my life imitating an rei catalog

Sometimes, in life, you turn a page, like when you watch a movie or read a book or make a new friend that creates a spark.

Other times, you begin a new chapter. A child is born. You get a new job. A marriage.

Sometimes, however, a change is so dramatic that it's as if you were closing one book and opening up the next one in the series. These aren't necessarily the "big" moments or the traditional rites of passage. But they are the ones that shift your perspective and create a whole new way of being in the world........


For the first time in Spengler family history, we loaded FOUR mountain bikes onto the Blazer! For those of you who think that's just a page, think again. This is monumental. A whole new world. A new book. Let it be known that my boys, on their very first true mountain biking experience, went up and down shit I had to stop for. Oh my.....





Yeah, we were simply one of many. One of the loaded down SUV's headed out to the desert for Spring Break. Yeah, we burned a whole lotta oil to get there. And yeah, we feel insanely guilty about it. And yeah, we had a really great time.

Nightmare necklaces made by the Navajo:

Newspaper Rock:

North Window:

You know, you can't really capture the essence of Canyonlands NP or Arches NP in a photo. At least I can't. But the first time you walk under one of those arches, something begs you to lie down on your back and look up. Only from the most vulnerable position can you truly get a glimpse of the greatness.

Arches is a place full of sexual imagery like no other I have ever seen. Or maybe it was just me. There were penises and breasts and pregnant women and vaginas and all manner of earthly delights. I desperately want to go backpacking and lose myself in this wildness for a few days......



In a moment of insanity, I thought I could ride up something that truly was not within my realm of ability:

Bennett and I conspired to tell Grant that a mountain lion had attacked me, and that Bennett had scared it off and saved my life. The look of panic on Grant's face for all of three seconds before he realized it was a joke was priceless.

I guess this photo pretty much sums it up:


Yeah, it's like that. In the desert. In springtime.

but will he resurrect in three days?

The boys wanted a reasonable answer as to why the Easter Bunny didn't find us in Leadville.














No, I didn't give them this one.

Today, I ran into an old friend at Mt. Princeton Hot Springs. We picked up where we had left off.
While looking up from my riverside pool of bliss, I saw a man that looked just like the quintessential Jesus... long brown wavy hair, beard, white robe (oh, wait, maybe that was a terrorist?.....)

I pointed Jesus out to my friend and she quipped, without missing a beat, "Well, it figures, it IS Easter."

hanging by a thread

I kneel,
Delicately separating
That which needs to be thrown in from
That which needs to be hung out.
Imperceptibly, without warning-
Tears.
Because there’s no reason
Except piles of dirty laundry and a washing machine with too many choices

A spiraling black vortex carries me backwards
To the time before consequences,
My child-self sound asleep in pink gingham.
I kneel,
Invisible beside my mother and watch
Her hands, younger even than my own
Deliberately placing my cotton panties into drawers she
Knows by heart.
She moves so slowly, stops, stares into the darkness-
Tears.
Because there’s no reason
Except a lost childhood and a dresser full of broken dreams.
When all the work is done, my ghost joins her for a smoke on the porch
And we exhale hidden sorrows for the stars and the moon

I spiral up with the wisp and find myself next to a woman I have only
Seen in sepia,
Drowning her only daughter’s one dress in the washtub
Scrubbing violently on the washboard as the sun is setting over the hill.
She looks up vacantly-
Tears.
Because there’s no reason
Except that it will be the same tomorrow and the day after that

She remembers the sea green room where bland food was served with
Those little white pills
And they let you smoke
Undisturbed
With whomever you chose

And somebody else did your laundry

[June 2007]

i love oregon, part III

Gatke Hall, home of the MAT program.
Willamette University
Salem, Oregon

The excuse I used to take a mini-vacation to Oregon was that there was an MAT reunion at Willamette University, where I received my Master of Arts in Teaching degree in 1992. Two of my favorite and most influential professors were going to be there. I wanted to look them in the eyes and say, "Thank you." Not simply for their instruction, but for creating an exceptional program that turned out not just teachers, but thoughtful, intelligent, creative leaders.

The first, John Tenny, made me buy my first computer in 1991. It was one of the requirements of the program. He insisted on a Macintosh LC. I remember that all the elementary schools still had Apple IIe's at that time. I borrowed $4,000 from the Federal Government Student Loan Program to purchase it! I thought my mother would die.

John was a rare bird. We thought it strange that this "old guy" (when you're 24, anyone over 30 seems ancient) was not only embracing computers, but evangelizing about them. Sometimes we thought he was a bit nuts, but his enthusiasm, combined with our discoveries of what was possible, ultimately won us over. We were using lesson plan templates, a grading program, and learning to make spreadsheets and data graphs (in color!) long before any of our contemporaries. Oh my did we MAT students ever impress our cooperating teachers!

John Tenny saw the future. And although his prediction that Macintosh would forever rule the world of education eventually came to an end, his vision of the potential of the computer to connect people would serve us well into the world of email and blogging. Yet with all his love of technology, one of his favorite phrases, and one I always remember in a crisis, was "There's a low-tech answer to every high-tech question."

The other, Rich Biffle, taught Classroom Management. It wasn't about discipline, but about how to arrange desks, distribute materials, build a community of learners, and then, if need be, deal proactively with any issues that might arise. He reminded us every day that our calling was noble and sacred.

Rich taught with a style and grace and compassion I had never before encountered in a college professor. I still repeat two of his oft-spoken mantras to anyone who I think might appreciate them. The first and most important thing he preached was that we could do anything we wanted within our four walls as long as we learned how to "finesse the system". This phrase has lived in my radical teacher soul for the past 15 years, and served me well on in so many instances. The second phrase, still so timely, is this: "There is nothing so unequal as the equal treatment of unequals." Yeah, think about it. For awhile.

I was one of the last ones remaining after the luncheon, talking with them about old times and new ventures.

John is developing new software for educators.
Rich is teaching at the University of Hilo in Hawaii.

After saying thank you and before saying good-bye, I asked if they would be so kind as to take a picture with me. I fished my camera out of my bag, turned it on, and the blue screen read "battery empty" and the damn thing beeped the most horrendous ear-shattering beep. I wanted to cry. Luckily, there was another couple still milling about who had a camera and were taking photos, so I asked them if they would please, please, please take a photo and email it to me. It arrived in my inbox today.



Good teachers, I mean really good teachers, stay with us forever. My husband and I have both had the experience of students who have contacted us from their futures to express some sort of gratitude. It's usually for something so simple and forgotten as placing a book in a hand or sowing the seed of an idea. If you know one of those teachers, please hunt them down and tell them a story. Say thank you. Let them know it mattered.

And you don't need a $4,000 computer to do it.

how good a whore are you?

Powered By Rabbit Vibrators
Take the quiz and let me know. The questions are far less esoteric than the book quiz, so try and be honest.

A true whore has a mystic understanding of Power. She knows men for what they are: pathetic, cowardly, needy beings who may wield power in the big big world, but are helpless little boys inside. She listens attentively. She understands, or at least she pretends to.  She laughs at jokes. She flirts. She strokes egos as well as cocks. True men understand and worship her Power; they are not afraid to admit their unworthiness and cowardliness before her. She views her art as healing, and sends men back into the world to be, perhaps, better husbands and fathers.

Perhaps my vision is romanticized or perverted, I really don't know.... if you think I'm high, by all means let me know.  But in all honesty, who among us would not love to find out how much we are worth per hour!? It's all a fun little game, this quiz, but there's a reason the whole story is so compelling..... it taps into something very profound that goes beyond morality and stupidity.

As for Mr. Spitzer, there's a special place in hell for hypocrites. I can only hope he sends a personal little apology to all the girls he's helped to lock up. I won't be holding my breath.

P.S. Guys - you can take the quiz, too.

i love oregon, part I

It was like fast forwarding time, and not just the hour. Weeks of winter simply disappeared into daffodils and apricot blossoms. Spent several hours lost inside Powell's before emerging into the rain and a lonely city bar crawl with an old friend I hadn't seen in 12 years. Bicycles everywhere. People talk to strangers here-now I know where I learned that trait.

i love oregon, part II

When I lived in Salem, this house belonged to "The Lost Boys". I was in love with one of them. Now it is the home of Janet and John Roy and sometimes Jesse. It's still a place where lost souls can come and always find a place at the table. Or in the garden. They won't serve you a drink, and that's just fine.

don't we all......

I was driving Grant and Bennett over to their friends' house early Friday morning, since there was no school and I was catching a plane to Oregon in just a few hours. Grant has always had a way of quoting things he's heard or read that's rather eerie. (Not like a child with Aspergers or Autism, mind you, but still eerie).

Me, I don't remember squat; not even really good jokes. I listened to the whole joke show on A Prairie Home Companion last weekend. Couldn't tell you a single one. Ok, maybe one. This one:

I was depressed last night so I called Lifeline and got a call center in Pakistan. I told them I was suicidal. They got all excited and asked if I could drive a truck.

(See, the ones I remember aren't really even the funny ones, just the sick ones!)

Back to the backseat of the car now, where Grant starts quoting Pirates of the Caribbean. "But this one's my favorite...." he says, and he gets all mystic and reverential before he recites, "It's not just a keel and a hull and a deck and sails, that's what a ship needs, but what a ship is... what the Black Pearl really is... is freedom." Then a long dramatic pause. And a sigh. And then....

"I want to live like that."

I came out of my self-absorbed driving mode, slowed down, turned around, looked him in the eye and said, "Don't we all, buddy, don't we all."

the ultimate peep show

This was the best thing in my Inbox today.

Thanks for the laugh, Jana..... passing it on.

tpp as the sun rises on the hagia sophia

I'm drowning in the middle of my own TPP at the moment. That's "Total Pity Party" for the uninitiated.

I just found out today, after several emails and phone calls, that our much-anticipated summer travel adventure to Turkey is NOT going to happen because some incompetent secretarial schmo didn't send us an application form for the teacher-diplomat program for which John was supposedly a shoe-in!

That's all.

Here's a lovely photo of what I will NOT be seeing this summer:



unless I can get it together and plan the trip myself.

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]

mammaries of mine

First of all, no, those are not mine. If I were not a public school teacher, I would easily post mine here for all the world to see. I have no qualms about being naked in hot springs or while strolling down Zipolite beach in Oaxaca, or at the Oregon Country Fair, but sorry, not here. I just thought a lovely picture might entice you to read this post, which isn't necessarily going to be lovely.

They are, after all, only boobs. Behind and beyond the painful adolescence, the sexual pleasure, and the miracle of mother's milk, lies the simple fact of biological life.

And death.

"The envelope" arrived for me today from Memorial Hospital. If you have ever had a mammogram, you will know this letter. It has pink paper showing through the cellophane address window, and your results are held within. I have always hated the color pink. Ever since I watched my mother survive with and die from breast cancer, I have despised it.

About two weeks ago I went for my annual mammogram. I arrived, I filled out the form, I read an AARP magazine. All was just dandy until I was walking down the hall toward the waiting room and read a sign that said "Mammography Seating". I'm not sure what happened next, but my chest tightened and the tears welled. I felt my breasts tingle and became painfully aware of them, almost like the "let down" feeling of milk coming in. Suddenly, everywhere I looked there were breasts. I noticed the old ones and the young ones. I watched the soap operas on TV, and couldn't follow the story because I was so busy staring at their breasts! Magazines, too. Boobs were everywhere! I felt like I was going insane.

Suddenly, I realized that this must be what it feels like to be a man. And I got it. I really, really got it.

The actual mammogram was uneventful, if you consider having your tender breasts squished to within an inch of their lives in between two pieces of plastic while holding your breath uneventful. And I never know where to look. At the wall? Down at my squished boob? At the other one hanging out in space? At the machine?

Anyway, it really was fine, even with all the manipulating and squishing and holding breath and making small talk with the tech.

It's just that while I'm there I want to rant and whine to somebody, anybody who will listen:

"You know what? My mom survived breast cancer for five years, and this is my first mammogram since she died, and I'm terrified about the results, and what do you think about genetic testing, and doesn't cancer just SUCK!?!"

But I don't say any of those things. I just stare down at my naked torso in the dressing room after it's all over, cup my breasts in my hands, and murmur gently to them, "Please don't betray me. Just don't. Not now. Not ever. Please."

Today at the Chinese Buffet, my fortune cookie read, "Don't be afraid of fear". But how can I not live in fear of my mother's fate? It is not death I fear, not even an early one. It is the long slow cancerous journey to get there that terrifies me, filled with smocks and needles and smiling nurses and greeting cards from my friends and worst of all, having to embrace the color pink. I mean, can you really be a breast cancer survivor and fucking HATE the color pink?!

While sitting at the registration desk, a pink-cheeked, pink-collared old lady smiled knowingly at me from across the registration area. I smiled back, but what I really wanted to do was scream at her, "I will never, ever be YOU!"

But I might.

Only time will tell.

Today, the pink letter from Memorial Hospital informed me that my mammogram showed no signs of cancer. And so today, I love my breasts. They nursed my first baby for 14 months and my second one for just over two years. For that, I am most grateful. They are the perfect size proportionally for my body. They still make my husband want me when he glances at them.

And yet they hold this deep, dark, terrifying secret. This potential poison. Knowing that I could lose them, knowing that they could betray my love at any moment, knowing that they could one day end up killing me......

Well, it's a love/hate relationship of the purest kind.

ancient secret

i cry
these two thousand suns of my bitter bed
from ache to mother
from shadow to lie
and
remembering
still
a sad garden goddess
chanting
her love symphony to all the ugly girls
drunk on music
each one
a staccato in her own space
not
spread out
like a concubine’s arms and legs
her head
screaming
still
keeping time

[1996]

something to love

by someone i love.....

Twin Form by *Margherita45 on deviantART

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?

number 71

Poetry was meant to be read aloud.

And so, at the end of it all, nearing one a.m., with eight girls piled onto my king-size bed, I read this:

stand with your lover on the ending earth-

and while a( huge which by which huger than
huge )whoing sea leaps to greenly hurl snow

suppose we could not love,dear; imagine

ourselves like living neither nor dead these
( or many thousand hearts which don't and dream
or many million minds which sleep and move )
blind sands,at pitiless the mercy of

time time time time time

-how fortunate are you and i,whose home
is timelessness;we who have wandered down
from fragrant mountains of eternal now

to frolic in such mysteries as birth
and death a day( or maybe even less )

e.e. cummings

Read it. Aloud. To someone. Now.

how to train future english teachers

Bedtime conversation between my 8-year-old son and me:

"On papers that I corrected, you can write 'corrected by Grant' when they put them on the computer, ok?"

"Ok, bug."

"And on papers that you corrected, but I found even more mistakes, you can write 'recorrected by Grant'."

"You bet, kiddo."

"I only have three papers left. Can I keep them up here by my bed and correct them in the morning?"

"Of course."

"Ok. Good."

It all started earlier this evening when I was helping him with his report on the Ordovician. Yes, the Ordovician! If someone would have asked me, even a month ago, what Ordovician meant, I probably would have told them it was some kind of cream for bald men to make their dreams come true.

There he was, sitting at his desk, trying to finish his homework (writing questions about The Ordovician) as quickly as possible. When he was finished, he asked me to look it over. I pointed out to him (lovingly and kindly, of course) that he needed to put question marks at the ends of all of his questions. You would have thought I'd asked him to kiss a girl! He got all bent out of shape and almost lost his mind (the way one might, I suppose, after they've snarfed down way too much candy from Valentine's Day and you've already bugged them one too many times about "Allison").

Finally, after a battle of wills over a few question marks (I won), I noticed that he had written "contents" when it should have been "continents", and I asked him to correct that as well. More anger, more opposition, more defensiveness.

Ugh.

Then I glanced over and saw my manila folder filled with papers waiting to be edited on my desk, and decided to illustrate the issue rather than continue to harangue. About half of them had already been edited.

"Take a look at these. My students are all learning to write in English, and so I help them by correcting their stories. I put in punctuation marks and fix their spelling. They want to know how to do it right, so I show them. That's all I'm trying to do-help you become a better writer, too. That's my job."

Then something miraculous happened. He stared hard at all the red marks on those papers. (I usually use green or blue for editing, but being Valentine's Day, I had decided to use red for a change). His mind began to race. He wouldn't give them back to me. He sat down right there and started editing with my red colored pencil! And he wouldn't stop!

He changed "persons" to "people". He repaired comma splices. He placed periods appropriately in run-on sentences and began the next sentence with a capital letter (I showed him how to put three lines under the letter you want capitalized). He changed "agree" to "agreement" and "finded" to "found". But it wasn't the fact that he "finded" these errors that astounded me; it was the obvious LOVE and OBSESSION with which he did it.

Finally, after the lights were out and I was scratching his back:

"Maybe you'll be an English teacher someday, bug."

"Yeah, I think I'd like that."



P.S. My adult students are publishing their stories on their very own blogs. You can read the stories my son edited here:

Freedom of Voice

and here:

The Beginning Writers

and leave a comment or two over there for them if you will. All writers like to know that they are being read. It means a lot to them.

mar adentro

The Sea Inside. Where was I in 2005?  How the hell did I miss this?



Just put it at the top of your queue.  Trust me. And don't forget the tissues.

Ramon Sampedro: "Only time and the evolution of conscience will decide one day if my request was reasonable or not."

Let us hope, someday soon, that the courts of law and the hearts of men decide that it was.

My mother also had some words to say about death with dignity.

fire horse +

The Chinese New Year turned my mind 'round to a really simple and fascinating chart that I found in The Litterbox (don't ask, just go) a few weeks back.  I liked it because it had not only the animals, but also the elements and whether or not it was a yin year (-) or a yang year (+).

I am a FIRE HORSE +. Yikes! Look out world! I love this kind of shit!

My husband is an EARTH DOG +. I can't think of anything more true than this: "The Dog can be happy with the Horse who will let him get on with his causes in exchange for a little independence."

                           What are you? Does it fit?

(P.S. When I first typed that title, my fingers managed to leave out the "r" in horse, thus making me a fire hose. Hmmmm.....)

temptation

Somebody sent in my secret for me.
Weird.
I always want to jump-
not because I want to
die,
but because I want to
know what it feels like to
fall.

Maybe somebody sent in yours: Post Secret