zero2onetwenty

Be the first to meet Justin!

2011-12-30T12:28:00.000-05:00

An exciting message from eHarmony.

Justin from Olney, MD just joined eHarmony

Be the first to meet Justin!

Sent to my gmail, and so to the CrackBerry, with all itspure urgency to matchmake, so sincere at 10:21 this morning. Did Justin JUST join right at 10:21 or did hejoin earlier and finally all of his potentially filthy photos and answers werereviewed and deemed clean enough to post?

I open the email to see that Justin is 28. Ugh. Nomore youngsters, please. And my firstthought is a rebuke. Why did I joineHarmony again? Why did I fall intothis? Oh, that's right, because ofDuncan, of what town, Rockville, or was it Silver Spring? Duncan sent me an email this week so I had topay to read it. And of course I paid forthe stupid three months at some ridiculous reduced rate of $14.95 a month a fewdays BEFORE the free communication weekend.

I hate eHarmony. Ihate OkCupid. I hate CatholicMatch.com. I hate Match.com.

I love men. I lovebeing in love. I love dating. I love spending time with friends. I love getting to know people. I love meeting new people. I love that feeling, that warm giddy feelingthat makes the edges of my lips curl up, that anticipation, heart rateincreasing, color in my cheeks, that feeling of joy seeing that person from ashort distance, our eyes meet, and the smile is there on his lips too - justbarely present and now quickly stashed back somewhere below the surface -carefully hidden away from any other casual observers, or perhaps even from mein case I don't feel the same. I lovethat.

I miss it, being in love. It's been such a long time since I've felt that way about anyone.

After my self-loathing for re-joining stupid site andwasting almost $45 that I could have given away, my next thought is aboutJustin. Hmmm...a 28 year old single guy livingin Olney who is on eHarmony. Does helive in his parents' basement? Is herecently divorced? Is he one of theyoungsters up at the Turtle or Daves on any weekend night? Has he already made a play for my 26 year olddaughter? Is he someone she knows? And what in the world would I have in commonwith a 28 year old other than sex? I'mnot even tempted to look at his profile. I am not interested in him.

Or Duncan. OrDonald. Or Monty. Or Stuart. Or Joe. Or Bob. Or Tim. Or anyone else online pretending to be something they aren't or any ofthem who are earnestly just trying to meet good women.

I'm not interested in my friends' neighbor, who alsohappens to be old and single, and jacked up in a variety of ways and has beentold that I'm kind of quirky. I'm notinterested in someone's roommate, who also happens to be old and single. I'm not interested in the grossly overweight,balding guy who lives with cats. I'm notinterested in the gym rat who cannot accept his aging. I'm not interested in a porn addict who liftshis head from the screen a few times a year for a real interaction. I'm not interested in a fuck buddy or afriend with benefits. I'm not interestedin some guy at a bar who is heterosexual, also happens to have biologicalurges, and likes older women. I'm notinterested in some youngster who's never been with a cougar before.

I am interested in having an exciting, joy-filled, andemotionally peaceful life. I want familyand friends around me. I want some time tobe left alone to write, make art, run, and spend time in prayer. I want to go to Mass, school, work, andtravel around the world with other people, and by myself. I want people in my house and some peace andquiet afterwards. I want children andgrandchildren and great grandchildren around. I want pets that someone else takes care of. I want a clean and organized space to liveand work and create in, alone, and with other people. I want steaming hot passion with a man thatI'd like to see naked with the lights on. I want compassion, empathy, encouragement, the occasional push towardwhatever I'm procrastinating about or really afraid of, and honest critique ofmy work, when I ask for it. I wantunconditional regard. I want to give allof those things back, and all of the rest of who I am to everyone else in mylife.

I want a man who is my best friend, who looks at me, and feelsthat giddy warm feeling as the small smile comes up at the corner of his lips,and he can't stop it. I want what we allwant, to be loved.

I am happy being alone until I meet that person. I am peaceful knowing that may not ever happenand I could be alone for the rest of my life. In the meantime, I am open to meet people, and I suppose I need toadjust my age range settings for eHarmony and update my profile that hasn'tbeen touched since early 2009. Orperhaps I'll cancel, try to get my money back, and delete all of the onlinedating profiles.

opportunity rocks

2011-11-23T00:27:00.001-05:00

Opportunityknocks.

Someopportunities rock.

Thelast minute muse.

Thevoice in my dream.

Aopportunity unseen.

Opportunitieskick and scream.

Someopportunities whisper.

Somehowsaved, for what?

Liein bed with a blue light washing over me?

Whatmissed opportunities?

Opportunity.

Somechance alone.

Voicemail in the rain.

Ahappy voice.

Hey,Ma'am, I don't know if you remember me...

Herambled on, a smile on his lips.

...so,anyways, thanks for your pep talk...
and your advice...

I'mgoing to be sending you my resume...

Along pause, about to hang up, then suddenly -

Oh,and here's my phone number

ifyou want to call me and have a really great holiday,
and thanks again!

Somevoice.

Somename from my past.

Awho he was I didn't quite catch.

SomeSoldier, Sailor, Airman, Marine.

Someyoung young man.

Afaceless voice unseen.

Athank you for my time.

Cheerfulgratitude from his heart.

Joyof opportunity ringing in his voice.

Whowas he?

Someopportunity shared.

Apearl of wisdom dropped on some youngster in a line.

Someyoungster in some war.

Somepast in pain of time.

Sometime I had to think.

Thisopportunity this time.

Achance to try again.

Letmy creativity shine.

NowI dance with hours.

Dancewith cars and trains.

Strugglewith paper and pains.

Idance with the last minute muse.

Somany questions.

Somany choices.

Aloud question in mind.

Thedancing continues on.

Wasthere ever a time I haven't heard that tune?

Asimple list of instructions.

Guidancefor coming weeks of school.

Acasual question, no doubt some teacher's tool.

Whatwill you do with this opportunity?

I'mstunned in silent awe.

Struckwith the weight of chance.

Whatindeed will I do with this opportunity?

Anopportunity given.

Timetaken.

Whodecides?

SomeGod, a force?

Asequence of numbers and matter that matter not?

Whoprovides the opportunities?

Whatdifference does any of it make?

Whatis this opportunity?

Ispend my time reaping what I haven't sown.

Harvestingsomeone else's seeds.

Howmuch have I stolen in my infantile greed?

Couldn'tI rest?

Simplybury that treasure and rest on the mound.

Whatabout the opportunity?

Time,talents, treasures.

Allthese things of mine.

Givento me in bits by some hand divine.

Ihave a story to tell, lines to rhyme.

WhatI do I choose to do with the time?

Whatopportunities missed waiting in lines?

WhenI look back on my decades slipped by.

I'llwish for this wasted bit of time.

Thisopportunity sublime.

umbrella

2011-10-04T00:26:00.000-04:00

He's part of my evening landscape three nights aweek. He's there in my peripheralvision, and I don't know if I even notice him, but I know I do, and I pray forhim. I pray about the people I know whoare so close to being where he is. One morestumble, one less visit to rehab, one less person to love them, one less doctorwho cares, one less family member who takes the time. He could be so many people that I've knownover the years. I took his photosometime in the past year or so, with the same umbrella, the colorsmingling. But I can't find the photonow, it must be one of them on the dead hard drive. I was struck by the color of his umbrellaagainst the orange of the bank sign. Wasthat October 2009? Or December2010? Or sometime this spring? What day was that? I was alone walking to the Metro, it wasdaylight, and I took a number of shots.

The finally found photo of the first multi-colored umbrella and orange Croc.
17th Street NW, Washington DC, May 2011

Tonight, the sidewalk was closed and I was on his side ofthe street. I was moving fast and Istopped in my tracks, "My man, where's your umbrella?!" It's supposed to rain the next couple ofdays. He cocked his head to the side inthat way that was accompanied by a ssstck sound we make in disgust, universal,over the centuries, we all know what it means. Then his slow answer, "Maaannn...I don't want to talk about it..." I said, "Dude, your umbrella..." ashe said, "...they stole it."

They stole his umbrella. I stood there looking at him, one faded orange Croc, held on with ropeor tape or something, and the other shoe, an athletic shoe of some kind? I guess I'm not that observant. I stood there talking to him about umbrellas,me in my comfortable shoes, that I bought in April 2009, but I've only worn adozen times, another pair of sexy three inch high brown snakeskin looking maryjanes in my bag to match my new fall dress that I had to buy because I gainedweight and I was too fat to fit into some of my other fall clothes. I had my nice warm winter coat on, the brownone, and I have a black one, a faux leopard print furry fun coat, and a niceGore-Tex jacket. Not to mention all ofthe other bits of gear in my nice warm house. I noticed his hat, the shiny black and silver rosary, the manicured longclean nails, but no eye contact to speak of, and the conversation was kind ofquick.

I had my broken umbrella in my hand, the dark blue onewith the multi colored polka dots - the one that matches Mica's rainboots. It's broken on one of the tipsand I need to get another one. I threwout the big purple one just this morning because it had a broken spokethreatening to put my eye out. I took itto the Metro station and put it in the trash there, hoping someone might beable to use it, instead of putting it in my trash at home where I know it wouldjust go to the dump. I held out myumbrella and said, "Here, man, take mine, I have another one." He said no. We argued about it. I told him Ihave another bigger umbrella like his other one at home that I'm not using, andI could bring that to him, if he wanted it. He said no, he wasn't accepting donations right now. We argued some more and I left the smallpolka dotted umbrella leaning up against the wall and said, "Look, you canhave it, or not, it doesn't matter to me, but I'm leaving it here." He told me that he wasn't going to bebabysitting my stuff and he'd throw it in the street. I told him I wasn't asking him to, and thatmaybe someone else could use it then, and he crushed up the water bottle in hishand and threatened me with it and said to get away from him. I walked on.

One of my many
umbrellas over the years.

I don't have to buy another umbrella, because I haveone. And I think I have another one inmy car. I may need one soon, but I haveenough money to get one. I'll get thathard drive fixed and find that photo too, and upload it when I do. And I'll continue to walk past him a fewnights a week because I was born into a different family. I have people who care for me, healthinsurance, access to therapy and medication when I have needed it. I have a different life available to me andI've made different choices.

I'm grateful to be where I am and I hope it doesn't rain tonight.

overheard at school

2011-10-01T18:48:00.000-04:00

"My mind doesn't tend toward morality -
which is probably how I've been able to live the life I've lived."
- Bernard, tactfully not sharing his opinion on the morality of one group's actions against another's.
14 September 2011

"We need to make books cool again. If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them."
~ John Samuel Waters, artist

On a studio door. 03 October 2011

suicides are up

2011-09-25T19:16:00.001-04:00

Yesterday was the bigday, my first day back at the Reserve Unit after two back to back deployments.I've been home since April, but I was on Active Duty for leave untilmid-June. I didn't legally have to comeback to the Reserve Unit until 90 days later, this month, for our SeptemberBattle Assembly, and I have stiff-armed my Commander since April. I almost feel like he's looking at me andsaying, "Yeah, I got something for your ass now - you'll be my newurinalysis OIC!"

This weekend wassupposed to be our Family Day on Sunday - the day we all get together for acookout and bring our families in for a party. It's a once a year event of Mandatory Fun - but really, as much as wecomplain, it is an easy day and we get to meet each others' families and enjoythat time together. I was happy becausethat gave me an easy soft way back in - nothing too strenuous or overwhelming,a little family get together, one day, not two. I scheduled a fun painting class with my granddaughter for Saturday. We'd go to church Saturday evening, and we'dgo together to my Unit's party on Sunday. My anxiety about the weekend was high - I haven't seen some of thesepeople since 2008. I didn't know what toexpect.

But suicides areup.

So we had a mandatorysafety stand to. A day of briefingsabout how to take care of ourselves and each other. How to be a better Leader, teammate,friend. And that had to be on Saturdayto accommodate...something? I'm not surewhat, but it had to be on Saturday instead of Sunday. So much for my errands, sleeping in, the paintingclass and Mass that evening. And thechange was short notice - less than a week. Oh, and an Army Physical Fitness Test (APFT) on Saturday morning - andthat would only be a diagnostic to see where we all are, because who reallyneeds an APFT during the last week of September with the new Training Yearstarting? Two minutes of as manypush-ups as possible, two minutes of as many sit-ups as we can, and a two milerun as fast we can. Ridiculous. I was starting to know what to expect.

That all meant gettingup at four o'clock in the morning and feeling like I've been run over by atruck for the next few days. I don't knowwhy, I can work out hard, with other people, alone, for hours, and nothinghurts me like an APFT graded by someone else. If I give myself one, I'm fine. When I do one that is graded, my body starts hurting within a fewhours. There's usually a migraine, too. This one gave me one on Saturday after thetest, and I woke with another today, Sunday. Because I haven't been working out like I should. And my arms hurt. My hips hurt. My hamstrings hurt. My neckhurts. My feet hurt. There must be some special extra stresshormone release like the ones you release in a car accident or something thathappens physiologically. It's awful, andI'm not unique in this.

I was warmly welcomedby almost everyone I saw and I remembered how much I love Soldiers, how much Ilove my unit, and how good I feel when I'm around them. I'll forget again by our next Battle Assemblyand complain about having to go, but I'll remember within a few minutes ofwalking into the building and seeing some of those faces. It was not at all what I expected. It was so much more.

I had a beautifulmorning run with a young man who grew up in Argentina and Guyana, who has alreadyserved in our Navy, graduated from college, and is now trying to decide if hewants to serve law enforcement or intelligence. I wouldn't have run that fast without him. I had some good strong healing girl talkabout boys. I bonded with some old andnew friends over lunch and learned a new way of saying what I've already knownabout myself, that I tell it like it is with few filters - I am "down toearf, with and F" and "straight up gully!" It was a good morning, I was happy, and I wasready for the afternoon's briefings.

We all piled into the largedrill hall and settled in for some vertical naps in our chairs. Our Suicide Prevention Briefing was scheduledfor one o'clock in the afternoon, immediately after lunch, after we've allworked all week. Most of us have workedmore than forty hours, a lot working two jobs or going to school too, most withfamilies. We've got sleep debt. We all got up early to get to the unit by seveno'clock in the morning, some driving over a hundred miles, some more, mostdriving at least an hour from Virginia and DC or north and east of Baltimore inthe early morning rain and mist. Most ofus got there by o'dark-thirty-something to do that APFT. We were all exhausted.

Our rewards for thechanged schedule, the disruption in our lives, the loss of sleep, thephysical stress, they're tangible - we get money, retirement points, benefitsof service, prestige of proximity, and camaraderie with our brothers andsisters in arms. The intangibles - pride,love, fellowship, understanding, those are the things that keep us coming back.

What I expected thisweekend was a talk on suicide prevention. Maybe even some help for some of our Soldiers. Maybe someone would hear something thatclicked and made them make the hard phone call, click on the website, stop inat the employee assistance program office. Maybe someone hurting would reach out to a buddy. Maybe someone would sit next to that buddywho needs to talk and this would be the way of opening up a dialog about thepain. Maybe someone would walk out ofthat drill hall with the thought that maybe talking to someone wouldn't be sucha bad thing. Maybe that dark plan thatkeeps coming up in the back of their mind isn't a good option after all. Maybe we would save a life today.

What we got was aloser Chaplain who did not prepare.

We got an Army Officerwho got paid to facilitate a talk on suicide prevention. He likely got paid to prepare for thetalk. What we got was an hour ofineffective rambling. If this Chaplainhad looked at any of the resources available to him, he chose not to use them. Heshowed a cute giraffe video on the five stages of grief. He showed a crappy Army video with terribleaudio that anyone beyond the front row could not hear.

Our awful Chaplain sharedsome ineffective personal stories about his experiences and personal feelingsabout suicide. He told us how he had aSoldier in his platoon who committed suicide sometime around twenty years ago,when he chose to allow Soldiers to go home for a weekend instead of forcingthem to stay during some kind of training exercise. He said that one of the Soldiers left andcommitted suicide, and when he went to the funeral the Soldier's pastor saidthat the Soldier's life was a disaster waiting to happen, it was only a matterof time before the kid killed himself. He talked about how that made HIM feel guilty that others had known thatthis kid's life was a mess but he didn't know it. My take away from that, if Ididn't know anything about suicide, would be that only people with jacked uplives commit suicide.

This Chaplain alsosaid that if you know someone who is thinking of committing suicide you shouldtell them to pray to God, because that will make them feel better. Wow. Not so much. And what about theagnostics and atheists in our midst? What about the people who have experienced such pain that they thinkthat if God exists, He must be cruel, or that God has abandoned them?

The Chaplain also gavean example of a warning sign for suicide of giving away valuable possessions,and he said that if, for example, he were to give his truck to a Soldiersitting there in the front row and told him that he wouldn't need the truck anylonger, that would be a sign. He went onto explain that would be a sign because he lives in Virginia and he wouldn'thave any way to get home, so that wouldn't make any sense for him to give histruck away - then he quickly corrected himself and said that he would be goingHOME, meaning heaven. Any teen can give you a better example of the suicideindicators of giving meaningful things away.

I expect more fromChaplains, as we all should. They have degrees in theology, and as paidmilitary Chaplains they have a lot of actual real life experience andprofessional training in counseling, suicide prevention, briefing, and theyought to be exceptional public speakers as that is their primary job, that wholestand up in front of a crowd on Sunday morning and get people to believe in Godthing that they do. As militaryOfficers, they should be outstanding leaders and charismatic briefers. As spiritual people choosing to serve ournation's warriors during a time of war, they should be compassionate,empathetic, caring, intuitive, and visionary in how they interact with us inour pain. As Chaplains during a time ofwar when suicides are up, they should be careful to avoid candy coated feelgood Christian theology when people are angry with God.

I am so disappointed. The men and women I serve with deserve somuch more.

There are abundant excellent quality resources, scripts,verbiage, and training, like this excellent Shoulder to Shoulder video,http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RzceLmVnj6A

These real Soldier stories for Army Suicide Preventionhave the power to reduce the stigma associated with personal distress, toinspire individuals to get the help they need, and to motivate people to lookout for each other.

More information: http://www.preventsuicide.army.mil/

Download facilitator guidelines: http://www.armyg1.army.mil/hr/suicide/training.asp

time

2011-09-16T20:36:00.001-04:00

Time.

A long time ago.

When you had time.

But that time has passed.

And now isn't the right time.

I gave up and you didn't make time.

This time you're really sorry, and so am I.

Time.

It's a busy time.

It's a lonely time.

You don't have time.

No time for me in your life.

A tiny second of time to ask for time.

You'll take some time in the future, sometime.

Time.

No real time.

No time for me.

A brief moment in past time.

A request for some of my time.

Words in a cloud, written in time.

This time, don't read into that brief line.

Time.

It's not really time.

It's just my name on a line.

Don't think you're giving me time.

A moment of weakness in that time.

Don't ask for time or expect any more.

You warn me not to believe, again, this time.

Time.

It felt like time.

Sometimes divine.

Those hours of time online.

The talking and taking my time.

Most of the time it was only mine.

So many times, your green light would shine.

Time.

A tiny bit of time.

Don't expect your time.

A timely calculated moment.

There's no grand scheme in that time.

Or an error in time, my name on a line.

This time, here you are again, a keystroke slip.

Time.

Sometimes.

Once upon a time.

The value of time.

Time for friendships.

This time you're in trouble.

Guilt arrives now, here, just in time.

Time.

All of the time.

I tell you it's time.

Your timely departure.

The years fly by in time.

Our friend's timely arrival.

Time-consuming friendships, taking your time.

Time.

Value my time.

The ultimate time.
Love me all the time.
Pay me with your time.

Time is our language of love.

Timely comments, opining on time.

Time.

It was a time.

I loved that time.

Make me worth your time.

This time I won't be fooled.

We won't ever get that time back.

You act like you've forgotten, that time, our past.

Time.

Sometime.

It feels like time.

This time tears slide down first.

You tell me don't ask for more time.

One second and all my healing time is lost.

I don't want to go back, back to that time.

Time.

I take time.

I love you all the time.

No time for my friendship.

You could make up the time.

Tear down my hard wall you built with time.

Spaces filled in, they used to be open for your time.

Time.

Spend time.

In time I'll be fine.

This time it hurt less.

I will always have time for you.

You're clear I'm not worth your time.

I forgive you, but this time I won't forget.

Half-Naked Freedom

2010-04-23T18:00:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting here half-naked in the Caribou Coffee inRockville, Maryland. No, not really half-naked, like wrapped in towel, but Imay as well be as I'm in a skimpy little cotton gray spaghetti strap tank topover a nude colored bra. It rides up a little in the front so just about aninch or so of my belly shows if I'm not careful, pulling it down over the darkblue fine corduroy Old Navy mini skirt. It sounds silly, a corduroy mini skirt,but it's actually a practical piece of clothing what with all of the pockets,and it's a bit more modest than the shorts I wore to the gym earlier today. Ithrow a sweater on as needed.

I drove here in my Mustang, my masculine muscle car, topdown, sun on my skin, hair blowing in the wind, my pitch black Ray Bans on,listening to Christian radio. I canceled my XM satellite radio a year ago andwithout it I'm a non-stop scanner. I had stopped on some current popular songwith a lot of Hallelujahs, and I was singing along while I was stopped at alight on Route 28, about to make a left turn against all of that oncomingtraffic. Cars as far as I could see, from that spot down and up and around thecurve, almost a mile in my line of sight, and miles more along this road, stopand go, creeping along in an effort to get home. I thought about how glad I wasto be going against the flow, in the opposite direction, and for a moment Iforgot what I was doing and I wondered what possessed me to get out in thetraffic at this time of the afternoon.

I thought about the traffic cameras as I careened down theroad at the exhilarating speed of 45 mph, sometimes creeping up over 50 mph inthe 45 mph zone, and I thought of government influence and intrusion, and howmuch I hate it in our lives. I thought about how damn lucky I am to have beenborn here in the United States. I thought about how fortunate I am to live soclose to the Nation's Capitol, a place some of my friends grew up wanting tovisit, and for my whole life I have been able to just pop downtown to look at monumentsand cherry blossoms anytime I wanted to. I thought about how different it isfrom Iraq. I am not afraid of being assassinated in my own front yard because Iwork for the government. I'm not afraid that someone will come and kill me andmy family because I'm a woman working in a man's job, or because we've fallenbehind on our bills, or practice the wrong religion, or vote for the wrongpolitician. In fact, I have been sitting in my car, driving, more thanhalf-naked in the beautiful spring sun, on my way to an interfaith charity todrop off a whole car load of clothes that I don't wear anymore for people whohave next to nothing.

Half a world away people are still being killed in front oftheir families, children are raped, girls are being mutilated, boys are forcedinto militias, people are being killed in the name of some god, and women can'tleave their homes without a male escort. And today I drove half-naked, top downin the car, hair exposed, listening to Christian music. I drove to an interfaithorganization to give away some of my abundance where men and women of differentraces and religions work to help local people who have less, regardless oftheir beliefs. And now I'm writing about it on the Internet and I'm still notafraid.

It is so good to be free.

Brenda's Few Minutes of Funny

2009-02-09T04:46:00.010-05:00

* Note about the video: The total time that I'm talking is about 4:30, but the video is a little out of sync and it appears I'm going longer. It ends when I say thanks and good night. And, no, I'm not pregnant, it's the DRESS! And yes, I am that vain!

This was simultaneously one of the most terrifying and most exhilarating nights of my life – and knowing that I was able to help raise some money for charity, make a few people laugh, and spend a little time with family and friends made it all worth it!

This is what I meditated on to help me through the fear:
Have I not commanded you?
Be strong and courageous.
Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged,
for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go!
-- Joshua 1:9 (NIV)

All of the other performers were great, and I can’t wait to see the whole production on DVD! I’ve already made some decisions about the future, which include auditioning for the next time, never wearing that dress again, and spending a little more time on the pull up bar!

The entire effort, the SRA Talent Show and Silent Auction, raised more than $13,400 for the designated charities: the Children’s Inn at NIH, Fisher House and the Capital Area Food Bank. You can find out more about how SRA Cares on our corporate website: http://www.sra.com/

overheard at home

2009-01-31T00:40:00.003-05:00

"Hold on! Put those down! We don't eat floor cheetohs!"
- Catherine to Lillian, while talking to me on the phone

airports

2009-01-14T21:34:00.014-05:00

Chicago, Illinois, July 2008.

Chicago, Illinois, July 2008.

Baltimore, Maryland, September 2008

Baltimore, Maryland, September 2008

Baltimore, Maryland, September 2008

Denver, Colorado, December 2008

Denver, Colorado, December 2008

Indianapolis, Indiana, January 2009

Indianapolis, Indiana, January 2009

Indianapolis, Indiana, January 2009

Phoenix, Arizona, December 2008

Phoenix, Arizona, December 2008

signs

2009-01-13T23:35:00.001-05:00

sign (sīn)
n. Something that suggests the presence or existence of a fact, condition, or quality. A portentous incident or event; a presage: took the eclipse as a sign from God.
An act or gesture used to convey an idea, a desire, information, or a command: gave the go-ahead sign. Sign language. A displayed structure bearing lettering or symbols, used to identify or advertise a place of business: a motel with a flashing neon sign outside. A posted notice bearing a designation, direction, or command: an EXIT sign above a door; a traffic sign. A conventional figure or device that stands for a word, phrase, or operation; a symbol, as in mathematics or in musical notation. An indicator, such as a dropping or footprint, of the trail of an animal: looking for deer sign. A trace or vestige: no sign of life. A body manifestation that serves to indicate the presence of malfunction or disease. One of the 12 divisions of the zodiac, each named for a constellation and represented by a symbol.

Wow. 26 December 2009

If only it were true. From some guy's sweatshirt on the metro one morning.

I think I'm going to make myself some awesome name tags like this wear around. This was the rental car guy in Phoenix on 23 December 2008. He was nice and pretty good, but I don't know about AMAZING.

As simplistic as this seems, there is something to the peaceful parking experience...And I do love BWI.

Just doing my part! I'm not sure I could stop if I wanted to - it seems to be in the blood.

Remember the really old grocery stores from back in the 1960's and 1970's with the great artwork on the sides of the stores? This is from a Safeway in Oregon. May 2008

I have to admit that while I was out for a nice long run in Port of Brookings, Oregon, I was not worried about a tsunami or an earthquake....until I saw this sign. I guess my big flashlight and reflective gear aren't much help. May 2008

Who would have thought that I'd find Shrek at the Huntsville, Alabama AAA office? For my Lillian... January 2008

So much for the anti-shaking camera. This is the wall outside of a movie theater in Mesa, Arizona. April 2008

Some of the great old historic neon signs in Mesa, Arizona.

This particular hotel owner lost his mind when I stopped on the side street to take photos of his beautiful sign. No doubt he had postcards or t-shirts or some other souvenirs of the sign that he could have sold me, but instead he came out and shook his finger at me. What an idiot. April 2008

And how could I possibly resist this? Montague, California. May 2008

overheard at work

2009-01-01T18:46:00.001-05:00

"I think I came a little..."
J. on the topic of the new "in" box. Jan 2009

"The road to Baghdad is paved with good Reservists."
November 2002

"Oh, we'll have to kill him now."
J.D. November 2002

“She used that Jedi Mind Trick on me…”
Brenda-Wan, Two observations: 1. You have the force. 2. Anyone who complains of being victimized by the Jedi Mind Trick is admitting they have no mind of their own. (Fall 2004)

"Well, it's not like you murdered anyone."

"Ok...let's see...blah, blah, blah...lies, lies, lies..." (looking over notes during meeting)
"The black ho I was talking about...."
(that is supposed to be a "black hole")

"When I saw his thing last - "
"You saw his THING?!"
"No! No, I didn't see his THING!"

"People disappear every day."

"Would you trust him with your wife, life, or $100?"

"Shut up and click mother f#cker."

"Are you excited? I AM PUMPED! I'm tan, rested, and ready!"

"The answer is 'yes', 'no', and 'it depends.' "
"Feedback? I got your feedback..."

"I'm all a-tingle! Are you all going to turn this into a musical?"

"Syllabus? Yeah...I got your syllabus...RIGHT HERE!"

"There is no actual physical contact with that much astroglide."
(When discussing massage therapy & specifically happy endings.)

"Some people are incurably attracted to the people who bring out the worst in them."
John Shepherd, 03 Oct 1998, CTT in the woods.

...and I would date you because?

2008-11-17T16:20:00.003-05:00

So, this is what some of the really stupid OkCupid emails are like. This snapperhead who does not speak English as his first language but has a very safe looking Caucasian photo and British address writes:

=====bruce wrote=====
Nice profile, I think i would like to know you better?

I can forgive poor grammar in email, and bad spelling, because not everyone writes well, and in today’s text happy times, I find myself falling into poor grammar & text speak in professional email sometimes. But, mixed upper & lower case “I” and ending his comment with a question mark…suspect. So, I look at his profile, which is not completed, suspect, and what he has written is in VERY poor English, suspect, and I decide that it’s VERY unlikely that his name is Bruce Burrows and that he lives in Andover, England, but I'm willing to give him a little bit of a chance, so I write:

=====i wrote=====
And your profile is eerily empty...And you'd be willing to travel over 3600 miles to have a cup of coffee (or tea) with me to see if there's any chemistry? Very unlikely!

And because I am probably right that he’s some sleazy Nigerian scam artist or someone trying to sell something over the internet, or whatever, his response is:

=====bruce wrote=====
Thanks for your response, Firstly can you tell me a little more about yourself...Maybe we get to know more about ourself? I hope to hear from you soon...B

Wow. Back to embracing my spinsterhood...

Why I run.

2008-10-29T10:03:00.011-04:00

Can you have too many favorites?

I love Metro.

2008-10-02T22:30:00.006-04:00

Trouble on the tracks somewhere along the way. Every incoming train unloaded and dumped more and more people onto the platforms for what felt like an eternity.

It was really only about 10 minutes.

I've never seen this many people in a train station in my life - not even on holidays or after sporting events!

Graffiti, San Antonio, Texas (July 2008)

2008-07-27T20:51:00.014-04:00

double-entendre

2008-07-01T23:52:00.002-04:00

dou·ble-en·ten·dre (dŭb'əl-än-tän'drə, dū-bläN-täN'drə)
n. A word or phrase having a double meaning, especially when the second meaning is risqué. The use of such a word or phrase; ambiguity.

This was the one last drunk guy from the bachelor party - they decided to all wear the same shirts out that night in Baltimore. He was staggering in the pizza line at Maria D's but sober enough to not let me capture his face - he even looked at the photos on the camera to be sure I only got the shirt!

I guess we'll have to take "Dead Eye Rob's" t-shirt at face value...

Las Vegas, Nevada. June 2008

Why? Why would you ever think that this is ok? And why would you let your young beautiful teenaged daughter work here? How is it that three beautiful blonde Minnesota girls work here? I wanted to ask if anyone ever gives them a hard time about this job (no pun intended), but I just couldn't bring it up with them - they looked so innocent. May 2008.

I was afraid to open my email when I saw the words PEEP SHOW in the subject line.

Uh, go into the LION'S DEN for adult fun? Because being mauled by beasts is a good time? Wow, yeah the idea of going into a stinking lair scented by rotting meat and then being killed, yeah, that TURNS ME ON! Why not call the store OUT OF THE FRYING PAN AND INTO THE FIRE?
Along the way, January 2008.

I don't think he knows what this means... According to urbandictionary.com, tranny is: 1. transvestite; 2. transsexual; 3. transparency (photog.) ; 4. transit van (veh.); 5. automobile transmission (automotive).
Port of Brookings, Oregon, May 2008.

Las Vegas, Nevada (June 2008)

2008-06-16T22:02:00.000-04:00

View from our room at Mandalay Bay.

Even the billboards tell you how fabulous you are in Las Vegas! How can you not love that town?

Early evening view out of our hotel room.

Little Italy, Baltimore (June 2008)

2008-06-08T22:44:00.000-04:00

Unfailing Prayer to Saint Anthony
Blessed be God in His Angels and in His Saints.
O Holy St. Anthony, gentlest of Saints, your love for God and Charity for His creatures made you worthy, when on earth, to possess miraculous powers. Miracles waited on your word, which you were ever ready to speak for those in trouble or anxiety. Encouraged by this thought, I implore of you to obtain for me (request). The answer to my prayer may require a miracle. Even so, you are the saint of Miracles.
O gentle and loving St. Anthony, whose heart was ever full of human sympathy, whisper my petition into the ears of the Sweet Infant Jesus, who loved to be folded in your arms, and the gratitude of my heart will ever be yours.
Amen.

There is something about inflatable gun toys in American flag decor that just makes a me a little uncomfortable. Maybe it was that liberal upbringing.

What has surprised me most...

2008-05-13T16:22:00.002-04:00

My cousin-in-law, Rick, asked me what has surprised me most on this trip. It was a thoughtful question - I was stumped & have been thinking about it since.

This racoon that Susie and I treed surprised us - or maybe we surprised him!

Some things that surprised me recently that shouldn't are:
· toll roads are under construction - what else are they supposed to do with the money?
· Jared is a man of great self-discipline - if I look at one more Subway club with pepper jack & banana peppers I will kill someone.
· jigsaw puzzles are like crack - it's so hard to stop once you get started.
· little boys - wow, they are so different than little girls!
· I have more fun with my family & friends than alone.
· I need 6 hours of sleep & my body will take it no matter what my plans are or what I set my alarm for.
· there are not enough 'slower traffic keep right' signs in Minnesota.

it's good to be home

2008-05-13T16:16:00.006-04:00

Anything seems possible from Breezewood, Pennsyslvania! But maybe that’s only for Marylander’s travelling northwest… I didn’t realize how much I missed home until I started seeing signs for Breezewood and I started smiling like I was in love! It’s good to be home!

Indiana...I'm sure it has more to offer...I think I must always drive through there in the dark or something because I never remember it...

Ronald Reagan Presidential Library

2008-05-11T15:34:00.007-04:00

California

2008-05-11T15:24:00.009-04:00

freedom of expression

2008-05-11T11:45:00.006-04:00

I love graffiti.

I love signs, billboards, displays – anything visual.

I know that graffiti is illegal and morally and ethically wrong and quite often it’s not worth reading or looking at.

Sometimes it’s like looking at road kill – it would have been better if you had looked away and not tried to figure out what that debris in the road was. Anyone who regularly drives in the country with small children knows how to do that quick assessment and point to a cow in nearby field to make sure the baby doesn’t see dead Bambi on the road.

This isn’t exactly road kill, but it’s really a waste. If you’re going to go out and buy or steal a can of spray paint, risk arrest and other punishment, why would you waste all of that on something like this?

body count

2008-05-11T11:31:00.005-04:00

We have 52 weeks in a year, so we’ve got time. I’d like to see this same type of body count exhibit changed weekly and done for these bodies:

Number of people killed in narcotics-related killings in Central and South America.
Number of young mothers killed in accidental drug overdoses.
Number of children aborted by teen mothers.
Number of children ensnared in the sex industry worldwide.
Number of known Chinese spies in the United States.
Number of neutralized potential terrorists foiled by intelligence efforts.
Number of lives saved by alert security forces.

I used to have some stats fresh in my mind so that I could argue intelligently when someone threw some numbers from somewhere at me. But I’m just not as well informed as I used to be – or maybe I’m just tired. I’m sure I’ll think of more.

South Dakota

2008-05-09T14:19:00.016-04:00

There was not much to see in South Dakota because of the weather. It was a dreary drive and I didn’t get to see Mount Rushmore or Crazy Horse. Both are worth a second trip back.

How could I possibly pass up Wall Drug? I have never seen so much billboard advertising and signage for one place – a close second would be The THING in Arizona.

$85.00 was just too much to spend on a little suede cowgirl outfit – no matter how cute Lillian would look in it!

It was tough, but I resisted the cowboy boots and western wear, and made it out of there with a pink cowgirl cap gun. I think if I’d been wearing more appropriate shoes for the weather I’d have lusted after them even less!

And what old town would be complete without a hooker sitting outside of the bookstore? How quaint…

Pappy said he had all the answers for just $1.00. I had a flashback to the movie Big and decided that I’d pass.

I’m sure Poker Alice had to have been much more pleasant than she appears here to have warranted a public memorial. Just for the record, I would like something more flattering as a memorial when I’m gone.

Montague, California

2008-05-09T13:38:00.018-04:00

How could I resist this town? It was a little out of the way, but still part of the scenic route.

In the little brick building there is a foo-foo ladies who lunch tea shop and garden restaurant. They were hosting an author's lunch when I arrived but I didn't really blend so well in my running gear so I opted out.

After all, it was a point of historical interest...

Albany, Oregon to Cody, Wyoming

2008-05-08T13:22:00.012-04:00

Along the Columbia River Gorge. I try to avoid taking photos of landscapes, flowers, and all of those great shots that real photographers get. I like those places in the road where things join or change. This is a cement factory along the way.

It really started looking ominous toward Yellowstone.

And this is a CRAZY amount of snow!

I swear that really is a buffalo in the road in Yellowstone!

Cody to Gillette, Wyoming

2008-05-08T12:41:00.006-04:00

Dayton, Wyoming.

tributes

2008-05-08T11:31:00.000-04:00

trib·ute (trĭb'yūt)
n. An expression of admiration or congratulation: commendation, compliment, congratulation (often used in plural), praise. A formal token of appreciation and admiration for a person's high achievements: salute, salvo, testimonial. See praise/blame.

The drive to Mount Shasta, California.

A view from the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library.

waypoints

2008-05-08T11:12:00.003-04:00

way·point (wā'point')
n. A point between major points on a route, as along a track.

Minneapolis peeking up over the horizon.

Driving through New Orleans in the dark. January 2008.

Memories along the way. Some are best just driven past.

West to the coast, South to the past, or North and then East toward home?

Somewhere along the way.

Yellowstone

2008-05-08T11:07:00.002-04:00

I opted to pass through Yellowstone at night and not stop there when I saw there was nothing but snow all around. The drive looked simple on the map but then how was I to know that I'd navigate fresh rock slides, snow, rain, 8% grades, blinding sulfur clouds, and live buffalo in the middle of the road. By the time I pulled into Cody, Wyoming, I was shaken and there's not much on the road that startles me!

Port of Brookings, Oregon

2008-05-02T21:26:00.000-04:00

I must go down to the seas again
to the lonely sea and the sky.
And all I ask is a tall ship
and a star to steer her by.
Mariner’s Memorial

Mount Shasta, California

2008-05-02T16:00:00.000-04:00

Here's a photo of me at the Bunny Flat trail head on Mount Shasta, California. The nice lady at the visitor's center in Mt. Shasta told me that I'd be able to bike up there on the closed road – there might be some debris and a little snow still, but if I'm on a mountain bike it would be fine. HA! A little snow?

Dragon, near Mt. Shasta, California

2008-05-02T15:49:00.000-04:00

“We're our own dragons as well as our own heroes,
and we have to rescue ourselves from ourselves.”
-Tom Robbins

“I believe in everything until it's disproved.
So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons.
It all exists, even if it's in your mind.
Who's to say that dreams and nightmares
aren't as real as the here and now?”
-John Lennon

“The man who fights too long against dragons
becomes a dragon himself”
-Friedrich Nietzsche

“Heroes take journeys, confront dragons,

and discover the treasure of their true selves.”

-Carol Lynn Pearson

Waiting in Mesa, Arizona

2008-04-27T15:25:00.000-04:00

fights well with others

2008-04-15T16:37:00.000-04:00

Back in April I was training in Combatives - sort of like Ultimate Fighting with form. I was a little older than most of the Students in my class and found some situations a little funny.

One Thursday morning my ribs were so sore from Tuesday's training that I could barely hit the mat. I was wincing getting in and out of the car and I hurt in places I didn't know I even had.

So I opted to sit out the grappling after a 100 lb little young female hurt me during our start off in the morning. No, I wasn’t being a wimp - sitting out is an option for all of us if not feeling it for whatever reason - no need to keep injuring yourself, right?

I explained that was a bit sore and was going to sit out after I went to the car to get some ibuprofen, and some little bippy girl minion of the combatives cadre - all of 20-something - asked me if it was possible that my sports bra was too tight.

Wow. Yeah, because a little spandex over my ever shrinking little chest would make me wince in pain.... Wow. It warms my heart to know that she'll be old one day too!

A few weeks later one of the combatives instructors told me that I needed to commit in the clench. I said that would take a few more years of therapy.

Saint Greg

2008-03-28T03:13:00.005-04:00

Saint Gregory of Germantown

Greg had a great sense of humor. So let me start out here with a joke.

John dies and he goes to heaven. He gets there and sees people getting around in a variety of cars, riding bikes, horses and buggies - all kinds of conveyances. He asks Saint Peter, about the cars, how is it that some people have better cars than the others. Saint Peter explains that the vehicles are in lieu of the crowns in heaven – the reward in heaven for the good life you lived – the cars were more practical than the heavy crowns and tiaras.

John gets a nice 1998 Ford Escort for his reward. A nice, sturdy, practical car. It's not an Escalade or a Ferrari, but he knows that his life wasn't that great and he's just glad to be in the presence of God – he's content with the Escort.

He's tooling around heaven in his Escort and he's running into old friends and one day he runs into Bill, who is driving a an old beat up Yugo – dents, scratches, exhaust leak, backfiring. John is just doubled over laughing at Bill's reward, and Bill says to John, "Dude, I don't know what you're laughing about – your wife just got here and she's on a skateboard!"

Well, I don't know about the rest of you all, but I know that Greg is up there driving something, and I will be there with him one day – and more than likely I will be on a skateboard.

I know that Greg knew God – had a personal relationship with Jesus Christ – understood the plan of salvation – and that he understood God's will in his life. I am certain of Greg's salvation and for any of you that are not certain yet, today is as good a day as any to turn your life over to God and make that commitment. It's a simple prayer and ensures that you'll have an opportunity to be with us in heaven.

According to some definitions, Greg's simply being a Christian makes him a Saint. Other definitions would require miracles, proof, canonization, to call him a Saint.

Who can really determine which miracles are valid enough to make someone a Saint?

I don't recall a description of our Saint Greg turning water into wine, or smelling of roses immediately after a healing, or making the face of Jesus appear in a car hood.
An investigation and visit from the Catholic Church and ultimate canonization is highly unlikely.

But the miracles of Saint Greg, wow, what miracles they were…He taught a young woman how to cook hollandaise sauce and veal parmesan in a microwave. He built a winter wonderland on a table top and made Christmas Eve a magical time for all of us. He taught a little girl how to play soccer.

Saint Greg brought blended family members together in a way that Dr. Phil can only dream of. He co-parented and fathered through adversity that some families never face. He fed us.

And the really impossible miracles of Saint Greg…He warmed my cold heart and made me fall in love with him when I was a bitter and jaded 18. Though what I had to be bitter and jaded about at that point, I'm not so sure.

Catherine has seen her dad through a woman's eyes in these past few years and when she's seen photos she's commented on what a handsome young man he was. Over the years, all of my friends who were blessed to meet him talked about how charming and witty he was.

Saint Greg wooed me with flowers and won me. He made me stay here in Maryland with a little girl when all I ever wanted is to run all over the world. These are miracles that no one else has been able to accomplish.

He made me think of him every day. He became a part of who I am. We haven't been a couple for more than two decades, but there hasn't been a day that we were not aware of each other. Some of that time we talked every day and regularly stopped by each others' homes and work – I loved being able to take Catherine by his work at Century Amoco for a visit and he regularly came to our house when we lived in Germantown.

Since Lillian came into our lives, he blossomed into Pop-Pop and I saw that young father enamored with his little girl again. And again, he melted my cold heart with his love for her and for Catherine.

In this past year, Greg became my favorite Friday night date. I'd babysit Lillian so Catherine could get out for a bit, and we'd meet Pop-Pop at Wal-Mart in Germantown. We'd get two carts – one for him and Lillian, one for me, my purse, the coats. They'd take off to look at toys or clothes or holiday decorations and I'd do my shopping – how many of you have ever tried to compare brands of glucosamine while a three year old is asking a bunch of questions? Yeah, that's a good time! I was never the patient one like Saint Greg was. And of course the real beneficiary of our shopping trips was Lillian – we loved having Lillian try on little cowboy boots and clothes. I'm not sure which of the three of us enjoyed it more. Sometimes we'd have bought so much stuff that we'd have trouble getting it all into my car for the short ride back to his house where he'd ply us with food – always knocking me off of my diet.

He was my sounding board when I struggled with decisions. I didn't always do what he wanted, but I have always valued his perspective on the hard things in my life.

Saint Greg loved us all when we weren't loveable. A miracle.

A miracle that in ways that I can't talk about here, Saint Greg helped me find my way again in the past few years.

And now, I am lost without him.

He loved me.

Saint Greg of Germantown loved you all.

Arizona

2008-02-01T10:47:00.001-05:00

driving to Arizona

2008-01-21T02:24:00.002-05:00

There's something creepy about dead things in the dark. Driving through New Orleans in the dark I felt like the worst kind of rubbernecker trying to navigate the beaten highway over 70mph. Rain, traffic, my own morbid curiosity slowing me. And as I tried to take few photos on the fly I was reminded of taking photos in Iraq on our first convoy up into the fray on Mother's Day 2003. l was sure I was going to die. I kept taking photographs of blown up tanks and planes and military vehicles. I finally stopped taking the photos when it occurred to me that young men gasped their last pain filled breaths in those burning tanks. My guilt was the same driving through New Orleans when I remembered weeping for New Orleans on the floor of my hotel room in St Louis while watching Katrina's wrath on television. And now here I was trying to get a good photo of someone else's suffering.

lets make it sexy and cool and accessible

2007-10-15T13:12:00.005-04:00

Good Monday my fellow Sonneteers,

I heard a song on the radio the other day, So Hott, by Kid Rock. And I thought that if the White Stripes had done it, it would be an even better song. But, really, if someone else had written it, it might be an even better song. I guess in some ways, Kid Rock really does say it all here, but when it comes to poetry, and conveying feelings about love, lust, obsession, and all of the emotions in between, I think we all may have a bit more than this in us.

So Hott
(R.J. Ritchie, M. Young)
© 2007 RJR Publishing / Jo Ray Dean Music (BMI)

You got a body like the devil and you smell like sex
I can tell you're trouble but I'm still obsessed

Chorus:
Because you know you're so hot, I want to get you alone
So hot, I wanna get you stoned
So hot, I don't want to be your friend
I want to fuck you like I'm never gonna see you again
....Yeah.....C'mon....Yeah

You're like the kiss of death, like the hand of fate
I can tell you're trouble but I still want a taste

(Chorus x2)

Because you're so hot I want to get you alone
I want to get you stoned
I don't want to be your friend
I want to fuck you like I'm never gonna see you again

See you again
See you again
http://www.kidrock.com/lyrics.php

Then this weekend, I read an article in Time, where the author said, "What poetry really needs is a writer who can do for it what Andy Warhol did for avant-garde visual art: make it sexy and cool and accessible without making it stupid or patronizing." I think that we can make poetry sexy and cool and accessible. There, I've thrown down the gauntlet - I challenge you all to come up with something better.

Thursday, Jun. 07, 2007
Poems for the People
By Lev Grossman

In 1876 an American Civil War veteran named Eli Lilly founded a pharmaceutical company. He did pretty well for himself: you can thank Eli Lilly & Co. for, among other things, methadone, Cialis and Prozac. But Lilly's reclusive great-granddaughter Ruth is apparently more interested in poems than in Prozac. In 2001, when she decided to give away part of her fortune in charitable donations, she singled out a venerable but impoverished little literary magazine called Poetry. Her gift came to around $200 million.

Money and poetry rarely have much to do with each other, especially in such a stunningly large quantity. Suddenly the small staff of Poetry was swimming in cash--it's the literary equivalent of the Beverly Hillbillies. Now they're using Lilly's gift to mount a comeback for poetry. But can money really bring a dying art form back to life? And is it just possible that poetry was better off where it was?

Chances are, you don't read much poetry, at least not the new stuff. Don't feel bad, hardly anybody does. To hit the best-seller list for verse, a book has to sell only around 30 copies. Poetry is the spinach in America's media diet: good for you, occasionally baked into other, tastier dishes (like the cameo that W.H. Auden's Funeral Blues made in Four Weddings and a Funeral) but rarely consumed on its own. In the hierarchy of cultural pursuits it sits somewhere just below classical music and just above clogging.

If poetry is dead, who killed it? In the 19th century it was a vital part of Western culture. Writers like Byron and Tennyson were practically rock stars. "Every newspaper in the U.S. printed poems," says Dana Gioia, chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts. "At the end of Longfellow's life, his birthday was like a national holiday."

But the 20th century saw the rise of Modernism and brilliant but difficult and allusive writers like T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound. (Eliot's Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock was first published in Poetry magazine.) Poems became less like high-end pop songs and more like math problems to be solved. They turned into the property of snobs and professors. They started to feel like homework. "It's thought of as a subject to be taught instead of simply an art to be enjoyed," says Christian Wiman, Poetry's editor.

Maybe $200 million can help. After ensuring its own financial well-being--"It's always been on the brink of going under," says Wiman--Poetry magazine begat a larger entity, more suited to wielding nine-figure sums, called the Poetry Foundation. The foundation needed somebody to run it who was equally at home serving art and Mammon, and they found what they were looking for in John Barr, who spent 18 years at Morgan Stanley before co-founding a boutique investment-banking firm on his own. During that time he also published six books of verse and taught in the writing program at Sarah Lawrence. "For me all the stuff I've experienced in the business world was, in a deep way, feedstock for my writing," Barr says. "I think living broadly and writing boldly go together."

A small, sun-baked man, Barr is unusually smiley and energetic for a poet, and he set about his job with a distinctly unpoetic efficiency. Starting in February 2004, Barr commissioned a corporate-style study to find out who was reading poetry and who wasn't. Readings were hosted; prizes and fellowships were handed out; an elaborate, handsomely designed website was launched. Working with the National Endowment for the Arts, the Poetry Foundation started Poetry Out Loud, a national poetry-recitation contest for high school students, which was won this May by one Amanda Fernandez of Washington on the strength of her thunderous version of Sterling A. Brown's "Ma Rainey."

Barr also ruffled some feathers. A zealous and unembarrassed populist, he declared his determination to make poetry less morose and more entertaining. He endowed a post called the Children's Poet Laureate. He created the Mark Twain Poetry Award, "recognizing a poet's contribution to humor in American poetry." Barr also published several essays criticizing the state of American poetry. He accused it of "intellectual and spiritual stagnation." He called out poets for being addicted to lyric poetry (as opposed to, say, epic or satirical poetry) and for being obsessed with formal experimentation. He dissed M.F.A. programs for churning out careerist, cookie-cutter poets who were "sustained by a system of fellowships, grants, and other subsidies that absolve recipients of the responsibility to write books that a reader who is not a specialist might enjoy, might even buy."

Not everyone in the poetry world took Barr's criticisms kindly. A response from Sidney Wade, president of the Association of Writers & Writing Programs, included the words peculiar, laughable, nonsense and offensive. (Poetry, to its credit, printed most of the letter.) "I can name 20 exciting poets writing today in one breath, and, I bet, so can you," wrote a blogger. "Perhaps what has gone stale is Barr's reading of contemporary poetry."

In person, Barr plays down the controversy. "We're definitely not trying to dumb down poetry," he says. "We're not trying to introduce the notion that we would judge quality by book sales or even accessibility. But if poetry has somehow lost touch with a broader readership, there's an opportunity to reverse that. People are going to love poetry when they get back to it." As that last statement suggests, Barr has a tendency to express himself in marketingspeak, which may irritate his critics as much as the actual content of what he's saying. "It's easy for an academic to attack him," Gioia says, "because he's not talking in the elegant patois of the English department. But he has enormous practical capabilities."

Should poetry be more entertaining? Have we failed poetry by not bothering to read it? Or has poetry failed us, by not seducing us into reading it? Even if you don't agree with Barr's solutions, he has at least admitted a fundamental and painful cultural fact: that something has changed, that the great voices of our time no longer speak in verse.

The $200 million won't change that; nothing, not even money, can get people to enjoy something against their will. What poetry really needs is a writer who can do for it what Andy Warhol did for avant-garde visual art: make it sexy and cool and accessible without making it stupid or patronizing. When that writer arrives, cultural change will come swiftly, and relatively effortlessly. And Barr will be waiting, with a check.

Find this article at: http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1630571,00.html

Swan Song?

2002-01-09T15:00:00.000-05:00

“Open your eyes and take a goodhard look at me this time.

I’m singing along to the song, getting ready to sit down towrite – working on what I’ve jokingly said will have to be my very bestcreative writing ever. Amazed at howthis important piece of my life has generated so much energy into other areas –clean house, organized cabinets, poetry. Sewing her belt loop, smoothing her confidence.

Ah, if only it were a novella of some kind – some made uptragic life – not mine. If only it werecreative fiction – not the truth that leaves such a bitter flavor on my tongue,makes me cry, puts the bite in my mouth on what should be my soothingwords. I’d have been done a long timeago.

The book jacket – slightly askew, like so much out of orderin my life these days, so little I have control over. To pick up that book – my book – I own it inmy house – and push the jacket back into place, lined up with the edges of thebook cover, to have some control. Itfeels so good.

That refrain again, “take a good hard look at me,” Iopened the book looking for the phrase “hard look.” And I’ve found “swan song” instead.

“In ancient times, back when itwas thought that a crocodile wept after eating a man, it was also the beliefthat a swan, unable all its life to sing like other birds, would burst intoglorious song when it felt the approach of death. According to Plato, Socrates explained thesong as one of gladness because the swan, sacred to Apollo, was shortly to beable to join the god it served. AsApollo was the god of poetry and song, it was also the belief that the souls ofa poet passed after death into the body of a swan. These ancient beliefs may be traced throughall European literature; in England, we find them in Chaucer, Shakespeare,Byron, and many other writers. From thispicturesque source we owe the allusion to the last work of any poet, writer, ororator as his ‘swan song,’ supposedly the culmination of all his artistry, hisfinest work.” -- © Charles Earle Funk, 2107Curious Word Origins, Sayings & Expressions

No, no, not my most creative writing ever. Not my swan song. I’m not finished anytime soon.

But what’s this about some bird in my life again – whatcoincidence – a sign? And here I ampleading with the creator of the universe, who seems not to care, “Please, God,let it be a good sign this time.”

Did I pass from some body a thousand lifetimes ago into somebody of a swan and here I am again, paying for some crime, learning some lessonI wish I’d gotten years before?

This song I’m still singing now, it was music from our firstdate. That first night out when ourfriendship began to turn. It tossed andturned from something lovely into the something more – the hell it allbecame. Oh, those lessons I wish Ihadn’t had to learn the way I did.

Now, more begging, “God, if there is reincarnation orsomething like that, PLEASE let me have learned all this now – don’t put methrough it all again in another time…don’t let this be my end – I want moretime.”

Startled at the thought that thesedays I do want more time – as painful as it is right now, as I know it will be– I have no desire to end it all. Nothinking of that long sleep – not wondering, “could I get away with it andleave her intact?” The thought of myend, it doesn’t come to me the way I used to embrace it, as a long rest fromthis pain.

I have so much more to do – no swansong for me anytime soon.

That Mona Lisa Smile

2001-09-07T23:00:00.000-04:00

Serene and proud, sitting like theMessiah,

a Buddah risen to the heights ofenlightenment

with that Mona Lisa smile.

You distract my thoughts at theoddest times

– your name rolls familiar off mytongue

I think about you often – and themysteries behind your smile.

Fear strikes me at this schoolfootball game

– tonight her team, the brave youngWarriors,

fight for points in a choreographedwar.

Last Sunday at the Renaissance Fair

– would you attack us here, would you dare?

But then, who's here that you wouldeven care?

Hurtling up the Parkway, past theCIA

– I think of their quest, I praythey don't stop

until you're put to rest.

Creeping down 295 behind thatdarkened Lincoln,

red, white and blue diplomatic tags– do you direct them,

sitting next to me in traffic, safebehind that glass?

On Lufthansa Flight 3502, tired, anunwilling traveler,

I wonder, will this be the number

that grieves my lover's heart andfills yours with joy?

I know you, fanatic, I was one too.

So self-righteous and proud

fighting sex at prime time for thepurity of my child.

I fought hard, and had I time andenergy,

I could've given more to that fight

– all in the name of Jesus Christ.

I know you, how you love yourQur'an

and who can really blame you

for wanting to keep your peoplepure?

Your intentions, so clean, so right

you have that concept of Muslimtime on your side

in fighting your good fight.

I hear we trained you to be ourtool, our fool,

in those frozen Afghan hills,

yes, we taught you something of thefight.

We're done with you now,

your usefulness long over,

– fights with the Soviet bear wellpast.

I need no justification to pluckyou from this earth.

I need not demonize you,

to give your evil worth.

Unholy warriors called to action inthis Jihad

I wonder, should we persecute yourfamilies,

our perceived enemies, as you doours?

Oh, we speak of you too often

of terrorism and fear

in our mother daughter chats.

Killing you, the lesser of twoevils

I wonder where you are

with that Mona Lisa smile.