Sassistas! Our dish on the social soup.

June 2011 Open Mic

The sassosphere microphone is open, sistas and mistas.

Please step up and dish whatever you like.  

 The Sassistas! normally sponsor Open Mic the last Friday of every month.

What can we say? It's been a helluva month.

Toward the Light

 

A night without ships. Foghorns called into walled cloud, and you
still alive, drawn to the light as if it were a fire kept by monks,
darkness once crusted with stars, but now death-dark as you sail inward.
Through wild gorse and sea-wrack, through heather and torn wool
you ran, pulling me by the hand, so I might see this for once in my life:
the spin and spin of light, the whirring of it, light in search of the lost,
there since the era of fire, era of candles and hollow wick lamps,
whale oil and solid wick, colza and lard, kerosene and carbide,
the signal fires lighted on this perilous coast in the Tower of Hook.
You say to me stay awake, be like the lens maker who died with his
lungs full of glass, be the yew in blossom when bees swarm, be
their amber cathedral and even the ghosts of Cistercians will be kind to you.
In a certain light as after rain, in pearled clouds or the water beyond,
seen or sensed water, sea or lake, you would stop still and gaze out
for a long time. Also when fireflies opened and closed in the pines,
and a star appeared, our only heaven. You taught me to live like this.
That after death it would be as it was before we were born. Nothing
to be afraid. Nothing but happiness as unbearable as the dread
from which it comes. Go toward the light always, be without ships.

-- "The Lightkeeper" by Carolyn Forché

 

This is the poem that Flannista would have read at Gwendolyn's burial ritual.

 

Summer Meditation

Following is the poem that Gwendolyn requested be read at her burial.  The Sassistas! know that it's a challenge to ask the sistas and mistas to read a poem this long, but we simply request that you stick with it.  We promise it's worth it.

To honor our beloved Gwendolyn, the Sassistas! will not be posting for several days -- we really don't know how long -- but will be open for comments relating to summer meditation.  If you need to share details of your daily schedule, we invite you to use the Facebook platform rather than this one.  In the sassosphere, please post your prayers, your meditations, your thoughts, poems, links to music, films, etc. -- anything related to summer meditation.  The Sassistas! don't know when we will be back with a new post, but hope that you will stop in every day to take in the wisdom of the wise souls here.

Pictured in this post is Gwendolyn on top her beloved horse, King (another photo sent to us by Gwen's friend, AM).  Gwen told Flannista in April that she hoped King would be the first thing she encountered when she "crossed over".  The Sassistas! hope she got her wish. Now, please try and take in this poem that meant so much to Gwendolyn. Thank you.

It isn't gunfire
that wakes me
but the rat-a-tat-tat
of hickory nuts raining
on the tin roof
of the trailer barn.
Then the barred owl
in the blackness, calling
for company, who
who cooks for you-u-u?
and suddenly
it's morning.

In the bathroom
the tiny phallic
night light
still flickers.
Black spots
of gnats, moths
folded in slumber
with one swipe
of the washcloth
reduce to powder.
An earwig to flush.
Two mosquitoes
lurking in the shower.
Killing before
breakfast
and killing after:
Japanese beetles
all green and coppery
fornicating on
the leafy tops
of the raspberries
piggybacked
triplets and foursomes
easy to flick
into soap suds.
Their glistening
drowning selves
a carpet of beads unstrung
spit Bad Buddhist!

At the pond
naked, pale
I slip between
two shores
of greenery
solitary
back in the murk
of womb while
there goes mr. big
the brookie
trailed by mrs. big
wispy silhouettes
darting in synchrony
past the deep pool
by the great rock

the great rock
that is always dark
on its underside
the one I used to dive
from, aiming to come up
in the heart
of a cold spring
rising exultant
time after time
into the fizz
of lime-green light...

At sundown the horses'
winter hay arrives.
The dogs raise
an appropriate racket.
Always the annual
hay supply comes
at suppertime
on the hottest day
of August.

Eddy and Tim, oily
with sweat, grunt
bucking hay
heaving
40-lb. bales up
crisscrossed like
Pick-Up Sticks
so air can circulate.
They stand around after
holding their elbows
that noncommittal
Yankee gesture
that says friendship
same as last year.
We chat, exchange
town gossip
the usual, except
Eddie's son
is in Iraq.

Afterward
the sweep-up.
Hay clings to everything
like rumor.
The full barn
cries summer, a scent
I suck into myself.
Big red sundown
induces melancholy.

I want to sing
of death unbruised.
Its smoothening.
I want to prepare
for death's arrival
in my life.
I want to be
an advanced thinker —
the will, the organ donation,
the power of attorney —
but when my old
dead horses come
running toward me
in a dream
healthy and halterless
— Gennie, Taboo, and Jack —
I take it back.

If only death could be
like going to the movies.
You get up afterward
and go out
saying, how was it?
Tell me, tell me how was it.

--"Summer Meditation" by Maxine Kumin, from

   Where I Live: New & Selected Poems 1990-2010

So Much Life

After Gwendolyn died, several friends emailed Flannista outside the sassosphere and shared their sorrow to the news of losing Gwendolyn.  The Sassistas! are honored to post some of their photos and comments here.

The above photo is from a member of the year-long (2006-2007) writing intensive in Taos, New Mexico, a very wise and compassionate soul whose sass name is Contemplasista. Following are excerpts of an email she sent to Flannista when she learned that Gwendolyn had left this sweet world:

I have been sitting and walking in our home zendo for the last few weeks with the reality of Gwen's decline. I have been quietly following the sassosphere and got the news yesterday morning from Natalie. I can't begin to tell you how deeply her dying and death has affected me from afar . . . up here in Canada quietly feeling the reality of the finite-ness of this life. I have had some health challenges in the last year, amidst our company expanding globally, leaving [name of partner] and I even further loaded down, even further away from how we want to be living our lives.

That is about to change.
There's no turning back now.
Thank you, Gwen.

As I have been in my office the last two days, I have had a candle lit. Today I added Gwen's photo (beautifully shared on Sassistas!) to my credenza, below my favourite Hawa Kaba painting. Hawa Kaba is a strong African woman who came to Canada and started painting in her 40's while raising five kids on her own. She lives in Ottawa, where I live, as you may recall. I have attached a picture of what has been next to me through these incredibly tumultuous days. From my sound dock next to Gwen's picture, the song "Parci Mihi Domine" (by Jan Garbarek and the Hilliard Ensemble) has been playing quietly on repeat. All day. Not a Southern Baptist hymn, but the most heart-breaking horns that feel like a raven floating on an updraft. Up. Up. Up.

I am deeply saddened, and awakened. It matters that Gwen lived. It matters that she died. I left to head downtown yesterday to teach one of our classes;  I was late and in some sort of altered state, I think. I opened my mouth at the front of the room and nothing came out, but tears started sliding down my face. I read to them. I told them about Gwen. I talked about some of her final words to PEACEsista. I spoke about life and death and not wasting time . . . 24 people walked out deeply affected.

There is no turning back for me after this day of days. 

I will learn to trust these new boots.

 

 

The photos of of Gwen driving her back hoe, holding a rooster and resting in the desert night are from her dear friend, AM.  The haiku below is from our beloved, PEACEsista, written the last time she saw Gwendolyn on June 16th. 

 

For Gwendolyn

ready to die now

shades drawn against glaring light

so much life outside

Gwendolyn

Gwendolyn, our beloved friend and writing companion, died yesterday morning at 9:20 MST, 10 months after being diagnosed with a very rare and aggressive form of ovarian cancer.  At the end of March, after learning that she had run out or treatment options, Gwendolyn asked several of her friends to write her a letter to assure her that she had made a difference in their lives. Following is the letter (again, one of several letters from friends, including one from PEACEsista) that Flannista sent to Gwendolyn that was read to her on her death bed. It is entitled, "Trust Ye Boots."

Gwendolyn: like all of my beloveds, I first fell in love with you.

It was March 4, 1996 in the main meeting room at Ghost Ranch, the first night of a three-week writing retreat with Natalie Goldberg. You were wearing a nylon sweatsuit.  It was dazzling bright yellow with navy-blue trim.  The yellow stood out in the room so much that Natalie made reference to it.  “After I take my vitamins,” Natalie told us pointing to you, “my urine is the color of that sweatsuit.”

We were assigned to the same small writing group along with Penelope, Suzanne and Joanne.  You wrote with a fountain pen, like me, and had the curliest salt-and-pepper hair I had ever sat next to.  The first time you read, you never looked up, and I was glad because I knew immediately which one in the group was the accomplished writer. I didn’t want you to see me with my mouth hanging open. To top it off, you sometimes veered in and out of a faux British accent; something I often did, but not in front of people I had just met.  I was intrigued, curious and very jealous.

Two days later, you and I were in a group scheduled to climb Chimney Rock. Afraid of heights, I did not want to make any kind of ascent, but you encouraged me, saying: “I’ll be right behind you, and I won’t let you fall.”  True to your word, you helped me each step of the way, sometimes lifting my right boot to a sturdy spot in the rock, then reaching for my left foot and lifting it to a sturdy spot.  After awhile, you broke into your faux British accent and began to chant to me, “Trust ye boots.  Trust ye boots.” Your British accent brought out mine and on the descent, we began to sing aloud the first verse to “The Happy Wanderer” (begin British accent here):

I love to go a-wandering,
Along the mountain track,
And as I go, I love to sing,
My knapsack on my back.

Val-deri,Val-dera,
Val-deri,
Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha
Val-deri,Val-dera.
My knapsack on my back.

The next morning when you entered the cafeteria for breakfast, I greeted you with: Val-deri!  You responded, Val-dera!, nicknames that would stick with us the rest of our lives.

Later that week, we hiked to Box Canyon, thrilled to be in the womb of Mother Nature. Two days after that, we climbed to the top of Kitchen Mesa, you still chanting, “Trust ye boots, trust ye boots,” but me no longer needing you to position my next steps.

We both roomed with women named Nancy.  I roomed with “Nancy the Explorer” and you roomed with “Nancy the Witch” . . . your hilarious distinctions.  We ate every meal together and traveled to places like Sanctuario de Chimayo where you filled one of your plastic film canisters with holy dirt that still sits on my home altar.  We made a couple of trips to a restaurant in Espanola for a pitcher of margaritas.  Never have I seen anyone enjoy a margarita as much as you do.

Needless to say, I was smitten and wanted to be by your side constantly.  You were understandably patient and cautious.  I insisted that you were a lesbian and you were understandably patient and cautious.  I wanted to lead a revolt against one of the invited published writers to the retreat –- Eddie something or other –- whose readings from the novel he was working on were profoundly sexist and misogynist.  You were understandably patient and cautious . . . until the night I confronted him in front of every one, including Natalie, sitting on a panel of writers she had invited to the retreat.  She had convened a special meeting to lecture us on literature and erotica. I wanted to speak, but was afraid.  You leaned over and whispered into my ear: “trust ye boots”.  I stood up and said (and I have a record of it because you took notes):

I am going to go for the jugular.  I am speaking out not only as a woman, but as an artist.  First, I feel patronized, like I don’t know anything about literature and erotica.  I read it.  I love the 21 love poems of Adrienne Rich, and I have read John Updike.  Updike has said, “Art begins with a wound.  The responsibility of the artist is to heal the wound.”  Eddie, your reading the other night did not heal me.  It frightened me.  Updike has also said that a work of great art must have what he called “an external and an internal integrity.” By external: do the elements, dialogue, descriptions, etc. introduced at the beginning match up with what happens at the end?  By internal integrity, Updike said, “Does this work of art say ‘yes’ to life or does it say ‘no’ to life?”  By way of example, afternoon soap operas are filled with titillating, gratuitous sex, but they do not say “yes” to life.  An example of a work of art that does say “yes” to life is from the recent movie, “Leaving Las Vegas” which includes a rather graphic scene where the female lead is pouring vodka down between her breasts as a way of connecting; a way of saying “yes” to her lover’s brokenness. It broke my heart.  I was right there in the middle of that spiritual topography.  I was not offended.

Eddie, I don’t want to remember you as a writer and think only of this line, “He stuck it in her.”  I am an abused child; and as I have described during writing practices here, I am a victim of self-mutilation.  Damn if I will ever use a lazy line like that in reference to myself.  I hope you can hear me –- I am trying to discover my voice.  I prefer to think of myself more as a Georgia O’Keeffe flower; something I find very sensual.  All to say, I will not allow myself to be objectified.  And I will not remain silent when any woman is objectified.  Thank you.

Gwendolyn, I could not have said what I said without you.

It was sad to leave you after that three-week writing retreat, but within the month, you had sent me four volumes of Jane Kenyon poetry and five volumes of Rumi.  You also sent me a letter that included the following:

             Flannista, I want to remind you to be in the moment.  At this moment, I am writing a letter to my new best friend, and that feels good.  Fortuitous that we met, isn’t it?

            So I am with trepidation enclosing the poem I wrote in response to your talk to the panel at Ghost Ranch.  Something broke inside me when I watched you and heard you speak, something that was a prison.  And something was healed.  You were a powerful, eloquent channel for something beyond yourself that cares about women and truth and justice.  And I felt fortunate to be witness to such an event.  So the poem is distilled emotion from that event.  I hope you like it as it is about you.  I like it.  It is supposed to be read with a rhythm as that is how it started to come together in my mind.  I was out walking the dogs pondering the words.  I had read Mary Oliver and Christine said that poetry is about music and it came out like a rap song in my head:

Raven

She soars, silent and powerful
against Dolphin blue sky and Mammoth
            Mother Mesa

Obsidian wings spread wide
            Feathered fingers brush
            Razor’s edge horizon
weaving a Tapestry:
            Solid earth, claw rest
            Vapored heaven, wings breath

Once, I saw a Woman
            Hover like that
Raven’s flight
Weaving a bridge between the worlds
Precipice abandoned
            Wild Wind embraced,
            She Stood,
clenched and trembling
cried White Words of rage and Stanched
            Bleeding women

My Life Leapt and Laughed
Her courage, I applauded
Her public Intimacy

Suddenly startled, I rose
and Hovered, right there beside her
It seemed that I had learned
to Fly.

A few months later for my birthday in June 1996 we met in Detroit and drove across Canada to your house in Buffalo where everyday, we continued writing practice.  We went to Niagara Falls.  We drove to Toronto so I could visit my filmmaker friend, Patricia Rozema.  We sailed Lake Erie.  Boy, did we sail Lake Erie.

You owned your own sailboat and the morning we set out the weather was cloudy but not threatening.  Thirty minutes out, however, a wicked storm suddenly came upon us.  You pulled out dazzling yellow rain slickers for both of us.  Not trusting me boots, I quickly retreated below and hung onto a table leg for dear life.  But you stood steady at the wheel, looking everything like the Gorton Fisherman.  Hell, you looked better than the Gorton Fisherman.

Later, you visited my home and art collection in Maryland, on your way to sail with Womenship from Annapolis to Florida.  About a year later, we would travel to New York City together on the train where we stayed with Penelope in her penthouse apartment and attended an all-day Gotham City writing workshop.  We were impressed that Penelope left subway tokens in small bowls by the beds in the guest room.  The bagels and lox that Sunday morning were heavenly.  In the fall of 1998 we gathered at Nancy the Witch’s home in Indiana for a Ghost Ranch anniversary retreat. We howled watching, “Waiting for Guffman” for the first time.  You worked with Crystal to bring Christine to Annapolis for a poetry writing retreat.  Thanks to you, I began to read more and more poetry.

Throughout that time you shared your dream of moving to the southwest, so I wasn’t surprised when you wrote to me one day and let me know you were taking a job at a hospital in New Mexico.  Neither was I surprised when you wrote and told me of the 3,000 acres you had purchased and planned to turn into Rancho Sanctuario.  It fit.  It all fit with the Gwendolyn I knew and loved, and I was proud to be an early supporter of your venture.

I don’t remember precisely when you first told me about your dearest Robin, but I do remember your voice sounding like music.  It really did.  When you purchased that beautiful jade necklace at the jewelry store in Taos in 2006 you had, yes, stars in your eyes.  You really did.  You held up the necklace and in your British accent said, “Val-dera, I love her so.”

Meeting again for that year-long intensive in 2006-2007 was sheer blessing; sitting to your right in the zendo during that time and watching you sneak in Diet Cokes and Vienna sausages was sheer joy.  You seldom read aloud what you wrote, but when you did, you read the same way you had a decade earlier . . . never lifting your head . . . one sentence seeming to run and spill into the other, like the streams and rivers of the land you were describing and reclaiming for Mother Nature. 

How honored you have been to give that Mother a voice.  How honored I am to have heard it.

I know that I must now make a transition I do not want to make . . . the transition from where we have been together to where you are going without me.  I am heartbroken.  The world will not be the same without you.  I wish you could see my poetry collection.  Before I met you, it was comprised of perhaps a dozen volumes.  Today it contains nearly 1,000.  Thank you.  Today I have a stronger writing voice.  Thank you.  Today I have a better appreciation for nature.  Thank you.  Today I have an even lower threshold for bullshit.  Thank you.  Today I am able to trust me boots without anyone reminding me.  Thank you.

I will love you forever.

Before I let you go, I want to leave you with my favorite poem by Jane Kenyon, the poet you first introduced me to 15 years ago:

Let Evening Come

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through the chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down.  Let the shed
go black inside.  Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to the air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid.  God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

My dearest Val-deri:  Thank you for fiercely loving me and allowing me to fiercely love you.  May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.  Let them come as they will.  Don’t be afraid.  Let evening come. 

Trust ye boots. 

 

SILVERDOCS 2011: Day Two

Just when we think we've come a long way, baby, the Sassistas! see a documentary that proves that women still have a very, very, very long way to go.  

The Sassistas! ended Day Two of SILVERDOCS 2011 with "Miss Representation," a frank and unflinching look at gender inequality behind and in front of the cameras. Drop everything and take a look at the trailer by clicking here.

Young females plug into several kinds of media, and more often than not, women are portrayed as objects. They are seen physically instead of intellectually.  "Miss Representation" uses both statistics and interviews to get convey its main point: the way mainstream media depicts women is partially responsible for the reason why so few women hold positions of power in the United States. Women are portrayed as catty bitches in reality television and as fighting f*ck toys in cinema (Angelina Jolie, anyone?). And those depictions trivialize women, making it more difficult to take them seriously as potential leaders.

Pause a moment and take in this detail: within four weeks of becoming Speaker of the House, John Boehner appeared on the cover of all five major news magazines. Nancy Pelosi never appeared once on the cover of these same magazines during the four years she was Speaker of the House. Remember when Hillary Clinton cried during her campaign to be President? And when John Boehner cried on "60 Minutes"?  Guess who got the worse press?

The Sassistas! were stunned by the depth and breadth of media bias against women and are seriously thinking of donating this film to our local elementary school. Also, we believe if every journalist on the planet was just like Rachel Maddows, the world would be a perfect place.

We know that you are aware of how the media objectifies women. Today, get it all out of your system. Give us your own examples of "Miss Representation," and let's start now to influence a new generation of women who realize their full potential.

 

SILVERDOCS 2011: Day One

WELCOME TO SILVERDOCS 2011 WITH THE SASSISTAS!  The above video is the trailer for this year's edition.  Click here to access the full slate of documentaries.

Yesterday, on Day One of SILVERDOCS, the Sassistas! viewed 14 shorts and three full-length films.  The shorts were divided into two themes: "Between Us" -- about unforgettable and odd relationships -- and "Magnificent Obsessions" -- about people with quirky habits and skills.

We can sum up the subject of the three full-length features with two words:  ONE MAN.

"Buck" (featured in the video trailer posted here) profiled the real-life inspiration for the best-selling book and film, The Horse Whisperer, Buck Brannaman.  Based on his own harrowing experiences while growing up, Buck helps fix "horses with people problems," and proves that a quiet, gentle healing soul can emerge from profound childhood abuse.

"Donor Unknown" tells the story of 23-year-old JoEllen Marsh who was raised by two loving mothers in Pennsylvania who used a carefully chosen anonymous sperm donor to conceive her.  When JoEllen discovers an online registry that connects her to several other young adults fathered by the same donor, she sets out to meet not only her half-siblings, but also her biological father when he publicly reveals his identity. This is the story that "The Kids are All Right" should have told because only in Hollywood do fathers turn out to be Mark Ruffalo.  The best way to describe the biological father is to muse about whether or not he's visiting Planet Earth today between hits of pot in the trailer he lives in with four dogs and assorted birds. Far out, dude!

Retired Master Sgt. Jerry Ensminger is the subject of "Semper Fi: Always Faithful," a searing and shocking look at what he discovered when investigating the death of his 9-year-old daughter from a rare form of leukemia: that the very organization that was supposed to protect its own -- the Marine Corps -- had been covering up one of the worst cases of toxic water contamination in history. The Sassistas! met Jerry yesterday and not only kissed him right on the cheek but also thanked him for his continued service to our country even in retirement.

All in all, it was the best DAY ONE in our SILVERDOCS experience, and we are very much looking forward to DAY TWO.

Tim

Flannista's friend, Tim, died at 7:30 yesterday evening of liver failure at Florida Hospital in Orlando. He was 58 years old and had been on a transplant waiting list for several years.

I first met Tim about a decade ago at the US Airways check-in counter in Orlando, Florida where he had worked most of his adult life.  It was Christmas time, and I was wearing my infamous "No L" pin (the letter "L" with a red line through it). Tim was intrigued and asked what the pin meant when he couldn't figure it out.  When I told him, he said, "Well, ain't you somethin'?"  

Maybe it was the way he said it, but he had me.  Every time I flew to Orlando after that, I looked for him. We never talked for long, but he was always interested in what new crazy gadget I had in my purse. (Note the Bush countdown clock hanging from my purse in the photo from 2008 above.) Soon I was bringing him tacky Jesus loot from the Oriental Trading catalog, and he was introducing me to his colleagues . . . Carrie, Victoria, Linda . . . and soon I was bringing them tacky Jesus loot, too.  When he bent over laughing the morning I strolled up wearing the glasses you see in the photo, I had to get him a pair, too.

About six months ago, Tim was sick enough to leave his job on disability.  I missed him and sent him get well cards and occasionally talked to him on the phone.  At the beginning of this year, he began to be in and out of the hospital where I visited him in March. When I walked into his hospital room, he said, "Well, ain't you a sight for sore eyes?" After that visit, I sent a card or two, but did not hear how he was doing until I talked to Carrie after landing in Orlando last Wednesday morning.  She told me that Tim had been in the hospital for six weeks.

Later that day, when I walked into Tim's hospital room, his head was tilted awkwardly to his left and his glasses were resting askew on his nose. He was hooked to and surrounded by machines.  I touched his hand, startling him awake.  At first he didn't recognize me, but when he did, he smiled and said, "Well, ain't you a sight for sore eyes?"  He then shared that his mother had died three weeks earlier (she was his best friend). His sadness was palpable and he became very confused, telling me at one point that he had given birth to a baby that weighed "19 pounds and 15 cents."  When he fell asleep, I kissed him on his forehead and left his room in tears.  I had a sense that I would not see him again.

Tim and I were not best friends, but as PEACEsista confirmed in an email yesterday, he mattered to me. Tim and I never got together for lunch or dinner, were never inside each other's homes, in fact, never spent any time together except for the time we spent at an airport or in a hospital.  But we exchanged holiday cards and he teared up when I told him that I had euthanized by beloved feline, Isaac.  "Isaac was a good friend to you," Tim said.  "Good friends are hard to give up."

Yes, they are, no matter how short or long the distance or how frequent or infrequent the visits.  Tim and I laughed a lot across a ticket counter about once a month for 10 years, and that was enough to make him matter to me.  He was a good man, and after grueling days working in corporate America, he was always a sight for sore eyes when I checked in at his counter to fly home. 

So now it's your turn, my sweet friend.  Grab your tacky Jesus loot.  Put on those crazy glasses. And fly home. Fly, fly home.

Whip It

On Saturday, good neighbor Sassley celebrated her 40th birthday with a party for which guests were asked to come dressed as someone (or something) from the 1980s.  The Sassistas! first thought of going as a couple of the Iranian hostages, but thought that would be a bummer.  Then Matissta had the brilliant idea of going as Devo, the art punk American band whose single, "Whip It" reached #14 on the Billboard chart in 1980. She emailed me the photo below, but we were worried . . . how would we EVER make these costumes, especially those hats?!

HOME DEPOT TO THE RESCUE!

Flannista showed the photo to a couple Home Depot employees and in 30 minutes we had everything we needed: two pair of KLEENGUARD White All-Purpose Coveralls, two plastic planters, one roll of self-adhesive door insulation tape, one roll of red duct tape and one can of Apple Red spray paint.  Then we whipped it all together.

If you had attended this party, what would you have gone as from the 1980s?  Or what's the craziest way you ever put together a costume?

Not Forgotten

I learned to ride
the two wheel bicycle
with my father.
He oiled the chain
clothes-pinned playing cards
to the spokes, put on the basket
to carry my lunch.
By his side, I learned balance
and took on speed
centered behind the wide
handlebars, my hands
on the white grips 
my feet pedaling.
One moment he was
holding me up
and the next moment
although I didn't know it
he had let go.
When I wobbled, suddenly
afraid, he yelled keep going—
keep going!
Beneath the trees in the driveway
the distance increasing between us
I eventually rode until he was out of sight.
I counted on him.

That he could hold me was a given
that he could release me was a gift.

-- "Not Forgotten" by Sheila Packa from Cloud Birds