The new season of Dancing With The Stars has begun.Can ya tell?
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
curly top
The Wall has fallen. so to speak, No Neck's a scaredy cat and my allergies are about to kill me. What a week this has been. Oh, well..it’s all good as I have an old LA pal visiting me in a couple, I’m getting ready to kick back and put my feet up this quiet evening but more importantly...my Max is back on Dancing With The Stars! Yep, Mama’s little Russky is shakin’it and bakin’ it this season and I couldn’t be happier! Hey, it’s no secret. I have nothing to hide. My husband is more than aware that I’d have no choice but to leave him if my ballroom stud mambo-ed his way across the Ozark mountains to shimmy me off into the gold lame' sunset. Short of the two kiddos and my black cohosh, I’d be good to go.
Finally..Fall is ever so slightly on its way and after a lovely visit from our Afi (Icelandic for grand-pappy), we are settling into the new school year quite nicely. My oldest munchkin is experiencing kindergarten to the hilt, the two nerves I have left are in utter bliss caring for only uno offspring and..who knew?..I have fallen in love with my youngest one all over again. I have never really spent time with the girls separately as it’s always been a three-peas-in-a-pod type of deal with us, but the last few weeks have just been lovely. The T-Meister has finally acclimated to losing sissy an extra three and a half hours a day and we are discovering all kinds of fun things to do..just the two of us. After reading the news and getting my Huffington fix this morning, well, needless to say, I was just as verklempt as ever over the sitch this country is in..the haywire, meltdown craziness of it all. Besides budgeting the hell outta my fuel and eating a lot of pasta, I have to just hunker down, try not to clinch my mandible into powder at night & focus on keeping Big Daddy well this winter since he's already gobbled up half of his lifetime maximum...and for God's sake, I gotta VOTE! Vote is the key word here, people. So must we all. I mean, Magna Cum Laude and two J.D.'s have gotta trump a half dozen dead moose and a couple semesters of journalism, right? Mama must put aside her bitterness and wholeheartedly jump right up on that bandwagon of hope and change. It can't get any worse. Oh, yeah, that's right. It can. Oy..on to better things...
I spent probably the best 27 minutes of my day today watching T. eat an ice cream cone. Chocolate. Extra drippy. After driving straight on toward the most beautiful sky this morning. My favorite kind, too..big puffy swabs of cumulus back lit with that ethereal golden morning sun..well, heck..the day had already sized itself up to be almost perfect and it was only 7:30am even though the amount of histamine in my body could choke Godzilla. It's like the universe knows just when to give Mama a little something good when my shoulders are up around my ears. That’s what I love about my kids, too..no matter what I got hammering down on me, I can always take a moment to bathe in their grace..their soft, cushy joy, and within that precious snap of the fingers, I’m able to let everything else slide. I consider myself to be about the luckiest gal around when it comes to those welcome showers of pure unalduterated goodness- those sacred albeit fleeting moments that will before too long, whether I'm ready for it or not..turn into ones between my two punkies and their children. I pray that I will never ever forget a single moment and that my healthy heart can hold every last ounce of it all for as long as possible.
Thank you, T, for the music of your whispers, for turning on the light and for loving me just as I am. It is within your sunshine curls my soul will forever hunker.
Finally..Fall is ever so slightly on its way and after a lovely visit from our Afi (Icelandic for grand-pappy), we are settling into the new school year quite nicely. My oldest munchkin is experiencing kindergarten to the hilt, the two nerves I have left are in utter bliss caring for only uno offspring and..who knew?..I have fallen in love with my youngest one all over again. I have never really spent time with the girls separately as it’s always been a three-peas-in-a-pod type of deal with us, but the last few weeks have just been lovely. The T-Meister has finally acclimated to losing sissy an extra three and a half hours a day and we are discovering all kinds of fun things to do..just the two of us. After reading the news and getting my Huffington fix this morning, well, needless to say, I was just as verklempt as ever over the sitch this country is in..the haywire, meltdown craziness of it all. Besides budgeting the hell outta my fuel and eating a lot of pasta, I have to just hunker down, try not to clinch my mandible into powder at night & focus on keeping Big Daddy well this winter since he's already gobbled up half of his lifetime maximum...and for God's sake, I gotta VOTE! Vote is the key word here, people. So must we all. I mean, Magna Cum Laude and two J.D.'s have gotta trump a half dozen dead moose and a couple semesters of journalism, right? Mama must put aside her bitterness and wholeheartedly jump right up on that bandwagon of hope and change. It can't get any worse. Oh, yeah, that's right. It can. Oy..on to better things...
I spent probably the best 27 minutes of my day today watching T. eat an ice cream cone. Chocolate. Extra drippy. After driving straight on toward the most beautiful sky this morning. My favorite kind, too..big puffy swabs of cumulus back lit with that ethereal golden morning sun..well, heck..the day had already sized itself up to be almost perfect and it was only 7:30am even though the amount of histamine in my body could choke Godzilla. It's like the universe knows just when to give Mama a little something good when my shoulders are up around my ears. That’s what I love about my kids, too..no matter what I got hammering down on me, I can always take a moment to bathe in their grace..their soft, cushy joy, and within that precious snap of the fingers, I’m able to let everything else slide. I consider myself to be about the luckiest gal around when it comes to those welcome showers of pure unalduterated goodness- those sacred albeit fleeting moments that will before too long, whether I'm ready for it or not..turn into ones between my two punkies and their children. I pray that I will never ever forget a single moment and that my healthy heart can hold every last ounce of it all for as long as possible.
Thank you, T, for the music of your whispers, for turning on the light and for loving me just as I am. It is within your sunshine curls my soul will forever hunker.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Thursday, September 11, 2008
the dead of september 11
by TONI MORRISON
Some have God's words; others have songs
of comfort for the bereaved.
If I can pluck courage here, I would
like to speak directly to the dead--the
September dead.
Those children of ancestors born in every
continent on the planet: Asia, Europe, Africa, the Americas...;
born of ancestors who wore kilts, obis, saris, geles,
wide straw hats, yarmulkes, goatskin, wooden shoes,
feathers and cloths to cover their hair. But I would not say
a word until I could set aside all I know or believe about
nations, wars, leaders, the governed and ungovernable;
all I suspect about armor and entrails. First I would freshen
my tongue, abandon sentences crafted to know evil---wanton
or studied; explosive or quietly sinister; whether born of
a sated appetite or hunger; of vengeance or the simple
compulsion to stand up before falling down. I would purge
my language of hypberbole; of its eagerness to analyze
the levels of wickedness; ranking them; calculating their
higher or lower status among others of its kind.
Speaking to the broken and the dead is too difficult for
a mouth full of blood. Too holy an act for impure thoughts.
Because the dead are free, absolute; they cannot be
seduced by blitz.
To speak to you, the dead of September 11, I must not claim
false intimacy or summon an overheated heart glazed
just in time for a camera. I must be steady and I must be clear,
knowing all the time that I have nothing to say--no words
stronger than the steel that pressed you into itself; no scripture
older or more elegant than the ancient atoms you
have become.
And I have nothing to give either--except this gesture,
this thread thrown between your humanity and mine:
I want to hold you in my arms and as your soul got shot of its box of flesh to understand, as you have done, the wit
of eternity: its gift of unhinged release tearing through
the darkness of its knell.
Some have God's words; others have songs
of comfort for the bereaved.
If I can pluck courage here, I would
like to speak directly to the dead--the
September dead.
Those children of ancestors born in every
continent on the planet: Asia, Europe, Africa, the Americas...;
born of ancestors who wore kilts, obis, saris, geles,
wide straw hats, yarmulkes, goatskin, wooden shoes,
feathers and cloths to cover their hair. But I would not say
a word until I could set aside all I know or believe about
nations, wars, leaders, the governed and ungovernable;
all I suspect about armor and entrails. First I would freshen
my tongue, abandon sentences crafted to know evil---wanton
or studied; explosive or quietly sinister; whether born of
a sated appetite or hunger; of vengeance or the simple
compulsion to stand up before falling down. I would purge
my language of hypberbole; of its eagerness to analyze
the levels of wickedness; ranking them; calculating their
higher or lower status among others of its kind.
Speaking to the broken and the dead is too difficult for
a mouth full of blood. Too holy an act for impure thoughts.
Because the dead are free, absolute; they cannot be
seduced by blitz.
To speak to you, the dead of September 11, I must not claim
false intimacy or summon an overheated heart glazed
just in time for a camera. I must be steady and I must be clear,
knowing all the time that I have nothing to say--no words
stronger than the steel that pressed you into itself; no scripture
older or more elegant than the ancient atoms you
have become.
And I have nothing to give either--except this gesture,
this thread thrown between your humanity and mine:
I want to hold you in my arms and as your soul got shot of its box of flesh to understand, as you have done, the wit
of eternity: its gift of unhinged release tearing through
the darkness of its knell.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
obama and the palin effect
by DEEPOK CHOPRA
Sometimes politics has the uncanny effect of mirroring the national psyche even when nobody intended to do that. This is perfectly illustrated by the rousing effect that Gov. Sarah Palin had on the Republican convention in Minneapolis this week. On the surface, she outdoes former Vice President Dan Quail as an unlikely choice, given her negligent parochial expertise in the complex affairs of governing. Her state of Alaska has less than 700,000 residents, which reduces the job of governor to the scale of running one-tenth of New York City. By comparison, Rudy Giuliani is a towering international figure. Palin's pluck has been admired, and her forthrightness, but her real appeal goes deeper.
She is the reverse of Barack Obama, in essence his shadow, deriding his idealism and exhorting people to obey their worst impulses. In psychological terms the shadow is that part of the psyche that hides out of sight, countering our aspirations, virtue, and vision with qualities we are ashamed to face: anger, fear, revenge, violence, selfishness, and suspicion of "the other." For millions of Americans, Obama triggers those feelings, but they don't want to express them. He is calling for us to reach for our higher selves, and frankly, that stirs up hidden reactions of an
unsavory kind. (Just to be perfectly clear, I am not making a verbal play out of the fact that Sen. Obama is black. The shadow is a metaphor widely in use before his arrival on the scene.) I recognize that psychological analysis of politics is usually not welcome by the public, but I believe such a perspective can be helpful here to understand Palin's message. In her acceptance speech Gov. Palin sent a rousing call to those who want to celebrate their resistance to change and a higher vision. Look at what she stands for:
-- Small town values -- a denial of America's global role, a return to petty, small-minded parochialism.
-- Ignorance of world affairs -- a repudiation of the need to repair America's image abroad.
-- Family values -- a code for walling out anybody who makes a claim for social justice. Such strangers, being outside the family, don't need to be heeded.
-- Rigid stands on guns and abortion -- a scornful repudiation that these issues can be negotiated with those who disagree.
-- Patriotism -- the usual fallback in a failed war.
-- Reform -- an italicized term, since in addition to cleaning out corruption and excessive spending, one also throws out anyone who doesn't fit your ideology.
Palin reinforces the overall message of the reactionary right, which has been in play since 1980, that social justice is liberal-radical, that minorities and immigrants, being different from "us" pure American types, can be ignored, that progressivism takes too much effort and globalize is a foreign threat. The radical right marches under the banners of "I'm all right, Jack," and "Why change Everything's OK as it is." The irony, of course, is that Gov. Palin is a woman and a reactionary at the same time. She can add mom to apple pie on her resume, while blithely reversing forty years of feminist progress. The irony is superficial; there are millions of women who stand on the side of conservatism, however obviously they are voting against their own good. The Republicans have won multiple national elections by raising shadow issues based on fear, rejection, hostility to change, and narrow-mindedness.
Obama's call for higher ideals in politics can't be seen in a vacuum. The shadow is real; it was bound to respond. Not just conservatives possess a shadow -- we all do. So what comes next is a contest between the two forces of progress and inertia. Will the shadow win again, or has its furtive appeal become exhausted? No one can predict. The best thing about Gov. Palin is that she brought this conflict to light, which makes the upcoming debate honest. It would be a shame to elect another Reagan, whose smiling persona was a stalking horse for the reactionary forces that have brought us to the demoralized state we are in. We deserve to see what we are getting, without disguise.
Sometimes politics has the uncanny effect of mirroring the national psyche even when nobody intended to do that. This is perfectly illustrated by the rousing effect that Gov. Sarah Palin had on the Republican convention in Minneapolis this week. On the surface, she outdoes former Vice President Dan Quail as an unlikely choice, given her negligent parochial expertise in the complex affairs of governing. Her state of Alaska has less than 700,000 residents, which reduces the job of governor to the scale of running one-tenth of New York City. By comparison, Rudy Giuliani is a towering international figure. Palin's pluck has been admired, and her forthrightness, but her real appeal goes deeper.
She is the reverse of Barack Obama, in essence his shadow, deriding his idealism and exhorting people to obey their worst impulses. In psychological terms the shadow is that part of the psyche that hides out of sight, countering our aspirations, virtue, and vision with qualities we are ashamed to face: anger, fear, revenge, violence, selfishness, and suspicion of "the other." For millions of Americans, Obama triggers those feelings, but they don't want to express them. He is calling for us to reach for our higher selves, and frankly, that stirs up hidden reactions of an
unsavory kind. (Just to be perfectly clear, I am not making a verbal play out of the fact that Sen. Obama is black. The shadow is a metaphor widely in use before his arrival on the scene.) I recognize that psychological analysis of politics is usually not welcome by the public, but I believe such a perspective can be helpful here to understand Palin's message. In her acceptance speech Gov. Palin sent a rousing call to those who want to celebrate their resistance to change and a higher vision. Look at what she stands for:
-- Small town values -- a denial of America's global role, a return to petty, small-minded parochialism.
-- Ignorance of world affairs -- a repudiation of the need to repair America's image abroad.
-- Family values -- a code for walling out anybody who makes a claim for social justice. Such strangers, being outside the family, don't need to be heeded.
-- Rigid stands on guns and abortion -- a scornful repudiation that these issues can be negotiated with those who disagree.
-- Patriotism -- the usual fallback in a failed war.
-- Reform -- an italicized term, since in addition to cleaning out corruption and excessive spending, one also throws out anyone who doesn't fit your ideology.
Palin reinforces the overall message of the reactionary right, which has been in play since 1980, that social justice is liberal-radical, that minorities and immigrants, being different from "us" pure American types, can be ignored, that progressivism takes too much effort and globalize is a foreign threat. The radical right marches under the banners of "I'm all right, Jack," and "Why change Everything's OK as it is." The irony, of course, is that Gov. Palin is a woman and a reactionary at the same time. She can add mom to apple pie on her resume, while blithely reversing forty years of feminist progress. The irony is superficial; there are millions of women who stand on the side of conservatism, however obviously they are voting against their own good. The Republicans have won multiple national elections by raising shadow issues based on fear, rejection, hostility to change, and narrow-mindedness.
Obama's call for higher ideals in politics can't be seen in a vacuum. The shadow is real; it was bound to respond. Not just conservatives possess a shadow -- we all do. So what comes next is a contest between the two forces of progress and inertia. Will the shadow win again, or has its furtive appeal become exhausted? No one can predict. The best thing about Gov. Palin is that she brought this conflict to light, which makes the upcoming debate honest. It would be a shame to elect another Reagan, whose smiling persona was a stalking horse for the reactionary forces that have brought us to the demoralized state we are in. We deserve to see what we are getting, without disguise.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
circus of the sun
It should be against the law that all schools do not begin at least by the first week of June. After 104 days of “what are we gonna do today, Mom?”...double oy, I am spent. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids but let’s get real. A couple of Sundays ago was one of those days, with the same old repeat of heat and ‘what to do’ and preferring not to be en pointe and juggling up another day of fun for my two frenetic mini-me's, I decided to let the pros do it. I locked and loaded them and went off to join the circus. Well, for an hour and forty minutes anyway. Delirium, the latest flick from Cirque du Soleil, had rolled into town, with a limited weekend only release. And I figured the next best thing other than seeing them in the flesh would be on screen. So off us Mags went. It was high time for the kiddos to take a gander at something that wasn’t animated and dive head first into some inspiration that only this stellar cast of 33 could provide. Besides, Mama needed to indulge herself a little and it turned out to be just what the doc ordered after three long dog day months of Alvin, his chipmunk pals and what seemed like 85 dip cones at D.Q.
Good Lord. What's up with this incredible troupe of angels..er, rubbery robots... extra-terrestrials...who and what are they?...I mean, they can’t be human and do what they do, right? Well, I guess they are and they can and man, oh, man they do it so very well! Beckham may bend ‘em, but he can’t do it like these kids. When you can stand for ten minutes on one hand holding onto what looks like a door knob which is atop a hydraulic lift going up and down..toes pointed, legs split to high heaven or perhaps spin not one but six hula hoops on every extremity ya got by contorting yourself like a pipe cleaner all the while wearing a radiant smile..well, then good grief, you deserve the Klondike of all Klondike bars.
A nicely shot big tent party of song, dance and twisty pretzel people set against a backdrop of stunning projection wizardry, really tight buns and the usual Cirque mystical overtones, it didn’t disappoint and left my rug rats with their mouths agape and for one beautiful moment in time..silent in their awe and wonder. While the three of us snarfed salty, buttered heart-plugging popcorn, we sat transfixed at the heart-stopping show of dancing, flying, flipping, singing, trapez-ey, gymnastic marvels. My husband and I were first introduced to Cirque’s live show, “O”, in Vegas many years ago; back in the day when we could jet-set off without a care, party ‘til 2am and not have to worry about things like pre-schools and healthcare. Yes, I remember it well..the excitement of the millennium year, 28th floor corner suite above the fountains, gourmet cuisine, martinis galore and, most unfortunately, two things I don’t have to worry about anymore...makeup and sex. To say the show was extraordinary and unique is an understatement. It was absolutely breathtaking and some of the best dough hubby and I ever spent. Delirium, with no water added, is a sort of tribal, electric pop, percussive, hip rolling remix/reinterpretation of the Cirques best tunes throughout their twenty something years of shows. This eclectic journey unfolds for an ordinary urban guy in his little solitary bubble, literally..floating above the proscenium, trying his best to work through the isolation, wrap his head around the quandaries of the cosmos, tumbling and traveling on a high wire through all that he feels..amid a society, a world that remains tucked behind our plasmas, laptops and blue-tooths..sadly leaving many of us to amble through solo instead of amongst the villagers where the true difference can be made. He eventually finds his balance of sorts while lost in a virtual planet of dreams, resplendent in color, light and sound and is able to draw the energy of those he meets along the way..each of them representing an important facet of this odyssey of self, all an intregal part of his truth. Grounded at last, in energy and body..rounding out the complexities, he frees himself from the cocoon that holds him...but more importantly, frees and feeds the lives of those he encounters, drawing them into his song, his dance. Our protagonist finds the perfect balance between reality and dreams..living in grown up fashion but never losing sight nor grasp of his imagination and wonderment..a lesson of lessons for all of us. My oldest is still talking about the punk rocker clown on stilts that emerged from the stage floor. And don’t even get her started on the 80 feet tall volcano dress. Without a Barnum, a Bailey or an exploited animal in sight, we three kids had all the fun and magic our hearts could hold and then some. Thank you, Laliberte and your band of creative geniuses. You Frenchies really do it up right.
“With feet firmly on the ground, eyes forever on the stars”.
Good Lord. What's up with this incredible troupe of angels..er, rubbery robots... extra-terrestrials...who and what are they?...I mean, they can’t be human and do what they do, right? Well, I guess they are and they can and man, oh, man they do it so very well! Beckham may bend ‘em, but he can’t do it like these kids. When you can stand for ten minutes on one hand holding onto what looks like a door knob which is atop a hydraulic lift going up and down..toes pointed, legs split to high heaven or perhaps spin not one but six hula hoops on every extremity ya got by contorting yourself like a pipe cleaner all the while wearing a radiant smile..well, then good grief, you deserve the Klondike of all Klondike bars.
A nicely shot big tent party of song, dance and twisty pretzel people set against a backdrop of stunning projection wizardry, really tight buns and the usual Cirque mystical overtones, it didn’t disappoint and left my rug rats with their mouths agape and for one beautiful moment in time..silent in their awe and wonder. While the three of us snarfed salty, buttered heart-plugging popcorn, we sat transfixed at the heart-stopping show of dancing, flying, flipping, singing, trapez-ey, gymnastic marvels. My husband and I were first introduced to Cirque’s live show, “O”, in Vegas many years ago; back in the day when we could jet-set off without a care, party ‘til 2am and not have to worry about things like pre-schools and healthcare. Yes, I remember it well..the excitement of the millennium year, 28th floor corner suite above the fountains, gourmet cuisine, martinis galore and, most unfortunately, two things I don’t have to worry about anymore...makeup and sex. To say the show was extraordinary and unique is an understatement. It was absolutely breathtaking and some of the best dough hubby and I ever spent. Delirium, with no water added, is a sort of tribal, electric pop, percussive, hip rolling remix/reinterpretation of the Cirques best tunes throughout their twenty something years of shows. This eclectic journey unfolds for an ordinary urban guy in his little solitary bubble, literally..floating above the proscenium, trying his best to work through the isolation, wrap his head around the quandaries of the cosmos, tumbling and traveling on a high wire through all that he feels..amid a society, a world that remains tucked behind our plasmas, laptops and blue-tooths..sadly leaving many of us to amble through solo instead of amongst the villagers where the true difference can be made. He eventually finds his balance of sorts while lost in a virtual planet of dreams, resplendent in color, light and sound and is able to draw the energy of those he meets along the way..each of them representing an important facet of this odyssey of self, all an intregal part of his truth. Grounded at last, in energy and body..rounding out the complexities, he frees himself from the cocoon that holds him...but more importantly, frees and feeds the lives of those he encounters, drawing them into his song, his dance. Our protagonist finds the perfect balance between reality and dreams..living in grown up fashion but never losing sight nor grasp of his imagination and wonderment..a lesson of lessons for all of us. My oldest is still talking about the punk rocker clown on stilts that emerged from the stage floor. And don’t even get her started on the 80 feet tall volcano dress. Without a Barnum, a Bailey or an exploited animal in sight, we three kids had all the fun and magic our hearts could hold and then some. Thank you, Laliberte and your band of creative geniuses. You Frenchies really do it up right.
“With feet firmly on the ground, eyes forever on the stars”.
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