Buttercream.
10 May 2013
26 April 2013
Brothers
Before:
"NO! Noooooo! Rafa, stop!! That's my baby!!!
"Noooo . . . you're not going anywhere! Come back here! You stay here."
"You can't just go wandering off! That's just crazy. You have to stay here with us."
"Baby, stay here! I'm going to keep you here. It's part of my job. I love you."
After:
Epilogue
16 April 2013
Brothers
A Not-So-Still-Life Series: Suitcase and Boys
04 April 2013
Sisu
Friends, I know my posts have been scarce lately. Here's something I wrote for the Freehold newsletter about my prison theater work.
I should be coming up for air in a couple of weeks!
Freehold facilitates an annual residency
at three separate Washington Corrections facilities, in which we enable
the participants to write, direct, rehearse, and perform their own show
in a five-month period. Residencies guide participants through the
creation of an original performance based on an exploration of the
archetypal hero’s journey. Participants invite their peers, friends and
family to watch their performance at the culmination of the residency.
The residency performances at the Washington Corrections Center for
Women will be on April 8th.
The Finns have something they call sisu. It is a compound of bravado and
bravery, of ferocity and tenacity, of the ability to keep fighting
after most people would have quit, and to fight with the will to win.
- Time, January 8, 1940
Sisu.
Robin Lynn Smith
taught me that word. It’s Finnish, and it has no direct English
translation. It has been used to describe the Finnish spirit – what
makes the Finns the Finns. I don’t actually know any Finns, but I think
“sisu” relates to what my grandparent’s generation might have called
“character.” It means possessing the determination to persevere in the
face of near-impossible odds. Say that it’s stormy, dark, and freezing.
Say you have no shoes and the ground is covered with jagged rocks.
Say you’re carrying a vial of medicine for someone who needs it but
you’ve already fallen six times and you’re eight miles from your
destination. If you’re the stubborn sonavabitch who keeps on walking,
you’ve got “sisu.” As I mentioned, Robin taught me the word; the Engaged Theatre Residency at the Washington Corrections Center for Women has taught me what the word means.
This is the first year I’ve been a part of the WCCW Residency. When I
agreed to participate, I had only a small idea of what I was getting
into. I’d never created a play from scratch with a group of other
people before. In fact, writing a play “by committee” has always
sounded, to me, like a version of torture. Add that I would be
collaborating with a group of incarcerated women, and I could see that
the whole enterprise had the potential to go south quickly. And yet
when Robin asked me to participate, I didn’t hesitate. I have often
referred to theatre as a form of medicine; I reasoned that surely a
prison would be full of people in need of it.
But that’s only one-half of the transaction, actually, because I forgot
that I was in need, too. In fact, this process has given me loads more
than I’ve given it. I’ve been taking my artistic medicine for five
months now. I feel much better, thanks.
In prison, I’ve met some of the most powerful writers I’ve ever
encountered. These are women who have been to hell and back and are
actually willing to tell you about it – a phenomenal feat when you
consider how many times they’ve been shut down; how many ways they’ve
been told they’re stupid, worthless, and wrong. Women who grapple with
violence, addiction, PTSD. Hilarious, heartbreaking women.
Thoughtful, patient women.
Theatre under regular circumstances isn’t glamorous; theatre in a
prison, much less so. Our play will take place in a gymnasium under
fluorescent lights. Our actors will wear their prison grays under
costumes from Value Village. An actor-playwright (that’s me) will be
running the soundboard. It’s not exactly the West End! And the whole
shebang could be yanked out from under us at any moment.
Still, my colleagues return week after week for our medicine, because
it's clear that the women inside have a lot left to share with us.
They're just getting started. How can I possibly describe what I'm
writing about here -- what these women have to offer? These are women
who can make lasagna out of the contents of a vending machine. Women
who adopt courtyard slugs as pets. Women who hold a puppet like a baby.
Resourcefulness. Generosity. Courage.
Sisu.
Photo above: Monument to the Finnish Sisu. Photo by Aleksi Ollikainen ja Juho Heikkinen.
30 March 2013
26 February 2013
Brothers
Lightsabers courtesy of Goodwill Industries. May the Force be with you.
09 February 2013
The Texture of Experience: Or, Some things I've Been Doing Instead of Posting
Westley: Who are you? Are we enemies? Why am I on this wall? Where is Buttercup?
Inigo Montoya:
Let me 'splain.
[pause]
Inigo Montoya:
No, there is too much. Let me sum up.
So. It's been a while, right? Here's something bizarre: I've been writing this blog for something like three years now. I thought I'd established a pretty fixed writing habit. "(What She Means)" was no blogging lark; oh no. I was in it for the long haul. And yet, as I discovered over the last several weeks, the more time that went by without my posting so much as an emoticon, the more impossible posting, as an activity that someone might actually do, felt. And thus the time trickled, spouted, and eventually gushed along until I found myself wondering:
Am I done?
no.
But I still don't have the frigging time for a long post!
So here it is, the texture of my experience, with an explanatory note here and there.
Mining for crystals.
Birthday. Officially in "late 30s."
This picture makes the Washington Corrections Center for Women look nicer than it generally is.
For starters, it should be raining.
Goodwill baby-doll love.
So, so sick.
Minecraft, our lives will never be the same.
My office.
WCCW.
Oscar's first stop-motion, yo.
Hearts Are Thugs.
Rafa called this picture "Ladybugs."
Yep.
Dropping off and picking up and dropping off and picking up a hardworking man at his place of employment.
(No, I still have not eaten there.)
Thanks for reading, friends. I'm rusty, but -- Lord willing -- I'm back!
25 December 2012
Merry and Bright
Merry Christmas, friends. My life is so much better because you are in it.
See you in the new year!
22 December 2012
14 December 2012
What We Talk About When We Talk About December
Birthdays! In December, we talk about birthdays.
Baby Jesus, please hold. Will you come back at month's end? Unfortunately, there is no room at this inn; for unto us, two years ago, a different child was born.
Rafael Gregory, there's your cue.
Balloons.
Chocolate. Presents.
And lots of play. Rafa particularly enjoys knocking over his soft dinosaur bowling pins. He is quite good at throwing, kicking, and rolling balls of all sorts.
A trio of birthday boys blew out Rafa's birthday ring candles.
But Rafa himself took care of his candle that night.
For dessert, we had chocolate pots de creme -- chosen because our littlest is happiest feeding himself.
I love that sweet boy. He's been so much fun this week, saying "Happy Birthday!" to everyone in the house, asking to play "birthday" with us at least three times a day. Wait 'til he gets a load of Christmas.
But wait, there's more! It's two, two, two posts in one!
Brandon had a birthday, too. He got almost nothing -- three handmade cards and a small poem I wrote him -- but he smiled as though we'd presented him with a big ol' check.
There's a man who feels wealthy.
Brandon's only birthday requests were homemade pizza and something sweet. I'm particularly proud of the cake, which I made in a whoopie pie style with chocolate buttercream, pieces of crushed toffee for crunch, and a salted caramel drizzle.
Happy Birthday, family!
Now: O come, Emmanuel.
30 November 2012
Five!
One:
Two:
Three:
Four:
And don't look now, but it's another milestone, people.
Oscar had his cake and ate it.
And so did I, baby! I ate me a big fat slice. Not to turn this into a Mama-ganza, but it was a big day for Brandon and me, too. Five freaking years ago, we became parents. And life, as they say, has never been the same.
Thank you for being born, Oscar Kasey! We're so proud of you.
25 November 2012
Overcome
Friends, I'm starting to wonder whether I'll be able to keep up this blog much longer.
(*Sigh.*)
It's not that I lack for material. I've got quite a bit back-logged to share with you, including posts about my playwriting class, working with prisoners at the Washington Correction Center for Women, a new play I'm slowly writing, planning for the boys' birthdays coming up, enough Overheard conversations to make you dizzy, projects galore from homemade play-swords to crocheted hats to apple tarts, and certainly plenty of parenting rants. Trouble is, it's all still in my head. I'm chin-deep in experience, with nary a moment for reflecting about it.
It's a mixed blessing.
While I consider -- given the current circumstances -- how the heck I can manage to continue blogging on What She Means, please accept these photos of my children sleeping. Though they look placid, do not be deceived: a mighty struggle has just concluded moments before each frame was snapped. Oscar and Rafael do not like to sleep on purpose during the day; they prefer to keep their eyes alert until sleep overtakes them with the force of an invading army. They do not go quietly.
I've got to admit: I kind of love that about them.
14 November 2012
Quick!
While it's not raining! While it's warm enough to play outside!
While there is still daylight in which to frolic!
While there are still crispy leaves to find!
Throw them! Throw those leaves!
The season will change again before we know it. If you can find a pile of leaves somewhere, there will never be a better time than right now, darlings. Run. Toss. Play.
01 November 2012
Cars or Fairies?
It's that time of year again. We spent most of the month of October gearing up for Halloween.
As a grown up, I've been ambivalent about this holiday for some time. The idea of coming up with a costume sort of stresses me out, I guess. I usually can't be bothered to make one on my own behalf.
Add kids to the mix, though, and it's a whole new game. Dressing up is pure fun for them -- no pressure to be "correct" or "clever." My goal this year was to say Yes! To see if I could reclaim a little bit of that Halloween magic by diving in with a gusto! I wondered whether that would take us anywhere new.
Over the past several weeks, Oscar has been streaming Sesame Street on Netflix. Big Bird! Grover! Elmo! Oscar the Grouch! All completely new to him. He immediately fell into deep love with one particular character: Abby Cadabby. Abby's a fairy.
So when I asked Oscar what he wanted to be for Halloween this year, he didn't hesitate. Well, sometimes he said he wanted to be a "fairy" and sometimes he said "Abby Cadabby," but in any case my work was clear. I couldn't just buy him a pre-packaged fairy costume. For one thing, there were none. Apparently little boys never want to be fairies; drag is the only option. I hate that it comes down to this, because I'm sure Oscar isn't the only little boy who loves Lightning McQueen and Abby Cadabby.
Why must it be cars or fairies?
I wondered how Oscar would feel trick-or-treating in a sparkly dress. I wondered if he would meet with any social push-back. I questioned his comfort level. I questioned my own. I also wondered if the dress was really the point for Oscar. I suspected that what he really hungered for was that feeling of abandon that comes when you really commit to a costume. I mean, Oscar also talked about dressing up as "cheese" for Halloween. And Super-Pocoyo. And a knight. Dress up is fun!
I asked a lot of questions. At one point, Oscar explained very matter-of-factly:
"Mama, I'm a boy but it's okay if I wear a girl's costume, you know?"
Well, that slayed me. I was bound and determined to make him something he liked. We talked and we dug through my fabric remnants and we looked at pictures on the internet. We discovered that bottom-line, for Oscar, an Abby costume had to have:
1. A wand.
2. Wings.
3. Pink skin.
I introduced the concept of a tunic, which is something I had enough fabric for that would be simple to sew. Then I showed him examples of woodland fairies and found out he liked the idea of leaves on a tunic. He also wanted hearts and a star. He asked if Rafa could also be a fairy. They could be fairy friends. This was ideal, since Rafa was likely to want to wear whatever Oscar wore, anyway.
I made two wands that were Abby-inspired. They chose their wings, which ended up being rainbow-colored, another departure from the actual Abby Cadabby. That left the pink skin. Hello face paint!
Rafa declined to have his face painted. Oscar wanted his hands painted, too.
The costumes were soft, comfortable, very warm, and cost-effective. I only spent money on the wings!
Best of all, I had happy kids. Which is exactly what it's all about, right?
27 October 2012
Q.E.D.
They say there's nothing constant except change.
(Don't They? Isn't that what They say?)
Well, I think I'm getting steadily better at it -- appreciating and welcoming change. And if you feel you've also got room to improve in this area, I suggest the following experiment:
Take some kind of flat, clear glass dish and pour in an inch of whole milk. Then add one drop of as many shades of food coloring as you've got around the house. Take a look at what happens.
You'll think, hm. That's interesting. That's cool, those spots of color hanging out there in that expanse of white.
And your son will say, Let's see what happens if we . . .
Oh, no, wait!, you'll say. Because you won't be ready; you'll have hardly taken in what's there yet.
Of course, your protests will be futile, because
he'll have alredy added a tiny drip of dish soap into the mix. Just a little bead on the tip of a toothpick, touched to the milky surface. He will cackle as the colors start to chase one another around. He'll poke and prod and shake the dish, so excited will he be to see what's unfolding.
You'll say, Huh. Cool. And you'll prepare to clean up.
Then your son will ask for more drops of food coloring. More tiny beads of soap.
Oh, I don't think so, you'll say, because that part's not in the science book. Then you'll realize you're about to give him a lecture on frugality vis a vis the scarcity of such luxury commodities as food coloring and dish soap.
Instead, you'll say Okay. And instantly you'll like yourself much better.
Then you'll sit back and watch him go.
And you'll start to see how, at each step, there's been plenty to appreciate. It's been a parade of beauty, really, and you've had a front seat.
You'll be glad for two things:
1) You've got an exuberant son and 2) You've got your camera handy.
Because without both things, you might have ended up missing a lot of lovely stuff along the way.
Now, although I believe this experiment is designed to illustrate the concept of surface tension, I suspect that's not all it has to offer us today.
19 October 2012
About Town
Is there such a thing as too much sweetness?
No, really. Consider it for a moment.
There's this thing with kids and sugar. I feel like lots and lots of people agree that sugar is bad for children, yes? That it's even a little frightening somehow. Once they start consuming that nectar of Satan, we fear, our children may never, ever stop.
That's possible. I mean, look at my own behavior: I bake cookies regularly, and around my kids I am a complete sugar hypocrite. I'll have one cookie. Two cookies.
That's enough for now!, I'll say, the model of temperance.
I don't sweat it; the deck's stacked in my favor. They've got to go to sleep some time. Once they're in dreamland, those cookies are all mine.
(Harumph harumph, but I am a grown woman who also eats vegetables, so that's okay, harumph, Get off my lawn, Sonney.)
I kept sugar from Oscar for a long time. This was during my Amish Parenting Period (similar to Picasso's Blue, really). I would have hand constructed all of his playthings if I could.
Son, take thou this ball of yarn with a grateful heart.
Look, boy! I whittled for thee!
Merry Christmas, lad! Take thee this orange and enjoy it with my blessings of good tidings and a wholesome slumber!
Yeah. Well, I tried it.
These days I'm figuring that as much as I'm supposed to protect my little angels from the Great Evils of this World, it's also my job to make sure they have fun. And let's face it -- there are a number of Greater Evils than a snack bag of M&M's.
So lately I've been allowing the kids more leeway on the sweetness front. I'm loosening the ol' leash. Oscar doesn't yet know what to make of it -- and truthfully, neither do I -- but it's kind of fun to watch. I'm just generally looking for more opportunities for treats. Just enhancing the delight. Not as a reward, but just because it's fun and it's part of what being a kid is about.
Speaking of delight:
I got really excited when I found out there would be cotton candy there. Cotton candy. Okay, granted, a lot of the cotton candy I had as a kid was not exactly artisanal. But that wasn't the point, was it? Could there be a more frivolous edible experience?
In preparation, we counted our change carefully and determined we had just over four dollars to spend. I hoped against hope that it would be enough; I didn't know how inflation would have affected the cotton candy market since I was a little girl.
You know what? It cost three dollars. Three dollars by a company called Spun. It was Lavendar Flavored, ya'll!
The best damn cotton candy I've ever had.
I ask you: Too much sweetness?
Nope.
13 October 2012
05 October 2012
25 September 2012
Had Me A Blast!
Summer's over, kids.
It's all about to get more complicated. The days will get shorter and cooler. The work will get harder. And, in my house at least, the dying light will expose the grunge and grit that's accumulated stealthily during those long, bright summer days.
The chickens, they returneth home. It's clear they mean to stay a while. And roost.
It was obvious to me that summer was gone the other day, doing my laundry. I opened the dryer and began to understand anew the meaning of disaster.
Has anyone else discovered, much too late, the havoc a few broken crayons left in a little pocket can wreak?
Oh, the heartlessness of primary colors. Green, red, and yellow splotches will look good on the trees in the coming days. They will not look fantastic on a pair of linen pants. Or a crisp button-up shirt. Or any of the half-dozen homemade kid-clothes that happened to be in the dryer that day.
I was behind on the wash, you see.
Who takes the time to turn out their children's pockets when it's 75 degrees outside and doesn't get dark until ten?
Summer days, drifting away! But ah-ah those summer nights!
So, yes. Ruined. Despite being laundered four times. Despite each stain being ministered to with the devotion of a Pentacostal preacher.
blot blot blot blot blot
rinse
spray
wait
blot blot blot blot blot
Which is saying something. The clothes have been so . . . transgressed against. They practically look tie-dyed.
Come to think of it, virtually everything the boys are wearing in these photos was in that load of laundry.
How can I not see this as a metaphor?
Apparently, I am going to have to be even more careful to avert calamity. But I'm not a perfect person. I will sometimes eff up. Sometimes, I will open the dryer door and find that my clothes have literally turned into trash. Sometimes, the crisis will occur regardless of what I do. It's humbling.
The darkness is coming. There is work to do. There are cupboards to fill. There are debts to pay. And yes, there are a sh**t-ton of small pockets to inspect. But there is a bright side.
Sigh.
Looking over these pictures, at least I've got a handle on what it's all for.
17 September 2012
Rafael
Blueberries.
10 September 2012
Incremental Progress
Freehold Theatre Lab asked me to write a post for their fall newsletter. If you'd like to check it out, click here! (And tell your Seattle friends: I'm teaching Playwriting I at Freehold, starting in October.)
02 September 2012
The People's Library
Every branch of the Seattle Public Library has been closed all week. It's a seven-day mandary unpaid furlough, and it's been in effect for the last several years. True, it saves the city over $600,000. True, for the majority of us (those who aren't library employees, anyway), the closure means more of an inconvenience than a hardship. But that doesn't mean it's not a pretty massive bummer. We love our libraries here. We need our libraries here. Here, the library's home.
"Libraries are the last vestige of 'free' public space, the last place people can go to get out of the rain without being required to buy something."
-- Joshua Prince-Ramus, architect of the Seattle Central Library
That's why I was so delighted to find out about the People's Library, an outdoor volunteer library that popped up tenaciously -- for one week only -- to offer Seattleites some love.
Here's what the bookmark above says inside:
"This book is for you, You can keep it, you can return it, you can give it away. You can donate it to a school. You can donate it to a public library.
"Libraries are more than books. They are a refuge, a cathedral, a home for dreams and fantasies. Libraries are a place to perform research, a link to services, an entertainment venue, a cultural center."
"Librarians provide tech support, serve the houseless and the mentally ill, teach the disenfranchised how to use the Internew, plunge toilets, change light bulbs, spray for ants, dress as Winnie the Pooh, proofread resumes for library patrons, provide pro bono therapy, coordinate fundraising efforts and library events. Librarians are heroes."
"There is no problem a library card can't solve."
We visited the Seattle People's Library on Wednesday.
As you might expect of a library, there were books there! Two volunteers approached me within five minutes of my arrival to explain that the books were free and that I was welcome to take as many as I wanted.
Oscar found a Mo Willems title he liked.
Brandon, true to form, found a stack of stray books that he felt needed a home.
They also had free food, donated from a local business. They had me at Mo Willems, but burritos? What arcadia had we stumbled upon?
There was sidewalk chalk!
Not to mention drinking water, free internet access, children's storytime twice a day, and live music.
I didn't take these pictures, by the way. We were photographed by a bearded stranger who chatted with me and gave me his card before he left. He was a really nice man, and after a coupla years of noticing people I don't know snap pictures of my children without so much as a by-your-leave, I appreciated his decorum.
(Alex Garland Photography, friends.)
Thanks to everyone who contributed to make this library happen. The books were amazing! When all was said and done, though, the books weren't the half of what we needed that day.
It was the kindness.
27 August 2012
The Texture of Experience: Cousins Edition
How 'bout we just call this "Many Pictures, Few Words"? Uploading these photos has cost me rather a lot of time -- hence the slow posting.
Don't Cry For Me, Argentina, though; I've been very happily occupied. My sister's family visited for a week! And it was wonderful!
We both have these young kids, see; and we've both, by now, been at this parenting gig long enough to be able to do it confidently in tandem. The orangutans did not take over the zoo, but rather spent most of the time frolicking, playing, and posing sweetly.
I mean, the cuteness!
It's unfortunate that I have no photos of the wild blackberry foraging in our neighborhood. My sister, our gang of children, and I spent about an hour at one huge tangled, tall mess of a hedge. We were glutting on berries, fingers and lips a dark purple, when Christina and I looked at each other and agreed that we were in the midst of a magical moment -- but what could be done? Everyone was busy alternately giggling and yelping when pricked with a thorn, Christina was explaining to Oscar the definition of a calculated and worthwhile risk (i.e., the occasional thorn in one's finger in exchange for a ripe berry), and I was carrying a conked-out Rafa and gorging.
I guess I'm going to have to do the unthinkable and . . . use my brain to remember what happened!
We took those kids all over. To the beach . . .
To the Locks in Ballard, where we listened to a live band for a spell . . .
And to Seward Park.
Where we tried a few posed picture moments that never quite worked for all four kids simultaneously.
The "herding cats" expression seems apt.
And my father flew up for a visit -- his first since we moved to Seattle. So of course he became Head Cat-herder, a task for which he was admirably game.
Their last evening in town, we went out to dinner and took the kids down to the water.
Christina then, super-sister that she is, proceeded to run the wiggles right out of all four of them. She had those kids running laps for a good fifteen minutes straight. It was awesome!
By the end of the week, Oscar and Rafa were convinced that my big sister had hung the moon.
Which, incidentally, is what I've always suspected.
'Til next time, Felix and Matilda. We miss you already.
13 August 2012
07 August 2012
Rafael
20 Months.
29 July 2012
23 July 2012
Actual Size
So here it is, complete!
Gosh, it doesn't look like all that much to me from here! Huh. It took hours and hours. Isn't that always the way?
Maybe if you get closer.
In reference to the Peter's Projection Map I started with, I'm calling this group of canvasses "Actual Size." I thought I was doing a piece about the actual -- rather than commonly misrepresented -- sizes of countries and continents. I take issues of size rather personally, maybe partly because I've always been a little slip of a thing. Underestimation's a recurrent hurdle for the wee.
I started with an actual map of the world. I ended up, I guess, with a very different sort of map.
A map of emotion?
Of the past?
I painted an unbelievable number of layers. Half the time, I'd end up scraping paint off and giving the whole thing another go. I told Brandon it felt like the canvasses and I were collaborating. As a theater artist, I'm well aware that few collaborations are matches made in heaven; most of them are sustained by resignation.
On each canvass, I'd keep trying until we could agree -- until what the canvas wanted to be matched up with my meager ability. There was a lot of compromising.
I had to let go of almost every single thing I planned to do. (Seriously, when I think about the amount of stuff I ended up painting over . . . !)
Of course, with my fondness for metaphor, I found the whole process quite fraught.
Happily, I learned that I have become more patient in the last few years, thanks to those little munchkins I've been raising. I can handle more readily the idea of leaving something unresolved. With not knowing if something will work. With letting a canvas be freaking ugly for a few days while I take care of other stuff on my list.
So that, I think, represents some growth!
Yeah, there are crazy wrinkles and air bubbles.
And for the life of me, I can't get the canvasses to all hang straight at the same time I think my brain is in crooked.
Still, the thing is done.
And I did it!
17 July 2012
Process - ing
A little bird asked me yesterday why I haven't been blogging as frequently this month.
Bless you, little bird, for caring! I've been in the s**t, friends. The creative s**t. It's a glorious, terrifying, and metaphorically bloody place.
In less poetic terms, I'm still working on that project I wrote about last time.
Observe: the canvasses below look absolutely nothing like the two times I painted them.
What fresh hell is this? I don't know. All my clothes have paint on them. Rafa's got it in his hair. There are improbable streaks of it on Oscar's legs. My bathroom sink is clogged with it. There's laundry to fold and I need a haircut.
It's do or die, friends. Will you wish me luck? I'm going in.
06 July 2012
Destroy to Create
We're making some extra art messes these days, with mixed results.
In the success column, Brandon turned a cheap cutting board from Ikea into a useful guitar pedal board. Now he's got something organized and super-portable, perfect for playing shows. All it took was a little measuring and some sticky-back velcro.
Then Oscar picked up the pencil Brandon was using to mark measurements and began scribbling with it right onto the unmarred wood surface of the board.
I saw Brandon stiffen for a moment. I heard him begin to say, "No, no, no."
But he didn't. Instead, he passed Oscar the jar of colored pencils. And I brought out the crayons.
Family fun for everyone!
Here's the finished pedal board, sans pedals:
So much in art depends on letting go of what you expect to happen. What you think something will look like. Your first, second, or fifteenth idea. Your precious intentions.
Speaking of intentions, let's turn to the failure column. Sigh.
Okay, look, I'm not much of a visual artist.
You know what? Let's skip that part. You can fill it in for yourself, right? Yadda, yadda, yadda, insert disclaimer here.
I've been working on a painting. It's the largest painting project I've ever attempted, and it threatens to ruin me. It has plunged me into the depths of despair more than once.
Ah, the artistic temperament.
I started with a map -- specifically, the Peters Projection map, which I cut up and attached to canvasses of varying size.
Dissatisfied with the washed-out colors of the original map, I set to systematically repainting the entire surface.
Like so.
That didn't quite work for me. It didn't do enough. So I let that go, even though I knew that in changing it I might wind up with something . . . inelegant.
I began to layer on stuff.
This is the project at what I was calling its Bad Affirmation Collage Phase.
I decided to add more paint. A lot more paint.
Here's a mid-way point.
Where is the map? Oh, it's under there. Way, way under there.
You know what tragedy is? Forget Medea for a second and put yourself in my shoes looking at these pictures. Tragedy is recognizing this moment: The moment that this godforsaken project was finally starting to work for me. The moment it was all beginning to make an eccentric kind of sense.
But then I got tired. I got hungry. And I pushed. I pushed, knowing that I'd bought myself that specific time to paint and that I might not get more time to work on this project again for a while. I pushed, hoping to avoid running into the crazymaking clutter of unfinished work day after day. I admit it: I wanted to be done. I wanted to check the box.
Yes, I pushed, feeling that the project itself had become more than a little bit ridiculous.
I mean, a painting? Really?
Do you know what I'm saying?
And because I pushed, I ended up hating where the painting went next.
Although there are a couple of parts that I mind less.
Now, it seems, I'm back at square one. Let's re-cap where we are. I've already essentially obliterated two previous paintings.
I suspect that my mettle is being tested. But by whom?
Ganesha, Remover of Obstacles?
Shiva, the Destroyer?
Can I transform the project yet again? Can I burn up that other painting -- the one I thought I was making -- and bring myself to make a whole new one on top of it?
You tell me. I'm exhausted!
26 June 2012
14 June 2012
And Now: A Floor Full of Cute
Sigh. Boys are so nice.
08 June 2012
Overheard: Text Message Edition
Last night, I went out again to hear a rock show -- this time at the Comet Tavern.
I'm starting to get the hang of it, I think; you mostly just stand there with a bunch of other legal adults and sway a bit or tap an appendage, ice cubes thwacking inconsequentially within the plastic cup you're holding, while the bands play. The bands also thwack, though with plenty more persistence than the ice cubes. Never stop learning, friends.
Also, they won't let you bring your plastic cup outside of the bar when taking the air between sets, just so you know. You're welcome.
Anyway, Brandon was playing with Hearts Are Thugs and I was there.
On a related (trust me) note, I have Potty Progress to report. After toilet training advancement and regression, then more regression followed by even more regression, followed by Oscar announcing that he would not be sitting on the potty until he turns sixteen, followed by my subsequent despair and complete surrender of the entire process, we now have a potty trained boy. Holy Mary, Mother of Diapers!
We stumbled onto a foolbroof method, friends. And the beauty of it is how darn simple it turned out to be. Curious?
Two words:
iPod Touch.
Yes, we did. Yes, we did. We bought him an iPod in exchange for seven straight days of before-purchasing potty and a lifetime of potty ever after. How do you like them apples?
There have already been many unintended bonuses.
Texting with my four-year-old while drinking a gin and tonic and watching Brandon onstage, listening to unearthly loud music in a slightly seedy bar: priceless.
Jun 7, 2012 9:23 PM
Oscar: Oscar love you
Jun 7, 2012 10:29 PM
Me: Oscar, you are a wonderful boy.
Oscar: Nkkkmjjjnnm
Oscar: B
Me: There's Papa!
Oscar: From rafa
Me: Rafa, I love you!!!!
Oscar: Zghkidgkpp
Oscar: lmogjfb
Jun 7, 2012 10:49 PM
Me:
Oscar:
Jun 7, 2012 11:00 PM
Oscar: <3
Me: Hi Oscar it's aunt Jess!
Oscar: From Oscar
Oscar: <3
Me:
Oscar:
01 June 2012
Double Life
I'm Batman.
I'll go back.
You know how, when people used to listen to music on cassette tapes, you could press "fast-forward" and "play" at the same time? And if the singer was singing:
Suddenly it sounded more like:
Whenyouknowwhatyouwant!!!
Thewind'satyourback,yeh,andtime'syourfriend!!!
It'llpushyououtlikethetide,dragyouin!!!
Andkissyouattheend!!!
Well, that's kind of how my life's been feeling at the moment. Although it's all definitely familiar, there's quite a bit of vertiginous momentum and everything's all electric! And chirpy! And weird!
It's very exciting, if occasionally disconcerting. For instance, I'm falling in with the strangest people.
Like that guy, Gregory, holding my son (and his namesake), Rafa Gregory. He turned forty and his betrothed threw him a momentous party. And Brandon and I got to go. I write "got to go" not because we were in any danger of not being invited -- we named a kid after him and all -- but because we HIRED A BABYSITTER so that we could attend the birthday bash, at a bar, and cavort the way grown-ups do.
I should mention this was Advanced Cavorting, because Greg is a musician. Who shows up for a musician's birthday party? Many, many other musicians (of the rock variety). I think there were more guitars and other plug-in-able amplifying devices there than people -- which is saying something, since the joint was packed.
It was like a foreign country. There was set after set of music. Loud music. (Louder than you're imagining right now.) So loud that there was nothing to do but submit and let somebody hand me a drink.
It was fantastic.
And then there's this:
I've begun my work with the Freehold Theatre Lab's Ensemble Training Intensive (ETI) We had our first round of auditions for the ten-month training program a few days ago*. It was another step-through-the-mirror experience, which is to say another country visited -- this one much more familiar. A black-box theater, a small team of us behind a table. A group of applicants waiting in the hallway. Another pretty exhilarating instance of being in a room among people who know, intimately, what they are doing.
By the way: Theatre artists are easily as profane as rock musicians.
*If you are interested in applying, or know someone who might be, PLEASE contact me because there will be another round of auditions later this summer and we want to see you (or your friend) there. It's not too late!
Then it was back to rock. The same babysitter TWICE IN ONE WEEK IT IS INSANE, I TELL YOU.
Brandon and Greg's band, Hearts Are Thugs, played in a benefit show at the Sunset along with Tim Rogers. Greg, in fact, played bass for Tim Rogers' set. I can't properly explain the significance of this event because Americans are weirdly under-exposed to the band You Am I, but believe me when I say that the Australians get it.
In other words, hello Wonderland again, particularly since through some kind of crazy intersection of events, we ended up driving Tim Rogers to the Sunset in our car. Yep, we took the carseats out of the Kia so that Tim Rogers could climb into the middle back seat and be conveyed safely to his rock show.
I told you I was Batman. Wonderland, Batman, foreign travel: I know I'm mixing my metaphors but I'm fast-forwarding here! What do you expect?
It's been kind of a wild couple of weeks. I keep going from this:
To this:
From this:
(Hey, that's Brandon!)
To this:
From this:
To this:
Note Rafa's bloody nose -- the result of our newly-toddling dear one's daily face-plant.
Hard living, kid. I know how it is.
26 May 2012
Greens, Greens, and Nothing But Greens . . .
Parsley, peppers, cabbages and celery,
Or, in the case of our garden: parsley, cilantro, basil, strawberries, radishes, carrots, chard, and (we hope) tomatoes.
I had no idea that planting a few square feet of food would make me so happy.
And have I mentioned the lettuce?
Because there isn't anything much nicer than heading out to your patio with a bowl and a pair of shears to snip, snip, snip your way to the gentlest, tenderest, most adorable salad you've ever eaten.
I mean, isn't that precious?
And then there's this action:
Our family is in thrall to a juicer. We feed it daily, stuffing it with what I can only term a professional amount of produce: spinach, cabbage, lettuce (green, red, and romaine), collards, chard (green, red, and rainbow), kale (curly and lacinato), parsley, celery, cucumber, lemon, carrots, ginger, coconut, apples, oranges, pineapple.
It's obscene, I admit it. I am a brazen hussy. But it feels so right.
I crave this stuff every morning. We're talking beyond coffee. The juice! I gotta have it! It's all Requium for a Dream up in here -- except, you know, healthy. My vegetable scrub brush and me: We've become besties.
Then I drink the green juice down and ZING!
Wow! Life! It's just! So much is possible!
All of a sudden!
Maybe you've got to be there.
You want to know the days I feel truly deviant? When we throw in wheat grass.
Yes, I've figured out how to grow it myself. Turns out it's a fairly straighforward process. I can remember, back when I was in college, doing the wild show Ruthless! while stricken with mononucleosis. I used to stumble blearily by the juice bar on the way to the theater and down a shot of wheat grass before every performance. The stuff is a little bit magical.
Zow! Vitamins! Minerals! Phytonutrients! Enzymes!
Woooooooooooo!
And . . . I haven't had a migraine in six weeks.
18 May 2012
The Texture of Experience
It's good to be a grown-up.
For me, it was not always so great to be a kid. Being a kid meant having no control over my life. Being a kid meant that, for my long-commuting parents, more often than not I was a logistical problem to be solved. I didn't make my own decisions. I didn't have preferences. What was the use of them? I always deferred to others, measuring my happiness in terms of theirs. I felt fine as long as they did.
It's not like that anymore, and I've got to say: I prefer it like this.
Do you remember when you figured out that you could -- and should -- make yourself happy?
I'm not sure it was one precise moment for me. It was more of a gradual understanding, like a sunrise.
But sometimes I catch myself discovering it all over again. Like when we walked down, down, down 200 or so steps in Ballard.
Kids strapped to us, we descended.
We took in the moss, the stones, the spicy ferns, the fallen trees. It got downright steep at times. And then we came through a tunnel and hit the water.
Golden Gardens, it's called. I can't begin to tell you how beautiful it was.
As a bonus, there was a playground.
The weather was so perfect that we lingered. Brandon got called off at work and the world was suddenly our oyster. We started walking towards the shoreline and Oscar bemoaned the fact that we'd brought no toys for him to play with. But then he discovered driftwood and rocks and had a playdate with the water.
Come to think of it, we all did.
I don't know if my children will figure it out earlier than I did, but I hope they do. I've found that it's well worth my time to allow myself to sincerely enjoy myself.
Not that it's always easy, mind you. Actually, it almost never is. The moment of serenity, above, ended rapidly as soon as Rafa threw one of rocks Oscar had collected into the water. "NOOOOO, Babeeeee!," he shouted. And let's not forget there were some 200 steps for us to ascend to get back to the car while carrying our sunburned children. I was famished by the time I made it to the top, and so, promptly, was Rafael. (The bench stationed at the very top of the stairs was a welcome sight to this nursing mother.)
It occurs to me that the phrase take pleasure is more instructive than I've ever considered. Pleasure can't be fallen into like a vat of honey; it's something one must seek out and take.
(And then? Don't forget to share!)
11 May 2012
Play
Sure, sharing is caring and all that.
Totally.
I like people!
And I've no wish to raise little misanthropes.
But can I just admit that I highly enjoy a perfectly empty playground?
No awkward half-conversations with other adults.
No policing or parenting anyone's kids but mine.
No loud, long-limbed teenagers inappropriately hoarding the slides.
Just a playground -- the whole playground -- and nothing but.
03 May 2012
26 April 2012
30 March 2012
23 March 2012
Spring Awakening
It's still Lent, folks. The time of abstinence. Not a cookie, not a square of chocolate, not so much as a cup of flavored yogurt for several weeks now. With as much perspective as my sugar-free bloodstream can muster, what can I report? What has Lent done for me?
Actually, I think my body loves sweetness more than ever. But the interesting thing is that, now that I'm off added sugar, I find sweetness everwhere I look. Grains are sweet; milk is sweet; carrots are sweet with a skosh of bitter; apples are like candy. I could -- and do -- eat fruit all day. I'm not sure how my system would cope with a dish of ice cream, at this point.
And somewhere in the whirl of the winter term ending, as I've been preparing to take my family to Texas so that I can teach for two weeks next month, spring arrived. Haltingly, here: with two instances of snowfall in the month of March, I'm hesitant to pack away my wool just yet. Still, the signs are unmistakeable. Oscar's become interested in flowers. First, I noticed that he'd been taking (30 or 40!) photos of the quilt I made years ago; the one with squares and squares of blooms, trying to document them all . . .
. . . as well as several photos of himself, lost in thought.
Then he became entranced with some daffodils on the kitchen table, watching them open slowly over the course of one warmer-than-usual morning.
He later drew me a picture of a flower opening.
Then he got a bee in his bonnet to walk around the neighborhood, looking for blooming flowers that were suitable for picking. We brought home a lot of dandelions. Some flowers we pressed . . .
. . . while others made it into water, their petals already browning from being clutched in one small, warm bunny paw.
And then there's the planting. It seems our whole family's on the spring bandwagon -- we're gardening for the first time ever. We always meant to. Perhaps I'm having delusions of grandeur; I am the same woman who, before this year, couldn't keep a single houseplant alive for more than a month. But spring has a way of bolstering my gumption. We've steadily been repurposing wine crates to use on our balcony, drilling drainage holes here, filling boxes with soil there, then nudging the seeds down into their mysterious depths.
Who knows what summer might bring?
15 March 2012
09 March 2012
Brothers
I was finishing up some yoga the other night when it occurred to me that I hadn't heard either one of my children for three or four minutes. I'd actually had some semblance of a shavasana, for example -- an end to most traditional yoga practices that I usually find impossible to achieve, given two monkey children who regularly confuse my body with a jungle gym.
My initial reaction, of course, was alarm. When I then heard water running in the bathroom, the sensation intensified. As I bounded towards the sound, my brain (as it sometimes does) raced through a morbid projection of the future: A police officer, interviewing me, was bound to ask what I could have possibly been doing while one of my children drowned in the toilet/split his skull open on the tile/poked his eye out with tweezers/drank glass cleaner. And what would I answer?
Yoga.
Lucky for me, the anguish didn't last. I turned the corner and saw this:
So . . . apparently the baby can climb the stool now.
They were playing together.
It could have gone wrong in so many ways.
Let me count the ways!
On second thought, let me not. They were okay.
It was a good night. Let's just leave it there!
04 March 2012
03 March 2012
A Shopping List
As transcribed by Oscar:
yogurt
bunny crackers
pimenton
26 February 2012
Control
Although it's been fairly mild here, winter has dug in and she's fixing to stay a spell. With nary an alternative to waiting for spring, we are cuddling down at home with a vengeance.
Our family knot is pulling tighter, as it always seems to during the colder months, conserving our resources through this season of quaint deprivation. "Quaint" because, of course, we're not actually deprived of anything much; in fact, we're swimming in excess of the essentials over here. And thence returns the yearly exercise of cutting back.
Yes, it's that time of year again. Lent!
And, right on cue, here come our ducks: waddle, waddle, waddle, quack, quack, quack.
We commence herding them into a row. Come along, ducks! Spit spot!
No spoonfuls of sugar for us, though, unless they are metaphorical, for we have given up sugar until Easter.
Three boys vaccuuming
Notice I did not write carbs -- that would be cruel to this bread-loving bunch. Instead, we are eliminating sugar in its cloying varietals: white, brown, powdered, cubed, corn syrup, cane juice, molasses, maple, honey, agave. And no artificial stand-ins. Interesting to attempt this bit of stunt-abstinence with a four-year-old in the house. I guess I'll keep you posted.
That's not the only cut-back, though. Lent seems to be coinciding this year with a veritable wave of taking stock. Desperate to mitigate the chronic migraine headaches I've had since my early twenties, I'm overhauling my diet in search of possible triggers. We're weaning off caffeine, for instance -- something that would have been unthinkable as recently as a year ago. Alcohol consumption is virtually nil. And it's quite possible I have some kind of dairy-sensitivity, so (gasp!) milk, cheese, and butter might soon scale back drastically as well.
And cable. Cable is bye-bye. Guess that means no Oscar broadcast to watch this year! Darn!
Such self-denial! Jeez, what am I, the Dalai Lama?
Rafael: "VROOOOOM! VROOOOOOM!"
The nicest thing is that none of us appears to be feeling crabby about any of it. (Check back in in a month, maybe!) Rather, we're facing these changes happily, as a unit, so there's a fun, experiemental quality to the whole thing; a curious momentum.
"VROOOOOOOM!"
And Brandon and I? Today is our sixth wedding anniversary, and we're looking at each other with eyes that are googlier than ever. It's not like the road ahead looks exactly easy . . .
It's more like: Compared to that kind of stimulant, coffee and sugar don't stand a frigging chance.
16 February 2012
The Texture of Experience: Kitchen Table Edition
Let's hear it for family gathering places and their attendant messes, including paper scraps, broken crayons, soggy paper towels, dried glue bumps, muffin crumbs, juice spills, and greasy fingerprints!
I love our meal-and-art-time hub.
Besides, I now have a four-year-old, for whom setting the table, organizing art supplies and cleaning with vinegar solution qualify as growing-up treats. So what if I have to clean the same space three or more times a day? At least I never have to do it by myself.
11 February 2012
Germination
Took a little while, but I'm teaching again.
When I moved to Seattle some eighteen months ago, I was awfully pregnant. The end of my New York experience blitzed by too quickly for me to take it all in. I remember directing a showcase for my final class of students while waddling slightly, and kissing them goodbye in a flurry of light cues and performance adrenaline. I remember they baked me a cake, and there were no plates or forks, so one of them ended up running to Duane Reade on a tech break to return with utensils. I remember sitting on the edge of the stage, swinging my legs and quipping about baby names. I remember some of them cried when we said goodbye.
Then I was here, and then came Rafa, and he was a lot to take in.
And I've watched Oscar transform from a baby into a boy. Again, a lot to take in.
Plenty, really, for a long time there.
I'm their mom, you see, and to them it's the only thing I know how to do. I'm proud of what I've learned so far about mom-ness. Mom-ness has been -- and will continue to be -- extraordinarily educational, consuming, frustrating, fun.
In the interim, I've also had to re-learn who else I am. I've been as patient as I know how to be. More patient, actually, then I've ever known how to be before. Waiting for my turn again.
Because everything that will ever happen in my life will always happen within this context of mom-ness. I will never not be their mother. I will never not have that job.
So if I do any other sort of job, I have to figure out how to make it work again: tend to all of it.
Funny, I'd been away from teaching so long that I began to doubt I'd ever truly get back to it. There were no jobs; I was in a new city; there was never any energy; there was never any time.
I was sorely tempted to lose heart.
Was that it?, I asked myself. Maybe it simply won't happen again. I'm not the woman I was anymore . . .
. . . and OFF went that inner giving-up switch. If I were a giver-upper, I'd never have become an artist in the first place. Instead, I did what I've always done: the work, the work, the work.
And
It happened.
You know what? It wasn't magical. Magic didn't do it. Instead, it happened how things really happen. Through working. And waiting. And loving.
I had to re-sow some seeds that resisted sprouting. (The middle peat pot, if you're wondering. Parsley.)
But look:
It is happening, in its own time.
What these college kids will think of me remains to be seen.
03 February 2012
Good Reads
Wynton Marsalis: Squeak, Rumble, Whomp! Whomp! Whomp!: A Sonic Adventure
Lucy Cousins: Create with Maisy: A Maisy First Arts-and-Crafts Book
Dr. Seuss: One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish (I Can Read It All by Myself)
Mo Willems: Elephants Cannot Dance! (An Elephant and Piggie Book)
Mo Willems: Can I Play Too? (An Elephant and Piggie Book) (Elephant & Piggie Books)
Maribeth Boelts: Happy Like Soccer (A Junior Library Guild Selection)
G. Brian Karas: The Village Garage (Christy Ottaviano Books)
Sherri Duskey Rinker: Goodnight, Goodnight Construction Site
Florence Parry Heide: Princess Hyacinth (The Surprising Tale of a Girl Who Floated)
Monica Carnesi: Little Dog Lost: The True Story of a Brave Dog Named Baltic
Il Sung Na: Snow Rabbit, Spring Rabbit: A Book of Changing Seasons
Jenny Slate: Marcel the Shell With Shoes On: Things About Me
- Molly Bang: Yellow Ball (Picture Puffins)
Candice F. Ransom: The Big Green Pocketbook (Laura Geringer Books (Prebound))
