surprise, validation, the feeling that I'm not the only one after all.
I want to be clever and wise, and have folks laugh at the cleverness and have the wisdom sneak up on them later.
I want to take cultural narratives of femininity and rework them until they relate to me and my life, letting folks see what a prison they can be and what freedom can look like.
I want to have fun, get to know some women batter, use my theatrical and other experience to help them realize their intentions.
I want to listen to what others have to say and learn from it. I want to hear in what they say something that I recognize as universal and wise.
I want to learn what others see and hear when I speak, so that I can get a true appreciation of myself and my gifts - one that is skewed neither by unfounded pride nor by baseless self-criticism.
____________________
Here are two other little bits that came out:
Part of me want to write about my softness fetish - for really soft sheets and towels, for fuzzy plants and my cat's fur. My nearly irresistible urge to pet a cute crew cut - on a man or a woman, or to stroke velvet or fur that's being worn near me.
My theory is that I was seriously deprived of cuddling and holding as an infant, so that now I'm driven to seek comforting contact to make up for the lack.
I also wonder about my thing for silver foxes. From my 30s, at least, I've had a soft spot for women with shortish silvery hair. So much that my longest relationship was with a woman 15 years older than me. I really lost out on mothering as a child, so I'm probably still seeking mothering that I missed. But now I'm the one with short silvery hair. Maybe I can be the mother that I've been looking for.
___________________
Thursday, May 8, 2014
It Is Enough
Fairley asked us to write a response to the following nifty yoga poem by Danna Faulds:
It is enough right now
to taste one moment of
peace. Of course I want
more, but at least the
door is open.
It is enough to draw a
conscious breath and
let my hands relax,
fingers releasing their
tight grasp on things
outside of my control.
It is enough to shed a
layer of stress as if
taking off a jacket or a
pair of too-tight shoes.
Ease of being has to
start somewhere.
This breath is my
first step.
_____________
Not knowing the yogic context, I responded as follows:
"To taste one moment of peace." This reminds me of an article I read recently about six things you can do in 30 seconds to make you feel better - take some deep breaths, smile, stretch, etc.
The important part, however, comes right before doing anything. It's stepping outside of the badness far enough to see that badness isn't all there is. Getting out of 'helpless and hopeless' enough to see the possibility of things being different, of me being different. Being stuck inside a black cloud, we need something to remind us that somewhere else the sun is shining, and that we ourselves have enjoyed that sun in the past. Only then can we believe enough in the possibility of returning to the sun that we can even imagine doing something that can move us in that direction.
It is enough right now
to taste one moment of
peace. Of course I want
more, but at least the
door is open.
It is enough to draw a
conscious breath and
let my hands relax,
fingers releasing their
tight grasp on things
outside of my control.
It is enough to shed a
layer of stress as if
taking off a jacket or a
pair of too-tight shoes.
Ease of being has to
start somewhere.
This breath is my
first step.
_____________
Not knowing the yogic context, I responded as follows:
"To taste one moment of peace." This reminds me of an article I read recently about six things you can do in 30 seconds to make you feel better - take some deep breaths, smile, stretch, etc.
The important part, however, comes right before doing anything. It's stepping outside of the badness far enough to see that badness isn't all there is. Getting out of 'helpless and hopeless' enough to see the possibility of things being different, of me being different. Being stuck inside a black cloud, we need something to remind us that somewhere else the sun is shining, and that we ourselves have enjoyed that sun in the past. Only then can we believe enough in the possibility of returning to the sun that we can even imagine doing something that can move us in that direction.
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