My sister tells me her dreams.
Dream #1: An African Warrior is living in her garage. She asks him, "Do you eat here, do you sleep here?"
Dream #2: She finds two severed arms, severed above the elbow and below the wrist. They have hanging tendons. She picks them up and finds that they are floppy and hilarious.
This is the story that came out of my brain, after she told me her dreams.
Two Sisters are walking down the street. One is dressed conservatively in sleek black and white, and she's wearing heels. The other is in earth colors, wears flip-flops, and is wearing a scarf that serves no purpose.
The two one-armed Sisters link elbows and walk into a garage. It is the Warrior's lair.
One Sister giggles.
The other frowns. She wants to scratch her nose but she can't.
The garage has throw rugs on the hard concrete. There are beautiful tribal wall hangings and a round wooden table, with three high-backed upholstered chairs. The sisters take seats across from the African Warrior.
She leans in, ten lacquered nails resting on the table.
"How do we become warriors?" the flip-flopped Colorful Sister asks.
"Fuck everyone."
"Fuck everyone?" the high-heeled Black and White Sister asks. "My boss, men, women, hermaphrodites, my husband, my girlfriend, everyone?"
"No," the Warrior says. "Fuck everyone. Their opinion of you doesn't matter."
Black and White Sister stares. "Do you realize we have two arms? Between the two of us? When we tell the stories of how we lost our arms, people form opinions of us, as if they hadn't already been thinking nasty horrible things when they see our one arms. I lost my arm in a slow-speed chase of an ice cream truck last July. My arm got stuck in the freezer in the back of the truck, and the music was so loud, the driver didn't hear, and everyone who saw me running behind the truck thought I was an overenthusiastic ice cream lover, and they thought I was screaming for ice cream, and all they did was wave at me. My sister here, she went zip-lining in South America, fell sixty feet into the waiting maw of the jungle below, and lost her arm to flesh-eating bacteria."
Black and White Sister and the African Warrior look expectantly at Colorful Sister. Colorful Sister smiles serenely and says, "I understand."
"What is it you understand? Not to go zip-lining in South America again? Not to wander into strange people's garages?" Black and White Sister is red-faced.
"Fuck everyone." Colorful Sister extricates her arm from Black and White Sister and high-fives the Warrior.
"Now we will draw severed arms, and give them personalities." The Warrior leads them to a section of the garage splattered with paint.
Black and White Sister crosses her arm. "I came for enlightenment, I came to feel better about my situation, and you want us to draw?"
Warrior and Colorful Sister kneel on the floor and begin mixing finger paints. Fleshy colors mostly.
Colorful Sister quickly sketches her arm onto the canvas and just for giggles, draws it severed at the wrist. She draws a forearm with an elbow really, and some silky tendons hanging out where the fingers should be. It is whole, beautiful, all by itself on white canvas, glowing, no hint of flesh-eating bacteria anywhere.
Black and White Sister kneels down and mixes her finger paints. She sketches a hard form, almost a 3-D boxy stick arm, with five strong fingers, all in a fist, except that the middle finger is raised high, tall and proud.
The Warrior beams.
Black and White Sister surveys her work with satisfaction. "So you eat here, in this garage?" she asks.
"Yes," the Warrior says, gesturing to the stove in the corner.
"You sleep here?"
"Yes," the Warrior says, gesturing to a mattress with neatly folded blankets behind a colorful hanging tapestry.
Black and White Sister looks at Colorful Sister. "I don't get your Northern Exposure, Twin Peaks, One Hundred Years of Solitude symbolic notion of life and why you dragged me here."
"Fuck you," says the Colorful Sister.
The Warrior beams.
The Sisters hug, thank the Warrior, and leave the garage, arm in arm.
Warrior's husband comes out from behind the colorful tapestry. "I'm glad they're gone. I wasn't going to get in the middle of that."
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Sunday, May 5, 2013
The Gap
You are a powerful woman. Uncompromising, strong, everything I want you to be. But you are feminine - caring, unsure, vulnerable. This tension is unique to you. Say it in your writing. Your voice is valuable. - Papa, Christmas 2007
Here are the items she brought to the meeting: pen, notebook, Droid, and water bottle. She was excellent at dissecting a conversation, especially when those in authority were pontificating. Ignoring out-loud thinking and capturing her assignments on paper was her specialty.
The other managers were there, all men smooth and leaning back casually in their leather chairs, tossing out half-formed opinions and receiving thoughtful nods from the men higher up the food chain.
Neanderthal idiot goons, she thought, keeping her ankles crossed and an attentive smile on her face.
The discussion turned to fundraising. Mike from marketing, bless his heart, spoke up first.
"Sponsorships are essential to our next five years. I cannot stress how much our financial sustainability depends on alternative funding sources in these economic times."
Jim was next.
"To build on Mike's excellent statement, I would agree and also add that we need to think outside the box."
Then Ted.
"Yes, I agree with Jim and Mike and their valuable insight. We need to think outside the box and find unconvential alternatives."
She put her pen down.
Robert said, "We'll have to train our workforce to think outside the box. They don't do that very well."
Murmers of assent flowed around the table like the wave at a baseball game. There was a high five at the other end of the table.
She couldn't stand it anymore. She cleared her throat and said, "I think we need to put a request for proposals out for retailers to sponsor our delivery trucks statewide. I've analyzed the return on investment and if they give us a million dollars they can reasonably expect eight hundred thousand impressions."
As she was speaking, Robert and Jim turned in their chairs toward the CEO and leaned forward. Other than that, no one moved, and no one made eye contact with her.
Four seconds of silence passed.
Ted said, "I agree with Robert's excellent point. We can no longer afford to be the only ones with unconvential thinking. We need our entire company thinking about how to raise funds right now."
"Now is that a training problem, or a talent problem?" Jim asked.
Resigned sighs rippled through the room, making her guess that they thought the company's talent problem was hopeless.
Robert pointed his finger high into the air and said, "What about - and this thought just hit me now - what about our fleet? What about all that blank space on our trucks? I bet we could find a corporate sponsor who wants a piece of that."
Ted leaned forward in his chair.
The CEO said, "Robert, that's an excellent idea. How much do you think we should go after?"
Robert said, "Oh, I would say about one million dollars would get us back on our feet for now."
"I like the idea Robert. Get a team together and let's see what you can do. Give me an update in a week."
Her pen slipped to the floor. She rose out of her chair and bent to pick it up, then thought better of it. She stood, squared her shoulders and spoke.
****************************************************************************
Here are the items she brought to the meeting a week later: a cup of coffee and her Droid. As she sat down Robert handed her the sponsorship status report.
The CEO strolled in and parked himself in the seat next to her. "How are they doing, Rachel?"
"I've got a good team, Frank. We're on track to put out the sponsorship bid on Friday. We've got two potential funders on board already."
Robert said, "Sir, your decision to make Rachel our supervisor was the best you could have made. She is wholly engaged in ensuring a successful outcome on this project."
"I agree with Robert," Ted said.
Jim and Mike looked a little sick.
Here are the items she brought to the meeting: pen, notebook, Droid, and water bottle. She was excellent at dissecting a conversation, especially when those in authority were pontificating. Ignoring out-loud thinking and capturing her assignments on paper was her specialty.
The other managers were there, all men smooth and leaning back casually in their leather chairs, tossing out half-formed opinions and receiving thoughtful nods from the men higher up the food chain.
Neanderthal idiot goons, she thought, keeping her ankles crossed and an attentive smile on her face.
The discussion turned to fundraising. Mike from marketing, bless his heart, spoke up first.
"Sponsorships are essential to our next five years. I cannot stress how much our financial sustainability depends on alternative funding sources in these economic times."
Jim was next.
"To build on Mike's excellent statement, I would agree and also add that we need to think outside the box."
Then Ted.
"Yes, I agree with Jim and Mike and their valuable insight. We need to think outside the box and find unconvential alternatives."
She put her pen down.
Robert said, "We'll have to train our workforce to think outside the box. They don't do that very well."
Murmers of assent flowed around the table like the wave at a baseball game. There was a high five at the other end of the table.
She couldn't stand it anymore. She cleared her throat and said, "I think we need to put a request for proposals out for retailers to sponsor our delivery trucks statewide. I've analyzed the return on investment and if they give us a million dollars they can reasonably expect eight hundred thousand impressions."
As she was speaking, Robert and Jim turned in their chairs toward the CEO and leaned forward. Other than that, no one moved, and no one made eye contact with her.
Four seconds of silence passed.
Ted said, "I agree with Robert's excellent point. We can no longer afford to be the only ones with unconvential thinking. We need our entire company thinking about how to raise funds right now."
"Now is that a training problem, or a talent problem?" Jim asked.
Resigned sighs rippled through the room, making her guess that they thought the company's talent problem was hopeless.
Robert pointed his finger high into the air and said, "What about - and this thought just hit me now - what about our fleet? What about all that blank space on our trucks? I bet we could find a corporate sponsor who wants a piece of that."
Ted leaned forward in his chair.
The CEO said, "Robert, that's an excellent idea. How much do you think we should go after?"
Robert said, "Oh, I would say about one million dollars would get us back on our feet for now."
"I like the idea Robert. Get a team together and let's see what you can do. Give me an update in a week."
Her pen slipped to the floor. She rose out of her chair and bent to pick it up, then thought better of it. She stood, squared her shoulders and spoke.
****************************************************************************
Here are the items she brought to the meeting a week later: a cup of coffee and her Droid. As she sat down Robert handed her the sponsorship status report.
The CEO strolled in and parked himself in the seat next to her. "How are they doing, Rachel?"
"I've got a good team, Frank. We're on track to put out the sponsorship bid on Friday. We've got two potential funders on board already."
Robert said, "Sir, your decision to make Rachel our supervisor was the best you could have made. She is wholly engaged in ensuring a successful outcome on this project."
"I agree with Robert," Ted said.
Jim and Mike looked a little sick.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
Art
Got to draw today and lose myself in my head for an hour and a half. Thinking about tennessee ham and strawberry jam.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
My little pole cat, the octopus
I was going to write about the mornings in our house as we get ready for school and work, but I can't write these days. The creativity is gone and the words feel leaden even in my head and they certainly cannot be expressed in any meaningful way. They are awkward, clunky.
I was going to tell you about how rushed I feel in the morning, the last twenty minutes before we walk out the door are spent in chaos, with our two year old running from us and the only way we can get her dressed is to hold her down with our feet while we struggle to pull her clothes on. Like dressing an octopus, but those words are too old to use, because I've used them too many times before.
The reason I feel rushed is that my daughter is still, and quiet, and sits on my lap for the first half hour that we are awake. And I feel peace, and I don't give a shit that I'm going to be late for work because I can smell her hair as she pats my hand. When I finally break away to take a shower I pour her Cocoa Pebbles and threaten her with big trouble if she decides to put her hands in the fish bowl while I'm in the bathroom.
She glares at me and laughs at me like a little pole cat and I realize my words are too clunky and awkward to threaten my daughter properly. Life is a battle in our house and I'm going soft, and I'm pretty sure it's her fault.
I was going to tell you about how rushed I feel in the morning, the last twenty minutes before we walk out the door are spent in chaos, with our two year old running from us and the only way we can get her dressed is to hold her down with our feet while we struggle to pull her clothes on. Like dressing an octopus, but those words are too old to use, because I've used them too many times before.
The reason I feel rushed is that my daughter is still, and quiet, and sits on my lap for the first half hour that we are awake. And I feel peace, and I don't give a shit that I'm going to be late for work because I can smell her hair as she pats my hand. When I finally break away to take a shower I pour her Cocoa Pebbles and threaten her with big trouble if she decides to put her hands in the fish bowl while I'm in the bathroom.
She glares at me and laughs at me like a little pole cat and I realize my words are too clunky and awkward to threaten my daughter properly. Life is a battle in our house and I'm going soft, and I'm pretty sure it's her fault.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Angels Among Us
for every demon
ten million angels
think about it
you're surrounded by angels
you've only seen demons
on the news
ten million angels
think about it
you're surrounded by angels
you've only seen demons
on the news
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Stuck
It's like she woke up from a dream and started writing.
Someone had taken my life and my diaries and written a book: Truth-isms and In-Your-Faces by Crazy Coppertop, edited by So-and-So.
Chapter One
In this time of economic woe, nothing makes you feel better than remembering the good times, when your friends actually liked you and put their arms around you and told you how awesome you are on a daily basis. That doesn't happen these days at work where a commonly heard phrase is "Night of the Long Knives." And in this time of mortgages and kids and SUVs and car seats and food permanently stuck under the table, it helps to go back to those wide-eyed days when your friends dropped these Buddha-like bombs and uttered truisms about the world, so certain that they were the first to see it and everyone slaving away at their muckity-muck jobs were blind sheep.
"The world cannot support more mouths, therefore it is my ethical duty - hee, hee, she said dootie - to forebear procreation."
We walked in the rain because it was brave and romantic and we had fucking hours to kill. Hours. Every day.
"A great artist is one who can transform herself, over and over again, to reflect the time in her life and the art the world needs for the moment."
And we had hours to pontificate and read poetry and ascribe meaning to the latest song from Third Eye Blind.
I want something else
to get me through this
semi-charmed kinda life
baby
baby
And what consequences to any of this? A vague sense that at some point our choices were going to matter but more of a sense that life was happening to us and there was nothing we could do about it.
"Don't get a tattoo. You'll never get a job with a tattoo."
Love was cruel in the way that since we couldn't control the world we were aware that we'd better have all the sex and the long talks we could before the real world sucked us far away from each other, and we used it as an excuse to make no promises other than non-binding blither.
"To thine own self be true. Always. No matter what happens between us."
The unequivocal laughing acceptance of me, the pleasure of seeing each other. Scorn. Unadulterated scorn of where I come from, like a soft nest I could settle into, the pet names designed to love and belittle. The rare moments of serious shared life.
And then blindly we trade one language for another and we learn the acronyms at work just so that we can be blindly accepted, and we invent other truisms about life and love and motherhood and we stop questioning because frankly with car seats and a mortgage questioning becomes dangerous, and there's too much at stake.
"No. We tried that before."
"It doesn't fit the rules."
"Motherhood is full of joy and disappointment, but I wouldn't trade it for anything."
"I am a worker bee, infinitely replaceable, therefore I must behave."
And thirty-five becomes old, and we look back at fucking milestones, like a fucking project timeline where the next 50 years consist of gray projections.
"A great artist is one who can transform herself, over and over again, to reflect the time in her life and the art the world needs for the moment."
Someone had taken my life and my diaries and written a book: Truth-isms and In-Your-Faces by Crazy Coppertop, edited by So-and-So.
Chapter One
In this time of economic woe, nothing makes you feel better than remembering the good times, when your friends actually liked you and put their arms around you and told you how awesome you are on a daily basis. That doesn't happen these days at work where a commonly heard phrase is "Night of the Long Knives." And in this time of mortgages and kids and SUVs and car seats and food permanently stuck under the table, it helps to go back to those wide-eyed days when your friends dropped these Buddha-like bombs and uttered truisms about the world, so certain that they were the first to see it and everyone slaving away at their muckity-muck jobs were blind sheep.
"The world cannot support more mouths, therefore it is my ethical duty - hee, hee, she said dootie - to forebear procreation."
We walked in the rain because it was brave and romantic and we had fucking hours to kill. Hours. Every day.
"A great artist is one who can transform herself, over and over again, to reflect the time in her life and the art the world needs for the moment."
And we had hours to pontificate and read poetry and ascribe meaning to the latest song from Third Eye Blind.
I want something else
to get me through this
semi-charmed kinda life
baby
baby
And what consequences to any of this? A vague sense that at some point our choices were going to matter but more of a sense that life was happening to us and there was nothing we could do about it.
"Don't get a tattoo. You'll never get a job with a tattoo."
Love was cruel in the way that since we couldn't control the world we were aware that we'd better have all the sex and the long talks we could before the real world sucked us far away from each other, and we used it as an excuse to make no promises other than non-binding blither.
"To thine own self be true. Always. No matter what happens between us."
The unequivocal laughing acceptance of me, the pleasure of seeing each other. Scorn. Unadulterated scorn of where I come from, like a soft nest I could settle into, the pet names designed to love and belittle. The rare moments of serious shared life.
And then blindly we trade one language for another and we learn the acronyms at work just so that we can be blindly accepted, and we invent other truisms about life and love and motherhood and we stop questioning because frankly with car seats and a mortgage questioning becomes dangerous, and there's too much at stake.
"No. We tried that before."
"It doesn't fit the rules."
"Motherhood is full of joy and disappointment, but I wouldn't trade it for anything."
"I am a worker bee, infinitely replaceable, therefore I must behave."
And thirty-five becomes old, and we look back at fucking milestones, like a fucking project timeline where the next 50 years consist of gray projections.
"A great artist is one who can transform herself, over and over again, to reflect the time in her life and the art the world needs for the moment."
A Place for a Prayer, or Rest in Peace Jessica Ridgeway
She came to me in the red leaves outside my window
the sunlight shining through her color so that my bedroom was filled
with her glow.
I had put her and her mother and father from my mind
because she reminded me too much of all I had to protect
every day
every waking and every sleeping hour.
Little girls have Heaven in them
and she in Heaven as sure as she is in the leaves outside my window.
She came to me two days ago
in the quiet eyes of my daughter
but I wasn't ready to look.
the sunlight shining through her color so that my bedroom was filled
with her glow.
I had put her and her mother and father from my mind
because she reminded me too much of all I had to protect
every day
every waking and every sleeping hour.
Little girls have Heaven in them
and she in Heaven as sure as she is in the leaves outside my window.
She came to me two days ago
in the quiet eyes of my daughter
but I wasn't ready to look.
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