Final Post
Site Politics. It’s odd to think of how close a group of people can become by way of a site–when so many kinds of distance offer cover, or a new path. One thing that struck home to me this year is the fact that among a small group of friends, several can have the worst year of their lives all at the same time. A person may think he or she is the only one around having it so bad, and then find that others are hurting as well. For me, the telling thing is: what does this knowledge that a friend is suffering do to one who is also suffering? In some, the thought that rises is–nobody could have it as bad as I do, and I don’t have time to take care of anybody but me.
One of the many things that makes Cindy the most remarkable person I have ever known is this: even if she is near death (no hyperbole here; last year brought serious illness and crushing psychological strain), even when she must struggle to meet each new day, she will go to a person in need and do her best to bring comfort and help. What I can’t abide when this happens is the injustice of her being thanked profusely–and then being cast aside, reviled suddenly without explanation. It’s as if such a friend, knowing Cindy’s own pain, knowing of her own fragile grip on life, were to say–I’m hurt, so you can go die now.
Please indulge my relentless aphorizing one last time: Blame is a room that only gets smaller, and the only way out is a desire to treat others well.
I have been so lucky to meet many lovely, bright, and loving people among all of you flockers. I won’t forget the faces that all seem so near me now. And I wish you all good things.
R.I.P. Don Cornelius (1936-2012)
Don Cornelius checked himself out, it would appear.
See him here — doin’ it to death — with Mary Wilson in the Soul Train line dance.
Repost of a Post Past
Going down the rabbit-hole of Cece’s post. Great rememberies here, following “flockers.”
The Mother Courage of Rock
She was skinny, quick-witted, disarmingly unprofessional, alternating between stand-up patter, bardic intonations, and the hypnotic emotional sway of a chanteuse, and she was sexy in an androgynous way I hadn’t encountered before. The elements cohered convincingly; she seemed both entirely new and somehow long-anticipated. For me at nineteen, the show was an epiphany.
Springtime 1976, I was living in the cinderblock building on the glorified median strip there where they split Highway 13, and one day I went over to this one girl’s apartment, she lived right by the guy who dealt me speed, and she said, “Hey, you know who you remind me of? You remind me of Patti Smith!”
Gave her a possum grin I’m still grinning.
Please Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood
Related to stuff we’re talking about.
headline of the day, II
Bill Gates Has Given Away $28 Billion Since 2007, Saving 6 Million Lives
Fairies of Christmas Passed…Deconstructed
The Blue Fairies laid on the table from the tree en masse. These were created by a former greensman employee three or four years ago. I remember, as he made them, into a box-top in the backroom of the greensman offices, I entered the room he was working in. He said, as he shook the boxtop, “Look, they live! ” He giggled and grinned a grin somewhere between the grinch and the baby jesus. That vision will forever live in my heart.
The weekend
Dear Santa
Thank you for the sweet hot air balloon ornament. Colors are perfect! And for the Chicago Christkindlmarket drinking boot, I’ll try it out a little later. This was the best Christmas ever!
Charles Coleman, the celluloid adventurist
Coleman, 47, is film programmer for Facets Multimedia.
One thing being lost is the art of conversation, of people seeing a movie and then actually having a good talk afterwards. — As told to J.R. Jones.
Man, does this put me in mind of my friend Charlie’s thoughts re: the “hidden cinema” he frequents in Buenos Aires.
Have you seen this?
Wait until about the 4:45 mark…
Hudson Bay inspired blanket
I am knitting this.
If I like it in its small form, I will also knit a much larger version. Almost everything I knit becomes a gift*, and every time I visit Deron and Amy I am reminded how special it is to surround yourself with your own creations. Thanks for the inspiration, friends.
* I get to keep the holey, mismeasured projects.
Where I’m Calling From…
Stoneledge Farm, South Beloit, IL.
Dan’s sister’s new world-champion, three-year-old Morgan gelding, Peeps “Town Affair.” On board and training at Stoneledge Farm, Danny’s niece’s and nephew-in-law’s facility. Peeps is an athlete, IMHO.
Thanksgiving in Rockton, y’all. It don’t get much better. One thing I’m thankful for.
from the comments
Nude,drunkJesus Christdeposited asexcondomin mymonkey crotch.
30 for Thirty Days, The End.
The last day of my thirty-day project. I don’t claim it as art, just something completed.
from the moderated comments
Well, Fuck me… your still as stupid as before.
From 102 to 67…
In 36 hours. Out on the patio, I’m shivering.
Miss Lucy
is becoming Mrs. Lucy today. On Thursday, I helped her get her hen on, in a swanky hotel bar.
I’m immensely honored to be attending her and Ross’s wedding, and the succeeding reception-crawl. I will bring a real camera to that.
Read more
Earthquakes and Hurricanes
Irene roughed up my flowers and our psyches. Both are recovering nicely. As the storm moved toward us Friday night, we popped out to the John Prine concert. We sat on the expansive lawn of northern Virginia’s Wolf Trap concert pavilion. People were mellow, nibbling picnic food, drinking wine, chastened by a week of unexpected earthquakes and then, what next, a hurricane.
Night settled in and I pulled my wrap around me. I was carried away by the opening act, British singer/guitarist Richard Thompson. I closed my eyes and soared. He was dynamite, pumped up maybe by the hurricane mustering strength in the Atlantic. Then the Iowan bolted. He’d gotten a call — Home Depot, a shipment had arrived, the backup sump pump might be in. He was in natural disaster mode. So we left, rushed for the depot. I didn’t mind. The Iowan had talked me into going to the concert. I would have sat at home working and worrying. I got to see Thompson, I’d seen Prine several times. I got home and readied for the next day.
There was no sump pump backup (but of course). I went to bed, got up early on Saturday and shoveled copy all day as the winds blew and rains slammed. The Iowan went next door for happy hour, hurricane parties are big here. He was looking out the window when a big limb crashed down on the neighbors’ car. Later, the wind knocked down half of my “green screen” on the back porch, my outdoor living room, a mesh netting of climbing plants I put in to replace the running bamboo (!) the ambassador’s wife placed there as privacy for the (now gone) hot tub. The Iowan said “we’ll fix it in the morning.” But he got on the phone, and I got my little hammer and nails and slipped outside. I climbed up on the white wicker settee and tap tap tap in the wind and rain and set it to rights before the yelling started: “GET IN HERE WHAT ARE YOU DOING WE ARE HAVING A HURRICANE!”
Finally, to bed around midnight to sleep in fits and starts. The Iowan stayed up, prowling the blue house, stacks of old towels at the ready to fight off any water encroachment from the not-so-finished side of the basement to the other. I found the stub of a cigar on the porch the next day, dregs of red wine in a crystal stem on a side table next to the back door. I could see him in the mind’s eye, leaving the the covered back porch, stalking across the open deck, glaring into the black sky, pelted by rain but staring Irene down, daring her, don’t even think about it.
Sunday. Rainy but calmer. We were still standing, a few small tree limbs down (thank you, my talented tree trimmer). The sump pump held. We never lost power. I worked into the early evening.Sunday night. Drained.
We’ve had a week.
For 24 hours…
our internet connection, at the house, has been off. It just came back on 20 minutes ago. I’m FULL of shit to share. (Well, sort of full.) I feel like I lost the feeling in both my arms and got it back.
Just a Quick Postcard…
Danny has the most accepting, loving family in the world. (I’m convinced, prove me wrong.) We’re in Rockton, on the Wisconsin/Illinois border half-way between Chicago (East edge of Northern Illinois) and Galena (West edge. Sheila might lead you to believe Galena is a suburb of Chicago, and in many respects, it is, but it could be counted an outlier.)
I was born near here, in Rockford. Today there was a celebration of Holly’s birthday and Uncle Doug’s (Holly is Danny’s niece, a 29 year-old Danish beauty, Doug is Danny’s 60-year-old brother–with a beauty that can’t be matched in song.) Today while celebrating, Danny and I also got notice for our having been together 24 years, today.
Y’all I hope I’m not being too sappy. But I’m so happy I could bust. Y’all, this family Loves.
Saw Tabloid last night
I count Errol Morris among my reasons to live.
U2, Elvis Presley and America
I remember playing this quietly — on the turntable, through headphones — every morning before I left for school my Junior or Senior year of high school.
from the comments
Mr. B.’s friend Alec had a routine. He would come home from school, unlock the door, then fret about the “scary noises” he heard in the empty house. I remember the first time I saw him sitting on the bench behind my house. He was craning his neck around watching our house.
Alec had the cell phone his mother gave him to keep in touch while she was at work. She had a long commute and wanted him at home until she got there, taking care of school assignments and chores. He was a very smart and kind boy. I asked the mother to allow Alec to come inside to do homework. But she was adamant. He could sit on the bench until she got home or calmed down. And that was that.
So, Alec would show up several days a week at least, and Mr. B. would sit with him on the bench. I heard that even when we were gone, and that happened a lot, he still would show up on that bench with his books and phone.
Eventually, Alec, his little brother, and his mother moved. We never saw them again. But I still think about him. Especially lately. And this memory is tied up with Clusterflock. Because when I drop by in silence, just reading the posts, I’m like little Alec on the bench, watching the walls of a home where people I care about live. It’s a comfort ritual.
The Bradbury Building
Another thing Amanda did while I was in Los Angeles was give me a tour of the city that was both incredibly personal and instructive. The most amazing moment was how she handled taking me to The Bradbury Building. It almost feels unfair to describe it — so you can get a glimpse of what the experience was like — because that’s the opposite of how she handled it. She just said, I’m going to take you by The Bradbury, and we parked, and then we walked in.
