Standing For Someone

A sparrow-like woman in her sixties stood hopefully on the corner between the Safeway and the Bellevue Art Musuem, which has been closed now for several months. Her feathery gray hair fluttered out from under the nest of her pillowy brown hat, and her sensible rainproof slicker billowed about her delicate knees. She wore a smile that grandmothers have when they take cookies out of the oven, and in her gentle grasp she held, not a plate of nutty brownies, but a neatly-lettered placard which read, “Pavarotti tortured Cindy.”

Standing between the museum that closed because its exhibit of twentieth century clothing was considered too shocking, and the Safeway, which bore a banner in the window, “Tyson Breasts, 1.95 lb.” this auntie of the absurd seemed perfectly at peace and completely at the center of her universe. She had found her delta, her estuary of connection, and was content to illustrate in her own person the mystery of being. I envied her.

I only saw her for a second as I passed her in traffic. I would have liked to know who did her lettering. It was lovely.

Disappointments

There is a distinct sound that a person’s chest makes when they are suddenly and irrevocably disappointed; a grainy rustle as of old leaves pressed slowly down under a flat, gray stone. It’s virtually impossible to hear unless you are connected in some way to the chest cavity; in everyday conversation, it can go quite unnoticed.

It’s not for its rarity that it goes unmarked – in fact, it’s a sound heard daily throughout the civilized world. There are other sounds equally common, and equally unheard of, except by the very observant, or the very solemn, who are often one and the same.

There is the short, dry inhalation that a woman makes once she realizes that the familiar face she thought was smiling at her is really looking just past her left shoulder. There is the wrinkled, compressed throat-clearing of a man waiting patiently at 11:00pm for a teller in the 15-items or less line at the grocery store, cradling his one bottle of 7-Up and a Swanson’s chicken TV dinner. The brownish groan of twilled fabric as a childless woman buries hands back in her pockets after giving back to her mother her infant niece. The click of the vertebrae of a man bent down again. The soft whistle of a stifled sigh. Even the eyes of the very disillusioned can be heard to murmur damply across their almost tears.

A famous writer once said that we lead lives of quiet desperation, and that is true.

But for those who observe, the quiet is deafening.

Do Not Read This

Have you ever noticed human nature's propensity to do the very thing we forbid ourselves to do? How many of you have run all over the grass, fingered the wet paint, loitered in a public place, tap danced across the yellow line? Did you post a bill last Tuesday? Worse still, did you spindle one? How many of you have driven straight through the right turn lane at 11:30 at night on an empty street, or - hideous thought! - made that illegal left turn from that same lane?

My husband is a deeply ethical man with conservative views, a healthy respect for authority, and a strong moral code. So it was with mixed emotions that I found myself on a wooden path in Yellowstone Park this past summer, listening to him tell me the story of his wild much-younger days when he went skinny dipping in one of the thermal pools of the park in the middle of the night, and was arrested for it by a park ranger. After all, I couldn't even bring myself to step off the wooden path - what chaos would ensue? I was dumbstruck. And, I have to admit, a bit jealous. And curious, too. Who is this upright man, after all, who so blatantly broke the law of the land so long ago, carrying the shame around like a sweater, and showing no remorse for it - in fact, snuggling down in the warmth of it? What other deeper secrets will I discover now that the die is cast, the vows publicly proclaimed? What do you do when you discover the salt of the earth is peppered with the grains of ill-gotten gains?

As it turns out, you take a picture. The grin on his face is there because we are pretty sure this sign was placed there shortly after his infamous swim, some thirty years ago, and that means he and his evil, evil, eeeeevil ways are at least partly responsible for it.

Now, don't get me wrong - I understand the need for rules, regulations, prohibitions, cautionary signs, and the flat-out-unapologetic-NO. I am Catholic. I do not pose small children near wild buffalo, or dry my hair while sitting in the tub, or remove the tag on the matress. I floss. I am a Responsible Adult.

But I do wonder, with human nature's inclination to do exactly what we are told NOT to, shouldn't we take a different tack in challenging ourselves?

What if, instead of telling good folks to read the Bible, the church forbid it, saying it was much too dangerous and leftist for us to understand? Would we bend over like grass, or would we rise up, p-o'ed and mighty with conviction? What if, instead of telling us not to cross the street on a red light, there were signs saying, "Do not cross this racial line," or "You are absolutely forbidden to talk respectfully to Muslims or Jews or Catholics or vegans"? What if, instead of having us all take a number at the DMV, we were strictly prvented from taking turns as we saw fit? Would we cave, or go postal in the name of common courtesy? What if, instead of no trespassing signs, there were people trespassing all over each other's preconceived notions and prejudices with gay abandon? Or, just with some really smartly dressed gay dudes? Wouldn't it be a whole lot easier to "forgive those who trespass against us" when we ourselves knew we'd spent the entire last Wednesday afternoon trespassing against all the rules of tribal reason? What if we laughed out loud in church, spoke up in libraries, danced across the wet floor of the frozen food section in the local supermarket, sang in WalMart? What if we were forbidden to be careful?

I don't know. It might work for awhile, until someone much smarter than me would figure out all this reverse psych stuff and wind up reinventing ways to be small again.

But in that sweet meantime before we wised up, maybe there would be just a little bit fewer signs after a while. Maybe a lot more grins. Maybe, even, a lot more skinny dipping, and not just in thermal pools by folks in their teens.

But maybe we need those signs. Look at the grin. Could it be there if that sign weren't so big and brown and expensive and rock solid? Maybe not.

But it sure is something to not think about. So by all means, don't.

On Noses and Their Contents

Ok, I admit it. Beneath this finely polished exterior of dignified grace lies a terrible secret - I am paranoid about boogies.

There are many terrible things in the world that impose themselves upon us on a daily basis everywhere we turn -- news of muggings, corporate greed, environmental woes, the economy, our increasingly aging population, rising insurance costs, political graft, and the paintings of Thomas Kinkaide. There is no escaping that smurfy little man.

There are deep psychosis of our society, manifestations of a culture gone astray, widening gulfs between the haves and have nots, blistering commentary from the left about the right, virulent commentary from the right about the left.

So why this obession with boogies?

I think it's because most everyone else I know doesn't even think about them. And yet, there they are, hiding in kleenex, regenerating in faces all over the world, in secret, hiding in plain sight. Well, hopefully, not always in plain sight. They are like rabid bats that no one thinks about - we all know they're out there, but we hope they stay in the dark and we really don't do anything about them until it's too late and there's one sitting there on your computer desk.

I am capable of handling all sorts of the nasty things that nature can throw at you. I have calmly held someone's head while they barfed, and not felt myself the least queasy. I am a responsible dog owner who happily cleans up after my pet, even when it's squishy and still warm. I can bandage a skinned knee, remove a splinter, clean a poopy diaper, or remove a tick with the best of them. But if there's a used kleenex in the vicinity, I am apt to lose my lunch.

Don't get me wrong, I understand the necessity of mucus.

I realize that without nose hairs and the body's capacity to keep the nasal membranes moist, we'dd be sucking up dirt like Hoovers. I appeciate the ingenuity of the human body, and have great respect for the average nose.

I just cannot abide the contents.

Once, in a job I have long since left, I sat across a conference table from a man who had a suspicious indication of possible boogieness in his left nostril. It's not like I actually saw a boogie, just that when he breathed, the left nostril pinched in slightly, as though it were blocked, while the right seemed to function normally. I do not remember the meeting we were in, or the color of his eyes, or frankly, even if he had eyes at all. He might have been Brad Pitt, or Cyclops. I only remember the scope of his left pinched-in nostril moving in and out, filling the entire frame of my memory, and even now, the thought of it makes me a little green.

Perhaps this is a manifestation of a deeper emotional problem on my part. Perhaps it would make a good study for a post-graduate student of psychology, or even of otolaryngology. Perhaps I am just hopelessly weird. But boogies to me are Satan's spawn, hiding in the caverns of our heads, just waiting to come out and spread evil like a plague.

Perhaps it is an obsession on a benign subject, to keep me from going completely nuts obsessing over much more dangerous ones.

Or perhaps they are just nasty little things and I simply cannot reconcile myself to them.

Handkerchiefs, or Booger Vaults, as someone close to me calls them, are a complete mystery to me. Who thought it was a good idea to embroider a piece of linen for the express purpose of containing bodily emissions that could be carried place to place in a pocket or purse, like a token of affection? Which brings to mind the image of a knight in shining armor, thundering into battle with his lady's hanky affixed to his spear.

God help me, all I can say is, I hope with all my imagination and heart that hanky was un-used.

Fine Dining In Small Towns

This picture was on the cover of the "Things to Do" brochure in a small hotel I stayed at in Eastern Europe in 2001.

Would anyone like to let me know their thoughts on this? Does it make YOU hungry? Me neither.

And On A Serious Note: Healing Fires

When the bleeding woman
touched his robe with pale fingers
healing sparked to life in his young body, leaped away –
Love’s flame fanned by her faltering breath,
caught, burst forth, consumed in an instant
the crackling manuscript of private pain;
in an eye-blink, cauterized her history.

He had no choice;
fragile faith is so combustible.

She had no choice;
grace is inextinguishable.

Get close enough to it, you will get burned.

What happened after she went home?
Did she walk lightly, as on embers? Did her breath smell like incense?
Was she warmer to the touch? Did she glow from within?

Or did her neighbors only notice
in her wake, the irritating trail of ash?

Sweep it away, they said,
sweep it away.

What would I risk touching to that robe,
so that it incinerates?
What life’s story would I throw at his feet
as kindling to be utterly consumed?
What bleeds in me?

And when he asks again, if ever,
who touched me?
who touched me?
- will it be my voice or another’s to reply?

Dodging Carl

When I lived in Whittier, CA, I drove a 1995 Honda Civic; the model shaped like your granddad's nice sedan, but left in the dryer too long so it shrunk.

I was very careful with this car; I had inherited it from my brother, who had seen it through several minimum-wage jobs, three buddy road trips fueled by cheap gas and Cheetos, one-and-a-half pet dogs, and a flash flood in the middle of the Mojave. One could always find the remnants of an order of fries in the seats (if you were very hungry and not too particular); it ran best on a half-empty tank, it only smoked when it was cold, and although it smelled of burnt plastic, it was only when the heater was on high. It was named Bernard The Brown, and it was a very fine vehicle for the cost.

One afternoon, I sat in the driveway of Norm's Family restaurant, right-hand blinker on, enjoying the faint odor of petroleum byproducts as I waited to slip into southbound traffic on my way to my job as a piano teacher. Without warning, the car lurched to the right and I realized with horror that I had hit someone. Which was quite a feat, considering the car wasn't moving at the time.

I had just enough time to watch in my rear view mirror as the pedestrian catapulted head over heels across the trunk. When I opened my driver side door and looked out, a young man about 15 years of age rose from his crouched position at the right rear of my car, stood up and said with pride, "I landed on my feet!"

To which the only other observer of this phenomenon besides myself -- Steve -- said, "Oh good grief, Carl - a-GAIN?"

Carl replied, somewhat petulantly, "Well, I did at least land on my feet this time!"

It was then that I noticed the ten speed bike with the horribly mangled front wheel, laying at the side of my car.

Carl apologized to me, "Lady, I'm really sorry. Please don't tell my dad!"

It took several minutes for me to unravel the mystery. Apparently, Carl and Steve, good friends, had decided to take their bikes out for a ride on the west side of Whittier Boulevard, on the sidewalk, and Carl, as was his custom, was taking a long time to decide what gear to put his bike in. It was also apparent that his custom was to continue moving rapidly in a forward direction as he did this, which is why he was unaware of my presence in his immediate path until he left his bike seat to fling his body across the rear of my vehicle as he t-boned his front tire.

The dent he left in the rear side of my car was not huge; in fact, if you didn't know where to look, it might be considered part of the design of the chassis.

What I found interesting is that Carl, unlike many other riders, was a creature of habit for whom accidents did not serve to sway his habitual caution regarding the appropriate use of gear ratio for ultimate speed. This was incident number three.

We agreed to let the matter rest; even though I could have asked for insurance from Carl's father, the dent was hardly worth it, and it was very clear that Carl had enough on his mind already with expensive bike repairs in his future.

Steve was a good friend; he walked alongside Carl as Carl picked up his poor bike, slung the front half over his shoulder and began the walk home. I was bemused, and, to be honest, touched.

Later that week, I saw Steve's affection for Carl once again; for there they were, Carl and Steve as before, on Whittier Boulevard's westbound sidewalk. I watched from my place at the red light as Steve gently pedaled his ten-speed along at a pace comfortable for Carl to jog alongside.

As the light turned green, I had one last look in the rearview mirror, just in time to see Carl looking down at his feet and --

Comrade Jay Pop Tart

When I visited Eastern Europe in 2001 on a music mission trip, I anticipated seeing lots of ugly communist block housing in grays and drab browns, next to dazzling but empty 800-year old churches; traffic jams of bug-like little cars that looked like Inspector Clouseau should be behind the wheel; little old wrinkled ladies with paisley scarves around their heads and wizened chin hair; sad-eyed children hitting up tourists in crusty little cafes in the downtown areas. I had seen postcards and slide presentations with these images. We were there, not to see the best of what they had to offer, but to minister to the small towns which needed a boost. Our work was simple - sing songs, bring hope. I was well prepared.

The first night at our gray-block hotel in a very small town outside a very large and very gray city, I rode an impossibly teeny elevator with only three walls. The graffitied shaft peeled by as I ascended and descended floors; perfectly safe, unless I leaned on the wrong wall. Then of course, I would die. The elevator doors, a lovely Socialist Red, opened and closed on hinges, like closets. The winches growled like wounded bears. I felt a little like Agent Maxwell Smart, not too sure if the elevator would take me up, or suddenly plunge me to the bottom.

My hotel room door was covered in richly padded, cracked brown naugahyde, studded with brass nails. It felt like Ben Cartwright from Bonanza had designed it. You had to use a key to open it, even from the inside. The room had a clean but saggy double bed and a small TV conveniently placed at the foot. The sign on the door -- in English, this being a hot tourist spot -- had an emergency sheet, laminated for durability and stuck to the wall, to notify you of the appropriate actions in the event of a fire.

The sheet had only one phrase and two sentences on it, exactly as below:

In Event Of Fire
1. Notify the hotel stiff. (sic)
2. Remain in your room.

I suspect the unwritten, but clearly implied sentence to follow would be:

3. Die quietly, no one wants to hear you scream.

Figuring I would raise my cultural awareness in this land so far from home, or at least lull myself to sleep, I channel surfed through bleary newscast after newscast until I hit channel 31, and my finger hovered above the remote, unable or unwilling to push the button for the next channel. It was well after 10pm, so I was understandably surprised when a terrorist-eyed puppet shaped like a Pop Tart was speaking in a very deep and masculine tone from behind a desk. I assumed it was a rerun of a children's program, and thought it odd that it was on so late.

It got even odder when I realized that the puppet had guests. Human guests. Adult human guests. A woman with lovely blonde hair and a very short skirt. A man with a deep chest and a shirt just a little too small for him. An old guy in a gray suit who laughed continually and sipped water from a blue mug. They spoke to the puppet as comfortably as if they were talking to a human host. When the puppet laughed, as he often did, he bounced up and down merrily, sounding like a pro wrestler trying to clear his throat, being strangled by his opponent.

When the little tv popped up behind Pop Tart man and started running a clip from a steamy film featuring the woman in the tiny skirt in a compromising position and a pretty skimpy outfit, I realized that the puppet was not a Post-Communist Big Bird, but a Post-Communist Jay Leno. He seemed to like the film clip very much; at least, he bounced quite a bit afterwards and his eyes seemed a bit shinier.

Later, I wanted to ask about this when my mission team wound up visiting the Minister of Culture, Education, and Athletics in the little town we stayed in later that week. There was something weirdly familiar about this neatly dressed bureaucrat; his nose, perhaps, or his deep masculine voice.

And then he laughed. Like a like a pro wrestler trying to clear his throat, being strangled by his opponent.

By the way, if you are ever in post-communist Eastern Europe watching late night TV, don't go to channel 32. Don't ask why. You really, really, really don't want to know.