My Reflection in the Dirty Window on the 6th Floor

I spent most of the past year and a half looking up.

My obsession with “up” was born out of another obsession (borderline paranoid neurosis) that was born out of purchasing a home. I am an excessive roof/gutter checker, i.e. I am terrified that I will awake one day to a huge hole in my box gutter, or an even bigger one in my roof. This daily practice has caused me to look more upwards more often than most people should. This habit has gradually morphed into my neck craning skyward whenever I venture outdoors. First it was to check out everyone else’s roofs and gutters and compare their maintenance/deterioration to mine. But all this measured structural analysis led my eye drift skyward on more days. I guess I didn’t realize until quite recently how striking Pennsylvania skies can be; or maybe I just don’t remember them ever being quite as dynamic as they were this year; or perhaps there was just more pollution creating more cloud covers and wacky weather patterns; or maybe I was just paying closer attention than ever before; or maybe I just chose to look up more often.

Clouds Over my House.

Looking up into the sky reminds me of my summers working as a sweeperette at Kennywood Park. Back in those days, I loved having the 4 p.m. shift. The late start to the work day helped me to avoid walking around the park in the wretched noon day sun. And as an added bonus, if the weather was pleasant, it gave me a chance to head to the local water park with a few of my friends who also had my same schedule. We would always dash straight towards the “Lazy River.” We spent the day talking and not talking while floating um, lazily, in oversized inner tubes on this man-made “river.” We held onto the handles of each other’s tubes in order to stay together amongst the long line of tubers. Usually we ended the day happy, sleepy, and near sun poisoned. The following hours would entail sweeping up the remnants of leftover amusement park fun while nursing our pinkish skin with aloe vera, praying for the cotton of our polo shirts to stop scratching at our blisters. Ah, the bliss of young summers.

Parking Lot Sunset.

The memory of one of those “water park days” came to mind the other night. I remembered sitting on the foot of my friend’s bed laughing, joking, and listening to music before getting ready to head out. The Bodyguard soundtrack was playing in the background. As the next track began to play, my friend stopped talking, sat down on the bed, and leaned back on her elbows. She tilted her head back, inhaled and then exhaled and said, almost in the register of a shout, “I love this song.” She belted out that tune like it was written for her. She was looking up when she first belted out her tune, and then she turned her head looked directly at me and began to sing in that jokey way only close girlfriends can. I followed suit. I remember the look on her face and sound of her voice as if it were yesterday.

That was the summer before “devastatingly” serious relationships started to rear their lovely, angst filled heads; the summer before my mother died; the time when college was just beginning, before  momentum of growing up took hold. I loved the innocence of those Kennywood summers, the simplicity of lying on a bed and singing out loud with a close friend. When living in those moments were all you were required to do. I spent most of those summers looking at the ground, sweeping. I barely opened my eyes on the “Lazy River” because the sun was usually quite bright, even on the most overcast of days. I looked for the moments I could peek through and let the sunlight in, but I was often left seeing the imprints the clouds left behind when I was forced to close my eyes again.

Driving back from the water park, the car was usually quiet and listless. Sometimes I would plop myself down in the seat and rest my head on the passenger side window. I was finally able to look up and out into the summer sky without sunny obstructions and daydream into the cloud patterns. Certain clouds would catch my eye and I would stare at them the entire drive, wondering if they would be able to hang on to our speedometer long enough and make it all the way to our destination. The screech of brake dust when we arrived in the parking lot woke me from my fixation. “Sigh. Eight more hours of work.” Summer was calling…

• • •

Excerpts from “looking up”. A few unposted skies from this past year.

Cloud that Followed Me After the Storm.

Cloud that Waited for Me After the Graduation Party.

Winter Storm 1

Winter Storm 2

Winter Storm 3

Tightrope to the Clouds.

Waiting for Batman 1.

Waiting for Batman 2.

Jack's Cloud City (reminds us of The Empire Strikes Back).

Underwater Surface

There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in… do not dwell on what is passed away or what is yet to be. — Leonard Cohen

•  •  •

MOVEMENT

I have never been what you would call graceful.

I used to practice dance routines in my bedroom, trying to find ways to feel graceful, and to gain control of my defiant body. I closed my eyes and imagined I knew exactly what those complicated steps felt like to seasoned dancers. I would watch Gregory Hines and practice my version of the Shuffle, Ball Change. I made up whole routines. I spent weeks mastering my interpretation of Janet Jackson’s “Miss You Much” in order to audition for a dance part in my high school musical. I channeled my best Liza/Mein Heir/Fosse Style chair dance. Sadly, I chickened out, only mustering enough courage to audition for the speaking, singing roles. To this day, I still remember most of the steps…

My thoughts have been drifting back and forth towards my perceived and actual lack of agility. I end up reminiscing about the two weeks worth of swimming lessons Jack took over the summer. He went farther and was more graceful than I ever was. He swam underwater, without fear, without question. I envy that type of confidence.

Growing up, I never learned to swim or ride a bike, properly. It was all either self-taught or husband aided. At this point, I think I could only swim enough to save my life.

My lack of education was not based on fear. More based on the sheer will of one caring yet over protective parent and the lethargic complacency of the other. I should have fought more for lessons, the same way I begged them to teach me how to drive.

Sinking

I almost drowned in a pool once. The experience was not how I imagined it; that frantic whirlwind of  arms and legs flailing about as it is often portrayed in the movies. At least it was not that way for me.

I was 11. Our family was on a whirlwind journey down the east coast. I forget what hotel we stayed in — it may have been Seven Springs. I had never been to an indoor, in-ground pool before. My dad rushed off down the long, tackily carpeted hotel corridor in order to make it to the pool before anyone else. He was a competitive swimmer/diver in his younger life.

I don’t remember how most of it happened, but I must have not paid any attention to which side was the deep end and which side was shallow. I simply walked in without a thought.

I remember feeling as if I had sunk to the bottom. Sound was muffled. All I could see were the flourescent lights from the ceiling reflecting off the surface of the water. The pool might as well have been an ocean due to how completely small and insignificant I felt. Instead of flailing about, I felt an unbelievable calm. I am not really sure why. My sister said she observed an awkward struggle, but all I remember is gazing above in wonderment.

The lifeguard pulled me out a few seconds later. I was dazed by the whole thing. My mother wrapped her arms around me and took me back to the hotel room. I remember that blur, that haze, that calm before the storm where I was released and pulled out into the air… I became stunted by fear at 11. But it wasn’t my fear. I had adopted hers.

•  •  •

SOLITARY MOURNING

I never expected this past year to have such a profound effect on the landscape of my life. That landscape has evolved both subtly and significantly. 2011 left me gasping, dazed, mesmerized, and longing in much the same way that serenely harrowing pool experience did.

Solitary Mourning

Of course, it was fitting that this past year had one final funeral to complete the bookend in a very long, death filled year. It was even more fitting it was for this particular person. Well, not fitting in the sense that it was the demise of this human being, but more in regards to what he represented. To the casual observer, this man was a rough and tumble person. He was old school, conservative, filled with piss and vinegar, and gruff in voice and nature. But underneath it all were these subtle shades from a man who dealt mostly in blacks and whites. A self-made man; a father figure to most that knew him (including my husband); someone who traversed adversity to a the other side.

I was numb to the feeling of funeral homes at this point in this year. My numbness may have come across almost overly social so I had to dial it back a bit, so instead of really joining in, I sat back and listened a lot to everyone’s chatter. Through all the crotchety stories, the one phrase that seemed to summarized this person’s existence was he was “a tough son of a bitch, but he was always fair” or some variation of that. Perfection. As I sat on the couch and continued to listen to the merging of words, my inner voice began to run through this end of year checklist, this dialogue that spoke to me like an end of the movie monologue. I began typing them in on my iPad simply so I could remember:

MY LESSONS/MY YEAR IN REVIEW/MY SHOUTING INNER VOICE/MY “WHATEVERS” (IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER)

• I’ve said goodbye to more people, places, and things than I was ever prepared for. I’ve welcomed new folks and lamented over the severing of old ties to things that were simply not relevant anymore.

• I’ve learned better usage and application of the word NO.

• I’ve learned to migrate towards the people who have my best interests at heart.

• I’ve learned that some people are just incapable of giving others what I need no matter how badly they or I would like them to.

• I’ve learned that choosing, wanting and needing are sometimes mutually exclusive. At others, they are all perfectly in sync with each other. I have yet to find that trifecta.

• I’ve soul searched and found insight through unexpected channels on how to be a better mother, a better wife, and a better friend.

• An epiphany = nervous breakdown (metaphorically speaking). I don’t mean to make light of NBs, nor do I know the feeling first hand, but I would like to imagine that moment of clarity when you come through to the other side of both experiences may or may not render the same effects on your psyche.

• I just heard someone mutter the phrase “disadvantage is just advantage turned on its ear.” I have never heard that phrase before, but I feel motivated in this moment to make those words ring true when the time or place is right for the seizing.

• I’ve learned that my inner dialogue REALLY can ramble with unending, exhaustive, narcissistic monologues. 

• I’ve gotten to hear so many people talk about so many other people and see so many others people from a new-found, and sometimes skewed, perspective.

• I’ve gotten to appreciate my husband more and have watched him constantly strive to be the best version of himself for no other reason than that deep down, that is who he is, and everything else is who he striving to be.

• I’ve learned that if you don’t spray your coat with Febreeze after every funeral, the next time you put on your coat and for many weeks afterwards,  you will be inundated with a very weird, pungent combination of perfumes, carnations, and lilies.

Roof fixer on the drive home

•  •  •

REQUIEMS, CRESCENDOS, AND $8 EPIPHANIES

I appreciate requiems. They really put a period on the end of a sentence with all the pomp, circumstance, and all the crescendos a moment deserves. Anyone who knows me well, knows just how much I love crescendos; I am a sucker for them in ANYTHING. I thump my chest like Celine Dion when I hear that manufactured, musical fortissimo in all its over the top glory. This love for elevated endings was definitely honed while performing as the “cymbal girl” in my high school marching band. Carrying around 20 pound cymbals for hours at a time makes you really appreciate the crash that comes at the end of a large swell.

Last year was my crescendo, one manufactured by me and heavily influenced by the course of events that transpired. A year of a series of slow and steady rises and falls to the precipice of something. I have been left more empty and more filled by this past year than most any other. I felt such raw emotion as if I just traversed something all too hard to comprehend. The I am still waiting for the final curtain call, for the conductor to close his palms and bow.

Crescendo between our houses

I saw a movie with my family the day before New Year’s Eve. After the morning funeral, we wanted a quiet family afternoon with a little, nondescript, innocuous family film. One that we expected to watch and then forget about. I did not expect it to affect me so deeply. (Damn you Cameron Crowe and that stupid zoo you bought!)

All you need is 20 seconds of insane courage…

The movie was formulaic and sweet at the outset, but as it gathered momentum, there were many moments of “something.” And then there was a moment — a moment that summed up my entire year. A year I felt isolated by and isolated inside of. A year where I felt my struggles were my own and foolishly kept my laments primarily to myself.

After their long and arduous process of trying to build this zoo and all the movie drama that entails, the main character and his son (who of course were at odds during most of the film) have the proverbial blow out to release all the tension they have been building for the last two hours. After some reflections, their relationship slowly saunters it way into the realm of getting back on track. The day before the zoo is set to launch its grand reopening, father and son sit in front the animal cages and talk. Without the benefit of You Tube, I can’t remember exactly how it went, but it was a conversation designed to be a vehicle to get the two of them really communicating again. The father suggests that the two of them say something they have always wanted to say to the other one, simultaneously, on the count of three.

I can’t for the life of me remember the exact words so the impact of this may not be as potent as it is in my head. “I know you did your best, dad,” or some suggestion of that notion was uttered in that simultaneous exchange. It was really a small moment that before I had a kid wouldn’t have even noticed. In a sappy moment that only Mr. Crowe can manipulatively and poignantly deliver, my body just couldn’t stop itself. I felt the tears roll down my face and all that exhaustion at trying my very hardest at everything came to a head. Then I heard the sniffling on the other side of Jack. I looked over at my husband, saw his glassy eyes, and I realized after all this time he was silently experiencing all the same things I thought I only knew the darks spaces of; the same worries, the same self-doubt, the same need to be and do the best for this little person we created who means everything. I realized he was feeling everything, but that I had been taking it for granted that he wasn’t. For some reason it just didn’t cross my mind.

I held Dave’s hand and I understood everything. The hurt, the worry, the unsureness he never shows but somehow a few moments within a beautifully corny film revealed. All this undue pressure to strive to be better for Jack is a hard thing to live up to. We are looking to live this life a different way, a better way, a less exhausting way, but up to and including this point we are not sure how. He is not sure how.

Waiting for the film

On the car ride home, I reached across to the driver’s seat, lovingly grabbed the back of Dave’s neck and asked. “What’s our adventure?” He looked over with tears in his eyes and quietly said, “I dunno.” His honesty was both comforting and complex. He turned off the car, smiled, and the three of us walked hand in hand into the grocery store, putting notions of life changing exploits on the sidelines for the moment. We ran at full speed across the parking lot, Jack holding both our hands as he begged us to swing him onto the sidewalk. We obliged.

Our $8/Junior Mints and popcorn epiphany: we needed our adventure to begin and we were ready for it now more than ever. Maybe we ignored the call long ago. We had both lost parents at the dawn of our adulthoods and losing your parents at that stage in your life makes you forge your life’s path in one of two ways, carefree and without a net, or it makes you wary of all other risks. For me, all my safety nets were taken away and up until this point, I hadn’t realized I was spending my time trying to feel safe again. Moreover, in that desire for safety, I was cheating myself of everything else. I spent most of my adulthood being an ADULT because I was so afraid not to. I was afraid of letting the phantom version of my mother down. That realization hit me like a sucker punch.

But then I thought, maybe this search for safety and its subsequent realization process was how it had to be in order to become fully formed to this point. Life was waiting for us to be ready, and now it is almost time.

Parking Lot Dance

•  •  •

WISHES AND PROMISES

This day started out very cynical and ended up being scared, a little sad, doubtful, and hopeful. I am sure life will chip away again, But I had more resolve than ever to somehow keep the momentum going.

Still waterlogged by our evening film, Jack turned to me and said, “I have never seen a real ocean before and I really want to.” I promised him that we would somehow make that happen this year.

Prior to Jack’s ocean wish, I had spent the day engulfed in negativity, reading negativity, and hearing negativity wrapped in cleverness. But this simple wish and the catharsis of mine and Dave’s emotional moment inspired me to dive headfirst into an art project I have had rattling around in my head for quite some time: one that incorporates the choice we make and the dreams we have. I am convinced, now more than ever, that our dreams are important, our choices are imperative, and that we all start living this adventure instead of working so hard to muddle through.

I promised Jack that if he stuck with swimming and actually swam underwater, I would take lessons as well. I will make good on my promise this year. One step closer to grace.

A blurry walk into the parking lot

•  •  •

SLEDDING

A few weeks later, the three of us went sled riding. Another thing I had never attempted until now. I was afraid but excited. Jack was nervous as well. There was something special about experiencing this for the first time together if for no other reason, we really understood what the other one was going through.

I went downhill with Jack. We started on the small hill and worked our way to the top. He sat behind me, held onto my neck, and screamed with delight. We took it the whole event slow until we eventually sled down the hill from the very top.

I asked if I could head down the hill with Dave. Jack said he would follow behind. I took my seat behind Dave and held on as we started sliding down the hill. I kept trying to dig my heels into the ground on the way down as to slow our pace. Dave lifted my heels and wrapped his arms around my shins to keep them elevated. He knew I needed to let go. I spent the rest of the ride thinking of nothing except that hill, that leap forward, that slide into the parking lot. It was a spiritual moment, blurry, uncertain, scary, exhilarating — our metaphor for the next — a plunge we took together. He seems to have a knack of finding subtle ways to show me bravery without even realizing it. I got up from the descent, laughed, thanked him, straightened out my cheap, end of the supermarket aisle kiosk hat, and trudged up the hill, family in tow.

•  •  •

EPILOGUE ON 11

I realize our “photograph” is still being developed. As much as we want to forge and force destiny, we kind of have to ride things out a bit organically as well. We all wanna to be Kerouac or at least the jazzy, eloquent idea of him. We all want to be graceful like Fosse and fearless like every pioneer who has come before us. Knowing how to traverse our newest adventure is gonna take time to decipher. I want to become less awkward and more sure when I finally reach my destiny. But for now I will still dance awkwardly in supermarkets while singing under my breath, and continue to move past “11.”

Our first sled ride (cell phone pic)

Theater Light

Inside the theater

The Ladies Who Lunch.

December 23rd is my favorite day of year.

In fact, the time spanning from December 20th through December 23rd are simply the most… “something…” days of the year. There is an unprecedented “something” in the air that simply can not be described. Everyone is excited. Every moment is cliché. Every emotion is extreme. Everyone is coming up romance, or regret, or worry, or melancholy. Everyone is pushing to get final projects done, or slacking from their work, or daydreaming their December away. Everyone is either making merry or bah humbugging the merry makers. And everyone outside of your immediate family is trying to get one last chance to see you before Christmas eve. Everyone is feeling “something.” And it seems as if everyone’s holiday treat has been laced with ecstasy.

I never really liked Christmas Day. It always felt like a big let down. The commercially fabricated Christmas specials, the emotionally induced high of gift giving and receiving, the spirituality, the evening parties, and all the rest of the “stuff” that was the previous month ends on that day, most likely by 10 am. In the past, I usually spent the rest of the day trying to find a way to recapture the magic 23rd.

Over the last two years, I have been gradually trying to alter my holiday perceptions. I always dreamt of hot cocoa, a holiday medley around the fire, and Vermont style inns. What I usually received was a nice holiday that never quite lived up to my unattainable Bing Crosby/Danny Kaye expectations. (My expectations often lead to excessively elaborate production numbers often involving a piano.)

This year, I have decided to try to make the best of everything that happens or does not happen. I have decided to make my holiday week a week worth remembering. I decided to fill it with fun and little expectation, and I decided to at least try to attend every extended invitation. I decided to make time for moments instead of succumbing to the pressure of the big picture.

View from the Parking Lot.

I headed to the Strip District on Tuesday to meet Sarah Wojdylak and Lisa Toboz on their lunch break. I was struck by the fact I had not really hung out in the Strip since working there many years ago. The smells, sights and sounds of that place both transports me to and makes me long for New York City. I had spent many a day eating crab cakes at Roland’s, fresh fish from Wholey’s, or devouring meatball subs while sitting on the roof of our office building watching the cars drive across the 16th street bridge. Gosh, I love the Strip.

Waiting at Sunseri's.

I saw Lisa’s plastic umbrella emerge through the crowds of holiday shoppers even before I saw the two of them walk towards me. The shape of her umbrella took me back to being a kid in the late 70s and early 80s. It’s one of those umbrellas that takes over the entire upper half of your body when you were a kid. It was always warm inside and your voice sounded modulated from the way it bounced off the clear thick walls. I imagined it as a giant snow globe and I immediately wanted to capture it “on film.” Prior to our meeting, we had briefly discussed trying to find a weird holiday display on this lunch break (maybe even dolling ourselves up in tinsel) and photographing ourselves in front of it; like some sort of weird Christmas card homage. But there were no real cheeky, technicolor-like displays in the Strip. Lisa mentioned an out-of-the-way church courtyard that may have “something” to it so we followed. I was fixated on the umbrella/snow globe. When we arrived we knew right away that we had found something wonderful. We excitedly passed around my shabby Nikon Coolpix point and shoot camera that has truly seen better days but still take great images. Our time was restricted due to their lunch schedules. I could have shot for another hour. I am grateful for these little impromptu sessions. They always reenergize me. I felt like a little kid posing and watching them inside our makeshift snow globe. It gave me that intangible, magical feeling you only get around the holidays.

Lisa's Plastic Fantastic Umbrella.

A friend of mine once described a difficult event in his life as someone “shaking up his snow globe.” This year, mine has been rattled to the point that I am still waiting for the snow to settle to reveal the fabrication inside. I am weirdly humbled and mostly thankful for all that has happened these past 12 months because it has led me to some joy filled moments happening right now, like this one: these snow globes of abstract something. I don’t know what the rest of this week will bring, but for now I leave you with this most recent set of makeshift snow globe moments (below) and I wish you all the merriest of holidays. (Photos by me, Sarah Wo and Lisa T. Thanks for the inspiration, ladies.)

SNOW GLOBES

ICONS

LEAVING

The end of fall

I realize haven’t written an entry this blog in a very long time. No excuses, just life and the participation in an extremely long two months, filled with too many distractions/projects/illness. Time and a reoccurring flu became the very personification of an enemy. But even when the clock and toxic phlegm keeps a person from their written thoughts, those thoughts still manage to emerge, just in a less linear, more imperfect fashion. Over these past few months, my brain did a lot of scattered thinking and I experienced a few random moments that seemed much more linear at the time.

• • •

View from the Mausoleum

I watched them lower the coffin into its casing before lowering it into the sealed structure into the ground for all eternity. Another funeral. My seventh for the year. I am running out of black clothing. (That is something that this normally dark attired person never thought would transpire.)

I marveled at my shoes in the reflection of the hearse’s hub caps, as I pondered whether or not to take its picture. I didn’t…

I guess this seemed an appropriate ending to this year. It began with a death in the second month and ended with another death in the second to the last month. Little did I know there would be yet another death only a few weeks after this one.

Roadside Flower

I watched my husband and his brother witness the sealing of the coffin into a larger cement box. The process reminded me of Russian stacking dolls. The deceased’s name was etched on the top of the outer box. I didn’t photograph that either… My not photographing these moments is something I regretted at the time but I now realize they weren’t the moments I was meant to/needed to capture. The air was thick with enough final goodbyes and tension. Theses “photo moments” were merely insignificant interruptions no one should dwell on. Someone whispered over my shoulder about the sadness of “said and done” and “being left with nothing but a casket.”

The “box” was transported by a small crane driven by one of the grave diggers, lifted far too high and descended far too quickly into it’s final resting place. I had never seen anything like this set up and delivery. The cement encasing was carried along by nothing but two ropes looped around the left and right sides of the lid. The ropes were taught but could be removed easily. I asked my husband how on earth did he think that casket was being suspended without a hook, wire, or other apparatus securely affixed to it.

What’s holding it up?

“Tension.”

I exhaled as he walked over to someone. That word hung there. There couldn’t have been more perfect utterance of syllables in that moment though neither one of us realized it’s significance but later discussed on the car ride home.

Picking a direction

…I lost track of time and got bogged down in the process. In my quest for simplicity, the simple became complex… Missed opportunities. Missed moments…

After eight funerals and eight funeral home visits and eight reflections and eight observances, I realized the words that were being uttered there were the same words I was uttering to myself.

If we’re lucky, we choose to build our lives on ourselves first, and then on something or someone substantial. Relationships are led by our choices and finding joy within the company you keep. But sometimes we thrive on tensions, and those tensions are the only thing holding our everything together. We can not remove the tension without removing the supportive ropes. And the ropes are our only connective tissue. Observing things now, I have seen tension in place of too much for far too long for far too many, all bubbling underneath the surface.

• • •

Passenger planes outside my window

I watched the planes take off at the tiny restaurant beside the tiny airport. We dined in the Frank Sinatra room. There were pictures of Ol’ Blue Eyes everywhere. I couldn’t imagine Sinatra hanging out in Latrobe. But there he was, looking right at me in glossy black and white. We were the only ones dining that afternoon. The sky was beautiful. I was moving from window to window trying to see as much as I could. I had arrived at a restless sense of peace for a moment for the first time in a long year.

I watched my niece make faces in the kitschy wall-sized mirrors. I knew this transition year was coming to a close, and the Pandora’s box of revelations that have simultaneously surprised, and empowered, and exhausted me on an almost daily basis were temporarily at bay. The recognition of those I love and those who love me were coming into focus.

The food was delicious and the company calming. We drove home full and ready to nap.

Frank Sinatra Room

There are so many other thoughts to have, but they all seem distant and stale. So for now, I leave behind some imagery relating to this entry as well as a few random moments of “somethings” from the last two months. Hopefully I am leaving death behind and coming into newfound words and images in the weeks to come.

• • •

OTHER MOMENTS TOO “SOMETHING”  TO DEFINE:

My Path, South Park

Emptiness and rebirth. There is a lot of empty and rebirth going around… (My husband will actually be writing about something similar in his blog this week, as well… funny how great minds think alike.) A few weeks ago, I decided to sit down with my family and watch the original Muppet Movie. There was no particular reason behind this other than that it was my birthday weekend and I wanted to share a memory of something I loved with my husband and son. I hadn’t watched this film in about 15 years, so I was curious if my memories of the greatness of this film truly held up.

This movie marked the first time I fell in love, although (at the time) I did not know I was falling in love. I fell in love with an idea much bigger than myself. My young brain was too immature to process that idea, so I simply collected Kermits and various other Muppet memorabilia throughout my childhood as a make shift shrine to this thing I admired yet didn’t understand. In fact, I still have my commemorative Muppet Movie glasses that McDonald’s handed out in the 1970s when the movie first came out.

To my delight, the perfection of this film from my memories remained in tact. The one liners, the subtlety, the heart, it was still there. Steve Martin in Lederhosen was there. Crazy German Mel Brooks was there. My family listened to my deep-seated Muppet geek references and my general gushing. We all had a great time watching, laughing and analyzing the sheer brilliance of the film.

But I was struck by something I had forgotten. I always, always, always cringed at the film’s ending. If you have not seen it before, here it is:

This ending nearly sent my optimistic childhood brain into shock.

How the hell could they end it like this!? All that work. All that struggle. All that, all that to make their dreams come true: the bad guys, the kidnapping, the Instagrow™ pills, the frog legs, etc. After all that, they finally get to Hollywood to make their dream a reality and whoosh, the studio gets destroyed by carelessness and freak accidents. I was devastated. Even the rainbow at the end seemed senseless. It was a true moment among many truths in that movie. A level of unfairness my adolescence had not (as of yet) encountered.

I have spent this past year focusing on my limitations and trying to better the person I am. When I began this journey, I felt I had a limited knowledge of who I really am and what made me tick. I took the dangerous approach of self exploration without a net, or at least without a licensed psychologist.

I suppose I should have made a list of what I considered limitations within, but instead I began to explore my roots, my genetics and how all of that comes into play with shaping who a person is, but more importantly, discovering what happiness IS when you really want it.

After a year of analyzing, kneading, and expelling, I realized something rather horrifying. I have spent my whole lifetime over analyzing my limitations. I have been so busy getting to the heart of my flaws, that I had forgotten how to nurture the seeds that had been planted by my family, my teachers, my friends, my experiences and myself from so long ago until this very moment. And worse, I lacked the foresight then, as I do now on how make them blossom.

Henson was always my teacher. And like the best teachers, I had no idea I was being taught. I was just organically (and sometimes inorganically) learning. He became a father figure to me when I needed some emotional guidance. He taught me straight forward humor and the ability to laugh at myself. He taught me the beauty of imperfection. He taught me to follow my dreams with what is (in my opinion) the single greatest buddy film ever created using these few simple words:

They believed in the dream…

Lately I feel as if I have let down my surrogate father of my possible and impossible dreams by traipsing through regret and not bounding gleefully towards the future as much as I really should.

I have been reflecting on these thoughts for some time now, and then Steve Jobs’ passed. And something happened…

Something was set in motion. I was left empty and I did not expect it, but there it was, drifting into my life like a message in a bottle.

Another teacher forging his own path. Another risk taker showing me how following your bliss is the only thing that makes sense in this life. Risk takers have this foresight or at least are able to weigh the risks enough to know what is a “win”. That is a skill set of intuition I am so envious of.

I have a confession. I have squandered bliss from time to time for the sake of responsibility. Don’t get me wrong, I have tried to live the life I was meant to live, but compromise for the greater good sometimes took precedence over happiness. I think that happens when your parents leave you young, you either become super reckless or super responsible. I chose the latter.

Upon hearing the news of Jobs’ death, these thoughts came rushing through my brain, both fast and furious:

I need pushed. I need my dreams to not be in vain. My plea is desperate and my soul craves something. 

The restless has been stirring for a long time. I have been stuck in these waters for too long.

I love my family and my art, but I have been treating my life as temporary, as some sort of transitional period for far too long. What I need to do is transition them (and myself) into the “next”.

There are so many quotables from my heroes, but how can you translate that rhetoric into solid life experience and success?

I have been under a false notion, listening to the dissenters for far too long, saying your too old for this, too late for that…

All this clarity happened so abruptly to the point where I can barely type these words out. When I heard the news of Jobs’ death, I wanted to change everything. I wanted to grab the scissors and cut my hair, cash in and/or sell everything and fly off to Berlin, do something, anything. Light a fire and begin living.

So how do you change the world? I guess the better question for me is, how do I change myself and leave the world different? I guess I need to start by changing the way I perceive myself. I need the change the way I perceive my limitations. All my heroes believed they could leave the world a little bit better than the way they found it. They found ways to enhance our way of communicating with each other. One on an emotional level and the other on a technological level.

My first computer was an Apple. I bought it (used) at a time when everyone was buying PC’s. That simple purchase changed everything for me. I began drawing with the Mac Paint program and doing simply desktop publishing very early on. I was curious about layout and design all the while trudging through my journalism degree. I saw fonts and illustrations differently and began nurturing possibilities. I began taking classes in the early Photoshop programs; I began taking desktop publishing courses; I began shaping the person I was searching to become.

My mother bought me that computer. She shaped so much for me in our short time together. We both thought about driving to NYC to attend Jim Henson’s funeral. We never did go for one reason or another, but she understood why I so desperately wanted to attend. My brother and I sang this song at her funeral:

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My solidification of unabashed change came today when I heard of the passing of someone who I attended college with. I did not know him well, but the whole college community knew of him. He was one of those folks you would call a life force. He was musical, both in vocational choice and in the fact he was constantly singing, his voice burst through the halls of our dormitory in a joyous noise. He sounded like Stevie Wonder and wore rollers in his hair. He took in all the “misfits” and made them feel like family. They called him “Mama.” In his short time on earth, he touched so many. I have not seen him in 20 years. I admired him from afar while standing next to him when he serenaded the masses in our tiny ramshackle dormitory elevators:

Monte Smock: Amazing Grace (video courtesy of Gretchen Schock)

Life should not end at 39.

I walked into Starbucks (as I normally do most days). I was thinking about all my friends who were grieving over Monte. The school hallways constantly echoed with his singing; he was always singing. Lost in my thoughts of his voice and my friends’ sadness, the Starbucks workers spontaneously burst into song, the same song, laughing, giggling, having a good time. Everyone in the coffee shop began to smile. I am there everyday (literally) and I have never seen any one of them do that. Normally it is pretty silent and stoic. I was moved to tears. I told them that their impromptu concert made my day and urged them to keep on singing. Monte was special and he served his purpose on this earth. Again, even for me, someone who only got to observe his loveliness from the rafters… or within earshot.

Teachers really do “show up” when you least expect it.

To that end, I have spent the whole day reading the FB memories of someone I wish I would have gotten to know better in life. The lessons I have learned this week are more than I can bear.

My hope still is to leave the world a bit better than when I got here. — Jim Henson

Upon this last viewing of the Muppet Movie, I began to understand the film’s ending on a much deeper level. I did not cringe this time. I watched with the knowledge only age and maturity could provide. I realize that your dreams can come true but sometimes they can still be taken away. That your dream doesn’t always turn out the way you had hoped it would, but if you do it right, if you believe in something, if you are truly yourself, that you will be surrounded by folks who stand up for your dream. Jim Henson was a great teacher and he was smart not to candy coat life, even if it was only a movie.

I think we all go through life wanting to be remembered, wanting to leave an impact. It takes hard work, perseverance, etc. But the dirty little secret to success is not just success itself but combining that success with a life well lived.

Life is not for the faint of heart. It is work to find out who you are. I am envious of those who have killer instincts and trust in themselves implicitly. The rhetoric means nothing without a change in perspective. I am still crawling through my path of self discovery. But I think I may be cashing a few things in and starting a new adventure. I owe it to my surrogates, my art, my loyal and gracious family. I owe it to myself.

Rearview

Compartmentalizing

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Exploring my own “Berlin”. Wish you were here. Will call when I return.

Please Leave a Message…

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CALL FOR ARTISTS >> OCTOBER 9, 2011

Hope to see you soon.

***

Message

Terminal

Conflict

Nightmare

Waiting

My Grandmother (left) and Aunt Rose (right) as teenagers.

What happens when you spend every waking moment waiting for the moment when your life is about to change? That was the random thought that awoke me from my sleep this morning. These are just the types of ridiculously clever words that usually creep into a person subconscious only after spending a lifetime watching and absorbing the language of too many “hipster” indie flicks. The ones that explain a lifetime of circumstance in 20 words or less.

I went to bed watching Me and You and Everyone We Know. Almost every word in that film oozes clever.

Clever words…

This past year, among other things, I have been searching for clever: clever words and clever images; clever words and clever subtext; clever words and clever meaning; Clever words in order to figure myself out, and more immediately, cleverness in order to write this blog. Things, events and moments keep coming full circle, however fast and furious. My indie upbringing has left me with clever and for me, clever equals clarity.

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A few weeks ago, I attended on of my favorite Aunt’s funeral. She was just shy of 101 years old when she passed. When I think of my Aunt Rose, the first thing that always comes to my mind is her voice. It was a very unique in tone and sound, almost too difficult to describe. I always thought it sounded like what an aged elf might sound like but not annoying in that helium, Wizard of Oz munchkin type way; more like a soft toned, closed throat sound, as if her vocal chords were struggling to get all the air it expelled. It had resonance but was still slightly muffled. Her laugh was similar. Both gave me comfort and made me smile. I was told that she was the only adult, other than my mother, who had the ability to quell me in her arms. I cried for almost everyone else. I suppose her amazing voice had something to do with it. I was deemed as somewhat of  a “cold” baby because of my lack of calmness and inner peace.

I was compelled to write a few words in Rose’s honor due in part to this early bond. I wrote few random thoughts on some vacant scraps of paper. The pages were filled with scribbles, scratched out words and prose that, due to my penmanship, was quite indecipherable to most everyone else but me. After about 20 minutes, I was able to make my thoughts cohesive enough to complete my passage, so I folded the dog-eared, messy memoriam and placed them in my purse. The next day I walked into the viewing, said my hellos, gave my hugs, and handed the folded text to Rose’s daughter, Judy. My intention was have my words placed in the casket as a kind of silent remembrance.

“You should read these at the repass.”

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Public speaking is quite daunting for me. I have done it on many occasions, but it is unnerving to say the least. I spent the whole next day thinking: people call me the Kim Reaper™, I am REALLY associated with death so I should REALLY feel more comfortable in this whole dearly departed/remembrance realm.

The Funeral Procession

Storm Approaching

I am fascinated with eulogies. I am also a huge fan of pop culture. For a period of time in my youth, our household was subscribed to People magazine. I always jumped to the celebrity death/obit/remembrance section first. My two hobbies in one fell swoop. WOO HOO! It was always fascinating (and a little heartbreaking) to me how a writer, who probably did not even know the deceased, could sum up a whole lifetime of achievements in a few small paragraphs. That a lifetime of work filled with blood, sweat and tears could be condensed into a few hundred characters, in a column format right next to an ad for baby formula or shoes. It almost felt like a Greek tragedy to me. I would read and reread each death notice trying to memorize who they were and reflect on impact they left behind. I would ask my mother detailed questions about select dearly departed if it was an actor/artist from before my time or whose work I was unfamiliar with. For a time, I would even cut the notices out and save them in a folder. I don’t know why I felt so obligated, I just felt sad that after these words were printed, the forgetting would begin. I knew it wasn’t the celebrity thing that left the impact, it was the horror of forgetting or being forgotten.

These days, I no longer clip and snip obits manually, instead I inform the masses through my Facebook page, posting the death notices as I find them. I have a reputation as the “you heard it here first” merchant of death. I have been dubbed the Kim Reaper™ because of these posts. In fact, I have hopes that my “reapering” will be mention in my eulogy at least listed as one of my occupations in my obituary. How poetic?

Crooked Jesus

Exiting the cemetery

Words… Remembering

I spent the whole night before the funeral reworking and agonizing over the honest words I had written in private for my Aunt. I was almost bastardizing the spirit in which they were written due to my insecurity over their weight. I felt that they somehow HAD to be changed, they had to be better, they had to have bells and whistles, they had to have more of an impact. I wanted people to remember. I wanted my words to almost rematerialize this person in front of the familial onlookers.

In the end, I found there were no better words than the ones I wrote for my Aunt the night before. The simplicity of them made sense. Relationships should be simple, honest, quiet and meaningful. The bells and whistles usually lack substance.

I read my words as my voice crackled and stammered and stumbled. My throat tightened as the prose spilled out. I spoke of endurance and perseverance. I spoke of family devotion and togetherness. I thought of how she called me “my Kimmy” every time she hugged me. Were these the right words? They lacked chutzpah, they lacked the cleverness-clarity. My aunt and I had not seen much of each other over the last few years. I said to my sister that something to the effect of, “there are so many more people here today WAY more qualified to honor her.”

The room was silent when I exited the stage. As I made it back to my seat, my sister hugged me with tears in her eyes. They meant something to her.

Despite the tears, I still debated in my mind whether my words were an adequate enough memoriam or even if I had the right to be on that stage at all. We began to say our goodbyes. The last hug I gave that day was to a woman, a distant cousin, someone who I had not seen in years. She grabbed my hands and uttered the phrase, “How beautiful.” I smiled. I think her words were one final gesture of love from my dear Aunt, spoken through my cousin.

Aunt Judy and Uncle Bob dancing with me (at my wedding) for our version of a father daughter dance to the song Rainbow Connection.

I spent the rest of the day remembering. Scattered, lovely, sad, happy thoughts swirled around as I drove home:

We had to be in bed by 8 or so my mother and Judy could enjoy their nightly telephone ritual… Rose was widowed so early in life… There were no pensions in those days… She cleaned the neighborhood church to make ends meet because that is “just what you did”…  The doctors feared Judy and Bob’s daughter’s leukemia may have been a result of the Agent Orange used in Vietnam… What would it be like to be drafted… Duquesne Rummy nights in our house were legendary… They always smiled. I knew all their laughs very well… I need to listen to the Rainbow Connection again… My niece called Rose her Uncle Rose. “If that’s what she wants to call me then I am ok with that”… They watched a lot of M*A*S*H … Bob, Judy and Rose lived in that tiny house in Duquesne  for as long as I can remember. It smelled like cookies and a department store. That smell always reminds me of family. 

Aunt Rose on her 100th

I ended my remembrance with two statements I felt appropriate. This was the first:

At the end of Rose’s life, when she could no longer get around, my Uncle Bob had to carry her from room to room. Aunt Judy was worried that Rose was far too heavy for him to carry. To this Uncle Bob replied, “I will let you know when it’s too heavy.” I thought to myself, “How beautiful.” That phrase sums up everything you ever needed to know about Rose, Judy and Bob.

I realized on that car ride home that is was not important whether my words were significant or not. The significance lies in a life well lived. And my words, however unpoetical or unclever, couldn’t give or take away from any of the italics.

The second statement was this: I could not get the words of Robert Frost out of my head throughout most of the funeral service, so I decided to end my eulogy the same way I am ending this blog. These perfect, simple words that seemed to make all the sense in the world. The universe had been giving me cues all day, so I figured it was best for me to oblige.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down today.
Nothing gold can stay.

FAMILY PHOTOS, Courtesy of my cousin, Donna

Aunt Rose (right) and relatives from New Jersey

Aunt Rose and Judy

Aunt Rose

My mother (left), Judy (right)

Front Row: Judy and my mother, Back Row: My mother's brother, sister and cousin.

Dreaming

My dream poem (as promised from last week) followed by a request.

THE DREAM POEM

A traveller sat down on my solitary dream bench and told me this story. I am not quite sure where these words came from, but I woke up on my birthday morning with this poem in my head.

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unfinished business

i dont want to turn 40 one day.

there are checks to cash and bills to pay.

i need to catch a plane today.

i need to find a lover to play.

and then the rhyming stopped

i knew i should have left this shore ages ago.

what i needed was never here,

it was out there,

somewhere in berlin.

in the night,

with rocking hips and sailing ships,

and in the oohs and ahs of peircing midnights and mountains of regrets,

that at the time seemed like a good idea.

i need a voice to make a movement,

the movement i sidestepped,

the movement i stood still for.

i need to seize now, the voices are quieting.

it is amazing how your voice have moved the words,

the words inside i never could pronounce.

i need you to take me to chelsea, to lodger, to low,

you need a janitor a maid and a housekeeper.

i need to take myself.

i am drawn to your dark place, your weird space,

your lies, your backhanded neglect,

your gravelly voice,

your unfiltered cigarettes

are we always all born restless?

or is it only me?

i spent 10,000 days alone,

spent 10 years getting famous,

10 years getting rich,

then 10 years getting forgotten (by the time i’m 66)

will i get what i need by the time i’m 66?…

_____________

It was a very weird, very visceral dream. He was a silhouetted traveler adorned in a fedora and trench coat. His outline looked like the love child of William Burroughs and Leonard Cohen. He smelled of lucky strikes. He told me this “story.”

THE REQUEST: A CALL FOR ARTISTS

This poem isn’t Shakespeare or some brilliant lost beat poem, but my head was whispering to me that day so I thought a response was warranted. To that end, I began to realize that it might be kind of cool to use this dream poem in a type of artistic exercise, or as some sort of art collaborative. I am reaching out to the masses to find a way to illustrate these random words in a way that makes sense using film, dance, music, illustrations, comics, graphics, design, etc. in order to make a fantastic blog/Flickr/etc. online art show. Here is where you come in. Read the poem, examine the words, come up with something brilliant or brilliantly mediocre. Deadline for submission is October 9, 2011. Send me a link to your work in the comment section of this blog post (whether it be through Flickr, Vimeo or what have you) and I will post and promote your works in an online gallery on or shortly after the deadline.

I look forward to seeing your dreams.

Awake

I woke up with the words of a poem in my head.

It was spoken to me in my dreams by a silhouetted traveler adorning a fedora and trench coat. His outline looked like the love child of William Burroughs and Leonard Cohen. He smelled of lucky strikes. They weren’t my words (although my brain dreamt them up). I will share the poem in its entirety next time, but here is the ending:

are we always all born restless?
or is it only me…

i spent 10,000 days alone
spend 10 years getting famous
10 years getting rich
then 10 years getting forgotten (by the time i’m 66)
will i get what i need by the time i’m 66?

_____________

The words made me think. They made me make promises to myself:

• I was going to enjoy this birthday. I was going to recognize through my lens the little moments.

• I was going to wear a dress everydayof this birthday weekend. I was going to accept that side of my femininity that isn’t related to motherhood, combine it with my other selves and make it more apparent.

In the spirit of the Birthday Art Project, and as a present to myself, I was going to attempt to make some sort of statement about who I am. (However narcissistic that may or may not seem). So within the tiny quiet moments of my solace and reflection, and within my (sometimes) loud, boisterous, self-imposed attention grabbing, antics, I let myself experience moments this year, moments through myself and through others. I captured them. I documented them. Each photo took a nanosecond to take, but it painted the story I wanted to tell. This weekend was my art. It was the first birthday over I decade where I took time and experienced the moments. So here is my birthday, my weekend, my moments, my art, my dresses, party feet, other people’s feet, my feet and my birthday dancing, my laughter, my images without words.

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EXCERPTS: MY FRIDAY

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EXCERPTS: MY SATURDAY

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 EXCERPTS: MY SUNDAY BIRTHDAY

Birthday Terrarium Chairs, by Sarah Wojdylak

I like the wisdom that comes with getting older, but not the aging process itself. Both my parents died way before their due, so I feel like I am constantly traversing through time and space on moments that are borrowed. September 4th brings me both reflection and melancholy in a way the rest of the 364 don’t. So last year on my birthday I decided to make an event (albeit a small one) on my “special” day. Using social media to connect to others, I made a public declaration (in my Facebook status) for whomever was online, right at that moment, to make homemade art by the stroke of midnight on September 4th. I was half kidding and I was not sure if anyone was awake or even around, but I put my words out there. I thought that it might be neat to see what people came up with on a moments notice and who might actually respond. I love art and have a lot of talented and creative friends and colleagues. I gave the participants little parameters, the only stipulation was a 4 minute time frame to complete the work. The person didn’t have to be an artist by trade or hobby, just passionate about absolutely anything. I wanted to see something; a simple statement on the day; a nice love letter to September 4th: A very ordinary day. I closed by asking them to post a pic of their homemade art on their FB walls (before midnight) and tag me in the post.

Last year’s experiment heeded some brilliant results — FB BIRTHDAY ART, 2010 — so I decided that this year I would make homemade, spontaneous art an annual event. I cheated a bit and made my declaration a few days prior. I wanted to make a few more folks aware of the impromptu art gallery. In doing that, I don’t think many stayed within the 4 minute parameter but some brilliant art was to be had.

Here are this year’s results — FB BIRTHDAY ART, 2011.

For your Birthday Art Installment, from Dom and me. Dom and Mom just fooling around. by Melissa Zezza

Poppies in the garden! by MaryAnn Ward Carosi

Done this past week: screen printing fast and cheap with an embroidery hoop and mod podge to create a screen... art for fun and fashion! by Pannay Burt Guigley

Thug in a hoodie (Puppy collage by Jennifer Obrosky McCalla

This is your homemade "virtual" birthday card. I did all the "drawer-ings" myself! Happy birthday! by Gab Bonesso

A lovely rhyming poem by Joel Cunningham.

Happy birthday Kim! This Picture is not original Brenna art but I thought expressive for birthday art. Hope you had a great day! by Brenna Connolly

Happy Birthday Kim! This is from Lucy. by Amy Mortensen's beautiful daughter Lucy.

Maggie's "fish bowl".... for her Aunt Kimmy... happy birthday!

Birthday Scribble Love, by Jackie.

Moving picture postcard, by Kate Hansen

eflections of Montreal -- One of three in a series, by Ken Selig

Reflections of Montreal -- Two of three in a series, by Ken Selig

Reflections of Montreal -- Three of three in a series, by Ken Selig

Birthday cupcake lollipops, by Jill Garon Harvey

Birthday Terrarium, by Sarah Wojdylak

Happy Birthday Kim! Here is my art. I call it Drunken Blur. by Jennifer Anders Reeger

photo of ceramic bert doll, taken at my pal al's house, words added with wordfoto iphone app. by Lisa Cunningham

This was the only artistic thing that happened at our place today. Che filled our mailbox with petals and leaves from our front yard. So I guess this is his Happy Birthday art to you. Happy Birthday Kim! by Christine Brocco

by Kristen Lauth Shaeffer

Shadow & light wishing you a happy birthday & many more fantastic years on this planet. by Stephanie Dennis Cooley

I tested my PX600 film in my Pronto B, and the photo was so blown out you could barely see the creepy statue. I upped the contrast in photoshop a bit so you could at least see her eyes staring back at you (he he). I hope you have a lovely birthday! xo by Lisa Toboz

I will get you a better picture of this picture. Happy birthday Kim!! Filled with real dried 4 leaf clovers. Next time the chair may fit into the room better. by Cara McDougal

Birthday art in two parts. This was made by our friend Sam Panico that's based on one of the photos from Christina McGinnis Krasman and my wedding. by Christina McGinnis Krasman and Brian Krasman

Part 2. My mother Pam Krasman made this stained glass that's based on the wedding invitation from Christina McGinnis Krasman and my wedding invitation. Sorry my photog skills aren't so good. That's not art. :--( by Christina McGinnis Krasman and Brian Krasman

Happy belated... I hope this year is filled with all the love in the world! by Avi Bonime

About this image: taken with a 60s era Canon Rangefinder lens (50 f1.2) on a NIkon D90. Flowers from the spring. by Manfred Woodall

And here are the two songs that were written in my honor:

My Birthday Song: xtmprns from George Anthony Harvey 

Silver Dollar Lady by David Rullo and Sergeant Peppermolasses

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Tomorrow I will reveal the art I created for this project. Stay tuned!!!!!!!

PREVIEW:

I danced a birthday dance.

feet were most definitely present.