Owl_Says_Who's Open Salon Blog

First It Shattered

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 23:11:05 -0500

First It Shattered

It is an old metaphor, the shattered mirror,

this mirror we shared/shard/shredded.

There is no replacement, but:

We pick up pieces (is this yours or mine?)

We carefully sweep (what to keep, what to leave?)

We cobble together a larger frame (will it fit us both, including the seams?)

We create a new mosaic (can it reflect us each/both?)

We walk carefully in very bare feet.

Sting
The Dream of the Blue Turtles (1985)
Fortress Around Your Heart

Under the ruins of a walled city
Crumbling towers and beams of yellow light
No flags of truce, no cries of pity
The siege guns had been pounding all through the night
It took a day to build the city
We walked through its streets in the afternoon
As I returned across the field's I'd known
I recognized the walls that I once made
I had to stop in my tracks for fear
Of walking on the mines I'd laid

And if I built this fortress around your heart
Encircled you in trenches and barbed wire
Then let me build a bridge
For I cannot fill the chasm
And let me set the battlements on fire

Then I went off to fight some battle
That I'd invented inside my head
Away so long for years and years
You probably thought or even wished that I was dead
While the armies are all sleeping
Beneath the tattered flag we'd made
I had to stop in my track for fear
Of walking on the mines I'd laid

And if I built this fortress around your heart
Encircled you in trenches and barbed wire
Then let me build a bridge
For I cannot fill the chasm
And let me set the battlements on fire

This prison has now become your home
A sentence you seem prepared to pay
It took a day to build the city
We walked through its streets in the afternoon
As I returned across the fields where I'd once played
I had to stop in my tracks for fear
Of walking on the mines I'd laid

And if I built this fortress around your heart
Encircled you in trenches and barbed wire
Then let me build a bridge
For I cannot fill the chasm
And let me set the battlements on fire

Yeah, so . . . Raven and I and the Giant (our 16-year-old) are back together, after some difficulty and a breakup (I suppose “temporary separation” would now be the appropriate term).

All I can say is, we're trying to figure it out.

We have much to be thankful for . . .

"My" apartment provides a home for us.
I have a job which can sustain us, while Raven continues to look for work.
We have a new appreciation for our individuality, and for the "life work" of the other.
Although nothing is EVER certain, we have each moment . . . yesterday is gone, and tomorrow is a whole new day.

Happy Thanksgiving, one and all.

Gotta Start Somewhere - Mike Rowe on QVC

Sun, 22 Nov 2009 01:11:47 -0500

If you're a fan of Mike Rowe, the guy on Dirty Jobs (Discovery Channel), and if you need a good laugh, AND if you've got a few minutes . . .

Mike Rowe started out on QVC. Clearly, a little too smart for the job, though, as you'll see . . .

Since it's Sunday, we'll start here:

Precious Moments . . . hope your day is full of them (gets better as it goes):

Couldn't stop laughing at this one:

And this just speaks for itself:

Remembering the Edmund Fitzgerald

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 20:11:29 -0500

Dark clouds brooded above us as we waited for the bus, squeezing into the little porch of the Methodist church to avoid a strangely slashing wind punctuated with random spittle from the sky. The walk had only been one block, but each gust smacked the hood of my raincoat with whatever was flying through the air, a little startling each time. I hummed Jesus choruses under my breath, too low for the other kids to hear; as a second-grader, and a new kid, I knew better than to let my nervousness show. I wasn’t the youngest, but I sure didn’t want to get the wrong kind of attention from the middle- and high-schoolers surrounding me.

Instead, I focused on my brother’s birthday: it was November 10^th, and Mick was turning five. If I made it through the day successfully, I’d be coming home to spaghetti (his favorite meal, in spite of an incriminating photo of him in his highchair joyously eating the stuff with his fingers) and birthday cake with candles. When the bus came, I was already in a better mood, Archie’s lunchbox in hand, seven-year-old spirits on the rise.

During homeroom, there was barely any sun, but splotches of leaves and sprinklings of pine needles kept peppering the window behind Ms. H’s desk. I switched classes for reading, to Mrs. B’s room; Mrs. B. required my full attention because she had eyes in the back of her head, and didn’t like it when I hid a Hardy Boys book inside the workbook. Fortunately, we switched back to homeroom before morning recess, and since today we were held indoors, I got to read the whole time.

“Since the weather seems to be getting worse, the busses will be lining up out front to take you home early. Instead of going out the classroom doors, you will be dismissed through the front, so it is very important that you listen to your teachers, and be quiet in the halls. Thank you,” said the voice on the loudspeakers.

It wasn’t even lunchtime, which was fine with me. I didn’t like math very much, and the social studies book was boring. I carefully wrapped my books in the breadbag I kept to protect them from rain, put on my raincoat, took my lunchbox from my cubby, and joined my class in line.

Usually, between classes, everybody talked in the hall, but today, they were quiet, which was okay with me. I never had anything to say anyway, so for a change, I fit right in. Each class was dismissed from the front door to their busses one at a time, which was very weird, at least as weird as getting out of school before lunch time and it wasn’t even snowing. When it was our class’ turn, I started to walk the Bus 8, but ran when I felt the wind on my face, blowing warm/wet down my neck under my plastic shell.

That’s what was weird. It was November, but it was warmer than usual. And wet. It felt like a tornado was coming, and the clouds were so dark and low. Oh well. I buried myself in the Hardy Boys for the half-hour ride home, and ran to the house from the bus stop like an Indian brave.

The power outage had good timing; the lights went out while the birthday candles were lit, so Mick didn’t even get scared. And they came on again, so it wasn’t too bad. Full of spaghetti and cake, I read myself to sleep, listening to the banshee coming over the Lake Michigan, rattling my windows and spitting wrath.

The next morning, I awoke to the clicking numbers of my clock-radio, snug under layers of quilts. The news was all about a ship in Lake Superior, a freighter. As far as anyone could tell, it vanished. The waves were 30 feet high, like three basketball hoops stacked on top of each other, and the announcer said that maybe the two ends of the freighter had been picked up at the same time, and the middle just broke, or that maybe it had “submarined.” The coast guard couldn’t find any wreckage.

And 29 men were presumed lost at sea.

The year was 1975. It was the Edmund Fitzgerald.

---

Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald
1976, Gordon Lightfoot

---

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they called "Gitche Gumee."
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
when the skies of November turn gloomy.
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty,
that good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
when the "Gales of November" came early.

---

The ship was the pride of the American side
coming back from some mill in Wisconsin.
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
with a crew and good captain well seasoned,
concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
when they left fully loaded for Cleveland.
And later that night when the ship's bell rang,
could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

---

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
and a wave broke over the railing.
And ev'ry man knew, as the captain did too
'twas the witch of November come stealin'.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
when the Gales of November came slashin'.
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
in the face of a hurricane west wind.

---

When suppertime came the old cook came on deck sayin'.
"Fellas, it's too rough t'feed ya."
At seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in; he said,
"Fellas, it's bin good t'know ya!"
The captain wired in he had water comin' in
and the good ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night when 'is lights went outta sight
came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

---

Does any one know where the love of God goes
when the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
if they'd put fifteen more miles behind 'er.
They might have split up or they might have capsized;
they may have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and the names
of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

---

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
in the rooms of her ice-water mansion.
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams;
the islands and bays are for sportsmen.
And farther below Lake Ontario
takes in what Lake Erie can send her,
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
with the Gales of November remembered.

---

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed,
in the "Maritime Sailors' Cathedral."
The church bell chimed 'til it rang twenty-nine times
for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they call "Gitche Gumee."
"Superior," they said, "never gives up her dead
when the gales of November come early!"

---

Harry's Ghost (Formerly Harry_Homeless) also wrote about the Edmund Fitzgerald. Please visit his post for more of the freighter's history, and a list of the 29 souls lost.

---

The Goblins Will Get You (If You Don't Watch Out)

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 21:10:35 -0400

INSCRIBED WITH ALL FAITH AND AFFECTION
To all the little children: - The happy ones; and sad ones;
The sober and the silent ones; the boisterous and glad ones;
The good ones - Yes, the good ones, too; and all the lovely bad ones.

~James Whitcomb Riley

“The ice-house and the bees!”

“We hear that one all the time, I want the first time you saw a car . . . puh-leeze, Grandad?”

Grandad positioned the embroidered footstool using his toes, slipped off his shoes, and adjusted his bifocals. He watched us with a twinkle in his eyes.

“I like the one about the pony,” said Erin quietly, blue eyes shining. She couldn’t have been more than 3 or 4, which would have made me about 9.

I wasn’t the oldest cousin in the room – that was Randy, something like 14. We were conspirators in all things regarding the cousins - he the ringleader, me the steady right hand - especially if there was mischief. Grandad kept an eye on his audience, 7 squirming grandchildren, most tucked into beds and pallets on the floor, ranging in age from 3 to 8, plus Randy and me, calm and waiting. I was keeping an eye on Randy, who seemed to be thinking about something . . .

“Tell us about playing soldiers and the guardhouse and basketball!”

It was tradition that, whenever Grandad M. was visiting us, or we were visiting Grandad and Grandma, the day ended with Grandad telling bedtime stories. The themes might be historical (including Mad Anthony Wayne or Tecumseh or Annie Oakley or ancestors he’d been researching), or autobiographical (including any interesting aspect of growing up in early 20th century rural Indiana/Ohio). Randy and I were really too old to be in with the little kids, but it was fun to watch them hearing the stories for the first time.

“Well, I don’t know,” Grandad said, stretching himself out with his hands behind his head and looking at the ceiling. “We might only have time for one, it’s getting pretty late.”

A cold wind rattled the windows of the upstairs bedroom where we were gathered. Grandad was mostly done with the renovations in their hundred-year-old home, but it didn’t stop the leaves from slapping up against the glass, nor the slight groans of the frame expanding and contracting by millimeters in the changing weather.

“Grandad, we haven’t heard about Little Orphan Annie in a long time.”

Trust Randy to come up with that one – it was so much better than the one I was thinking of, the one about the panther escaped from the circus . . . at night . . . on the long lane . . . but I read his mind . . . brilliant.

“Hmmmm, you want to hear about Little Orphan Annie? Well, I’ll have to see if I can remember it.”

Cool. Grandad was totally playing along.

“Let’s see . . . you guys need to settle down a little so I can think.”

The little kids burrowed down into their blankets, and tried to stay still.

“And Owl . . . maybe if you turned off the lights, it would help me concentrate.”

I smirked at Randy knowingly, and saw him nod slightly at me just as I flipped the switch. I tiptoed to crouch next to Randy, where there was just enough light coming in from the hall light that I could see some of my cousins’ faces.

I heard Grandad’s feet scooting the stool a little, and the chair creaked as he leaned forward . . .

“Now . . .

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun,
A-listenin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
             Ef you
                  Don't
                      Watch
                          Out!”

It was pin-drop quiet now, so when Grandad paused to think about the next part of the story, I could tell that no one was fidgeting . . .

“So . . .

Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers, -
An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an' roundabout: -
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
             Ef you
                  Don't
                      Watch
                          Out!”

“But . . . but,” Erin began.

“Shhhhhhhh,” answered everyone else. Even in the dark, I could see their eyes getting bigger.

“An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;
An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'for she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
             Ef you
                  Don't
                      Watch
                          Out!”

The bare branches outside the window were grasping at the full moon coming out from behind a cloud. It was dead quiet now, and Grandad started the next part like he was telling a secret.

“An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!”

Unseen currents rattled the windows . . .

“An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin' bugs in dew is all squenched away,”

. . . All the eyes I could see were wide, wide, wide . . .

“You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,
An' cherish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
             Ef you
                  Don't . . .
                      Watch . . .”

A brush of cold fingertips on my cheek startled me sideways . . .

“Out!”

I dodged and rolled into the light spilling in the doorway.

A huge gasp came from inside the room as all the little kids got ready to scream.

I caught myself before I yelled, but my heaving chest and enormous eyes must have given me away. I instinctively looked for Randy, now standing and silently grinning ear to ear as he held out his hand to help me up.

I took his hand and kept to the shadows so I could finish shaking in peace.

He’s still one of my favorite cousins.

Dammit.

Text for the poem and the inscription were found on a website honoring James Whitcomb Riley, one of Grandad's favorite poets.

An Attitude of Gratitude

Mon, 5 Oct 2009 18:10:54 -0400

To say I’ve had a fucked up summer seems a bit of an understatement. If I were writing fiction, an editor would redline the sequence of events as over the top. Here’s the rundown:

Raven lost her job – well, walked out over some injustice and such.

I had something like an existential meltdown in June.

In late June, Raven's vehicle went "out of commision," leaving us with one vehicle. It appears to have been the fuel pump, but when the guy went to replace it, he found that the gas tank was about to rust away from the frame for good. The fuel pump may have saved her life. The vehicle is currently under re-construction at one of her friends’ houses. Next week should end my 3 month virtual house arrest due to lack of transportation in a rural area.

In July, our family ended up fleeing our house like the Israelites out of Egypt after a blowup with the landlord; safe purchase was found for the cats, and for each of us, but in separate places. Raven and Giant stayed with a friend whose intrusive parents live next door; the parents are basically good people who have major issues with people of color and homosexuals. So, with my work schedule and office location (45 minutes away), I stayed in the 4 bedroom/1 bath apartment in the office basement – the other tenants were construction workers rotating in and out of local assignments.

In August, I took a position with a start-up company doing similar work with similar hours, but with a chance at professional growth and a new challenge; I slept on a couch at a co-worker’s house while it was being renovated.

And most recently, my marriage of 11 years ended by mutual decision. Next week we would have celebrated 14 years since our first kiss.

Some of this I’ve written about. Some of it is too raw to write about.

Even in sum total, it doesn't compare to a lot of shit that’s happening in the world – and it’s not nearly as serious as some of the shit that is happening, or has happened, to folks right here on OS. In perspective, it could be a lot worse.

But this post isn't about that.

Here's what it's about:

I wanted to give a shout out to the OS community – just for being you.

When I needed to get out of my head, I’ve been able to read, rate, comment, party, and generally absorb myself in the flow here. (I love you guys.)

And when I needed to find a way to let off a little steam, or even a sort of whimper, you guys have blown me away with your kindness, warmth, and generosity of spirit.

At first, the little voice in my head - you know the one – said “that’s nice, but you know, what else are people supposed to say?” – as if it should be dismissed.

And then another voice, hopefully the wiser one, said, “yeah, but do you mean it when you leave comments?”

Well, yeah.

“Then it’s possible that these people mean it, too.”

And it took a minute for that to sink in. You know what that means?

It means that we matter. It means that these little electronic words matter. Whether we’re using our real names, or writing from behind an icon, our words matter. We matter.

For better or worse, we create a lot through our words.

I came to OS a little over 6 months ago, thinking I’d have a nice little place to try to rediscover my voice as a writer. I didn’t realize it was helping me rediscover my voice as a person – but it has, and it is.

So I want to say thank you. Those two words seem pretty small, by comparison to the blessings I have received here, but they’re all I’ve got right now.

The song below may seem like an odd choice. But here's the thing: as we share our stories with each other, we often find solace, advice, and companionship as each of us journey.

Pain and celebration, politics and punditry, teaching and learning, fun and frivolity - OS is a microcosm of humanity. I dig that.

Thank you, people of OS. Namaste.

Thank U
Alanis Morisette

How about getting off of these antibiotics
How about stopping eating when I'm full up
How about them transparent dangling carrots
How about that ever elusive kudo

Thank you India
Thank you terror
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you frailty
Thank you consequence
Thank you thank you silence

How about me not blaming you for everything
How about me enjoying the moment for once
How about how good it feels to finally forgive you
How about grieving it all one at a time

Thank you India
Thank you terror
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you frailty
Thank you consequence
Thank you thank you silence

The moment I let go of it was
The moment I got more than I could handle
The moment I jumped off of it was
The moment I touched down

How about no longer being masochistic
How about remembering your divinity
How about unabashedly bawling your eyes out
How about not equating death with stopping

Thank you India
Thank you providence
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you nothingness
Thank you clarity
Thank you thank you silence