Update:  I received an email from someone claiming to be Michael Wolff pointing out that I use 'Richard' several times in this essay.  Ooops!  He got me!  Chalk it up to a bad pain day.  Most of you know I'm usually vigilant when it comes to details like this - but sometimes, when the pain gets really bad, the back of my brain takes over.  I was thinking about the TV pundit Richard Wolff (the Wolff I know best).  It just came out - and for that I am sorry.  If I'm eviscerating the man - I should at the very least get his name right!

So thank you MICHAEL Wolff for the correction.  That took courage.

Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Tuesday’s Child is Full of Grace

It's been quite a while since I posted anything here.  The candidate wars are rather off-putting, I'm afraid.  But....once more into the fray, as it were.  Again - something not the norm:

Well, that’s not exactly true.  It’s more the concept of a mother that I miss – not that I really have a handle on what that is, exactly; never having had a functioning model to pull from.  Yesterday I watched a program featuring teasing exchanges between adult siblings.  I realized I had no idea how that felt – to speak to a family member without rancor; no underlying hatreds or agenda - no hysteria, violence or tears.  It was strange.  Of all the relatable human experiences – family life should be a constant.  That’s why silent movies were so universal.  The language of pattern and form: smiles, tears, warmth, laughter.  A woman appears; next to her stands a child.  The image resonates, we all know what that is, what it signifies – only I don’t.  There is no warm rush of emotion, no opening of the heart.  I am lost – at sea: alien.

I know this has nothing to do with politics per se - but I think the subject's an important one nonetheless.  I wrote this last year as part of The Blog Exchange.  The topic was change - something we all pay lip service to (especially on New Years) - but rarely consider past all the champagne and confetti.  2008 will be a year of massive change, I’m thinking – on many levels.  Life can be quite a roller-coaster – both the public and the private.  Thoughtful consideration needs to go into both aspects if our society is to move forward.  Though this post focuses on the private; the process remains constant no matter what subject comes under the microscope.

I wish people would give some thought about what it really means to stand by someone for 40 or 50 years.  You know - after all the romance and ‘aren’t you cute’s’ have gone the way of the Dodo.  ‘For better or worse’ isn’t just an outdated bromide like that ‘obey’ bullshit; and it means much more than not bailing during catastrophic injury or illness.  

A Gift From My Mother

This is a story about consequences - the consequences of choice.  It's a story about my mother.
   

I don’t have very many gifts from my mother – tangible or intangible.  When you peruse the eclectic collection of oddities and knick-knacks that decorate my sideboard – you will not find anything ever touched by her hand.  Its not that I disposed of such things – they simply never existed.  What hereditary jewelry I have consists of a single scrimshaw broach that once belonged to her mother, and my dead sister’s watch taken from her wrist prior to burial.  

Not the usual fare, I know - but I've been imersed in reflection of late.  And seduction is a universal theme: in politics as well as real life.  Please read with this in mind.

I have been thinking very much lately of the quality of seduction.  It’s underrated as a prime motivator.  Anyone can be seduced – the only question becomes how and with what.  For me the equation is quite complex.  Words, yes – but they have to be the right ones – and they can’t be about the surface me; well – not exactly.  You see, I grew up being told by every adult who surrounded me that I was alive through sufferance.  Like any stray cat or unwanted puppy I really should have been drowned in a bag – but as that wasn’t possible – my continued existence came via my families good graces.  I should be damned grateful – so I was: Fanny, surrounded by all Mansfield Park had to offer; yet still the poor relation.    

I went back, you know – though I promised myself I never would.  Nine years later.  The overpass looked cleaner – less cluttered.  No bedding piled in the wet shadows.  No people either.  Maybe it had been abandoned – I don’t know.  It’s possible.  San Jose was cleaned up by then.  The whole downtown looked as it used to back in the ‘60’s – restaurants, theatre district - brand, spanking and new.  No animal bodies in the street or on the sidewalks, no empty cans of sterno littering shit filled alleys.  So maybe no one slept under that particular underpass any more.  If so, that would be a good thing.  When I was there – people were dying – or at least that was the rumor.  One of the old guys – the regulars – told me.  Said I should find somewhere else to spend the night – that it was too dangerous for a girl on her own.  I believed him.  So I moved further in – more towards the downtown.  Not that it felt any safer – especially at night.

Not the usual political folderol, I know – but I thought we could all use a distraction.  This piece was nominated for a Koufax last year (before they unfortunately went verklempt).  It's a tad long, I know - but the original was in three installments.

I hereby swear everything I am about to relate is the gods honest truth – and I have pictures to prove it!

When my husband and I were courting, we decided to attend one of Japan’s myriad fertility festivals.  It was, in actual fact, our first formal date.

I wrote this on the anniversary of my sister's suicide.  Mariachi Mama's moving diary "I Need a Hug" brought it to mind.  Any time I hear about someone commiting suicide, I think of Patricia, and how desperately I miss her - even after all these years.  Suicide is NOT Painless.  Those of us left behind must bear a survivor's burden for what is left of our lives.  I am so sorry, Mariachi Mama.  And I understand.

A Tale Told by an Idiot

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

I posted this diary almost exactly one year ago.  At the time, Senator Obama had yet to declare his intentions.  I believed his candidacy was necessary to the health of America.  Someone needed to stand up, to serve as locus for all the hate and bigotry festering under the surface of American society, to expose it for all the world to see.  I believed Obama could do that.  I was right.  What I said then holds true today.  The candidacy of Senator Obama has changed America - and for the better, I think.  So - keeping that in mind - here it is, dated references and all:

When I went to the film and saw all the black-and-white feelings that nobody felt,
And heard the audience sighing and sobbing with all the emotions they none of them felt,
And saw them cuddling with rising passions they none of them for a moment felt,
And caught them moaning from close-up kisses, black-and-white kisses that could not be felt,
It was like being in heaven, which I am sure has a white atmosphere
Upon which shadows of people, pure personalities
Are cast in black and white, and move
In flat ecstasy, supremely unfelt
And heavenly.

D.H. Lawrence

I know this isn't usual fare around here - even for Christmas - but it is a time for reflection, something I find myself doing a great deal of as I get older.  I originally posted this on my own blog last Christmas – a reminder to myself of what Christmas was and how much it had changed.  The holidays are a bellwether for me – a measure of how my life is going at any fixed point.  I had to create my own Christmas – establish my own traditions.  When I was younger, that meant reaching into the past: a Victorian Christmas – candles, Yule logs, 12 days of celebrations, Good King Wenceslas.  I wanted my holiday to look lived in – no one suspecting the traditions I adhered to with almost religious zeal were counterfeit.

(Please recommend if you think this deserves attention.  Thanks!)

All You Magazine, a Time, Inc. publication has done a feature article on Kelley Wenzlaff (nominee for State Representative, Delaware County, Ohio) and her MOM for The House campaign.  The interview was conducted last summer, with Time’s staff photographer arriving over 4th of July weekend.  He followed Kelley, chronicling her participation in Delaware County, Ohio’s Independence Day Parade.  MOM for The House has gone national!

For those of you who don’t already know – I’m Kelley Wenzlaff’s Media Manager and Personal Advisor.  Kelley is running for the Ohio State House in Delaware County (2nd District).  Tonight from 9:00 PM to 10:00 PM, Kelley will be joining fellow Ohioans in their 'Up All Night To Do What's Right' candle light vigil over at Senator Voinovich's Columbus office.  The idea is to 'encourage' his support of the Lenin-Reed amendment.  Here’s Voinovich's address:

Voinovich's Central, OH Office:
37 West Broad Street
Columbus, OH 43215

When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
-- Scene 2, Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare

My husbands Uncle is buried in Arlington.  That’s not an easy thing to do these days.  There are very few plots available, you see.  Hero’s only – and if nothing else - Uncle John was that.  He was awarded The Silver Star during WWII (Pacific Theater).  Think Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima, Mindanao – blood, sand - the stench of death.  He saved multiple lives that day – getting shot to hell in the process.  Somehow a sensitive, intelligent boy from Chicago found the wherewithal to charge down automatic canon fire and take out the enemy.  It was a miracle he lived through it.  This selfless act entitled him to interment at Arlington.  It was his final request.  None of us knew he’d been awarded the Silver Star – not even his wife.  On John’s death bed he directed her to a box tucked away in a hall closet.  In it lay his medals – and the citation:

This brilliant editorial retort was sent in to the Columbus Dispatch by Kelley Wenzlaff, candidate for the Ohio State Legislature.  Her campaign is called "Mom for the House" – and I am her Media Director.  I cannot tell you how proud I am of Kelley for writing this.  How many candidates do you know have the intestinal fortitude to state their true opinion with such clarity and compassion?  Kelley is a very rare bird indeed.  I think we need many more just like her.

David Brooks editorialof Tuesday April 24, makes a compelling, one sided case against late term abortion, while missing the point entirely.  He outlines the babies’ stages of growth in the womb, as he leads the reader into an impassioned pro life position.  Then he makes the outright lie that "when you look at the statements of the abortion rights forces, you find they can’t even look this matter in the face."

Well - it seems Amanda Marcotteand Melissa McEwan have been 'handled' into apologizing for their opinions in order to retain their jobs.  Personally - I was offended by John Edwards very public scolding of both women.  It smacked of paternalism - not to mention disingenuousness.  

Dear Senator:

You have to run for President – you absolutely have to.  This goes way beyond personal ambition; or even a heartfelt desire to improve America and the lives of her people.  You have to run because of what has attached itself to merely the hint of your candidacy.  As I’m sure you are more than aware – certain commentators and so-called opinion makers have been attacking you on personal, ethnic and religious grounds.  The terminology is past offensive – scrofulous, aphoristic twaddle - better suited to back of the school-yard pre-adolescent theatrics: ‘halfrican’,or ‘half-minority’,‘Osama Obama’- questioning everything from your sexuality to your childhood and religious upbringing.  You can almost hear "nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah!" as the tag line.