taking off emily dickinson's clothes (9/17/6)

First, her tippet made of tulle,
easily lifted off her shoulders and laid
on the back of a wooden chair.

And her bonnet,
the bow undone with a light forward pull.

Then the long white dress, a more
complicated matter with mother-of-pearl
buttons down the back,
so tiny and numerous that it takes forever
before my hands can part the fabric,
like a swimmer's dividing water,
and slip inside.

You will want to know
that she was standing
by an open window in an upstairs bedroom,
motionless, a little wide-eyed,
looking out at the orchard below,
the white dress puddled at her feet
on the wide-board, hardwood floor.

The complexity of women's undergarments
in nineteenth-century America
is not to be waved off,
and I proceeded like a polar explorer
through clips, clasps, and moorings,
catches, straps, and whalebone stays,
sailing toward the iceberg of her nakedness.

Later, I wrote in a notebook
it was like riding a swan into the night,
but, of course, I cannot tell you everything -
the way she closed her eyes to the orchard,
how her hair tumbled free of its pins,
how there were sudden dashes
whenever we spoke.

What I can tell you is
it was terribly quiet in Amherst
that Sabbath afternoon,
nothing but a carriage passing the house,
a fly buzzing in a windowpane.

So I could plainly hear her inhale
when I undid the very top
hook-and-eye fastener of her corset

and I could hear her sigh when finally it was unloosed,
the way some readers sigh when they realize

that Hope has feathers,

that reason is a plank,

that life is a loaded gun
that looks right at you with a yellow eye.

-- Billy Collins

courage (9/6/6)

DOROTHY
Your Majesty, If you were King, you wouldn't be afraid of anything?

THE LION
Not nobody, not no how!

THE TIN MAN
Not even a rhinocerous?

THE LION
Imposserous!

DOROTHY
How about a hippopotamus?

THE LION
Why, I'd trash him from top to bottomamus!

DOROTHY
Supposin' you met an elephant?

THE LION
I'd wrap him up in cellophant!

THE SCARECROW
What if it were a brontosaurus?

THE LION
I'd show him who was King of the Forest!

ALL FOUR
How?

THE LION
How?
Courage! What makes a King out of a slave?
Courage! What makes the flag on the mast to wave?
Courage! What makes the elephant charge his tusk,
in the misty mist or the dusky dusk?
What makes the muskrat guard his musk?
Courage! What makes the sphinx the seventh wonder?
Courage! What makes the dawn come up like thunder?
Courage! What makes the Hottentot so hot?
What puts the "ape" in apricot?
What have they got that I ain't got?

ALL FOUR
Courage?

THE LION
You can say that again!

calving (8/28/6)

"It is not unusual to encounter problems during the calving process. Often these problems can be more easily solved if the producer (that's us.. :wink:) has more knowledge of the physiological process of calving. There are two common presentations for the calf during calving. The first, which is normal and occurs in about 95 per cent of calvings, is the one in which the calf comes forward with the head tucked between its front legs with its nose a few inches from the tips of the toes.

"The second most common presentation is not considered to be normal because of the high incidence of dystocia (calving problems) associated with it. The calf comes backwards with the hind feet first and the legs fully extended. Backwards presentation only occurs in about 5 per cent of calvings. In the case of twins, one calf is often presented backwards with the other one forward."


The Internet is really great! In just the last two days I got to pretend I knew something about baking and farming! Tomorrow I think I'm going to cut and paste something really smart sounding about elective surgery! ... :grinn:

key lime pie 8/27/6

"Real Key lime pie is not green and it does not have a soft pudding texture. The pie gets its true pale yellow color from the egg yolks that predominate the ingredient list. And the texture is a 'firm custard'. Be careful that you don't over-bake the pie or it will be 'rubbery'. For best results use fresh Key Limes, not bottled juice. The traditional preparation does not put any meringue on the top of the pie."

my god (8/22/6)

Boy, this endless wait sure is something. It consumes my every waking moment and has much to do with why there are so god damned many of them. But, in spite of all the synonyms I've been collecting over these last few weeks for "pissed off", I decided to, in an effort not to jinx anything, hold off on writing anything here about this latest elephant until it finally gets off its fat ass and out of my apartment. But, like the verbal Vesuvius that I am, I can't just sit here steaming. I need to take out a village, reshape an entire coastline ... or at the very least write something. But what?

About how my wacky Dodgers who, after the all star break, went from being in first place to last place, then suddenly became the hottest team in baseball and soared right back into first? Naw, they're the Dodgers. It a trap, believe me.

I thought something period might be interesting and, based on the phrases "cocka-leeky soup", "sticky toffee pudding" and "tussy mussy", I started writing a piece called "Victorians Were All Retarded" but aside from inviting the ire of those fine people who make up the autistic community, it would have probably just added another thread on that already bulging snob site, turning an attempt at humor into something very long winded and rather sad. But maybe I'm just projecting here a bit ... whatever the hell that means....

Then I had it. About a month ago, on my birthday, when the very latest chapter in this living saga "Poke a Screwdriver In My Eye, Now What?" first began, I said a special prayer before going to sleep. What I want to talk about here is not what I prayed for (that's got be be pretty obvious by now) but to whom:

When I was a kid I was taught to say the Sh'ma before sleep (and upon rising...sorry, the two go together) and I remember, in lieu of a yarmulke, putting my hands on my head and praying to my image of God was at that time, a kind of Santa Claus in a robe. I would say the Hebrew prayer and then follow it up with my daily wish list, almost as if I thought the prayer itself was God's phone number and, once said and you had the big guy on the line, you could ask for whatever you wanted. See? Very much like Santa Claus. After a while though the nightly prayer got lost in the haze of adulthood. That is until my Mom died (adopted mom Lillian, the one who raised me). After that day, Christmas Eve 1995, I would make it a point to talk to her before I went to sleep and she became something like the face of God to me. Except when guilt set in, for five months before she passed away I lost my adopted father and one could only assume he was up there too. Problem was he never fully captured the role of Father while alive so God was sadly well out of his league. Still he was up there with her, or so I thought, so occasionally after chatting with Mom for a while, I would ask her to put Dad on for a minute, where I'd say something civil like "hope you're well considering" and "let me talk to Mom again" finishing up with "I love you Mom. Good night".

This went on for a while until it hit me; I was ignoring my other two Moms! Now if there were no such things as souls or if they existed but couldn't hear us or feel anything there would be no problem but what if souls do exist and what if they can hear us and what if they can truly feel? Mom (Lillian, the one who raised me) would be okay and assuming those cosmic crumbs I was tossing at my adopted father was keeping him satisfied I wouldn't have to worry about him but what about Bella, my first adopted mom? She was bed ridden and sick most of the time I knew her but even though I was only four and a half when she died I remember her very, very well; how we cuddled, how we laughed, how I would help bring in her food on a tray, how once she crawled out of bed and, propped against the bathroom door and in her loudest and most protective voice, told my crazy grandma and my adopted father who were trying to stick something up my then three year old little butt to "Get away from my Son!"; she was my Mommy and I loved her. I still do. And then what about that young, wild Irish girl Peggy, my "real" mom? Even though I never got to meet her, she obviously loved me enough to have me, not tell that drunk, crazy ex-soldier she got knocked up by about me (more on him in a bit) and yet, hoping in her heart that people can change and everyone deserves to know their father (even if he was "a real son of a bitch" - Dad's words), made sure to have his name on the birth certificate for me to find later. I loved her for that. I still do. So for a while, before sleep, I'd start by thanking Peggy for having me, Bella for teaching me to laugh (and from keeping that long tubed thing out of my ass!), ask Mom to put my adopted father on for a minute, tell him I love him and - if still awake after chatting it up with all these ghosts - talk to Mom about the day and my life and other things you need a mom for and no one else. And then on June 1st, 2001 my Dad died (you know, the crazy, drunk ex-soldier, son of a bitch?) and he immediately became the Face of God. Five dead parents, five stars, five guardian angels, five dead people to talk to every night. And the first in line was and is always Marty, my Dad, my hero, my strength and the face of God.

And on my birthday night, that's who I prayed to. I told him about her (again), about how much he would have loved her, and all about our dreams for the future (should that ever arrive!). I asked for his strength and courage and reminded him about that Lottery thing he promised to fix once he got up there. Then, as I do every night, I told him how much I loved him and missed him and asked to talk to Peggy, then to Bella and then to my Mom. To Mom that night I mainly talked about an amazing four year old girl down here (who I know she would have loved and would have tried to spoil rotten), the things she's said recently, the stuff she's done, bragging like I had anything even remotely to do with any of it (Mom probably knew I hadn't but I think was pleased to hear the stories none the less). Then, as always I asked to talk to my adopted father, thanked him for whatever the hell it was he did and then quickly finished with the same line he's heard for over ten years now, "let me talk to Mom again."

-sg

satisfaction (7/27/6)

I saw her today at a reception
A glass of wine in her hand
I knew she would meet her connection
At her feet was her footloose man

You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes you just might find
You get what you need

...

tomorrow back again (7/25/6)

Tomorrow Mick Jagger will be one year older. And so will I.
I'm not sure what Mick is hoping to get (he's done so well without!),
but I sure do know what I want.

So when I see those many candles one again ablaze before me, daring this aging body to find within the strength, the wind, to blow those buggers out, I will (!), but before I do, I'll close my eyes...

and wish.

-sg