Roger is washing my arm, Snowbelle is on the opposite side, and I may become the salami in the middle of this sandwich, as they both hate each other. Haaaaate. And cat hate is immense hate. You haven't been hated until you've faced the slitty glare of feline malevolence, it's like getting sliced by a laser into deli ham. No resolutions have been broken for there were none to be allowed, the last peal of the last New Year's Day bell rang deaf on feline proclivities.
A wild hive of bees had swarmed to the side of a building next to my pharmacy, this happened maybe ten summers ago, and found a small entryway, a hole, in the cement block chosen by the queen. I was in the parking lot when the swarm arrived, the air filled with bees circling, looking for an adequate place to land. They were still swarming when I left, a dome of bees forming around the entryway of their new digs. It was soothing to be a part of it, I felt no fear which may have been stupid, but these were honeybees, and they are pretty docile and efficient in that they just want to get on with their lives.
A few had landed on me, confused, or I was in the way, and were shaken off to rejoin the excited moving in day. I was thrilled to see honeybees on the lower west side of the city, where most trees had been cut down, homes boarded, and poverty weighed on shoulders. Few bees were still errantly swarming here and there by the next day, and bee business began; I hoped that the humans inside the block building wouldn't spray their newest tenants.
At home, I looked up apiarists and sent emails out, hoping that one would come and coax the insects into proper bee management, but not one answered. If anyone wished to eliminate them, there could have been enlisted assisted murder by city pest control; to save them was not something I could do alone, so I just watched. Years went by, and they weren't exterminated or pestered, I wondered how much honey was accumulating in the wall, were the humans aware of the situation, and were these an escaped hive? I felt safe when I saw the bees, and imagined the Bee Patrol saving me in case I was mugged in the parking lot. My little brown, stripey friends.
In reality, I enjoyed watching them through the seasons, the warming of spring, the slippage of summer into fall into winter. How long would they last there, it has been ten years with no sign of them being disenchanted with their home. Well, something good is taking place, for last week, there was a white box sitting on a newly installed ledge which seems to be a container for bees. I am guessing that finally, an apiarist has landed with hopes of snagging the hive and what, relocating? Assimilating? Bees have been having a hard time lately, with entire colonies wiped out...what has kept this one going for a decade? That just may be what needs to be found out, why this colony has survived when many have not in regards to the climate change and use of pesticides.
Tuesday, I heard a robin, or so I thought. Living next to a highway blurs the everyday sounds from the trees and sidewalks so that a heavy snowstorm is welcome, it's the only thing that quiets the roar. The next day, I startled four robins that were turning over last fall's leaves in search of what they mostly eat, bugs and worms. It was so good to see them, yet I worry that they arrived too early and may be caught in a late ice storm. There is a flock that lives year round in Delaware Park, savvy enough to forage the zoo for edibles, but the ones I saw in the maples were new, sleek from their long trip up. Nothing like that orange-red breast to cheer a Northerner's heart.
Buds are swelling, Easter candy is out, crows are calling, gulls fill the air over the Niagara corridor above the river, appearing as a squall of snow dipping and diving, yelling their heads off. Gull experts come from around the world to study them, as we may have the most species of gulls appearing in the same vicinity at once during migration, interspersed with mergansers, scaups, grebes, loons, cranes, teals, mallards, wood ducks, buffleheads, coots, geese, wigeons, quicks, quacks, and paddywhacks. Even without the green that my more southern friends are enjoying, life is burgeoning. Waking up. Staggering to the kitchen for coffee. The groundhog needs to adjust his timing, for in spite of the six weeks more predicted, we are forgoing thick layers of down for maybe just a scarf to run out to the car.
Yesterday turned into morning into today, and will do so until the sun ceases to be, and time extends into whatever planetary rotation humans have leapt to. Will we ever live on Mars? No doubt that explorers will get there, what will they do with that extra 39 minutes and 35 seconds compared to Earth's straight 24 hour day? I am telling you, it will drag. No where to go, an average of -81 degrees, all carbon dioxide with some water vapor. The year is near twice as long. New holidays need invention, a corner oxygen bar constructed, and greenhouses that convert the CO2 into O. Two moons, though. That would be pretty. Get that red dust ground into your clothes, people would know what planet you've been playing on.
The light lasts longer, doesn't get pitch dark until 6, more reasonable than 3:30-4 meaning that Vitamin D is being produced in our sorry winter hides. When the buds do open into leaves, that will mean more oxygen is produced, giving us that spring freshness bordering on happy insanity. You will bounce, guaranteed. Then after a day of gadding, of hanging sheets out on the line, of flinging open the windows and enlisting family to dust and haul out, have supper and check latches. Test the doors, put out candles and turn in; think of Pisces swimming through the waters of Aquarius, with Neptune at the apex of the water-bearer. Little fish weaving in schools through the starlight, nebulae, clusters. Good night.
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Pink Moon
Rosey-posey, dappled pink moon, full as a court duchess at a pastry table, hanging low in the western sky; it was a startling vision, the full moon just setting as the sun arose. The dawn was roseate, blushing at the morning sight of couples rousing, tossing off covers, readying for the day---Madame Luna caught the sun's flushed bewilderment and laughed, for what did you expect in the early residue of night? It is her belief, you see, that the day hides more than in the night, when faces are unmasked, when quieter desires become apparent. During the day, we wear suits and bindings. After sundown, well.
This gorgeous sight of lunar pink showed the moon's markings as striations and stipples, and I wished I wasn't driving, for seeing this great airship would have occupied a morning's time. Fingers of clouds stretched from the east, reaching in peach and rose colors for the zenith of the sky, where other billowing legions clustered, holding the contents of a coming storm. It wasn't a bad drive; when I turned north and the moon was hidden by city buildings, I forgot the descent of the pink empress and concentrated on snagging a reasonable parking spot on the street.
In class, we talked of reading, writing, and 'rithmetic until an announcement came over the p.a. that all after-school activities were canceled due to the impending weather. Impending? Let's look. Nothing but dark, low clouds slowly advancing towards the school from the lake, it could get here, it couldn't, do they have a premonition that we are missing? On the Promethean board, I pulled up a local weather station--the kids were amazed at the satellite photos showing the advance of the snowstorm--and then wham! The outside windows were assaulted by a blast of pure happiness, for the kids yelped and ran to the window to see. SNOW! It's snowing! The houses across the street were temporarily invisible, and only the red glow of rear lights could tell you where a car was. Alright, skedaddle back to your seats, this needs a plan.
Get math done up while I call a few parents to tell them that their child is coming home right away, then, we are getting ready early. I want everyone bundled, wrapped, with a hat, gloves, and no complaining about zippers on coats. If it gets too bad out, we may be staying here overnight, so I can teach you at two o'clock in the morning. Yay, said the kids. Not the reaction I was expecting, but the idea of raiding the cafeteria for dinner was a dreamed-of adventure. There's pizza down there.
Teachers were scooted out as the building was closing at 3, and just as well; the number of car accidents was phenomenal in the two mile stretch I needed to travel. One side of the street was locked with cars; blue and red lights flashed from police vehicles, it was like driving over applesauce on ice; everywhere everywhere everywhere, the streets were jammed as all employees were trying to leave the city at once, with major routes snaffled, and the Skyway closed. A nine- minute drive took me a half hour, with diversions through neighborhoods I've never seen. But Rudy, my car, and I got home. Rudolph Valentino. No, I don't know why, it just happened.
This is the vacuum created by a snowstorm: no sound, all the traffic that runs by year round is muffled or simply not there. It's a rare quiet in the apartment, interrupted only by the thunder of metal behemoths eagerly pushing the snow into mannerly furrows. A few lights on downtown buildings are showing, but the grey-orange sky flurries still are blanketing the cars in the lot, turning them into squarish marshmallows, at least in my view from the ninth floor. If the moon is still full, no one could tell. But, you know, if you put a spoon under your pillow at night, it's guaranteed to present you grandly with a snow day. Retired teachers are not allowed to clap gleefully. No clapping. Stop that.
Wowsers! Lightning just crackled, followed by thunder; thundersnow happens in a lake effect storm and the city lights have disappeared again, so maybe I won't even need a spoon.
I and the cats are warm, the millepedes are warm, the snails are warm; I imagine any sneaky spiders are warm. Do you know if you are loved? I do, and am. A student came in with her mother at 11:10 today; her stomach had been hurting earlier, but now that she was feeling better, she asked her mother to bring her to school. The class is a safe haven, she hugged me when she saw me. That, ladies and gents, is my job, my main purpose, for if you are scared, how the heck can you learn anything when you are on tenterhooks and six years old? The student twirled around me, a small moon orbiting a planetary teacher.
Good night, good night, good people. And you are good; and it is so. See past the masks of daytime, and contemplate the freedom offered by setting suns and rising moons, by lightning in snowstorms, by words and wishes. The world hurts less with your magnificent spirit. Sleep, dog; sleep cat; sleep child. I will watch over.
This gorgeous sight of lunar pink showed the moon's markings as striations and stipples, and I wished I wasn't driving, for seeing this great airship would have occupied a morning's time. Fingers of clouds stretched from the east, reaching in peach and rose colors for the zenith of the sky, where other billowing legions clustered, holding the contents of a coming storm. It wasn't a bad drive; when I turned north and the moon was hidden by city buildings, I forgot the descent of the pink empress and concentrated on snagging a reasonable parking spot on the street.
In class, we talked of reading, writing, and 'rithmetic until an announcement came over the p.a. that all after-school activities were canceled due to the impending weather. Impending? Let's look. Nothing but dark, low clouds slowly advancing towards the school from the lake, it could get here, it couldn't, do they have a premonition that we are missing? On the Promethean board, I pulled up a local weather station--the kids were amazed at the satellite photos showing the advance of the snowstorm--and then wham! The outside windows were assaulted by a blast of pure happiness, for the kids yelped and ran to the window to see. SNOW! It's snowing! The houses across the street were temporarily invisible, and only the red glow of rear lights could tell you where a car was. Alright, skedaddle back to your seats, this needs a plan.
Get math done up while I call a few parents to tell them that their child is coming home right away, then, we are getting ready early. I want everyone bundled, wrapped, with a hat, gloves, and no complaining about zippers on coats. If it gets too bad out, we may be staying here overnight, so I can teach you at two o'clock in the morning. Yay, said the kids. Not the reaction I was expecting, but the idea of raiding the cafeteria for dinner was a dreamed-of adventure. There's pizza down there.
Teachers were scooted out as the building was closing at 3, and just as well; the number of car accidents was phenomenal in the two mile stretch I needed to travel. One side of the street was locked with cars; blue and red lights flashed from police vehicles, it was like driving over applesauce on ice; everywhere everywhere everywhere, the streets were jammed as all employees were trying to leave the city at once, with major routes snaffled, and the Skyway closed. A nine- minute drive took me a half hour, with diversions through neighborhoods I've never seen. But Rudy, my car, and I got home. Rudolph Valentino. No, I don't know why, it just happened.
This is the vacuum created by a snowstorm: no sound, all the traffic that runs by year round is muffled or simply not there. It's a rare quiet in the apartment, interrupted only by the thunder of metal behemoths eagerly pushing the snow into mannerly furrows. A few lights on downtown buildings are showing, but the grey-orange sky flurries still are blanketing the cars in the lot, turning them into squarish marshmallows, at least in my view from the ninth floor. If the moon is still full, no one could tell. But, you know, if you put a spoon under your pillow at night, it's guaranteed to present you grandly with a snow day. Retired teachers are not allowed to clap gleefully. No clapping. Stop that.
Wowsers! Lightning just crackled, followed by thunder; thundersnow happens in a lake effect storm and the city lights have disappeared again, so maybe I won't even need a spoon.
I and the cats are warm, the millepedes are warm, the snails are warm; I imagine any sneaky spiders are warm. Do you know if you are loved? I do, and am. A student came in with her mother at 11:10 today; her stomach had been hurting earlier, but now that she was feeling better, she asked her mother to bring her to school. The class is a safe haven, she hugged me when she saw me. That, ladies and gents, is my job, my main purpose, for if you are scared, how the heck can you learn anything when you are on tenterhooks and six years old? The student twirled around me, a small moon orbiting a planetary teacher.
Good night, good night, good people. And you are good; and it is so. See past the masks of daytime, and contemplate the freedom offered by setting suns and rising moons, by lightning in snowstorms, by words and wishes. The world hurts less with your magnificent spirit. Sleep, dog; sleep cat; sleep child. I will watch over.
Sunday, December 11, 2016
O Canada
Moving to Canada been on your mind lately? Thinking about butter tarts, hmmm? Maybe knowing that Canada legalized same sex marriages about ten years ago would allow sleep to come sooner at night? Tired of those pesky pennies? How about some excellent chocolate from England, Ireland? And speaking of chocolate, you're just dying for one of those Kinder eggs, illegal here in the US; forget the candy and go buy a US of A legal semi-automatic AK-47, you wanna live dangerously already. How about adding a /u/ after an /o/ in several words, rounds out that flat Americaan accent that causes Canadians to double over in guffaws, but that's probably as snarky as they get. They'll slap you on the back and buy you a brew to show no hard feelings.
Going over to Canada used to be fairly easy before passports were required, we'd pile into the Ford wagon to go see Niagara Falls, or a date night would be at a Chinese restaurant in Fort Erie, Ontario. I had Canadian friends when I was a kid, and we would trot around the now all-gone amusement park at Crystal Beach or go to Thunder Bay and swim in the breakers coming off the Lake. It's where loganberry drink originated, and french fries with brown gravy live. Throw cheese curds in with the french fries, and you have the high octane fuel known as poutine, designed to keep a Canadian warm in winter. These are mostly outdoor people.
They really do say "Eh?" at the end of a sentence, as a request for agreement, or how about that; it was my turn to stifle a smirk as a friend said it, just like the Canadians portrayed on Saturday Night Live. I was thrilled, it was like finding out something really is true. Eh? It doesn't fall easily to me to stick one on after my commas and periods, but listening to a fast conversation with a group of six Canadians sounds like a vowel convention. Ay? Aih? Ah noo, eh? Raght, eh? Whudja think, lad, eh?
One of the funniest, weirdie moments came when my friend's Canadian mother did an American accent; hearing what you sound like to other people is like looking into a funhouse mirror. You see the contortions of your own language, similar to when you first hear the sound of your own voice.
Go to a restaurant anywhere, even just over the Niagara River from Buffalo, New York, and the panoply of accents displayed by customers ranges from proper London to Galway to the Hebrides. The ear trains itself to discern colloquial conversations that eliminate syllables by blending all the letters, as well as the back-in-the-throat, thick as porridge roaring Scotch, often heard when their team scores. The further east you go towards Montreal, the more French, and government signage is printed in both English and French everywhere. A human United Nations is in Toronto (pronounced Tronno by the natives); T-Town has every ethnicity, fabulously amazing neighborhoods which cater to cultural requirements, districts where English is a second language, and most of all, everyone is welcome.
Crime is minimal; for example: a friend goes walking at night, a brisk walk for exercise, at night, in the dark. I flipped. If I have to go down to my parking lot, I arm myself mentally and scan the pavements for lurking shadows, and here she is, galloping aboot after sundown. She frowned a bit when I asked her if it was safe. Sure it is. Why? American me warbled on about muggings, thievery, kidnappings, shootings, abrasions, hangnails, and low-flying owls. Shootings? Oh right, eh. You folks have guns. Here's a news flash: hunters are allowed rifles, but Canada severely restricts hand guns resulting in only 172 fire-arms related homicides in 2015 for the whole, immense country. The States had 11,208 homicides not counting suicides, accidental fatal discharges, and gun deaths with "undetermined intent".
The passport restrictions now require planning for a drive, children under 16 need a certified birth certificate, everyone else must have a passport. Families may not be able to afford parental and older sibling documents, when all it used to be was a tank of gas and you could take the kids for ice cream at the dairy in Fort Erie, or fried lake perch in Port Dalhousie. Rent a cottage on the shore and vacation, stop at the diner for burgers. They don't ask you rare, medium, etc.; all burgers are well done. BUT THEY ARE SO GOOD.
Canada is a great friendly neighbor that doesn't easily get riled or scream if McDonald's screws up the order, there is little drama. I think socially, it's a behaviour-conscience population that gets embarrassed if you aren't having a nice day. Alcohol is bought at special stores, everything is expensive (butter $6 a pound except it isn't a pound it's a metric something), teachers are paid very well, and healthcare is free--although there are catches to that. Speaking of metrics, they only switched over from the Imperial system in the mid-seventies, so most Canadians are well-versed in both. Me? I like when the speed limit says 100, but it means 60 mph. The little things.
The clouds are not American, neither the sky nor wind hold boundaries over the globe. The air we breathe circulates, pushed by streams and currents in the atmosphere, the molecules of oxygen break apart and find themselves reattached to carbon or a part of photosynthesis and become a tree. Very few oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon molecules escape into space, we are working with what we started with; what this means is that we share what the dinosaurs had, what the slow, chunderous continents pushed and pulled apart; what the oceans first said. In the the time of reptiles, us cousins would have been dead, for the air was 30% oxygen. Whee, you think, I'll get the laundry folded in no time. But, no.
We can live comfortably between the ranges of 19.5-23.5%, can survive at 15-28%; over that and a human suffers vasoconstriction, muscle twitches, edema of the lungs, and possible death. Forest fires raged out of control during those eras in spite of the humidity, according to the rock record; even wet plants will burn then. Once the larger animals began eating the plants, the oxygen dropped, and here are you and I, pterodactyl-free, (they couldn't fly in this atmosphere anyhow), waving at each other out our windows.
There has been a drowsy snow all day, leaving little but a slippery covering over the city. I heard the first snowplow dozing along, spreading the ubiquitous salt; I saw the first orange sky of winter, as the sodium lights glowered on the sheet of snow in the air. The back room is chilly, so I will unearth wool blankets from the linen chest and find real jammies. There is something comfortable about the deep sky, emblazoned by city lights and whatever refractive cosmos exists temporarily on the other side of the planet. But listen; December 21st is coming, the winter solstice, marking the longest night and shortest day, and then it changes. It shifts, the north pole will start to tilt towards the sun, and the days will begin to return to light. Count the time, my friends; sound the gong at 10:44, Universal Time.
Until then, love your loved ones, pet the cat, feed the dog, find your slippers, and a cup of tea. Settle with a book, bustle with the holidays. Love each other with compassion, kindness; reach out and tiptoe into a life that could use a bit of warmth. I read in one of H. Kushner's books a saying from the Talmud, that when you do something good without being asked, God says that for this moment, the world was worth making. You are good, you do good. The world spins on.
Going over to Canada used to be fairly easy before passports were required, we'd pile into the Ford wagon to go see Niagara Falls, or a date night would be at a Chinese restaurant in Fort Erie, Ontario. I had Canadian friends when I was a kid, and we would trot around the now all-gone amusement park at Crystal Beach or go to Thunder Bay and swim in the breakers coming off the Lake. It's where loganberry drink originated, and french fries with brown gravy live. Throw cheese curds in with the french fries, and you have the high octane fuel known as poutine, designed to keep a Canadian warm in winter. These are mostly outdoor people.
They really do say "Eh?" at the end of a sentence, as a request for agreement, or how about that; it was my turn to stifle a smirk as a friend said it, just like the Canadians portrayed on Saturday Night Live. I was thrilled, it was like finding out something really is true. Eh? It doesn't fall easily to me to stick one on after my commas and periods, but listening to a fast conversation with a group of six Canadians sounds like a vowel convention. Ay? Aih? Ah noo, eh? Raght, eh? Whudja think, lad, eh?
One of the funniest, weirdie moments came when my friend's Canadian mother did an American accent; hearing what you sound like to other people is like looking into a funhouse mirror. You see the contortions of your own language, similar to when you first hear the sound of your own voice.
Go to a restaurant anywhere, even just over the Niagara River from Buffalo, New York, and the panoply of accents displayed by customers ranges from proper London to Galway to the Hebrides. The ear trains itself to discern colloquial conversations that eliminate syllables by blending all the letters, as well as the back-in-the-throat, thick as porridge roaring Scotch, often heard when their team scores. The further east you go towards Montreal, the more French, and government signage is printed in both English and French everywhere. A human United Nations is in Toronto (pronounced Tronno by the natives); T-Town has every ethnicity, fabulously amazing neighborhoods which cater to cultural requirements, districts where English is a second language, and most of all, everyone is welcome.
Crime is minimal; for example: a friend goes walking at night, a brisk walk for exercise, at night, in the dark. I flipped. If I have to go down to my parking lot, I arm myself mentally and scan the pavements for lurking shadows, and here she is, galloping aboot after sundown. She frowned a bit when I asked her if it was safe. Sure it is. Why? American me warbled on about muggings, thievery, kidnappings, shootings, abrasions, hangnails, and low-flying owls. Shootings? Oh right, eh. You folks have guns. Here's a news flash: hunters are allowed rifles, but Canada severely restricts hand guns resulting in only 172 fire-arms related homicides in 2015 for the whole, immense country. The States had 11,208 homicides not counting suicides, accidental fatal discharges, and gun deaths with "undetermined intent".
The passport restrictions now require planning for a drive, children under 16 need a certified birth certificate, everyone else must have a passport. Families may not be able to afford parental and older sibling documents, when all it used to be was a tank of gas and you could take the kids for ice cream at the dairy in Fort Erie, or fried lake perch in Port Dalhousie. Rent a cottage on the shore and vacation, stop at the diner for burgers. They don't ask you rare, medium, etc.; all burgers are well done. BUT THEY ARE SO GOOD.
Canada is a great friendly neighbor that doesn't easily get riled or scream if McDonald's screws up the order, there is little drama. I think socially, it's a behaviour-conscience population that gets embarrassed if you aren't having a nice day. Alcohol is bought at special stores, everything is expensive (butter $6 a pound except it isn't a pound it's a metric something), teachers are paid very well, and healthcare is free--although there are catches to that. Speaking of metrics, they only switched over from the Imperial system in the mid-seventies, so most Canadians are well-versed in both. Me? I like when the speed limit says 100, but it means 60 mph. The little things.
The clouds are not American, neither the sky nor wind hold boundaries over the globe. The air we breathe circulates, pushed by streams and currents in the atmosphere, the molecules of oxygen break apart and find themselves reattached to carbon or a part of photosynthesis and become a tree. Very few oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon molecules escape into space, we are working with what we started with; what this means is that we share what the dinosaurs had, what the slow, chunderous continents pushed and pulled apart; what the oceans first said. In the the time of reptiles, us cousins would have been dead, for the air was 30% oxygen. Whee, you think, I'll get the laundry folded in no time. But, no.
We can live comfortably between the ranges of 19.5-23.5%, can survive at 15-28%; over that and a human suffers vasoconstriction, muscle twitches, edema of the lungs, and possible death. Forest fires raged out of control during those eras in spite of the humidity, according to the rock record; even wet plants will burn then. Once the larger animals began eating the plants, the oxygen dropped, and here are you and I, pterodactyl-free, (they couldn't fly in this atmosphere anyhow), waving at each other out our windows.
There has been a drowsy snow all day, leaving little but a slippery covering over the city. I heard the first snowplow dozing along, spreading the ubiquitous salt; I saw the first orange sky of winter, as the sodium lights glowered on the sheet of snow in the air. The back room is chilly, so I will unearth wool blankets from the linen chest and find real jammies. There is something comfortable about the deep sky, emblazoned by city lights and whatever refractive cosmos exists temporarily on the other side of the planet. But listen; December 21st is coming, the winter solstice, marking the longest night and shortest day, and then it changes. It shifts, the north pole will start to tilt towards the sun, and the days will begin to return to light. Count the time, my friends; sound the gong at 10:44, Universal Time.
Until then, love your loved ones, pet the cat, feed the dog, find your slippers, and a cup of tea. Settle with a book, bustle with the holidays. Love each other with compassion, kindness; reach out and tiptoe into a life that could use a bit of warmth. I read in one of H. Kushner's books a saying from the Talmud, that when you do something good without being asked, God says that for this moment, the world was worth making. You are good, you do good. The world spins on.
Saturday, December 3, 2016
Merry Glittermess
This happens every year, this explosion of light in my students' eyes; as soon as the first kid trotted into the room, I could see they were three inches above the linoleum. Others followed, bouncing and bobbing like sea buoys in a mild storm, whispering, the whites of their eyes showing clear circles around pupils. What? What?? The adult wanted to be ready for whatever onslaught was brewing--did someone get slugged on the bus? Did you "find" a cell phone? Was there a man at the corner giving out five-dollar bills?
"It's DECEMBER," said one little girl, "SANTA'S COMING!" The crackle of information sizzled through the telepathic cable system that each kid has connecting to the other, I saw blue sparks of electricity running through invisible wires like you would see with the old, electric streetcars. Something was burning, I believe it was my retinas from looking at the gleaming, half-toothy smiles oddly reminiscent of staring into the sun. Breakfast was a frosted cinnamon thing and sugar, AKA cereal; these children were running 20 amps on my 15 amp breaker and would soon accelerate to plugging in the hair dryer while running the microwave. Certain relay switch death.
"Do you believe in Santa, Ms. Coburn?" Definitely, or how else would you explain the new floormats for my car, just what I wanted last year? Why, when I was a kid....but they weren't listening. The new info that Ms. Coburn believes in Santa snapped like a whip, verification for the wiser ones who were having a hard time standing up to the naysayers. The Adult: sit down. Finish up breakfast. We have work to do today, and I would like to give you some free time if we get it done. Deal. But after the last child sat down to continue eating orange and green cereal, there was a happy, collective sigh of I love Decembers.
Just like any holiday, not all of them celebrate; there are two new Burmese children that aren't too sure what's going on but if it means sweets and paper cutting, yabba dabba do! And at the other end of the spectrum are the kids who get nothing through neglect or poverty or illness; every family in my group is listed under the hardship of poverty. I have two who fit the extreme, both sweethearts, a boy and a girl. The boy tries to be pragmatic, "We ain't having nothing cause my Mom just got out of the hospital and we need the money for other things." Mom did indeed come out from the hospital, but there is a bit more to the story that I don't want to say. It isn't to his advantage. The little girl still hopes and talks of Santa.
The energy flows and needs to be funneled; what better place than through making stuff, cutting paper, given temporary control over a glue stick, having a finished product. I only had black construction paper, so we made snowmen out of some copy paper and used white crayons to make snowflakes and drifts. They had a lot of fun doing it, and the activity channeled the Christmas juggernaut into a nice scene to take home. A nice, black scene. How can this be made more holiday-like and less Funeral March of the Snowman Army? I broke out the glitter.
This is a brave thing, for glitter is the most tenacious, maladroit, insidious notion on the Periodic Table; it has been declared by the building engineers as a plot to drive them to early retirement. It isn't the sharp-eged glass of diamantine days, thank heavens, but is a softer, more finely ground plastic film that has a static charge making it stick to any other electrically charged object, like my fingers, clothing, hair, garbage can liner, and plastic spoon. What's she doing? She's got GLITTER--which is just as exciting as illegal fireworks in the middle of the street. They bent their heads down diligently over their work, showing me how good they are so that I wouldn't be interrupted while dispensing glue and fairy dust.
I put a few swirls on each picture, gingerly tapping the container just enough to add a bit of zip, not introduce mayhem. Each was ruffled gently to release the excess over a folded paper, then set to dry amid murmurs of That's So Beautiful, said in hushed tones as reverence for the demigods of holiday sparkle. They didn't look too bad, but I have to find a color of construction paper other than black. I want to show them how to make Christmas loop chains that don't appear as Victorian mourning banners.
Here's a theory of why we like it so much, according to website Mental Floss: "According to researchers from the University of Houston and Ghent University in Belgium, our impulse for shiny things comes from an instinct to seek out water. The theory is that our need to stay hydrated has kept mankind on the lookout for shimmering rivers and streams. And thanks to natural selection, that’s left us with an innate preference for things that sparkle." Does this explain the popularity of craft stores? Lizard brain with a glue gun and a debit card, watch out.
Mild night, unless the temperature drops the lake will not freeze over, leaving Buffalo, New York in open season for lake effect snow. My kids are wishing for snow so much, I know that when the first flakes come that there will be a rush for the windows with squeals of "It's snoooowing!" I have stocked up on scarves, but for some reason, hats are harder to come by this year at the thrift shop, maybe because last winter was pretty warm and people just didn't use them? We'll just bundle up, I've already given away coats and mittens.
The busy time of the holidays are upon us, we will be making menorahs and spinning dreidels, learning what traditions other cultures celebrate. In this neighborhood, the big day is January 6th, Three Kings Day which is still the day the Eastern Christian Church recognizes as Christmas; the Western Christian Church didn't change to December 25 until the 4th century. Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar; Europe, Arabia, and Africa. Horse, camel, and elephant. Gold, frankincense, and myrrh; wonder if there was any glitter in there.
Night is a wonderful time for stories, I think of how the telling of bedtime stories began as a method of lullaby, a calming antidote that gave the busy mind something quiet to think about, to ruminate before hitting the pillow. How many of us read before bed? Even five minutes is enough to signal that there is a change in the tides, the ebb has become the flow, pushing sand and shells into breakwater design. Iridescent fishes of thoughts flutter through layers, till the unconscious falls into depths not witnessed by day.
Sleep all, here is a story for you. Susan.
"It's DECEMBER," said one little girl, "SANTA'S COMING!" The crackle of information sizzled through the telepathic cable system that each kid has connecting to the other, I saw blue sparks of electricity running through invisible wires like you would see with the old, electric streetcars. Something was burning, I believe it was my retinas from looking at the gleaming, half-toothy smiles oddly reminiscent of staring into the sun. Breakfast was a frosted cinnamon thing and sugar, AKA cereal; these children were running 20 amps on my 15 amp breaker and would soon accelerate to plugging in the hair dryer while running the microwave. Certain relay switch death.
"Do you believe in Santa, Ms. Coburn?" Definitely, or how else would you explain the new floormats for my car, just what I wanted last year? Why, when I was a kid....but they weren't listening. The new info that Ms. Coburn believes in Santa snapped like a whip, verification for the wiser ones who were having a hard time standing up to the naysayers. The Adult: sit down. Finish up breakfast. We have work to do today, and I would like to give you some free time if we get it done. Deal. But after the last child sat down to continue eating orange and green cereal, there was a happy, collective sigh of I love Decembers.
Just like any holiday, not all of them celebrate; there are two new Burmese children that aren't too sure what's going on but if it means sweets and paper cutting, yabba dabba do! And at the other end of the spectrum are the kids who get nothing through neglect or poverty or illness; every family in my group is listed under the hardship of poverty. I have two who fit the extreme, both sweethearts, a boy and a girl. The boy tries to be pragmatic, "We ain't having nothing cause my Mom just got out of the hospital and we need the money for other things." Mom did indeed come out from the hospital, but there is a bit more to the story that I don't want to say. It isn't to his advantage. The little girl still hopes and talks of Santa.
The energy flows and needs to be funneled; what better place than through making stuff, cutting paper, given temporary control over a glue stick, having a finished product. I only had black construction paper, so we made snowmen out of some copy paper and used white crayons to make snowflakes and drifts. They had a lot of fun doing it, and the activity channeled the Christmas juggernaut into a nice scene to take home. A nice, black scene. How can this be made more holiday-like and less Funeral March of the Snowman Army? I broke out the glitter.
This is a brave thing, for glitter is the most tenacious, maladroit, insidious notion on the Periodic Table; it has been declared by the building engineers as a plot to drive them to early retirement. It isn't the sharp-eged glass of diamantine days, thank heavens, but is a softer, more finely ground plastic film that has a static charge making it stick to any other electrically charged object, like my fingers, clothing, hair, garbage can liner, and plastic spoon. What's she doing? She's got GLITTER--which is just as exciting as illegal fireworks in the middle of the street. They bent their heads down diligently over their work, showing me how good they are so that I wouldn't be interrupted while dispensing glue and fairy dust.
I put a few swirls on each picture, gingerly tapping the container just enough to add a bit of zip, not introduce mayhem. Each was ruffled gently to release the excess over a folded paper, then set to dry amid murmurs of That's So Beautiful, said in hushed tones as reverence for the demigods of holiday sparkle. They didn't look too bad, but I have to find a color of construction paper other than black. I want to show them how to make Christmas loop chains that don't appear as Victorian mourning banners.
Here's a theory of why we like it so much, according to website Mental Floss: "According to researchers from the University of Houston and Ghent University in Belgium, our impulse for shiny things comes from an instinct to seek out water. The theory is that our need to stay hydrated has kept mankind on the lookout for shimmering rivers and streams. And thanks to natural selection, that’s left us with an innate preference for things that sparkle." Does this explain the popularity of craft stores? Lizard brain with a glue gun and a debit card, watch out.
Mild night, unless the temperature drops the lake will not freeze over, leaving Buffalo, New York in open season for lake effect snow. My kids are wishing for snow so much, I know that when the first flakes come that there will be a rush for the windows with squeals of "It's snoooowing!" I have stocked up on scarves, but for some reason, hats are harder to come by this year at the thrift shop, maybe because last winter was pretty warm and people just didn't use them? We'll just bundle up, I've already given away coats and mittens.
The busy time of the holidays are upon us, we will be making menorahs and spinning dreidels, learning what traditions other cultures celebrate. In this neighborhood, the big day is January 6th, Three Kings Day which is still the day the Eastern Christian Church recognizes as Christmas; the Western Christian Church didn't change to December 25 until the 4th century. Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar; Europe, Arabia, and Africa. Horse, camel, and elephant. Gold, frankincense, and myrrh; wonder if there was any glitter in there.
Night is a wonderful time for stories, I think of how the telling of bedtime stories began as a method of lullaby, a calming antidote that gave the busy mind something quiet to think about, to ruminate before hitting the pillow. How many of us read before bed? Even five minutes is enough to signal that there is a change in the tides, the ebb has become the flow, pushing sand and shells into breakwater design. Iridescent fishes of thoughts flutter through layers, till the unconscious falls into depths not witnessed by day.
Sleep all, here is a story for you. Susan.
Saturday, November 19, 2016
Flip Book
Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Winter, spring, summer, fall, winter, spring, summer, fall. January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December, January. Midnight, noon, second shift, third. Day. Night. Quarter of Ten.
I look up at the ceiling into the darkness as I lay on my back in bed, and think that it could be 2002, 1998, 1987, 1979, 1963, 1951. It's the same darkness that hangs at the edge of the universe of ceiling, as if you were looking into infinity, could reach an arm into it and touch the hem of heaven or hell. This one is occasionally semi-illuminated by reflective flashes of the traffic that runs by on the highway, tires hitting pavement till 3 or 4 in the morning. The only time it is truly quiet is when there is a snowstorm, which muffles sound except for the metal monsters that scrape the roads clear of snow and ice, spilling it over the side of the raised highway and down onto the parking lot.
What strikes me is the sameness, the sameness of waiting for the weekend, or this Monday, or the month when strawberries come. People, including me, are talking about the snow now hitting the midwest, soon to be in my city; it comes every year, the earth shifts a bit and gently slides us into somnambulant hibernation. We are a bit sleepier, hot tea-ier, book read-ier, close the door-ier than in high summer. Still, there are gnomons to watch for, holidays, meetings, events, or wishes unmet that swing us trapeze-style, from Sunday to Wednesay, to TGIF, and Saturday, made for markets.
It's like a flip book, these pages of days and divisions created by humans as a way of order, yet I wonder, how many Saturdays have I lived through? Could I stand another Sunday? The weekends were horrifying when I was a child, I spent most of the time holding my breath until the inevitable Monday morning when my father would go back to work but return at half-past five. I never slept in the dark then; it was only after I was married that a night light wasn't necessary for me to sleep.
I have planted gardens, raised a child, given to the homeless, painted walls, learned languages, been in a forest fire, memorized poems, made friends, created various pieces of art, rescued cats, lived through loss, believed in God, had measles, rescued a bat, learned how to flip an omelet, driven a stick shift, sawed wood, started campfires, totaled cars twice, ridden horses, earned a master's degree, flown through a thunderstorm, changed the oil, been foreman on a jury, dug for fossils, saw my son get married wonderfully, been shaken by a ghost, made pies, gotten tattooed, given away money, studied wild mushrooms, stepped on a stingray, picked up snakes, and have beginner ukulele skills. This is only the stuff I can tell you. Yet, how does that darkness look the same? How does the sameness overwhelm the differences?
Maybe it's meant to be blank, a soothing deep allowing reflection, wishes, dreams, a mumbled prayer. Most people live regular lives just getting through one day to the next, wondering what's for supper, very few reach the realm of fame, we just hear more about them through media. That doesn't mean you aren't unique, much to the contrary. You know you're smarter than most, maybe brilliant with numbers, music, textiles, art, film, baking, nurturing, computers, teaching others, saving lives; it's what humans do. Keep doing.
I had to learn to let the night envelope me, and now view it as relief, a time for dreams and healing of the day. The tea is in the cup, with orange blossom honey; I look at the city lights and imagine the people who are out on the illuminated streets, visiting cafes, bars, coffee houses, extending their lives into the evening hours, when smell becomes more intense in the clearer air, hearing is amplified. Instincts are sharper. There will be a time when their heads gratefully hit a pillow, their blankets a glad enchantment.
Should I sing you to dreams? Here is your story, yours alone. Good night, dear, brave heart.
I look up at the ceiling into the darkness as I lay on my back in bed, and think that it could be 2002, 1998, 1987, 1979, 1963, 1951. It's the same darkness that hangs at the edge of the universe of ceiling, as if you were looking into infinity, could reach an arm into it and touch the hem of heaven or hell. This one is occasionally semi-illuminated by reflective flashes of the traffic that runs by on the highway, tires hitting pavement till 3 or 4 in the morning. The only time it is truly quiet is when there is a snowstorm, which muffles sound except for the metal monsters that scrape the roads clear of snow and ice, spilling it over the side of the raised highway and down onto the parking lot.
What strikes me is the sameness, the sameness of waiting for the weekend, or this Monday, or the month when strawberries come. People, including me, are talking about the snow now hitting the midwest, soon to be in my city; it comes every year, the earth shifts a bit and gently slides us into somnambulant hibernation. We are a bit sleepier, hot tea-ier, book read-ier, close the door-ier than in high summer. Still, there are gnomons to watch for, holidays, meetings, events, or wishes unmet that swing us trapeze-style, from Sunday to Wednesay, to TGIF, and Saturday, made for markets.
It's like a flip book, these pages of days and divisions created by humans as a way of order, yet I wonder, how many Saturdays have I lived through? Could I stand another Sunday? The weekends were horrifying when I was a child, I spent most of the time holding my breath until the inevitable Monday morning when my father would go back to work but return at half-past five. I never slept in the dark then; it was only after I was married that a night light wasn't necessary for me to sleep.
I have planted gardens, raised a child, given to the homeless, painted walls, learned languages, been in a forest fire, memorized poems, made friends, created various pieces of art, rescued cats, lived through loss, believed in God, had measles, rescued a bat, learned how to flip an omelet, driven a stick shift, sawed wood, started campfires, totaled cars twice, ridden horses, earned a master's degree, flown through a thunderstorm, changed the oil, been foreman on a jury, dug for fossils, saw my son get married wonderfully, been shaken by a ghost, made pies, gotten tattooed, given away money, studied wild mushrooms, stepped on a stingray, picked up snakes, and have beginner ukulele skills. This is only the stuff I can tell you. Yet, how does that darkness look the same? How does the sameness overwhelm the differences?
Maybe it's meant to be blank, a soothing deep allowing reflection, wishes, dreams, a mumbled prayer. Most people live regular lives just getting through one day to the next, wondering what's for supper, very few reach the realm of fame, we just hear more about them through media. That doesn't mean you aren't unique, much to the contrary. You know you're smarter than most, maybe brilliant with numbers, music, textiles, art, film, baking, nurturing, computers, teaching others, saving lives; it's what humans do. Keep doing.
I had to learn to let the night envelope me, and now view it as relief, a time for dreams and healing of the day. The tea is in the cup, with orange blossom honey; I look at the city lights and imagine the people who are out on the illuminated streets, visiting cafes, bars, coffee houses, extending their lives into the evening hours, when smell becomes more intense in the clearer air, hearing is amplified. Instincts are sharper. There will be a time when their heads gratefully hit a pillow, their blankets a glad enchantment.
Should I sing you to dreams? Here is your story, yours alone. Good night, dear, brave heart.
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