The Melting World

There is no there there. The room is here

and they live inside it. The ceiling seems

the loneliest place of all, a barren land

where a spider nests in a corner

and the music of dried insect shells

tingles in its threads. The walls

act as four barriers to the outside.

Each muffles the shuffling of feet and

the flapping of wings until living seems

swallowed in white plaster tombs.

She sits here, her hair is straight

and brown and it hangs down

into the roots of an elm tree, these roots spreading

sideways. The window thick with ice, rots

in its frame, and a child sleeps steadily

inside the room, next to her, inside

secret dreams. In her dream she cast spells

on an electric guitar. Like Jimi, in black feathers,

she blows the amp and crowd’s eardrums off.

She played that song of wind and snow, wordless

pine green shadows and icy blues, winter leaves

of dead summers. There is no there here. She knows

this. Her child sleeps. The room is here

and they live inside it. The cord connected

to the lamp on the table gives weak light.

Her child smiles at nothing. Then he screams.

It’s early afternoon Sunday. My 7-year old son and I are parked at a local café. He’s happy with his purple Tootsie pop and I’m happy with my cappuccino frothing over in a black ceramic mug. He’s drawing elaborate houses in his Gomi Taro Scribbles book. Occasionally, I am asked to draw specific appliances and furniture through his windows, but otherwise we are each busy with our singular tasks of the heart.

Days like this are days of bliss, and, yes, the sprinkle donut in my mouth helps a lot, as does having my goofy little son with me (who’s looking especially goofy since he lost his second front tooth yesterday). Days like this can be dangerous, too, because I have the time to question why I’ve caved into the social-pressurized game of keeping a full-time job. Why do I and most people I know spend our waking lives away from the people we love the most? It seems a sad and weird way to live, but society has a way of making the sad and weird seem “normal.”

I have played this 9-to-5 game for over three years—a world’s record for nomadic me—because of my family’s current situation: there’s rent to pay, gas to pump into the rusty Toyota (whose back bumper has begun to frown on one side), and most importantly for us, monthly government fees paid so my son has access to the services he needs for his disability (which my employer’s health insurance ironically excludes), and, of course, there’s the desire for a bit of pocket cash to buy an occasional cappuccino such as the one I am sipping right now, so that I can pretend I am royalty.  So, the full-time game I play, but then I also must ask how can I make this life choice more palatable, more enjoyable, more creative, so that I don’t feel trapped, suffocated, and dead inside?

One shared goal of my co-conspirator—K—and I has been to carve a creative life outside of our work and outside of our household duties—to create snippets of constructive dream time when (instead of complaining by the water cooler or devouring frosted cookies in the office kitchenette/washing dishes or getting flu shots) we can reclaim and develop our creative selves as writers, as artists,  as humans with a sense of mission. We want to encourage the other to Fly! Leap! Swim! Run!…toward our better selves.

I spend so much time in a land of conformity, inside the building of same-old, same-old, that I could despair (and I have). But it’s better for me, and for planet earth, when I instead focus my energies on rejuvenating my soul through that ongoing difficult, but rewarding process of being true to myself!

For me, writing is like a warm coat I’d pull over my frame before heading out into a blizzard. Or it’s like wearing an unraveling, old sweater stitched with dreams and secret tasks as I step through the portal of the office each day. It’s a swaying, creaking pine tree to climb to reach a state of mind where I am out on a limb, where risk is involved. I want to sing songs about what’s deeply part of my skeletal, molecular self. What’s the point of building a nest, birds, if we can’t rest in it?

I need to gather energy around these shoulders like a cloak of clouds plump with rain. I am the thunder and lightning to come and the purple silence that follows.

My eyes remain sharp-focused on the prey, which is, after all, a potential life, my heart, a reason to live. I track what moves inside across open field, watch it travel through broken stalk and chaff. I am the hawk of prayer.

I save myself from the click of sharp teeth tearing into dreams unrealized. I can lead it to the oak shade, to the circle of riverside stars pulsating blue light.  My great-great grandmother with no teeth says to these dull brown seed eyes, grow. I can’t fit in a fist of should be. I am a copper wire snake. I shine. I can make it across a field of broken and rejected things. I am a coil of passion, an untapped spring. I won’t hide from shadows above or crouch in furrows. I am what crawls onward. A spirit like me searches for what is born from sun and rushing water.

If death decided, now, I’d break free, a storm a thousand hooves wide, clattering across earth, ocean, and sky. I am a dervish in search of the center calm. Nothing satisfies my thirst for the river song, no one staves this hunger for the sleeping stones the meandering water swallows whole.

My son in his beloved wildflower garden and bird sanctuary, which is only 20 minutes away from our house. He bounces down the winding wood-chip paths like an exuberant rabbit and he makes sure to cover every stretch of the 2-square miles of enclosed park land.  It is small enough to feel I can’t lose sight him for too long, and large enough that he feels free to run and run and run.

+ Newsflash:  while standing in the center of our prolific garden after work today, I discovered a ball of grass clippings. When I picked the clump up, I saw about 5 little newborn animals, pale grey, stirring blindly in a nest. I was a little surprised, as it is late summer, and a little scared, because I thought at first: mice? rats? I put the grass back on top and jumped out of the garden. But then my husband said he saw a rabbit leap out of our garden this morning and it rushed up to 2 more rabbits  like they were having an emergency meeting.

This chance observation makes me guess those little babies are rabbits! I hope they will be okay as it gets colder now at night. The mom rabbit is obviously smart to have chosen a good safe garden for her home.  And I now have to be careful where I step! What will it be like when five baby rabbits are jumping around my garden and are too little to escape? This, folks,  is going to be an interesting harvest season….

We rode the Brown Line (befittingly) on the L our last day in Chicago. Our son was in train heaven (also my husband looks pretty happy, too; but he also looks like he’s about to give our son a surprise squeeze in this picture, if you ask me).

Afterward when we told our son we were heading back to Minnesota–he yelled “No!” At that moment I think we all wouldn’t have minded moving to Chicago and not going home 8 hours away. The train was that sweet, as were the rows and rows of old brown-brick buildings. This trip helped clarify that deep-down I am probably a big city vs. not-so-big city kind of gal. Although, I admit the wee house atop a hill in a field of wildflowers on a remote island, with no neighbor in sight, also tugs at my imagination, too.

Updated view of our garden, now run amok, taken by husband, with me stuck in the middle. Yellow zucchini, Japanese cucumbers, green beans, sweet peas, basil, daikon radish, purple radish, cilantro, and roma tomatoes–not yet bright red though, all bursting out and over the fence. We also discovered a pumpkin under some big leaves creeping across the lawn, and it is now the size of a baby’s head;  thus, we did the proper thing and made a “pillow” for it so its skin will not bruise.

I spent the day cleaning out son’s room and closet, in preparation to paint the walls with fresh (zero VOC) sky-blue paint. This is the fourth room and final room to paint in our now three years’ residence in the apartment. Wow, it feels strange to write this: three years in Minneapolis. I still miss Japan, sometimes it hits me furiously, but I am also accepting that this is the best place for our son to be, for now….but then again, Iceland, Ireland, Toronto, Åland Islands, hmmmmm….these are just daydream-lands, safe dreamlands to carry inside my mind whenever I look to escape the humdrum of now. Well, actually life is not so hum-drum today, as I am in the midst of a mini-vacation, which involves reading Sherman Alexie and gathering up bags of clothes, toys, blankets, dishes that we don’t need and piling it all into a corner. I will soon give it away to The Arc, a non-profit thrift store whose income goes toward empowering people with developmental disabilities.

Feels good then to simplify our home and help the tiny space we dwell inside appear more open. Now we have more room to dance and breathe and jump, which is good for the six-year-old, and good for his parents, too.

Here’s a shot of our garden patch–my son and I planted everything from seed and he must have a green thumb because it’s blissfully wild and green.

I just signed up for an account on flickr because this new blog platform at UBC has a tight limit on storage–almost peaked. Thus most images are not even uploading and many links were broken via the switcher-roo, sigh. I will have to reconnect as I link to the desired images and videos now via flickr–not going to happen soon though–as I am jumping with two feet into an intensive 4-week class on talented and gifted education. Once again hectic–but not in a bad way. Son is asleep so I’m off to do homework now….

Well, well, well I am derelict in my blogging duties–I suppose the three month hiatus destroyed my momentum. I used to roll down hills with gusto, and now it takes me a while to talk myself into grass stains and burrs. This is a metaphor, obviously.

I am on a mental holiday (does this mean sanity is not needed) this week–and I spent it thus far tackling all the stupid, horrible bureaucratic tasks I had piled up in papers all over my home. The primary one: renewing my son’s support grant. Very dull excel file resulted. I would rather languish near rabid cats with open sores around their eyes than be an accountant.

Other dull tasks: two passports to get renewed (how sad I let these expire–in fact, I am shocked with myself!–it shows how my basic nomadic nature must be submerged in midwestern algae due to our three-year self-inflicted travel ban).

Then, gasp, did I mention the exciting goal of painting our kitchen in “butterfly wing”? Wonderous days ahead, folks. It feels damn good to not be sitting in my plastic office chair. It feels damn good to be undertaking tasks that I choose, even if they are dull–at least I can be barefoot and nibbling on a fake BLT, should it be a V (vegan) LT or a S (soy) LT?

My son went to community crafts and made “bath bombs” which apparently explode once in water and send out pleasant fumes. I am a little hesitant to drop these things into the bathtub–whoever named them should be ticketed for offensive terminology. I will dutifully report the results post-dropping. Pray for peace.

Finally after untold minutes and untold attempts, listening to machines tell me that “due to the high volume of calls”, etc. I have my password back and could today enter this new world (over 3 months later). This blog was shifted to a new platform–I don’t know how to use it yet–but nonetheless–it feels good to be here again.

Spring has  arrived since I was last here. A gorgeous blue-sky fluffy-cloud day and students are in finals.

I am almost done with a submission for a local writing contest–I always try about once a year–to keep my mind sharp-edged, ready. Always good to revise and devote my time to something fun and positive vs. dull and stressful.

We have planted our seeds, son and I, and we have: daikon radishes, sugar pumpkins, rosemary, basil (2 types), cilantro, jolly jester marigolds, sunflowers, and Japanese cucumbers. We also have a successful crop of scorchingly hot orange tulips in bloom and strawberries in blossom.

{taken by me w. toy diana}

Thumbing thru old photos–I was hit hard with a longing for Japan, especially for Kyoto–the days I would spend alone on my granny bike peddling about & exploring the twists and turns of the narrow lanes running thru ancient parts of town–the intoxicating smells of cedar wood walls baking in the sunshine, the burning musky sandlewood incense pouring from tiny porcelain holders set before handpainted buddhas, and I loved watching the old folks who walked down the street with their hands clasped behind their backs, how the old gentlemen had the dapper sense to wear berets and sometimes red silk scarves tied around their necks.

To feed my pitiful hunger for Kyoto I promise right here to walk around Minneapolis tomorrow with my hands held behind my back, singing my one and only signature enka* song entitled “onna ga hitori,” or “woman alone.”

I promise to sing loud enough to look slightly “foreign” (i.e. nuts)–guaranteed to ensure I will indeed be left alone. Yet do you think I might earn one gentle smile for my goofiness? Hmmm…a potential litmus test for the authenticity of ‘Minnesota nice.’

*(Enka is very dramatic Japanese Lawrence Welk-like music popular among older folks in Japan).
Here I will share an example of enka by Fuji Ayako (高橋真奈美(藤あや子) – 雨夜酒):

aesthetic apparatus image found here: http://www.obamaartreport.com/2009/01/usa-ok-by-aesthetic-apparatus.html

Uh-huh.

Just feeling all-around happy over the change that has come!

This picture has nothing to do with the below message, and yet everything to do with it. I leave you to discover the connection.

The sun finally broke through the thick cloud cover we who are trapped in Minnesota had been suffering under for what seems like months. Yes~~!

Yesterday, however, I spent the afternoon curled up in a chair at the downtown library, reading and taking notes obsessively about one of my interests–graphic novels. It was a love~ly day…until I ran to catch the wrong bus and ended up having to walk in sub-zero weather (slipping about 4 times, completely wiping out once) along busy roads on sidewalks covered with black ice.

I walked for about an hour, until my husband finally answered his cell phone when I was five blocks from home. So, two blocks from home, I got the “ride home” I had been longing for. Since I also happen to have a nasty cold that has erased my voice for 3 days–my stint in-the-elements was not a comedy of errors as much as a comedy of terrors for me. Needless to say, perhaps, I was in bed by 9:30pm and woke up at 12:01a.m. exactly and thought to myself–Happy New Year!

So–I am here inside my house, next to the heat-bearing radiator, where any sane person would be on January 1st, 2009, in Minnesota–land of the snow, the frozen nostrils, and androgynous winter fashion.

The moral of the story is, I guess, that I might have had to experience one hour in which to freeze in the cruel winter wind, but thanks to having a home to walk toward and a husband who eventually answers the phone, I am fully alive and happy to be so.

Okay, take a deep breath for the following run-on sentence: May all those in our world with less fortunate news find the basics–Love, food, shelter, clothing, good health, peace, freedom to read and dream, and clean water–and may they get what they so greatly deserve and need because of their own ingenuity and struggle and because those, like me, who have most of the above also become willing to give our time and (if we have it) our coins to help them achieve these true essentials, so that–ultimately–we can all help out others, until we have passed the gift of basics and on and on.

Oh, dear, am I a socialist? [That’s potentially the new dirty word in the USA, it seems! It used to be liberal].

Yes, I am, if it means being aware of the privileges I have, and that many have more than I, and that many, many more people have less privilege than I do–and that this bothers me; well, then, yes, I am exactly that. In the end, I am probably just a pathetic, sentimental soul (re. closet optimist) who believes we all can do many things to (when we see our faces in the mirrors across the planet) say to ourselves that we are making a positive difference in this chaotic world. Not so much to wish for in 2009, is it?

My son has become very interested in an area of town he calls the broken railroad, a place where about four railroad lines converge near a factory on the northeast side. He directs me there, telling me, ‘turn right, go straight, turn left, turn around,’ etc.

He has recreated this area in a drawing he has done by himself primarily, but also he has directed his dad and me to act as contributors–following his directions on what to draw. He had us add in his school, ten tables for a ‘party,’ and his friends, teachers and caretakers each by name–it has in a way become a cosmos of all the things that matter to him, I think. His storybook characters also appear, such as the piggy princess in the Regis Faller cartoon books that track the adventures of Polo the dog, a rainbow airplane and other items are all meshed into one elaborate schema. Of course, a shinkansen (Japanese bullet train) makes an appearance as well.

He also taught himself how to use Google maps with its street view options, so he can virtually drive down his favorite areas of town. He has figured it out by himself now, and he punches in addresses of his favorite haunts, the most favorite of all: the broken railroad.

My son drew these the other day…I thought they were pretty sweet. He said the one with teeth is “Mom” and the other one is him, and he said the feet are Levi’s–who is a boy at school that he told me is his best friend.

Well, I don’t know how things went down last night wherever you are, but this clip made me cry, especially the trumpeter blasting out his solo. This impromptu party broke out on the streets of the West Bank neighborhood near the U of MN in Minneapolis. The people are erupting with joy, so no one can pull me down–thanks to my dear friend Elizabeth for sending this to cheer me up!:

Clip:

http://minnesotaindependent.com/16468/mnindy-video-obama-win-prompts-nighttime-dance-party-in-the-streets-of-minneapolis

My son and I constructed a Japan Railways Yamanote subway (runs in Tokyo) costume from cardboard boxes, paper and paint. This is his favorite train of all trains, hands down. We got the idea from a Japanese TV commercial he loves on YouTube. Here he is testing out the pilot study. We will try to find a black cap and a nice black suit at the thrift store, so he looks the part of the train conductor.

Yes, I am well aware no Minnesotans will realize what he is dressed up as for Halloween. They will think he’s a bus, probably, or the lightrail at best. Yet as long as my son knows and I know and his dad knows–that’s just fine with us.

[Front view… but it still lacks kanji detailing which station its running toward on the loop line in Tokyo…]

Side view–still lacks door detailing and we’ll be adding better shoulder straps so the thing won’t tilt like this anymore….

This is the subway’s parked view (sans legs).