Make Something with Yarn

I immediately felt that phrase when I saw the picture of the above crocheted trivet on a way cool artists blog last night.

Noticing the vibrant colors I wanted to make a similar beautiful thing however it’s extremely inconvenient that I don’t know how to crochet. I can only weave using words, spinning my own yarn, one of the numerous tall tales that swirls around me in fragmented sentences.

Sometimes so fragmented that my friend, who has the patience of a saint, will abruptly say, “Finish your thought with words.” The guilt I feel in his confusion slams me into his reality. I would hate having to understand spontaneous not understandable phrases fraught with excitement at the prospect of a new arrangement of words.

Words whirl, that’s just what they do until they become attached to some emotion that I am trying to convey and then the space I’m in gets crowded with unspeakables…..half sentences that trip out of my mouth with right words, wrong words and animation that vibrates from my being.

It matters not if Love is attached although it does appear that while some words make it out intended to share some just echo around my heart unable to be free and exposed for what they are. Amazing. I remember dropping everything and running one day to a hatbox in my closet that’s filled with letters, notes and cards, 20 years after my Grandma was gone. I had the most disturbing thought that maybe she didn’t know I loved her. She was positively Victorian and I was a bit afraid of her yet I needed proof or it would have tormented me. I did find a card I had written to her and she saved, saying I love you……

I suppose that exemplifies that inner yarn can be so deep that it takes a while to unravel. Knotted up emotion that arrives only when the fabric of the yarn is soft and not pulled in too many directions.

Forget about it if there is fear attached. Then words hide as I hide from confrontation and the unpredictable reaction of the common man. Predictability predicates whether or not it’s safe. A yarn that’s tied to instability is colorful but not always able to hold it together.

That’s what this is about anyway, reaction to a trivet that was put together beautiful, remember? My reaction to a trivet and the desire to spin a yarn or a design that sparks a yarn in my heart. The stitches that hold it together are made with the same hand that takes it apart. And Monday………I will take the step and buy myself some yarn and a crochet needle. Just because.

SUMMER STEW

There’s no getting away from the fact that I cook a lot, in part because I like to. There is a difference however in being creative in the kitchen, deriving joy from coming close to replicating the Holiday Snack Bar Fluff Cake from Long Beach Island’s famed snack bar or in watching the clock tick the afternoon away, knowing at 6:00 pm the expectation is that I’ll have dinner on the table, regardless of my desire to cook or even to eat.

Some dinners are so routine that even on hot summer days when I’m feeling half-baked I can cook them on autopilot. Those meals involve the grill, not a simmering pot on the stove or another hot spot. The simmering can occur when an outside source, adds a most volatile ingredient, anger. The appearance of anger, an emotion that works as a toxic spice is not good for digestion. The oxymoron here is that anger is an emotion that REQUIRES feeding. It takes quite a bit of energy and self will to create this constant stew. It is easy to deceive oneself into thinking that something that erupts so suddenly can actually be what it is. Usually it’s simmering right along until the pot gets stirred.

I collect beautiful wooden spoons and my favorite is called a double love spoon that my mother brought me from Wales. The beauty of the carved artwork intended to feed newlyweds in love can’t alter the blend of ingredients once anger is infused in a simmering pot, nor can I beat it out with my wire whisk or favorite French rolling pin. I suppose that technique is in a cooking class I’ve yet to master.

The paradox is that the feeding of anger is as addictive as eating chocolate. It doesn’t taste as good though and I much prefer chocolate, especially if it’s from France.

Tonight’s menu will be ‘Take Out’. I am still on a mini vacation that has turned into a staycation at my brother’s house on Long Beach Island, whisking away any desire to be in a hot summer kitchen, happy to have a break from summer stews and looking to carve out a new kitchen view.

As I said, I like to cook, so I’m always on the outlook for a new recipe, and it’s all the better if it includes chocolate and doesn't simmer.

On the Eve of a Starship and a dark Moon, it's no Little Feat

Tomorrow will be the 4^th summer concert of my favorite job EVER. Each year Dakotah Blue Music handles the entertainment for a private beach party that takes place rain or shine. Hosted by the nicest couple in their magnificent waterfront back yard, it’s all BBQ and beach fun for a hundred of their closest friends. In the past the guests have been surprised with Southside Johnny, Felix Cavaliere’s Rascals, America, Don Felder of the Eagles, Mark Farner of Grand Funk Railroad and Dave Mason. Sometimes the road cases are borrowed from other bands and that leads to speculation however it’s a closely guarded secret until the band takes the stage.

Tonight I’m recuperating from an asthma episode so with inhaler in hand I will be leaving tomorrow at 9 to idle in Parkway traffic. I’ve washed stage towels, packed up my bag of tricks and picked out something to wear, kind of. That said something came to light this afternoon about one of the bands having a guest and I can’t help but believe life is just a serendipitous karmic spiral. Once upon a time when I was 16, I started working at a hotel in a nearby town. I worked 4 nights a week first as a hostess then graduating as soon as I was legal at 18 to a cocktail waitress. I meet many musicians throughout the 70’s because it was the closest hotel to the The Capital Theatre in Passaic. I served dinner to Van Morrison, meet Dickie Bettes who sat in with the house band one night, The Dead arrived and took over a floor in the hotel for several days, and yes I was the only one who worked at the hotel to be invited up by BOBBY. That’s another story. Poco was the band I loved and attended every show but never saw them though they stayed as well. I did become friendly with one of the Roadies, Paul Schoenburg. We shared the same birthday and went to the city to celebrate one winter afternoon by bus. By the time we got back the band had left and the crew was frantic waiting for him so they could leave. Life before cell phones allowed for that type of spaciousness that allowed you to have an experience and friends, not knowing your whereabouts, actually waited for you while you had dinner and polished off some fine French wine. I digress.

Last year I met a guest at the party and as we spoke he mentioned a Clifton connection. After the event and pictures were posted on facebook I noted the hostess Maiden name was the same as the family who owned the hotel chain I worked for.

This afternoon my partner texted me that one of the bands wanted to bring their manager as their guest. Way back in the 70’s he had been a promoter and his business had a direct effect on shaping my early years and on my best experiences at the hotel. I believe even today in the work that I do, my background in hospitality has made this a natural fit for me as did the frequent exposure to talent.

In this twisted turn of events where as luck would have it, I have walked a tiny bit along a path he blazed, I am thrilled now at the chance to meet the man, though he’ll be walking the backyard with little feat. Tomorrow I’ll be looking for the starship to rise towards the dark moon in Leo, a sign of creative self expression and entertainment. For me it’s been a long walk from Passaic and the all too small lobby painted black at The Capital Theatre but as above, so below. You can find me in Monmouth Beach, wrapped in a dark moon blanket of expansive serendipitous starlight.

Can you hear my smile?

a gypsy in the shadow of THE HOUSE OF SEVEN GABLES

Last Friday, on my way to work a Fab Faux show, I stopped in Salem, Massachusetts. I was in one of the Wiccan Shops when I noticed on the counter a pack of 'Gypsy Witch Fortune Telling' cards. They are the exact same pack that my Mom had bought me. Actually the difference is this pack has a bar code however the rest is identical. It was so long since I had thought of them but they came up in my blog last week and a couple days later they materialized. I was totally surprised and after purchasing the cards I had to sit on a bench outside that was flagged with a witch saying 'sit for a spell', open the pack and check them out. Across the street was a local bar called In A Pig's Eye. There was some great acoustic music spilling out onto the street so the place called to me and I stepped in for a recovery Guinness. As you may know, Guinness is a medicinal and highly recommended brew from the remnants of my Celtic childhood. Soon as I take a sip the lead guitarist begins to play the melody of Gasoline Alley, one of my favorite Rod Stewart songs from an album released the same year I got the cards, 1970. It’s one of my favorite songs about going home and quickly turned into a powerhouse rendition taken by not one but THREE guitarists. It was like being haunted by Crazymaker, Sweet Thing and Keeper of my Heart. It was too much synchronicity, happiness and good medicine. Started to cry in The Pig's Eye.....

THREE O'CLOCK SON

Crazymaker, Sweet Thing and Keeper of My Heart sat at my country French kitchen table in the late afternoon. The three o’clock sun streamed through the lace curtains and spilled onto the black and white tiled floor where the dog lay sleeping. Crazymaker, who recently learned that his Mother occasionally read tarot cards, dominated a conversation that was speckled with laughter regarding the cards. It had been her deep secret. Long ago as a child her own Mother, Crazymakers Grandmother, had surprised her with ‘Gypsy Witch Fortune Telling Cards’, much to Mothers happiness. She would read them but as she became more adept, Crazymakers Grandmother began to warn her of becoming too attached to the clues and direction given in the cards. Grandmother, rooted in her Pisces habit of giving mixed messages, next gifted her eleven-year-old daughter with a ouija board. Right from the beginning it seemed more of a novelty, something that incited skepticism. The child worried that cousins and friends who may have wanted a certain response were directing the spelling of the answer. More than that, she was superstitious and secretly concerned that something unseen in the room would assert itself, so she was a bit afraid and did not trust the board. The cards were different. The pictures intrigued her and sparked her imagination. An inner admiration of readers who could provide insight and comfort began to form in the child. The cards invited inner dialogue between the seeker and the reader on a level that Mother, even as a child would normally be unable to access. Trust could be found in a candlelight room, in the symbols from esoteric astrology books or the revelations of the cards. Trust was in the element of Air, perfumed with the smoke of incense, in which thought itself lives and creates magic when it shape shifts into form.

The world of Crazymaker was rocked by the knowledge that Mother read cards. It was evident with his loud voice comically mimicking his vision of Mother on a moonlit night reading. He had his audience in Sweet Thing and Keeper of My Heart and he was not taking any prisoners. No one really knew what Crazymaker believed in or trusted but it was not his Mothers’ world. He alone gave Mother reason to reach for the cards or as it happened for the cards to reach for Mother.

Over 40 years had blown by and the fortune telling cards kept in a corner desk by Mother as a child were long forgotten. On a winter’s day near her birthday, hearing Mother was ill, a friend stopped by with a small paisley bag, a thoughtful gift from a beloved friend. Mother opened the bag to find a new pack of tarot and the ghost of an old memory, the warning to be careful with the cards. She was delighted but the memory created a bit of reluctance to handle them. She did welcome the cards in her heart yet kept them in the beautiful bag in her closet. Everyday she saw them but at first was too sick and then too busy. One day she was healed enough to be in the kitchen to cook and while reaching for a pot, the cards called to her. She had been thinking of the dinner she was preparing when she became aware that she needed to get the cards and ask a question. It was such a strong feeling that she left her stew simmering on the stove and walked directly into her own heart. That is the creative genius of the cards, to allow one to use intuition and think with the heart. Since that moment the cards have again called to Mother. The third reading enabled her to use the Celtic cross pattern during the reading and through that pattern weave a story of present and future.

Crazymaker, Sweet Thing and Keeper of My Heart mirror each other and reflect a world different from the world Mother experiences. It is not necessary to be of the same world only to appreciate and provide illumination, just as the three o’clock sun illuminates the room with the conversation of the three sons, silhouetted in soft light, shape shifting the present conversation and future thoughts where nothing is really black and white, not in my kitchen anyway.

Looking for Clues

My eyes are sensitive and always take a bit of time to adjust to changes in light. Today, a little after noon, I arrived home from the Farmers Market and drove into the garage, still wearing my sunglasses. I opened the car door and simultaneously heard something rustle in the hodgepodge of furniture I had pulled from the basement for a garage sale. That mess is adjacent to where I park. I hurried on my way to open the passenger side door when a medium sized something crawled out from under my car. It was dark colored, somewhat pointed and looked as if it was searching. I was soon to discover that it was looking for its friend. I went running out of the garage and up the steps of the deck looking for my son, hoping, the first time ever mind you, that he would still be lounging on the couch. Thru the screen door I yelled to him that I thought a jackal was in the garage. Startled and too surprised to argue, he jumped up and we ran back down the steps to the gate. Just as we opened it, two proud peacocks with dark feathers and brilliant colored plumes strutted by from the garage. Walking side by side they hopped over the stone row that divides my yard from my neighbors and continued regally thorough the woods. I was immediately reminded of the Aubrey Beardsley artwork in his illustrations for Le Morte Darthur as only through his imagination have I ever seen peacocks roaming freely.

Never mind the fact that I live in New Jersey, not in any artists imagination or in Pre Christian England or in The Gardens of King Herod where Oscar Wilde wrote about peacocks adorning the garden in Salome.

I’m just a Jersey girl, living on the alternate side, busy enough helping to road manage a band that travels weekends and distracted enough by my family to not get my garage sale going. Recently the business I started 3 years ago has become something I am focusing on, hoping it will grow. My forever character flaw, brought to my attention one day by my mother, is of thinking my day is filled with clues. My understanding of the world is contingent upon the clues giving me direction so I’ve looked up what type of omen a peacock is and here I share in case one should ever cross your path.

The Peacock can represent spring, birth, new growth, longevity, and love. It is a good omen, signaling prestige, success and contentment in relationships and careers.

I choose to believe they presented in my garage at just the moment of my arrival for the Universe to reaffirm that my work will be successful, to remind me to stay focused. The fact that they are birds that have successful partnerships was not lost on me either. Birds have long been believed to be messengers of the Creator due to their ability to fly between heaven and earth.

I am hoping to fly as well.

Weed

In Honor of My Father and Family.......

Defining moments are really what shape people although many little moments become deeply buried in their being, in their heart. This is my story of little moments and the weaving of family interactions and love that was given to me long ago.

When my father was nine years old, his Father died. My Grandmother had five children, my father being the youngest. She remarried several years later. My Step Grandpa also had five children, so my Dad gained four step brothers and a stepsister. They were American Indian, and all but Aunt Gertrude were raised on a reservation in Canada in tradition of their mothers family. Needless to say, they had their own way of looking at the world and their own brand of humor. My Dad married my Mom at thirty, so by the time I can remember family gatherings I was one of the littlest. Most of my cousins, from this combined Irish-Italian-Scottish-Indian mélange, were older than me. Between the ten siblings, their spouses and the assorted grandchildren every holiday at Grandma and Grandpa’s tiny cape cod style house was filled with people and most of the people were filled with alcohol. That being said, it brings me to the story at hand. My older cousins all had honorary Indian names. The boys had camp or sports related names while the girls had beautiful “Flower in the Rain” type names. At some point before my memory kicked in, I was given a name. Mine was definitely different. Baby Weed. Weed Baby. Tiny Weed. Sometimes it was Tumbleweed. Being ever so young, first I answered to it. As I grew, I began to realize that:

A. A weed is not a good flower.

B. None of the other girls had a funny name that made people smile when they called you.

For a long time I pretended it didn’t matter however just before entering first grade, after one particularly hot Fourth of July family picnic, I finally did complain to my own older step brothers. They laughed at me and replied, “Weed girl, it’s because you’re always playing in the dirt, and you never let anyone comb your hair, even for days. You actually look like a cross between and elf and a weed, an elfweed!” That night, looking in the mirror, I could see what they meant. I was old enough by then to realize I might be teased or even been given a worse name like maybe “stink weed” or “yucca tree girl”, so I continued to pretended not to be bothered by it and all the while the name remained.

The following May, it was time for First Holy Communion at my church. I was a year behind the Communion Class so it wasn’t my turn, though I remember vividly how beautiful the girls were all in white, wearing beaded veils and carrying flowers. It was the first time I noticed how the year older girls looked. My friend Sharon’s lovely dress, Susan’s lace gloves and Patty Kay’s unbelievably breathtaking hair. Ah yes, Patty Kay’s beautiful curled hair. I was amazed hair could be that pretty and stay in place. I was kneeling in church when I first noticed it. I looked for a minute, then turned away and began to pray for Patty Kay hair. I made up the pray myself and it was the only prayer I remembered for a long time. I believed God would be proud of me for writing my own prayer and one day I would wake up to the miracle of “Patty Kay Hair.” Every morning when I awoke I would run to the mirror to check but I had the same fine celtic locks as always. One day, I decided to try to create my own miracle. My mother had brought home Breck shampoo with Cybil Shepard on the label. In the 1960’s, the Breck girl surely was the “saint of beautiful hair.” I thought it was a sign from Heaven that my Mom had bought this bottle. I proceeded to wash my hair and included a Holy Water (procured from my church) rinse to be extra religious. Well, my hair was very clean and looked nice, but it wasn’t “Patty Kay Perfect in Church Hair.” Disappointed, I just continued to say my prayer each night and yes check the mirror, though not as often.

Later that Spring, my Aunt arrived to take me to the ballet at Lincoln Center. I was seven, in my prettiest dress, with my hair combed and pulled back in a ponytail. My Grandpa was driving us to the train station. My Aunt Jean was up front and I was in the backseat, feet not yet touching the floor when I heard it. Grandpa referred to me as “Weed” in his conversation. His reference to me was automatic, as were the tears that immediately ran down my face. I tried to stop but couldn’t. I was embarrassed because I had never cried in front of them before. Grandpa quickly stopped the car and they both got out and opened the back door. I could see they were upset and asked immediately what was wrong.

I just blurted out, “I’m wearing a dress, I’ve been washing my hair with Breck shampoo and waiting for beautiful hair but still you call me Weed. Of everyone I have the ugliest name of all. No weeds are beautiful. No one likes a weed. You pull them out of the garden to get rid of them.” They both looked startled but involuntarily managed the same old “Weed Girl” smile. I felt crushed, but my Grandpa didn’t miss a beat, he instantly replied, “You misunderstood all along. You were different. Flowers are delicate and temporary and need special care. You are delicate too, but tough. A weed can be pulled out of the garden thrown over the fence, blown in the breeze but it will take root again and grown even stronger. You were wrong. Many weeds are wild and beautiful. Some even bloom in the snow. You were born on a snowy day without even a doctor. Weeds can take care of themselves. Just like you.”

The rest of the drive to the train I proudly wore the “Weed Girl” smile. I sat on my Grandpa’s lap steering the car, all the car windows open, my ponytail pulled out, and my hair all tangled in the breeze and in the love of my family.

In the picture above my Dad is wearing the white carnation, holding a cigarette. My grandma is on the right and my Dad appears to be looking at her. Although the focus on her is a bit blurry she looks beautiful to me. It was way before I was born, unless of course you believe in simultaneous time ;)