i dare you

I stole this most excellent graphic from my friend Sarah Hope's new blog, in which she dares herself and all the rest of you humans to do things that might make you see/feel/experience life a little differently.  A few weeks ago, she dared us to put our feet in the mud. For some, I know this is crossing a boundary of sorts, but for me, that's just another day in the woods. I didn't think it was that big of a deal, really.

But I decided to do it anyway.  Not knowing where, exactly to find mud in the middle of July, I decided that there must be some down by Cheyenne Creek, a short walk out my back door.

After a bit of searching, I found the perfect creekside rock, set my composition book down, removed my Chaco sandals, and sank my feet into the water. Ooooohhh. Already, I was thanking Sarah in my mind.

At the bottom, about nine inches down, my feet touched not mud, but coarse granite sand, a natural foot massager if ever there was one.  My gratitude for Sarah's dare grew bigger.  It felt so good I decided to take a walk upstream.  I probably ventured only about 30 yards before turning around, but taking steps barefoot in creeks is such a calculated, mindful experience, it felt like an epic journey.  Plus - it was a whole new world in there! There was a hiking path on one side of me, and a road on the other, but under the canopy of the trees and with the rippling sounds of the water, they disappeared. Then I remembered creek hiking at Camp Kilowan every summer!  Then I started singing:  "Kilowan, Kilowan, your maidens have gathered...."! Then I remembered fairy boats! Then I wanted to bring everyone I knew on a creek hike! I still do!  I have no idea how if it would work (the creek's pretty narrow), but if anyone wants to come with me, I dare you.

(Unfortunately, my phone died just as I was taking it out to get some photos.  I was angry for about two seconds, and then figured it was actually kind of a gift.  No one knew where I was, and there was no way for them to reach me.  I found this to be an extremely pleasing circumstance. Anyway, here's a photo of Cheyenne Creek from the internets)










I finally returned to my rock and grabbed my composition book.  Here is what I wrote:

The water 
will almost always flow 
faster than your stride --  
get used to it.

Pine cone canoes 
navigate the rapids
by not navigating. 
submerge
resurface
flounder
snag

Will you will recognize 
in yourself 
the false prophet 
if you stay too long 
in one place?

The key is to connect 
and disconnect 
in a cycle prescribed by 
the cottonwood leaf

Thank you, Sarah.  For the memories, new and old.

Caye Caulker, Belize

In a motorboat skimming across Caribbean

Blue, the shirtless Islander pilots like a pirate.

One-hand on the wheel, he tells today's tourists

Stories of his Great Barrier Reef Boyhood.

Listening with lust, novice young snorkelers

Adjust their unfamiliar equipment, and awkwardly

Await their turn in the turquoise below.

A ceiling fan revolves, whirs, hums, delivers

Tiny breezes across naked bodies, sprawled

Like already forgotten suburbs. From the wall, a lazy

Lizard watches the only movement in the room–

A single thumb stroking a satisfied cheek. Outside,

The regularly-scheduled afternoon thunderstorm

Tells the stirring lovers in Neverland: Go back to sleep.

Escaping through make-believe walls, the sound

Of reggae rhythms, melodies.  At sunset, lured
By unbroken beats, sandaled feet wander from boats
And beds toward the bar. Reefer floats on the sea air.

Barefoot and nearly bare-bodied, American girls sway

With Rasta boys on floors of sand. Sometimes,
They stay, and raise beautiful blue-in-the-moonlight babies.

But most times, they manage to barely not miss the boat,

the bus, the plane, and end up in a gray airport, inadequately
dressed, asleep on a cold seat, waiting for a ride home.

Ghost Ship Blues

I've never been there, yet I know this place.  It has had incarnations across the Earth, and in all eras. The one I knew was in Portland, Oregon in the early 90's. I was in my early 20's.

I don't remember its name, or even if it had a name.  There are things I do remember, but I don't think I can put them in any particular order.  (Besides, the order of things, once you can read Heptapod.. hmmm... I find myself thinking about the dialogue that might have happened around the table during the making of Arrival...was there an Agenda Item 2b:  Hepta vs. Septa,  or was it just a discussion that began organically, where someone had an idea and the other person said, "Yeah, and..." my money's on the latter...  all the good jobs in the future belong to the creative class anyway... as I get older, I find I have less and less tolerance for meetings with agendas, real or hidden... whatever, my point is that somehow or other they decided to use Greek instead of Latin...and oh yeah, I forgot it was a book first, so the decision was actually probably the original author's, so never mind).

As I was saying:  the order of things, once you can read Heptapod, is less important, and your linear thoughts may well start talking in circles, just like that parenthetical non-sentence above.

The List of Things I Remember in No Particular Order

1.  The Mezzanine that came alive at night
2.  The beyond-handsome Mexican poet
3.  The openness of the kitchen -  every pot, pan, dish, glass on makeshift shelving
4.  The vintage sofa with warm crocheted afghan
5.  The slight chill.  Hence: afghan
6.  The smell of tobacco and herb
7.  The random communal drum kit
8.  The long hair and knit sweaters and trench coats
9.  The gloves with the fingers cut off, on whose hands I longed to have hold me
10.  The sketchy neighborhood (that would become gentrified in ten years)
11.  The openness of everything
12.  The awkwardness of everything

Awkward because I wanted to belong, fully, completely; there was a heady mix of nostalgia for the past and promise for the future that led to art, and which I understood at a cellular level.  But I Didn't. Quite. Belong.  Not Totally.  I was a first-year teacher, trying to adult for the first time, head still full of revolutionary educational ideas, but also full of an MAT degree, lessons to plan, meetings to attend, and students to be responsible for.

I loved it though.  I loved the company and the conversation most of all.

There are so many moments in your hazy young 20's you forget.  But you never forget dumpster diving with the artist boy/man crush (and that one time you found and hauled out your favorite teak desk that is now in your 16-year-old's room), then returning to his cluttered/clean apartment in the warehouse, and smoking cigarettes, and having a 26-year-old Mexican poet drop in to read to you from his journal.

I was never quite sure if it was safer to take the stairs or the elevator.  They were both adventures.

I don't mean to idealize this life, either.  Some of it was filled with drugs, some with despair. But I would venture to say that it wasn't much different than your average home at the time, just less hidden. And it was alive.  Of that, there is no doubt.  I'm also certain that people will start looking for someone to blame, and that the owner of the building is going to have to "own" his part of the tragedy.

Anyway, that's just a whole lotta words to simply say, no matter what the circumstances:
I mourn the loss of the Ghost Ship, its people, its heritage, and its future.

because when i say "bunker's cabin", i want you to know what i'm talking about

summer, '09:










It's where John proposed to me. One of the tattered old log books still holds proof of that Labor Day weekend, 1995.

It's where I asked him, "If a bear came and attacked me, what would you do?" and he answered, "Run like hell!" Which at first I misunderstood entirely to mean he would run away, but after a thorough explanation from him, I learned that he meant that he would sacrifice his life for mine.

It's where we took my mom once when she came to visit Colorado. Before she got cancer. We cross country skied for several miles up Burnt Creek.

It's where I spent Thanksgiving, 1998, with friends I don't see much any more, but still hold close in my heart, because they are friends who have known my husband longer than I have.

It's where I baked a pumpkin pie from scratch when I was six months pregnant with my firstborn for previously mentioned Thanksgiving dinner.

It's where we passed the Summer Solstice of 2009, after I had just finished a year's worth of cancer hell. (pics above)

It's where the latest log book now holds entries from my sons.

It's where, during Spring Break of 2010, we froze our butts off at night, skied while the world was advesperating, and tried to forget (for a little while) about all the life changes coming our way very, very soon. (pics below)

spring break, '10:












It's where, next summer, we will return with fishing gear, and the boys will catch some trout while I rest on a log beside Cliff Lake and do nothing but watch and listen to them.

live blogging of the irish soda bread

12:51: Oven preheating at 425. Cast iron skillet oiled and warming in oven.



12:55 pm: Assemble ingredients, mindfully recollecting the recipe from yesterday so I don't have to look it up. Three cups flour, 1 t. baking soda, 1 t. salt, 1 1/2 cups buttermilk. That's it, really. The recipe is so simple even a home ec. teacher could teach adolescents to bake it.



Here's what I look at while getting everything ready:


I stare for awhile at the watercolor of our house that Cheryl painted, and I feel nostalgic for something I haven't even left yet.

12:56: Detect the odor of lightly burning oil. Take skillet out of oven and set on top of stove. Note that oven isn't yet preheated.

12:58: Dance a little in the kitchen to Blue Plate Special, which I normally don't like, but am kind of in the mood for right now. Plus, I do like the sound of Jeff Bieri's voice.

12:59: Wash hands. Dry them on a clean towel. Throw towel over right shoulder with left hand, and wish once again that I possessed an apron. Think once again about sewing one. Excited to bring out Grandma's sewing machine table once we move a bunch of stuff out of our house. Realize the moment I start typing this that I've gotten computer keyboard germs all over my hands. Shit! No more live blogging until bread is in the oven!

1:01: Wash hands again. Accidentally dry them on the old towels. Throw old towels in laundry. Wash hands again.

1:19: I look up at the digital clock to see what time it is, and it says 1:19. I realize that I failed to start the timer (after taking the picture of it), and instead, turned it off. Reset timer for 30 minutes, remembering that yesterday I cooked it a little less than the prescribed 35 minutes anyway.

Here's what happened between 1:01 and 1:19:

Measured flour carefully. Dismayed to find that I didn't have much Mountain Mama white pastry flour left, so it winds up being about a half white/half whole wheat mixture.

Added the teaspoon (plus a little extra 'cause I like it) salt. Marina turned me on to this gray sea salt:



Added the teaspoon (minus a little for high altitude) of baking soda.




Stirred it up and dug a hole in the center. Only had one cup of buttermilk; no worries-substituted a little plain yogurt and milk.



Poured buttermilk/yogurt/milk mixture into the flour/salt/soda crater. Mixed just until moist. Turned out onto floured board and kneaded gently a few times. Formed the dough into a ball in my hands, and placed it prayerfully in the receiving skillet. Pressed the dough ball into a giant, fat pancake.



Cut the pancake into quarters, and placed it into preheated oven.

Set timer for 35 minutes.

1:42: Waiting not-so-patiently, with butter and jam, and reading this. Then I start reading this, and begin to rethink my decision to take cooking out of my curriculum for next year. Cooking is science and history and math and a whole lot of other things, all in one.

portland

thicker than rain-drops on November thorn,
fleshy tongue meets pink petal.
roundabout rose gardens 'round here
remind us to yield with
absent umbrellas
and
step lightly over the well-tended grass.
ensconced in the long-abandoned
playhouse,
rotten wood will conceal our stolen
kiss while the circus
passes by

You know, sometimes it's good to question statistics. To closely examine the method behind the numbers. To be a critical thinker. But when somebody I love (Hi, Nancy!) sent me these percentages recently, I just took them on faith. Sadly enough, they just felt correct.

During my father's years on this earth, our nation was at war 13.5% of the time.

During my years on this earth, our nation has been at war 17.5% of the time.

During my son's years on this earth, our nation has been at war 37% of the time.

During my grandchild's years on this earth, our nation has been at war 63% of the time.

To think that our nation has been at war for almost two-thirds of my children's lives is just so..... so..... so..... fucking crazy! And now Obama is committing more troops to Afghanistan. Thirty billion dollars and a year and a half later, where will we be?

As many of you know, my husband spent much of his childhood in Afghanistan and Pakistan as the son of a diplomat. I love to sit at his mother's table and listen to her and John remember. I marvel at the adventures of a young family in a foreign land. Unpronounceable (to me!) names of people and places roll off their smiling tongues and then, somewhere between the first and second martini, it all turns into one gigantic sigh.

I experienced this same phenomenon last month, when my family and I went out for dinner at Rumi's Kabab to celebrate our 14th wedding anniversary. By the end of the night, Shams (the owner) had pulled up a chair, and the boys and I listened to more stories of the glory days of Afghanistan. Again that happiness, as John and Shams shared stories of markets and travels and mountains. And then, eventually, that same heaviness, the profound melancholy of something lost.

I know we can never get the Bamiyan Buddhas back, but I just hope, one day, that the people in that region will know some sort of relative peace. And when they do, I am fairly certain that it will have nothing at all to do with us.

16: moments

the perfect yellow

My best friend in high school had this poster on her wall, right where we could lie on her water bed and stare at it, dreamy-eyed, for hours. It was 1983. I wonder if she still has it, stored away in some dark place with all the other relics of youth. Seeing it now, I can almost feel the adolescent idolatrous idealist inside of me.

Last night, I danced with two friends to a whole set of nothing but Michael Jackson tunes, at a Denver club where most of the patrons were half our age. They ate sushi; I ate edamame. We were overdressed and didn't give a shit, because we were all wearing something that made us happy. The young men could tell we were dancing in our own little worlds, and they mostly seemed to respect that somehow, even as they joined in. Smiles and just plain fun all around.

Tonight, my sons and I stayed up way past our bedtimes, watching videos of "Beat It" (followed, of course, by "Eat It", at which they laughed hysterically), "Billie Jean", "ABC", and others. A cultural history lesson via youtube. Tomorrow morning, when night has turned to day once again, and the world feels just a little bit safer, we will watch "Thriller". Zombies. Dancing. How could that NOT be good?! Revolutionary, even.

It's all pretty messed up, I know, what with the whole Michael Jackson corpse extravaganza thing and all. Believe me, I KNOW people die every single goddamn day from all sorts of causes: some naturally tragic, some insanely stupid, others completely preventable.

But I really can't get all worked up about either the fanaticism of it all, or the criticism of it all.

All that matters to me, at this moment, is that he be remembered for his music. And the memories he has gifted, at great expense to himself, to an entire generation. That was some kinda magic. Let us all be judged on what we did well. On whatever bit of magic we managed to bring into the world.

I have been contemplating my beige-walled kitchen for awhile. Someday soon, I will go out and search for the perfect yellow: the yellow of Michael Jackson's sweater vest.

all things considered

They may simply look like bottles and pills to you, but to me, they have become a life-saving ritual.

Every morning and evening, the same. Swallow 21 pills. (For those of you watching the numbers, that's 42 a day, my age... again) Then there's the flaxseed-grinding, the smoothie-blending, the green-drinking, and the tincture-swilling.

The natural-colored herbal gel caps are from my neighborhood witch. The unnatural-colored yellow pills are from my oncologist. I used to house them in different places in my kitchen, until I realized that they all belonged together.
What's inside all those gel caps, you ask? Here's a sampling of some of their exotic and everyday ingredients:

Manchurian spikenard
Turmeric
Quercetin
Luo han gou
Indian Gooseberry
Boron
Vanadium
Goat weed
Vitamin B6
Royal jelly
Korean ginseng
Suma
Rosemary
Ashwagandha
Black pepper
Cordyceps mushroom
Eleuthero root and leaf
Japanese Knotweed
Licorice
Holy Basil
Bromelain
Creatnine
Chromium

In addition to swallowing all those pills, Heide also has me drinking a green concoction composed of brussel sprouts and kale and cabbage and spinach. It's lemon-lime flavored. Really. The smoothie protein powder she gives me contains (gasp!) colostrum! (It's from cows, not humans, of course, but still... weird.)

The yellow ones you see are prescribed Potassium and Protonix. And then there are the toughest and cruelest of them all, the ones you can't see here, the chemo drugs: Adriamycin, Cytoxin, Taxol.

The way I look at it, I've got to use everything under the sun available to me.

As a teacher, I've drawn from diverse sources: ITIP, Kagan, Love and Logic.

But those are all systems; it's the people, of course, that have had the most influence on who I am as a teacher.

I have had many guiding forces, from my nazi-like advisor when I was a student teacher, to my paternal first grade teacher, and many more in between. Mrs. Phelps (advisor) taught me how to direct instruct and maintain discipline, and kept her kids loving her and learning much with a strange but effective mix of toughness and love. Mostly, she demonstrated the self-sacrifice and hard work it takes to make sure every single kid "gets it". Mr. Witham (first grade teacher) allowed me to call him "daddy" (my parents were recently divorced), told fractured fairy tales from his imagination before they were popular in books, and made everyone feel safe. I can't remember a word of criticism ever leaving his lips. (My mother sent me his obituary when I was 24 and in my first year of teaching. When I read that he had died of AIDS, I cried like a baby).

I believe what makes me such a great teacher (humble, too, aren't I?) is that I draw upon a variety of teaching techniques and influences, as long as they feel mostly true to me. If it works, use it! We get so bogged down in the "right way" of teaching or parenting or medicating that we lose sight of the ultimate goal. And as every parent knows..... every child is different. As every doctor knows.... every patient is different. What works for one might not necessarily works for another.

I guess that's why I instinctively mistrust parenting experts, politicians, priests and educational consultants (yes, especially them..... and their publishing companies). They are only selling one product, it's the answer, and you have to believe in it. Period.

I don't buy it. And so my arsenal of healing includes it all. Chemo, pills, tinctures, MRI's, EKG's, plants from around the world, yoga, flaxseed, and $5,000 shots of Neulasta.

All things considered, the most important factor, I suppose, just like in teaching, is the people. That'd be you. Thanks for being a part of my treatment plan!

In my early morning internet link wanderings, here's the best thing I stumbled upon:












via

second time around

I've never understood the need to watch a film more than once. People who own movies confound me. There's only so much time we are given in life, shouldn't we use it to learn/experience something new? I've also felt the same way about books. Or at least I used to. In fact, before this summer, I think the only book I had ever read twice was Anna Karenina.

I've had a hard time starting and finishing books over the past year or so. My mind wanders. Or I'm not interested in the characters and their mundane problems. Or there's not enough sex. Or there's too much plot. Or I'm half way through and can already see the end, and it's either happily ever after or a train wreck so there's no sense in going on.

This summer, in order to stave off the fear that I will never finish another book, I decided to abandon any possibility of a new novel, and revisit some of my favorites. Ones I know I actually finished once upon a time, and enjoyed. Ones I know fundamentally changed the way I saw the world and/or my place in it. I wanted to read the books I read when I was 11 or 23.

The first book I picked up was The Hobbit. It was fun. And funny. I had forgotten, in all of the Lord of the Rings-movie-big-battle-hype, how funny and sweet Tolkien was in that first little adventure. I fell in love with Bilbo Baggins all over again.

The next book I picked up (and just finished this morning) was Jitterbug Perfume. If you are a Tom Robbins fan, you'll know why. What I remember, from being in my early 20's, was that Jitterbug Perfume fundamentally awakened in me something I already knew. It was like Tom Robbins took what was already in my heart and soul, and put it on paper. Jitterbug Perfume values mythology over reality, the magical over the mundane, and manages to bring together history, metaphor, religion, politics, philosophy, sex, immortality, and, yes, dancing and perfume into one big gigantic soup of individual liberty and otherworldly/othertimely possibilities. Anyone who doesn't like this book is really not eligible to be my friend.

Next up on the list: The Dark is Rising Series by Susan Cooper. I read them when I was in 6th grade. I can't wait to read them again and find out why I loved them so much.

What books did you love when you were 11?
What books did you love when you were 23?

Tell me this, and I will know who you are.

click to blow

DANDELION

and a poem to go with:

petals on the wind

There are no more petals to be counted
No more he loves mes
No more he loves me nots
All those yellow doubts
Transformed into silvery strands
Tiny parachutes of memory
Waiting for the wind
Or the restless dreamy breath
Of a young girl’s spinning wish for her heart to stop
And free her from the stem, the stamen, and the story
About to unfold

Flowers know how to live.

But we,
mere mortals-

we struggle just to reach the surface of the soil

today in other people from my past

Mark DH. He once whisked me out of Seattle in the middle of a panic attack. I once walked the Alaskan tundra with him. We once almost got married.

He makes these incredible pastel artworks filled with luscious dreaminess and visceral aliveness. He has been animating them lately. This one's my favorite. Proboscis Planet:



You can see more of his animated artworks on the baconwafer channel. I will see Mark in September, and we will need only to sit together and say a few words to be happy.

Kirsten LD. She once kissed me. I once visited her in England when she had three kids and I a one-year-old. We once hitchhiked to get to the Glastonbury Festival.

She just produced a BBC radio programme about Child Preachers in America. I saw her last March when she was passing through en route to Spokane while working on the show. We sat on the floor at DIA, curled up head-to-head and had one of those "we've-only-got-an-hour-so-let's-not-speak-of-things-that-don't-matter-and-I-love-you-soooo-much" talks.

I met Mark and Kirsten at the same time, second semester junior year. 1988. Pacific Lutheran University. A course titled Feminist Theology brought a ragtag group of us together that year, and it became a magical awakening time. The kind you can only have when you are young and open and shy and ready and full of longing and lust for life. Sometimes it's hard to believe that 20 years have passed since then. Twenty fucking years!

If it happened once, and you can imagine it, then it can happen again. (That's what Azar Nafisi told the crowd at Shove Chapel when I asked her what UPSILAMBA meant to her.)

I think Alzheimer's is about the scariest thing imaginable. I mean, really, who would we be without our memories? Without our sacred moments? Our daydreams?

There are catalysts in our lives. Sometimes a person and a place and a time come together in such a way that we are forever changed. And we are catapulted into other orbits or higher planes.

What does upsilamba mean to you?

one virgen's lament x3

Remember, girl-
When we painted each other’s newly-ripened nearly-seventh grade nipples
With Breezy’s brushes
And Rainbow’s colors
In teepees, protected by
The spirits of gynomundo and the footprints of faeries?

Remember, girl-
When you and I would,
Naked and laughing,
Tickle each other’s backs with folklore rhymes
Of applesauce and morse code,
Discovering our power by raising tiny goosebumps
Out of frigid flesh?

Remember, girl-
When we maintained absolute belief in the power of a creed
Girls Life Long Bounce Back Insurance
GLLBBI
Permanent ink in the palms of our hands
An invisible veil of protection from the boys
Who would intrude?

Remember, girl-
For the ink will wear away.

[1997]

derby dames

I have the utmost respect for these girls. They take their sport seriously, and are the hottest things on four wheels that I know of in this town.



"In Segment 119, Springs Culture Cast reporter Sue Spengler talks with a few of the Pikes Peak Derby Dames All Stars after their win against the Houston Hard Knocks."

(If the video doesn't seem to load, you can watch it here: Derby Dames!

But perhaps most importantly, happy first birthday to Springs Culture Cast, which posted the very first segment today in 2007.

Amazing. I like anniversaries and birthdays because they naturally inspire your mind to wander to the place of, "Hmmmm... where was I at this exact time last year....?"

Look how far SCC has come in one revolution. Look how far we have all come.

And where were you, this time last year?

the ghost of christmas past

My father left his wife and two kids on Christmas day in 1971. I was four. My brother was ten. In the years that followed, the three of us always celebrated together on Christmas Eve. Christmas day was a solitary but exciting affair, when the one unwrapped present from Santa (and the only toy) arrived under the tree. My mother was never there, under the tree with us, on Christmas morning.

I have absolutely zero memories of Christmas as a family of four, and there are no pictures remaining to help me remember. The memories I do carry with me are the ones my mother tried so desperately, without much money, to create. Upon our arrival home from Christmas Eve service, my mother would light a fire, as well as every last candle in the house, and turn off all the lights. It was like magic to me, this candle-lit time, when the ordinary became mysterious and cast shadows on the wall. My mother, my brother, and I would then gather in the front room to open our presents.

Perhaps it was because there were so few of them, or perhaps it was because there were so few of us, or perhaps it was because my mother was trying to savor these few brief moments of her children's happiness. Whatever the reason, we opened our gifts slowly, one at a time, with reverence. Gifts from our mother were always hand-made items (or necessities), and I'm absolutely certain that my brother and I never rewarded her fully with the joy she had hoped to see on our faces. I have asked her forgiveness for this more times than I can count. If it's any consolation, Mom, I still have my skirt with the elaborately embroidered Holly Hobbie on it, and I know that my brother's giant stuffed brontosaurus still lives somewhere (if only in his mind).

It's only now, as a mother of a seven and eight year old, that I can truly appreciate the sleep she must have sacrificed to get those presents under the tree for us. It's only now that I am grateful that she informed my world not with mounds of material things, but with gifts of time and talent. It's only now that I can see how my sense of tradition has carried over into how I raise my own boys.

And it's only now that I am able to recognize her pain and sorrow behind the candlelight during those years. She could have given in to misery and self-pity every Christmas, but she chose to make it special for us, using her sheer will to make it so.

And I am absolutely certain that this melancholy feeling, along with my desire to overcome it with candlelight and small things and willpower, is something I must have learned from her.

r.e.m. nightswimming

because all summers must come to an end

the beautiful things that heaven bears

I inhaled this little melancholic novella by Dinaw Mengestu in two days. Echoes of other immigrant stories, yet all its own. Read/heard about it in three different places within as many days...you know how that comes to "mean something".

Here's a snippet of a conversation between two African immigrants who escaped violent coups in their separate homelands to come to the US with the naive belief in that elusive American Dream.

Everything is beautiful to you.

Not everything.

But damn close.

You just have to have the right perspective.

Which is what?

Indifference. You have to know that none of this is going to last. And then you have to not care.

And then the world becomes beautiful?

No. It becomes ridiculous. Which is close enough for me.

It is filled with these embedded little gems that make you stop and want to underline them. But I never do.

smalltown boy

I was listening to KEPC, 89.7, on my way to work yesterday morning, when this song came on. I started singing at the top of my lungs, physical memories of lights and people and my own dancing body flooded my world. When I finally came to, I found I had missed the left turn green light, at least eight cars having gone before me, and mine having gone nowhere. Luckily, there was no one behind to wake me from my revelry with an angry, "I have to get to work, bitch, stop singing!" honk. It has been playing in my head for the last two days.

It was somewhere in the mid-80's and music ruled the world. My world, anyway. I spent the latter half of that decade in college, with a semester abroad in Spain and a year abroad in England. All the while connecting myself to people who would go see The Cure in Madrid or Robyn Hitchcock in Manchester (I drove a van full of 15 students through the roundabouts of Manchester to get us to that show!), or Echo and the Bunnymen in Seattle.

Once upon a time, dance music wasn't just one tedious beat after another. "Maybe," she says with a sigh, "I'm just getting old and I just don't get it."

But when this song came on in the club, we were ALL there, rushing to the dance floor to work out our darkest fears, our dearest hopes, our lovers and friends all together in the same realm. Bronski Beat. I willingly confess to loving this band. Listening to The Age of Consent over and over and over again in my dorm room. Dancing as if my body or soul might explode at any minute. I miss that. There's no place for us of The Breakfast Club generation to dance that will play Bronski Beat. Or Simple Minds. Or New Order. Or Cabaret Voltaire. Or Bauhaus/Tones on Tail/Love and Rockets. No place that I know of anyway. Please enlighten-I desperately need to dance to something other than endless monotonous techno filled with teasingly painful reminders of my past. (I think they're called "samples").