Southampton, Mass

I'm in Southampton, MA helping my sister with her twin baby girls. Andrew is with me. Wow, it's a lot of work. It's hot here too, but beautiful. For some reason they have no ice cubes. I'm exhausted.

Michael is trying to set up a Vinyasa yoga studio nearby. Baby Lucia and Mamma Sofia show their respects to Laksmi, Goddess of Domestic Harmony.




Andrew does his best to be a good big cousin to Phebe, who is in a less staid moment.

I really miss my kids

I really miss them. I wish they were here. I wish summer was over.

Pastel by Stephanie Wellman

Beauty is Truth

Working summer school is sad. So many of the children are learning disabled, retarded or neglected and angry. Sure, plenty are there just for remedial learning or babysitting, but enough are so severely challenged as to make me wonder how they will be able to function independently in the world. Perhaps I'm being melodramatic. Yes, there are at least twenty who are retarded enough that they probably couldn't even work at McDonald's. The rest will most likely be able to hold down some sort of service or construction-type position. I worry about these kids who cannot concentrate, who can't sit still. Not all are cut out for digging trenches or answering telephones in pretty dresses. The beautiful young man at Safeway who bags your groceries - is he drug damaged or naturally demented? More often they have Down's Syndrome or other, likewise more marked indications of idiocy.

"There but for the grace of God go I." Christopher Hitchens quotes this chestnut in his recent book, "God is not Great" and adds that what we often mean when we think this is, "There but for the grace of God goes someone else", with a sigh of internal relief. That's not so true for me. I always feel on the brink of potential disaster and am ever amazed at my luck - so far. Loving my children as I do is frightening. If one of them were to become an idiot I am sure I would develop a deeper sense of his soul, of the mind beyond the intellect, a sense I really already have, but which I have not been forced to face as acutely as I might.

One of my favorite books of all time, Dostoevsky's "The Idiot", revolves around a man whose mental functioning is sporadically impaired by epilepsy. In spite of (or perhaps to some degree because of) this, his sense of compassion is heightened and he is a model of kindness and human understanding. While he may be perceived as an idiot in one sense, he is genius of the soul. Interestingly, the only epileptic person I currently know is an embittered misanthrope who is so paranoid that he will not allow his son to do anything outside of parental purview. I feel sorry for this man, and his son. Another example of a lopsided soul would be Geneva's beau, an engineering genius with no apparent compassion for anyone. He is so deluded, drug damaged and wrong-headed in his solipsistic morality that I cannot even feel sorry for him. But he is the inspiration for another undertaking altogether.

One of the little boys I was working with this morning could not for the life of him figure out very basic math facts like 2 + 2 = 4, something very simple for most children his age. I sat by him, patiently trying to show him how to figure out simple sums on his own. Sadly, he simply could not grasp the abstraction. He did grasp my facial expressions though, and smiled in response to my smiles, guessed sweetly in response to my prodding. When we figured out a problem he showed pleasure.

There are some children who are the opposite, but few are in summer school. The autistic child I taught a couple of years ago was very good at math for his age and could pick up on patterns at the drop of a hat. He even saw patterns where others did not, to the point that it created paranoia. Unlike the child who could not do math, this child could not read emotions. Attempts at emotional engagement were more often than not met with blank stares or worse, frightened hostility.

Sometimes I understand why people rely on religion to feel better about what is sad and difficult. There are predicaments that are simply tragic, but that cannot be relegated to the domain of the demonic, even though once they might have been. It is arguably worse to have an evil child than an idiot child, although the evil child will probably be able to fend for himself in some manner or another. The child who cannot learn, and who will not be able to fend for himself as an adult, may be able to still help in the home, depending on the degree of disability. But this is all anxious speculation.

There is a touching beauty in many of the "special" education children, and even adults. At the risk of waxing maudlin, I'll end it here since I believe I've made my point.

Christ and the Birds

We were on a quest: a breathless, heart-pumping quest through unknown terrain in the wet spring. Rivers ran beneath quaint cast iron bridges adorned with birds, scallopped with sparrows in black filigree. Above and below real sparrows perched and swooped in the rain.

It was a classic scene. I had no idea what I was looking for, but was desperate to find it. The rain drizzled down and invigorated us.

Finally we came to an isolated cottage right across a small river. As we burst in through the door, there they were, facing us in all their provocative beauty. Paintings of Jesus in various erotic stances, leering at us seductively. None of them were graphic, but they all depicted him with an unmistakable "come hither" look, some even featuring him licking his lips or puckering them in a kiss. There was nothing chaste about this Jesus.

I have been trying to find the paintings on which the ones in my dream seem to be based. This Jesus was obviously very approachable and he seemed fairly well-fed too. Here are the closest I could find.

My Father's Room

Finally the house is starting to get in order. We got a new door. Paint with color is spreading across the upper floor of the house. The closets are being emptied. We are cleaning out my father's room. We are sleeping in my father's room. The room in which he lived when he lived here. The room in which he died. The room which we subsequently used as a sewing room and then as a cubscout materials storage room. The room which has been so full of cub scout boxes that you could barely walk in it. That room.

Last night I awoke at 3 in the morning. I heard rustling and scratching coming from the desk by the bed. Lots of rustling. I sat up in bed and it seemed that the desk itself was shaking. I went back to sleep.

In the morning I insisted that Art look in the drawers. One I had opened halfway and I saw that pages of my father's PhD thesis on Leon Battista Alberti had been clawed and gnawed. I was afraid to open it any further. Art opened it and yes, lo and behold, a nest of baby rats lay squirming in the tattered thesis.

An unpleasant scene ensued, but one undertaken with relative calm and aplomb by Art and my sons. It involved a bucket, bleach, some BBQ tongs and much squeaking. During the procedure the mother escaped to her crack beneath the dishwasher. The menfolk removed the main problem but I was left with the empty nest and the remnants of my father's various writings, shredded and shat upon. I sifted through them with the tongs, sadly acknowledging that they were the only copies and vacillating as to whether I should attempt to salvage or just chuck the lot. Finally I decided to save what I could and placed it in a bag for disinfection. I found other things in the drawer too; the usual nonsense I'd expect from someone like my Dad.

April Flowers

Amazingly, daffodils are still in the stores. There must have been a final flow, a bonus bloom that made so many available to adorn our homes in April, late for the daffodil season here.

Andrew earned his Arrow of Light on Friday and bridged into boy scouts. The Blue and Gold was a Casablanca theme and the boys received their awards as transit visas to cross the bridge. We had dry ice, the movie playing, music, lights flickering, and a veritable platoon of boy scouts ready to receive them. The Stoffers put together a magnificent Moroccan dinner and dessert complete with mint tea, ice cream and dates.

Now to pass on the pack. Our house is filled with seven years of cub scout paraphrenalia that needs to be distributed among the new leaders and parents. I'm exhausted.

Ah, no wonder..

Hope and disappointment.
A classic combination.
Why study Arabic indeed.

Ornamental Plum

Carmen on the Run

They're out to get me. Desperate housewives call me all hours of the day and night, inviting me to their houses when hubby is away, treating me to the movies, inviting me for lavish lunch at their house, staring at my tits, rubbing my thigh in the movies, licking their lips suggestively, bursting into tears when I explain that I can't see them - something has come up. I can't take this fucking shit anymore. I don't need any damn friends - these lonely horny bitches have got me all wrong. What, do I seem like that kind of girl? Honestly, I'm not leading anyone along.

Man, I gotta hatch an escape plan. Cub Scouts will be over in about a month. I just have to stick it out til the end of that for about 3 of these gals. I'll just keep it professional and only meet them in groups. One of my housewife admirers (the tit-starer who wants to travel around the world with me "without any men") is not in scouts but she's ok for now - I think she's under control.

I don't want to make anyone cry here, but I've had it. I must have some hallacious karma what with all the whorish mother figures and frustrated lesbians in my life. Once this school year is done I'm going all anchoress on these bitches' asses. It's me, my cello, Arabic and Anna Akhmatova. No horny whiners or idle chit-chatters need apply. I'm sorry, but that's how it has to be. I am losing my mind.

Anna Akhmatova in bed, 1924

Friendship

Here's a confession. Ever since I was a small child, friendship has been tied up with one of two things, if not both: sex and project planning. Just today I realized this and it is probably why friendship is so problematic for me as an adult. It's all fine and dandy when I have projects going on like putting on a play or running a spy club (childhood activities) or coordinating an activism effort or running a cub scout pack or planning some cultural event. Even ties that you think would transcend this rule, like the friendships I have made through the adoptee rights movement, can become strained and uncomfortable when not in the context of planning something.

Listening to other people's problems is something I do as a good deed, because I know I am supposed to, and friends are supposed to help one another. I know that if I should need to talk about some personal problem (which is extremely rare), or more pressingly, if I should need help caring for my children when I am unable, that my true-blue friends will be there for me.

This sounds selfish, and perhaps it's overstated. I enjoy having friends with whom to attend lectures, with whom to go to the movies and the opera. It is good for me and the kids to invite people over for dinner and parties, and it is good for us to be invited. Social ties are important and I enjoy and love all my friends. It's small talk that gets to me.

Small talk serves some critical bonding and information-transfer functions, I'm sure. Small talk about shopping or child rearing or home improvement or dieting is painful for me to listen to, let alone engage in. I tolerate it in some of my friends out of respect for our friendship, as I am sure they tolerate my cynicism and other odd traits.

My ideal friendship, alas, is not some comfy chair shoulder to cry on; it's not a health habit, and not a convenience. It involves common passion about something which is not mundane, something which is academic or artistic or activist, even something escapist, or at least something that involves tilting at windmills. Such a friendship seems to have a shelf life though, for, as passion wanes, so do the ties that bind. My family is a more appropriate vehicle for passion projects, which brings me to the subject of sex.

I started having sexual relations at an very young age with an uncle who molested me. He used to take me out for ice cream in his car. He died in a car crash when I was 7. Around the same time, if not earelier, my Haitian babysitters regularly molested me and I had a long-standing sexual relationship and friendship with the mildly retarded Irish-American girl across the street. When I was 9 we moved to Rome, Italy and I started up a relationship with an American girl there who was a complete mess, but our fantasy and sex life (and the fact that we didn't have anyone else), kept our relationship passionate and tormented. This relationship continued when we both moved back to New York City. I had many other sexual relationships and sexual friendships with males and females throughout my adolescence and basically until I got married at the age of 27.

It really is amazing that I'm not more screwed up. Perhaps it was the icing-on-the-cake of discovering, at age 13, that my mother was a topless dancer at the same club as one of my friends. Then again, my father loudly and obnoxiously coming out as a homosexual when I was 14 may have also contributed to my ultimate dedication to not losing control, to not being a persistent victim to other people's sexual needs and problems. Still, paranoia and delusions linger. I imagine that people are licking their lips at me, and making lewd suggestions. I force myself to try and be normal and even with the effort I make, I know it's only skin deep. I am afraid of people. Somehow I suspect that I share this trait with many other "leaders".

Espalier

There are ways to raise an apple tree.
You can cut it back,
you can let it be.
You can hold its arms
and make them wave
a barking bird, absurd
and prone to break.

It looks so simple
in the book.
You take a shovel,
toss some dirt.
Learn some seasons,
say some names
and engineer
if there's no rain.

There are ways to raise an apple tree
and I'll admit
I've let mine be.
Seasons come and seasons go
the birds and butterflies all go
in and out of its leaves.

There are times when I dream
of complete control
and apple cream
of apple arms
all stretched out wide
its fruit in ribbons neatly tied.

There are times when I think
inside my study shrouded low
panelled brown with burnished bark
hidden from the sun or snow.
It doesn't matter much to me
what's outside, sun or sea
and all the fruit I will not eat
grows in my head ever sweet.

There are ways to raise an apple tree.
You can grab its trunk,
You can tear its leaves.
You can spray and rake
and prod and mulch.
And hope your effort comes to good.

It sounds so simple,
plans be laid.
It's too bad
I'm so afraid.

Just swell

It's just swell
Blue and wide and brimming
side to side and beaming
all balmy with the sun
going down and I'm
inside safe and playing
my cello and all I see
is in my head
and that's just swell
it's safe here and
just as well I'm bowing
side to side and smiling
wide and wooden
between my legs it's
curving and swaying
and all I'm saying is that
it's swell my darling.
Just swell.

The Struggle

Too many plums will make you sick. Then again, maybe you weren't feeling well to begin with. Perhaps you weren't well is to begin with. Perhaps it's been a festering, sugar-coated state of affairs and the slivovic of reality has fermented to a now undeniable froth.

You know, I don't drink much. This isn't about drinking. It's about feeling. It's about doing. It's about living with the layers of complexity that crawl from time to time, one upon the other, each in some circadian rhythm creeping up to the surface and demanding attention, demanding importance, shifting up to the soap box of my cerebral cortex and screaming, "Me now!, Me! Me! Me!"

"Oh, fuck that" should be my response more often. If only I would learn to breathe. Meditate. Put things in perspective. Care less.

Kiss my Ash

The Rowan Tree (Mountain "Ash")

Vladimir used to make rowan-berry flavored vodka every year. The rowan berries are so red and pretty. There are also lots of beautiful English and Russian folksongs that mention this tree. It turns out that there is an awful lot of northern European folklore associated with the rowan tree. Vladimir said that the rowan berries are medicinal and that rowan (ryabina) berry vodka is considered not only delicious, but also as a curative for a variety of ills, mostly upper respiratory. When we looked up the translation for ryabina, the first listing was "mountain ash", although it is not a member of the ask family.

There is a lovely Russian folksong called "Tonkaya Ryabina" (Slender Rowan) that we used to sing in Moscow. Tanya used to play it on the flute, I played the balalaika, and the boys sang.

Here are some rowan tree links.

Species profile - The Rowan

Mythology and Folklore of the Rowan

Rowan - Wikipedia

We managed to get rowan branches in Stony Brook, I wonder if there are any around in northern California.

White Ash

The first table I bought myself in San Francisco was made of ash. It's so sturdy two people can lie on it. Now it stands in the kitchen burdened by hills of potatoes and dishtowels.

Ash is a hard wood. They make baseball bats out of it. Art keeps a baseball bat by the door in case we ever need to brain someone who comes in.

I don't think I even know what an ash tree looks like. They didn't have too many in New York City. I don't think we have them in the Bay Area either. This picture is of a "white ash". I Wikied it and it turns out that I might have seen it on the east coast, but as my arboreal education has been quite lacking, I probably wouldn't have known it had I seen it. In school they only taught us oak, maple, elm and the evergreens. I knew about mimosas because there was one in the neighbor's front yard.

This doesn't seem to be the more romantic, possibly less hard (and less likely to be used for braining or screwing) European Mountain Ash, or Rowan tree, which is another matter entirely and a worthy subject for a separate blog post. I leave you with an image of a white ash plank. Here it is: white and hard.

What a Birch

January

hey long legged trees
all white and lean
shivering in simple
stark groves between
empty fields.

Janus is a two-faced god, no?

Life's a birch and then you sigh.

Birch grove photograph by Arnoldas Jurgaitis of Vilnius, Lithuania

Sprained Ankle

Back on the west coast, back from baby service in the east. New York was warm and harsh, my new neices soft and sweet. The babies ate around the clock. Every three hours we were up, feeding them, feeding them, feeding them.

Three days I went around the city. I took the A train through Harlem and into midtown. I must have run around a lot. I remember running, vaguely. I sprained my ankle somewhere along the line, I don't remember when or where. I remember running.

The last day I went into New York with my camera, determined to take some photos, to dispel some ghosts. New York is fantastic.. and horrible. I am glad to be home, hobbled with my sprained ankle. I ignored it all week and now I am laid up in pain. Artie takes good care of me.

My photos of New York

Oh, Merry Christmas.

The Lake

by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot

in the Frick Collection, New York City

Phebe and Lucia in New York

I'm in New York City now. It's the first time I've been alone in New York since a year after I left in 1990. It's been a long time.

My sister had twin girls a couple of months ago, Phebe and Lucia. I'm here alone, helping out. They eat every 3 hours which necessitates exhaustion.

I ventured out into the subway yesterday and today. I see my demons clear as day. They are real, but it's ok. I will survive. On my first outing I saw school kids jumping onto the subway tracks for fun. On the second day I saw a schoolgirl being arrested for attacking someone on the subway platform. New Yorkers are still New Yorkers. I dressed all in black and covered my hair and body. I was a New Yorker again and didn't want to be one.

Back in my adolescence I visited the Frick Collection on East 70th street a lot. I would walk there after school regularly or even make a weekend visit. The atmosphere is so peaceful, elegant and contemplative. There is a central atrium with a long, lily-scattered pond surrounded by lush, shade-loving flowers and greenery. You can sit on a marble bench and think. There are many paintings there that I love so well. Corot's The Lake, Titian's Portrait of a Young Man, Rembrandt's The Polish Rider among them. It was like visiting old friends who comforted me in my time of need, and who still had the power to console and uplift. And pose questions that help to answer others. In all the chaos, cruelty and stench there is still beauty somewhere. Memento mori is not a downer. What is most important, what is truly precious? I made the right choice; now to be happy.