Boy vs. Monster: Boy evolution.

Disclaimer: from a few weeks old. But not expired! No freshness pack, no sell-by date!

Oh-so-thankfully, everything seems to be waking up. WEMU is playing old crackly songs with saucy lyrics (how big are the biscuits, how sweet the honey, whose jelly roll?), tiny birds are plashing about the pseudo swamp of my back yard, and Javier has been plotting out play rehearsals by pacing between bedroom, living room, kitchen; bedroom, living room, kitchen. I picked up my Cakeasaurus picture project again, after a long dormant period.

Have been carving one block, like so:

though now suddenly, with the nice weather, I no longer wish to carve in the basement...

And more, importantly to carrying it forward, I have been playing around with the look of my  little boy character. During the entire length of this project, I have waffled about him. And he's important, so how can I start carving any woodblocks, when he's up in the air? He's too young looking, or too old; or his neck is too twiddly and snappable, his moon eyes too cutesy. So many issues, you have no idea!

initially the middle guy was the ticket. But then again: no.

But I think I'm getting a bit closer.

He has undergone many iterations

 I still like the below version of him in bed, but so far he has not fit into the rest of the images

he's wide awake, when he shouldn't be. Like so many of us.   

Red-handed cake theft, with prior boy character

And now an updated sketch. Aside from a needed ear shift, I'm liking him. His hair is closer to that of Robert Smith's than most young children, but being a former Cure-head, I'm okay with that. (The skinny Staples cashier clerk: "Hey is that your drawing? He looks kind of Anime...") I was surprised to find that having his arms hanging down actually contributed better to a sense of shock then the prior pose of hands raised to partially shield his face.

Well! And so it is: time stops at the moment of discovery, there is a hush; and then a rush forward, as everything catches up.The Sunday, certainly, is rushing forward. The 8th annual FestiFools parade is happening in less than an hour in downtown Ann Arbor ~~

~~ And then Compatriot arrived, we went off to find a parade spot, and life rushed forward, as often happens... Off to work.

Productivity in Sleep | Beware, Snooze Alarmists

"Birds on a Tree," Chris Stiles

The New Year's life overhauling impulse came a few months late this year. It's scattered across several areas, which seems to be a recipe for failure, so to what end, really? But, I suppose it comes down to the establishment of better daily life habits which would, if embraced, coalesce into a new brass penny of a life, with more creativity, more respite, more fitness, and connection. Write your checklists, start your engines: Go!

The last few nights, I have, indeed, managed to get to bed early. Sad that sleep does not automatically follow. I used to sleep easily, nap at the drop of a hat: book tented and fallen askew, sofa warm, the surprise of evening in a moment. No. Yesterday I would get up and write for a good solid hour before work, and arrive at the office already feeling accomplished! Woo, yay me! Or rather, the radio came on at 6 AM, and I hit snooze on my phone for two hours (no trouble sleeping after a snooze alarm, nope, rarely-if-ever).

The snoozefest was richly spent, bouncing between a dream narrative where a stranger took over my life by stealing my cell phone at a bar (13 of his henchman later arrived at my family's house over Christmas, and sat silently in whatever room my family members were in; somehow, their clogging presence announced that life, as I knew it, was over); a helpful sub-dream convinced me I was, in actuality, already awake and busily writing a blog post! (so no worries, good job!); NPR's reporting of the tragic mud slide in Seattle, WA met me when I surfaced, reminding me that if life truly overtook me, it would be more than a lost cell phone and reduced seating options.

This morning, no dream thievery, but again, snooze alarm was well used. From the snoozing --  a smashed, waterlogged camera, and the promise of two parties, one work-related and the other, a sprawling neighborhood affair. This American Life's "Seven Things You're Not Supposed to Talk About" includes dreams among its forbidden number -- but if you agree, you have already abandoned this post, so. That's about it. Hopefully, this is the beginning of incremental changes which will slowly build momentum into a new life...

********************

At left, my unintended splurge after I wandered into one of Ann Arbor's long time galleries, Selo | Shevel, which has been slowly closing over the past couple months.  Hard to not feel vulturey, under those circumstances, nosing around a moribund business; and yet, especially two-thirds of the way through an abominable winter season, it's nice to have that little bloom of potential, something that was out of reach and maybe has come a bit closer. I prefer the series name on one web site, "Ghost Wood Birds," though the ghost part was not echoed by the artist's site. I had walked past versions of these, in Selo | Shevel's always imaginative windows and loved them. This one was perched on a shelf high above the register; I peered at it from behind mostly empty shelves, from varying angles. Like so many of Valerie Mann's bird wall sculptures, the shadows cast were almost as important as the piece itself.

Nice to hear the birds outside, even though it still snows. Comforting and hopeful to have these birds inside, in their bleached bone silence. Birds: porcelain | Wood: manzanita

 

The Tables Have Ears

Last week had an underwater feel to it. Not drowning, but a bit floaty, discombobulated. Part of it, I'm sure, was due to a small outpatient procedure I had done midway through the week. "You're so *lucky,* they're not putting you under!" Lucky - yes, in that it certainly signals your needs are far from dire, and that bounty can not be overemphasized. During past periods of high-density diagnostics, I was simultaneously panicked/grateful for the the efficient, no-nonsense kindness of hospital people/ and wondering over the fellow patients who clearly had much more to contend with. But really, though I'm slightly less chicken than I used to be, I'm fine with a few dead hours of lost time, to wake up to a brightly delivered, "she's waking up -- You're ALL done! Everything went fine!" But no dice this time around. I was tagged and braceleted and put my clothes in clear, labeled bags; numerous people briskly introduced themselves, asked if the surgeon had talked to me, and then disappeared. A magical warming blanket ($250 line item? $600? not sure about its magic level) was tucked around the edges of the bed. After being asked so many times about the surgeon, I wondered what battery of questions awaited. After an hour or so, a spry, elderly man showed up: "Are *you* the one I'm looking for? I hear you have a *thing*," his gaze slid past my face to the more important body, "and oh you *DO*, we'll take care of that" and then he was off. After that I could respond, that yes, I had spoken with the surgeon.

Soon enough another person was glancing me and the wheeled bed off assorted walls, against unmanned wheel chairs and into the intimidating brightness of the surgery room. More people, more masks, clipboards and beeping. The needles bite more than the advertised "just a few little bee stings!" You angle your head in the direction of the seated woman who is tracking your vitals, though you can't see her in any case. Obviously, she is your lifeline, should nastiness surface; she has professional-grade soothing patter on tap.

Meanwhile, the surgeon and his team are waiting for the anesthetic to take hold; the one who is drumming a riff on your leg is also talking about a 72-hour barbeque pork recipe that is in process at home. "Sign me UP!" says an unseen woman, "So you like to cook, but your wife, doesn't, right? Luuuuucky wife!" It's true, his wife sees it as a hassle, but him? He finds it totally relaxing. And: he just got new toys. A blow torch ("ooOOooo, creme brulee??" the feminine voice coos. No, he clarifies, more for charring meat.) And liquid nitrogen, he'd love to try that out. No one in the room knows what he's talking about. I want to pipe up, "Riiiiiight, like Ferran Adria~~" but then I'd need to lift my head and they don't really want me to move. I also have a nagging sense that it's a mild breach. Their conversation floated above me; I listened to them from beneath layers of sterilized fabric and crinkly paper. It's odd, these scenarios where you're simultaneously a participant and yet somewhat invisible. Stick to the script and all will be well. But maybe this is more reflective of my playing into it? Maybe some sassier, fiercer people are all-personality, even in the surgical round, breaking in, tossing up sarcasm and dark humor: I am not just a patient! To think, though, that many people have that experience every day, through a job, or frequently, as a condition of a society's organization around class or gender or race, is pretty sobering.

{{{Compatriot-specific message! -- don't read the next paragraph. After that, fine. Everyone Else: as you were. }}

This also called up a vivid memory of having oral surgery as a teenager; the surgeon and his assistant were above me, to either side. Between the reflective light and the eyeglasses of those leaning in, I could watch what they were doing. The surgeon was cutting into the roof of my mouth and removing neat glistening rectangles of tissue. It was distressing and mesmerizing. Meanwhile, they were discussing yachts: different sizes, whose they had been on, at what level their owners maintained them. My eyes bounced between their faces, until it grew tiring or stirred panic. Blood, gums, yachts, Summer weekends.

The juxtaposition of mundane conversation with drastic-feeling circumstance was, instead, the so-called luckiness of being awake. It was at once mildly irritating and oddly reassuring: their expertise, their confidence levels were such, that they had to do *something* to help pass the time.  

Welcome, Weekend! Plus, a Play Worth Your While

Well, I write this in a state of distraction, because it's Thursday (HOO-ray!), I was, "hmm, Michael Imperioli as a bigamist-with-a-ponytail on Rake?," and then (forgive the hopping), now there's triple lutzing but no twizzles, and I shall be going to bed earlyish, because last night was full of theater and dazzlement and sleeplessness.

But! the theater! If you're Michiganish and are going to see "The Suit" at the Power Center Friday or Saturday night (closes Saturday! best to nail it down now), lucky you! Stripped down stage set (a handful of chairs (brightly colored), a garment rack, a table), four beautiful, talented performers and three wonderful musicians, whose music weaves through the monologues, dialogues. A mournful accordian wonders onstage, a trumpet summons New Orleans, a guitar is nimbly strummed and plucked. Love, betrayal and carefully kept garments, set against the backdrop of later apartheid era South Africa (based on a short story by Can Themba, who wrongly predicted that the beautiful tale would make himself and his wife both rich; it was instead banned, and he eventually died from complications from alcoholism). Sounds heavy, I know. But it is surprisingly light, in its experience. The cruelty, yes, is as fresh, and intimate, as the hope of beauty. But beauty there exists.

****Inside (well, in Sochi), Bolero, beautiful landings, but the legs are getting tired: a triumph for Carolina Kostner of Italy!  Outside: THUNDER SNOW.WHA????. Michigan, we give. we surrender.****

When the female lead, Nonhlanhla Kheswa (playing Matilda), first breaks into song, it was the first-best present of yesterday. She started in Lion King on Broadway at 16, so no wonder, but we (partner-in-crime/Javier) didn't know that. Watch the first video here, for a lovely snippet from the performance. Could she be more beautiful, more composed?  Numerous presents followed. I have seen *so* many fantastic shows since taking up with the ever-so-busy boyfriend last January, but this was definitely close to the top. The story was deceptively simple, as the best stories often are: and the pared down actualization of it had the feel of the best folk tales and story books. Poetic, multi-faceted, true.

But a moment in acknowledgment of the further presents, by no means limited to this highlight: Jordan Barbour, as the friend of our male protagonist, Philomen, sang one of the most unexpected -- and to my mind, best -- renditions of "Strange Fruit." I do not say this lightly. This is a song I never want to hear singers other than Nina Simone or Billie Holiday perform. People overestimate themselves, throw vehemence at an already powerful song, and butcher it. Barbour, however, sang it softly, conversationally; as if encountering it for the first time, but knowing it to be true. I got to speak with him afterwards, and he said this was a song he and Peter Brook have continually gone back and forth on -- he had to pull back from prior training, to sing it simply, to "let the words of the song be the guide." He said they had just, um, intensely discussed it over the past week. And moreover, through their global tour, across all the musical numbers, they vary it constantly: maybe it would be sung a capella, or with trumpet, or, or, or. Such agility, for both the actors and musicians alike.

****Sleep break.*************************************************************************************

So anyway, if you count yourself lucky, you should be in the audience tomorrow or Saturday night. We're more likely to regret what we haven't done, rather than what we have, right? And this includes opening yourselves to these life-giving works of art, whether performance or quietly (/not so quietly) hanging upon a wall.

Visit an official take from the NYTimes here, but maybe if you're going to see this weekend, don't look! SO nice to be more surprised, right? 

Random bonuses:

• "Meadowland: Stolen Jazz"  Kheswa and her Martians, lovely weekend soundtrack
• Acting reel for Ivanno Jeremiah, who plays Philomen, to Kheshwa's Matilda
• Plus his twitter account, not because if short, epic brilliance, but OMG check out his photo backdrop! Scroll down! Period dress or Alice in Wonderland? Please tell me. I'd take it either way. 

Happy Friday, All! Has everything frozen over? Does my snow boulder still block  the foot of my driveway? Are there charts in my near future? Magic 8-Ball says: Yes.

An Unseasonable Spot of Green

Snowed again last night and from what they say, the polar vortex is coming back around next week. I was all devil-may-care today and wore only one -- ONE --  set of thermals! ...and then huddled resentfully at my desk, glowering at my powerpoints beneath my red knit hatandscarf, because the office was colder on this slightly warmer day. The hatandscarf is nice in that it's kind of like a sweater, but better, wrapped as it is over your dome and covering your ears, cushioning you from the harsher realities of life. Plus it has three pompoms. You needn't tie it beneath your chin. Perhaps you merely loop the long scarf ends across your neck, free to dangle behind, which they will, (clever pompom weighting, also tastefully red); or tie at the nape of one's neck: this is also fine. The hatandscarf* may not lend an air of sophistication, nor convey the often useful Back the fuck OFF, but then again, it may also indicate that you're a little loopy, mildly off-center and so perhaps it's better not to bother you on that score.

*A brief selection of remarks uttered to me in relation to the hatandscarf:

• "So then we -- could you take that OFF? It's kind of distracting, we're inside now." -- Javier
• "What the hell kind of papasmurf thing is that on your HEAD?" -- coworker, as if irritated by the hatandscarf's existence, though it by no means impacts his existence.
• "Maybe the new rule should be that when your coat is off, that comes off, too." -- Javier, who is fond of laying out new game plans.
• "You know, from across the room, I really didn't have a sense of the *length* of the scarf...It's kind of...like the Lorax, you know they make the *thneeds*, maybe you could get on that ~~"** -- different coworker. **To which one is compelled to reply, "Everyone needs a thneed!" thus immensely improving the work week.

Which all to say, I was first plowed INTO my driveway, before being plowed OUT OF my driveway, the Pennsylvania contingent went without power for a good many days, thank heavens for the astounding Olympians whose amazing strength, dedication and inspiration we bask in from the (relative) warmth of our living rooms; and goodlord bring on the warmth-but-not-the-floods.

Time for a break from (our) reality. This break brought to you by: the Domnican Republic:

If you are hereX, you're standing in front of the remains of the first hospital in America (built 1503-1508)

from across the street it looks something like this

 Atlas Obscura has a little background here. No old beds, no implements to be seen...Only walls and arches, framing sky.

                                             The most fun to be hard is when you walk
                                                       beneath the pigeon archway

A shadow of things to come

                                            ...to the far side of the hospital ruins...

and to your right and above you is a wall, with many nooks

and in each nook, a pretty green parrot.

Aratinga Parakeet? Hispaniola Parrot? Unclear.

Just beyond is another whitewashed church

with a high relief Madonna and child

looking up the hill, with the church to our right. Oddly this felt somewhere between Philly and New Orleans

Notice for the eucharist

white church front with sky blue sky

Madonna behind a grated window

The lit votives and money were below the frame. Deposit here, your hopes and dreams, your wishes for loved ones in epic health battles. Set your worries carefully down, if you can; and may the grace you need find you.

 

Sunday, Random Sunday

I can't stop eating double chocolate malted milk balls and I can't stop listening to Thao & the Get Down Stay Down,* following their surprising set at the Ann Arbor Folk Festival** on Friday night. I also have been incapable of getting off the interwebs this fine Sunday, between the shocking Philip Seymour Hoffman passing, emails, other assorted randomness (the finest of which is videos from new favorite Emily Graslie, at the Field Museum: Owls!). I heard on FB that Toyota used the Muppets in their Superbowl ad (meh), and have already seen Doberwawa commercial, so I think I'm set on that score. Though I'll certainly check out the superbowl ad digests when they circulate around tomorrow.

*Follow up: you may be wondering, as I was: who's Valerie Bolden? Interesting article here.

from Houston Press blog

** Of course, the most, most important reason for going was NEKO CASE, who was the bomb, as ever. "Oh," said Javier after the performance, "I think I get it a bit more now," by which he meant the mild obsession//starry-eyed hero worship. Talented, jaunty, mildly raunchy, with her bad-ass sexiness and bizarro most-distracting-ever pants -- which apparently are a tour favorite (House of Blues: Houston).

And now, what everyone has been waiting for, this Sunday, February 2nd: Sherlock.*

*Plus, more chocolate malt balls.

I'm Mr. Icicle, I'm Mr. Ten Below

"Now is the winter of our discontent..." Did politics, general malaise, or the polar vortex  bring this to the tip of my tongue? Sadly, it was probably Winter first, followed by January cabin feverishness. Ahhhh, misapplied Shakespeare, a good way to start the year. My use is even cheesier, since unlike you Dear Reader, I did not immediately recall the rest on my own ("made glorious summer by this sun of York" Richard III), so its apparent meaning of "The time of unhappiness is past" was lost to me. To wit... let us all be of good cheer, even if we are aggravated, aggrieved, malcontented, maladapted*: better times are coming!


(*maybe not, that can be hard to undo! but. you know, take heart.)

It is, however, ridiculously cold. For once it seemed the doom-saying forecasters called it. And even now, though the worst of it has passed (I think?), it's difficult to characterize it as anything other than 'frigid.' I heard 6 degrees below tonight, and apparently double digits are too much to ask. At least through the joy of relativity, the recent 30-degrees-below-with-windchill makes the current sub-zero doable if not especially pleasant. Plus, people are no longer freaking out and stripping all the grocery shelves bare, so that your quick trip of I-just-need-five-things involves unanticipated problem solving. As well as freezing the *insert preferred noun here* off almost every citizen across the U.S. and presenting real danger to the more vulnerable members of our population, it also blew in highly agitated Mom fronts, which the weather experts failed to track on their screens.

On the eve of the coldest projected day, my Mom called me with a pointed mission: to keep her youngest, living several states away, from foolishly exposing her body parts to the elements. I had worked that day from home --  after having shoveled three times the day before to keep up with the snow -- my back was sore, and I was rather done with it. But the next morning -- after reshoveling my drive -- I needed to get back into the office: the multitude of charts I was making were difficult to see on my wee laptop screen.

"HI Mom! How ARE you? How's the weather?"

"Hi, How are YOU???Oh I keep thinking about you!"

"I'm fine, it's *cold*, there's lot of snow, I keep shoveling--"

"-- DON'T GO OUTSIDE"

"well, I just needed to shovel a bit, came back in--"

"DON'T. SHOVEL. Aren't there neighborhood kids*? Did you go to work today?"

{*they must be conveniently immune to the cold.}

"No, I worked from home today, I'm going to go in--"

"Stay HOME tomorrow, DON'T leave the house!"

"tomorrow, I kind of need to, I know, the weather IS kind of crazy. --"

"NO. It's *dangerous*. You just. work. FROM HOME. Why do they need YOU so much? They don't!"

"ummmm"

"...And if something happens to YOU, what are THEY going to do??"

"...Well, anyway, it IS crazy to think of states where they have these kinds of temperatures and somehow they get through"

"You're not used to these temperatures! You're not some big burly guy who has fat to spare! You could freeze in the time it will take you to walk to your work from the parking lot!"

At around this time, I detected my Dad in the background; he either mocked or tried to soothe**, because she hissed, "Her temperature is reading ten degrees BELOW zero. BELOW." I listed off my extra special layering techniques to appease her; she was somewhat mollified, but reiterated the speed at which frostbite can occur.

{**probably mocked.}

"So. Just don't DO IT. Now your father may have some OTHER thing to say, but you just listen to me. Here's your father."

Horrible daughter that I was, I went into work the next day, but duly reported having survived to the day's end. The East Coast is now due for more snowstorms, hopefully the forecasted foot or so is exaggerated. But if not -- consider your options. And Then: STAY INSIDE...