New Year in the Wind

It is an exceptionally cold night.

All of eight degrees out there, a brisk, no, a blistering wind is ripping off the Bay.  It howls down the wind tunnel formed by the Eastland Hotel at the end of Doctor's Row and the Baptist Church. 

I've been out in it - despite my stuffy state.

Purely by chance the car started up. I nursed it in rush hour traffic to my garage in Westbrook, then had to walk to pick up a bus back into town.

You meet interesting people on the bus and I'm going to invest more time in riding it.  

Take tonight, for example.  There was a garrulous fellow from New York who kept up a constant conversation with the driver, mostly about changes in the subway system over the last, say, forty years.

The wonderful thing was that the conversation wasn't one sided (at least, not all the time).  The driver would respond and prompt exchanges with brief questions and acknowledgements.  I liked the obvious connection between the two men.

Sadly - or not - the jury is out - I've put Mrs. Beadle in the shop and she may not make it out.  I might do very well without a car at all - it might be a total mess.  We shall see.  If it costs too much to get her fixed and inspected then my life might change even more.

Those thoughts kept me warm during my walk to the hospital where I had a simple dinner with C., Chief the Wonderdog's Mom.  She's working throughout the holiday and it's sad.  She's extraordinarily good at what she does and needs a greater challenge.  Perhaps that will come in the new year.

The cold and wind provide quite a challenge.  You have to really want to sample the life of Portland on a night like this.

I love it.

I've always felt this way about Winter weather - my Father says that I was always more excited than any of my siblings when snowy weather came to Tulsa.

Of course, that happened only once a decade or so - I don't I ever remember the schools being closed for snow during my whole twelve years in the system.

So being out in the cold - especially this kind of challenging cold - is a great gift to me.  

Also, I've been cossetted for the last few days due to my cold and incipient bronchitis.  Seeing the snow blow horizontally, feeling the knifelike quality of breathing - it's all an intense experience and a joyful one.

I did run into some tango friends as I got closer to Bosnia and home.  One was a dancer who needed a bit of help - well, not really needed it but it was fun to help out - getting the Maine Ballroom Dance space ready for their New Year's Dance Party.  Much bustling, had to go next door to the Mexican restaurant to borrow a cheese knife.

These were the kinds of helpful tasks I could handle on a cold night like this.

During one of my knife-fetching trips I ran into E. and M., half of Tango Mucha Labia having dinner in the Mesa Verde.  That led to a dinner invite - or salad - and a chance to chat, meet SD, a local writer and just take time to quietly get into each other's head.

It would be better to make great New Year's pronouncements after the year starts.  I always have such a clear sense of how time moves in a situation like this and transitions have always been very apparent to me.

But right now, with just a few minute more than an hour to go, I want to watch and relax, feel time slip by.  These "years, months and weeks, days, hours, minutes and seconds" are all artificial anyway.

We just are, in the time that we have, in the place that we are given.

Happy new year, indeed.

Salt of the Earth

I was up before the Sun today.  Sat on my couch in the bow window, watching the sky brighten, the bricks in the buildings in the next block glow and gather intensity.

A thoughtful time.  Not really thinking; the pen in my soul that I put to such effective use for connecting dots - not really  in use.

So I went back to bed.  Sue me.

Later, comma, when I was really awake, the sun was bright in the sky. Good incentive to clean dishes, sweep the living room, sort laundry and generally  make myself useful to myself.

Indications are that yesterday at the Orchard saw yet a third day of post-Christmas insanity.  I'm not surprised by the energy - I am surprised by the attitude.  Maybe these are people who have had several days of frustration they want to work out - the folks in on the first day, Friday, knew walking in the door that things would be wild.

I'm sure there is research somewhere to back all of this up.  

They do a lot of research in education as well - I ran into an art teacher friend walking through the square today.  He told me that his high school was going through reaccreditation.  This is where schools get a chance to show how "on top" of the "latest trends" they are.  

It means a lot of committees, a lot of questions and a lot of either brutal honesty talking about things that need fixing or a lot of prevarication - i.e. lying, so you don't get tagged and your school gets accredited.

This comes from a conversation we had as I walked downtown to buy more kosher Salt.  I find a lot of uses for kosher salt - it makes a great crust on burgers and steaks, along with Montreal Rub.

It also does a great job cleaning frying pans.  You can heat a pan almost red-hot and as long as you have salt keeping things from smoking and burning, you can then scrape the pan clean.  This lets you season the metal again with cooking oil and gives it a dry, clean appearance.

I buy the Diamond Crystal Kosher Salt in the big red box.  

This is in no way an endorsement, by the way.

You get it at Micucci's wholesale Italian Market, down on India Street, by the waterside.  They have all sorts of really wonderful professional level nibbles and tasty things.  I love to shop there, even though I can afford none - and know how to use even less - of their products.

Except for the Kosher Salt, of course.

Tea, Tiffin and a Greyhound

Yes.  The humidifier does help.

So does having the occasional dog in the house.

Last night I was joined by Chief the Wonderdog.  He drops by every once in a while when he needs a warm place to spend the night.

As a voice teacher - or singing teacher - or chorus teacher - or whatever the heck it was I did in the public school sector - I was amused to discover that I could sing for hours on end, especially in the peculiar counter-tenor range a man needs to use to sing for kids.

So it is ironic that my voice could blow out talking over an Orchard full of people after only two days.

It was easy to have the most interesting imaginary conversations with Chief because I didn't have to say anything out loud - which meant he was also free to answer in an imaginary voice.

Making for a relaxing evening.

The weather has hit a definite warm spot.  Right now, on Sunday evening, it's in the low 50's and all the magnificent snow banks left from last week's Nor'easter have condensed into thick piles of dirty white.

Chief and I walked down to M's apartment to pick up the reading glasses I'd left, last night.  The walks and streets are all damp - and not all are free of ice.

This renders night walking a little risky for both large-boned Cherokees and thin-boned greyhounds.  We both had insecure moments getting around, each doing his business of the evening.

His early days were spent at the racetrack in Boston, where, though large for his size, he was moderately successful.  Recused after a hip injury he was adopted by my very good friend C.

Chief has a very serious approach to life.  Perhaps it comes from his previous background as a professional athlete.  It tends to build a sense of personal discipline and focus.

I have noticed that he takes to a leash very quickly.  C. gives him a different set of rules for his country life, which, given the large dog run and long country lanes to work with, is understandable.

However here in town he needs to work well on a leash - Doctor's Row is bounded on three sides by some of the busiest streets in Portland Town - if he belts across an intersection without thinking he'll get smashed.

He and My Lord Sebastian have about as calm an entente cordiale as can be expected of two such formal animals.  Even though Chief had about 60 pounds and 5 times any dimension on him, Sebastian gave him a swat on the nose during their first meeting and established exact ground rules.

Chief lives with three cats at C.'s house in Windham - I think the dog is pretty much "kitty whipped" there, so being treated with a modicum of respect by Sebastian is an incentive to behave well when visiting.

Off we walk, down the dark, damp streets of Portland, while the sound of dripping snow and hiss of rolling tires paints the night air.

Afterwards I sat, having a cup of tea to soothe my throat, a bowl of beef stew and rice to refresh my body. Chief sat on his doggy doily by the heater, watching me, getting up to put his big head in on my legs (he knew better than to bother my laptop).  Sebastian sat on the sofa arm behind me.

It's a pleasant way to pass time and it makes up for horrors of animals lost in my childhood.  I promise at some point I'll write about it.

For now I have to rest - going back in to the Orchard on Tuesday (unless a panicked call for help comes in - then I'm honor-bound to go, throat or not).

A lot of things will start happening in the next week.  I have to start to get my head around the next year, even as the days grow perceptively lighter.

Chief and I have a lot to talk about.

The Bride of Shopocalypse

I'm glad I have the chance to type this in - talking is not really an option.

A very strange idea.  Singing for an entire day would be no strain on me at all.  Music comes naturally and strongly to my voice with no trouble.

But it's really hard for me to talk for a long period of time: eight hours yesterday and five hours today.

There were a few more difficult, more challenging problems to work through with folks.  Still, we got through it - though it must be observed that all of us are starting to look a little peaked.

I have to let my voice rest tomorrow.  Maybe get the humidifier out.

I'm not thrilled by the humidifier.  It works - the technology behind it is so simple it can't not work.

Still, I wish my throat and sinuses had adapted to the strain better.  We've just been so intensely busy that I've not really had time to focus my voice in a lighter range.  Perhaps now I'll pay more attention.

I'm dog sitting Chief the Wonderdog tonight.  We walked down to M's apartment, where I'd left my cheater spectacles after our Christmas dinner.  I hadn't even seriously consider that they might be there.

Oh well - nothing of great philosophical import.  The streets are wet - ice and snow crust over the brick of the sidewalks, making them a little more dangerous.

Amazing to think that a week ago we were tensing for the blow of our first snowstorm.

What kind of changes will  we face next?

Shopocalypse Now

Well.  Frankly this picture has nothing to do with the events of the day but it's an inspiring one, isn't it?

Boxing Day isn't an official holiday here in Maine as it is over the border in Canada.  I remember reading about it in my very first Sherlock Holmes book, back when I was in Fourth grade or so.

As I write, with more than an hour 'till closing I'm sure the Orchard is humming - perhaps not as crazed at at the peak of the day starting around Noon, but probably still going strong.

After the enforced quietude (read "hangover recovery") of Christmas Day and having a late dinner with my colleague M it made sense to phone over this morning and ask if help was needed.

The short answer was "get out here and we'll figure out for how long later in the day".  You can't argue with that.

So saying I took my courage in hand and headed over in Mrs. Beadle - who simply started right up.

Getting logged in and powered up was the work of a moment.  After that it was an amazing blur of people and problem solving.

This is the best part of working at the Orchard.  You see anyone crazy enough to be shopping on Boxing Day is also willing to accept that such shopping is going to be, in a word, crazy.  You'd have to be in order to put up with the lack of parking, crowds and increasingly empty shelves.  

So people (usually) don't go crazy.  They just put their heads down and bull their way through.  

And that is what makes it so much fun.  You get to help people solve problems and work through to a better place.  We really are changing lives.

Or at last we're making a reputation for maintaining - at least, where the public can see us - a sense of calm, of politesse, of sang froid, of listening to our customers and making their lives better.

I had at least three sets of German customers.  One French.

No Cherokee.

So - even though we were lost in a sea of demanding humanity we didn't lose our basic humanity in the face of such overwhelming odds.  People were pretty chill - considering.

I'm going in tomorrow afternoon, Saturday - in the thick of the day.  I am intensely curious to see what happens next.

Merry Damn Christmas!

Today has been blessedly quiet.

There is a good medical reason for that - last night I had dinner at the W's, then went home to pick up two bottles of champagne for an informal gathering of our little tango crew.

Sadly our magnificent piles of snow were being ruined by continuous rain - things were really slippery.

Particularly things likes steps.  

I managed to slide down the stoop of the apartment house and gracefully throw myself into a small lake at the curb.

Needless to say I was soaked to the bone after just lying there.  Once changed I decided to just stay home.

With nothing to do I celebrated my return to dryness by putting one of the bottles to the use God intended for it.

Needless to say I was fantastically giddy for the rest of Christmas Eve and woke up on Christmas morning (thank you, Sebastian) with the hangover from Hell.

So having it be a quiet day has worked out quite nicely.

It's a very quiet time downtown and I find that strongly attractive.  It was this attraction that led me out in the afternoon.

My first stop was my parking garage.  Mrs. Beadle, my wonderful Corolla station wagon, had her generator light come on as I pulled after Tuesday and she wouldn't start.  It was a great relief to her it suddenly fire up today.  I think it was just the cold - but she's going in the shop this weekend anyway.

While leaving I found a small crowd in front of the garage elevator.  Apparently someone's mother-in-law was trapped in it.  As I watched a firetruck pulled up and three firefighters - two guys and a gal - showed up with a roof pike to force the door.  Picture is above.  I asked permission first.  It was neat to see them, especially after watching them work in the Sunday snowstorm.

They forced the elevator doors and the mother-in-law was free.  Now there's crime scene tape on the elevator.

The dog you see was in the window of a new workout gym by Joe's Smokeshop.  He just seemed to be calmly watching me walk by.

Later in the evening a friend from the Orchard posted on open invitation to help finish eating a Christmas dinner, which I gladly accepted.

Again, there is a strange, peaceful quiet to the streets - no bars are open, no lines of cars. Just quiet lights, stars above - not even the sound of traffic on the Interstate tha cuts the city in half.

I think such quiet sorts well with the mood I've been in ever since I got home Tuesday.  It's a very meaningful silence, one that has me taking time to listen deep inside for how I really feel on this Holiday.

It's not been like any other and I suspect, given time, I'll be able to say why.

Christmas Eve Afternoon

I have a new-found respect for the following:

• Talapia
• Firefighters
• Professional Dog Walkers
• Butchers
• Cheesemongers
• Ex-students
• Wreath sellers
• Rastafarians

All of these being people, places, events or other things I've stumbled across in the last few days.

As a Native American I admit to looking at the Dominant Culture with a slightly - make that "markedly" - jaundiced eye.  Irony of ironies being my current work as a purveyor of that culture by working at a Mall in a store that sells high-style consumer electronics.

The really damning thing is that I enjoy it so much.  That's uncanny, in the Freudian sense.

I volunteered yesterday, went in to the Orchard to help out with the crush going into Christmas Eve.  There might well be a mob today but most folks are turning their focus inward.  

Yesterday's folks were shopping at the last minute. There were ones aware of how late the hour was and still wanted to get something.  These folks were rushed, victims of a window not yet closed, but closing.  

I would think that knowing you missed the boat would lead to disappointment tempered by at least knowing where you were.

It's the poor sod who knows they can "still make the boat" if they rush, flailing on the edge of panic.  Those are the ones who get a little crazy.

And when the boat is the "Titanic" then it's just a recipe for craziness - or at least, bad manners.

That's who I had to deal with yesterday - people who were "rushed" and could see themselves "getting it all done" if they only just pushed themselves - and those who were paid to be there to help them - a little bit harder.

Professional discretion forbids my going into specifics. If you really want to know then drop by and we'll go get a Scotch.

Maybe two.

Still, against all predictions of "reason" I really enjoyed it.  Maybe there is a resonance with their situations.

I mean, I've taken a fantastic chance with my life and after consultation with financial authorities it might well turn out that I've done the right - or at least "most effective" thing.

Put another way - I kept worrying and worrying about "would I get there" - professionally, financially, personally, creatively.  Despite all the energy wasted it looks pretty sure that I might pull this off.  

Set aside the idea that anyone might actually like what I'm creating here - and sometimes even I'm not sure what the heck I'm doing.

Just focussing on the idea that I love where I am right now, that I'm happy, is enough to make the empty bank account (well, depleted), the non-functioning car (just an alternator) - make all of them worth it.

Well, make all of them bearable - they make sense.

Perhaps that is the greatest gift of this Holiday season: for the first time in many, many years, my life makes sense to me.

Not a lot of sense, but it does make sense.

So the "anxiety of becoming", the obverse of the shiny coin of change, is lessened.  

I've been wandering around the town, looking around - colors and snow and wreaths and people - lot's and lot's of people.

It may well be that I can finally put down the spyglass that looks on calm waters and sees only tempests.

I have no lights up, no tree.  There will be no presents, no cards, no carols except those I sing in my heart.

No mangers, no shepherds.

Definitely no wise men - and virgins (well, none I know of...).

I don't think the Christ came to keep people from being naughty, to make the virtuous richer - or even more secure.

I think this season calls us to listen - to God, to each other and to ourselves.

Especially to ourselves.  We only have so much time and it is always well spent went lavished on those we love.

Merry.  Happy.

Solstice lights

Facebook gallery is here.

Well, don't tell me don't live in interesting times.

Just like hearing the band last night I saw flashing lights go by while doing my last post.  Strangely there were no sirens to be heard, just the muted roar of the engine, fading to silence.

It was this last that got me off the couch (quite an accomplishment in this weather) and over to the bow window - which, also like last night, revealed a flotilla of emergency vehicles, from police cars through pumpers to a ladder truck.  

All were congregated in front of the hotel.

Needless to say I suited up again, grabbed the camera again and headed out into the snow - again.

It has warmed up - earlier today it was 8 degrees - now it's 14.  Downright tropical.

Horizontal snow, too.

And there they were - five or six trucks, with a police car blocking the Congress Street intersection.  I suspect it was an unfortunate false alarm at the Eastland Hotel.

It was fairy obvious because I saw the guys on my right here putting the caps back on the hydrant.  Probies, probably.  They had a big bag of tools and were pulling out no-shit wrenches to dog down the caps.

I'm sure both they and their colleagues (whom I assume were in the trucks) were glad to see the caps back on the hydrants.  The idea of muling 120-pound hoses across the street in this weather wasn't pleasant - though it might be the kind of heat-generating labor you'd find most useful for keeping warm.

The trucks were starting to pull out even as I climbed into an overlooking garden to get more pictures.  The police car drove by, I waved.  Thence I went round the block, stopping in at Geno's to see that they had a small crowd on storm watch.  A little too crowded for me so I came back through Bosnia.

That's when I noticed a big SUV-type Chevy Mastodon - or some such similar beast - trying to work it's way away from the curb to respond to tonight's parking ban.

It was right by the neighbor house and there was a lady in cowboy boots trying to move out.  Sadly she was quickly getting nowhere.

So, with typical Cherokee gallantry - and nothing else to do except pop some corn and do a new blog entry - I grabbed a shovel from our foyer and tried to help dig her out.

Needless to say her rear-wheel drive and the bald tires on it didn't help a great deal.  Kept using standard techniques to get someone out - rocking the car, breaking up the snow, clearing the wheel wells - but the snow was so thick, even in the middle of the street, that I had to take over driving to get the car out.

With the eventual help of half-a-dozen people - most of whom were in cars blocked by our efforts - we got the thing out and away.  I was afraid of being frostbitten - the diabetes I suffer from doesn't cope well with cold skin these days - but it all seemed to work out.

I'm especially impressed with the firemen.  The implication that they would come to help people out, even on such a night, is very inspiring.  

They don't call them "Portland's Finest" for nothing.

Snow In Portland

Well, there's nothing for it now but sitting and watching the snow fall.

And fall.

And fall.

In a way it's wonderful (in another way it's scary).  I'm fifty-two as of this writing and in those five decades you experience a lot.  So much so that to have something be a new experience is a remarkable thing.

At least I'm remarking on it now.

What is remarkable is the rate of snowfall outside.  

A firetruck just drove by, lights flashing.

This may be much more interesting than I first thought.

While I'm checking it out take a look at the video I did while sitting around.

The Angel Band

OK - so here it is, after one in the morning in the middle of the night.

I swear to God I was getting ready to carry my philosophical thoughts to bed.  It's very, very cold out there - six degrees.

Just as I was finishing off the last of my tonic and OJ I heard a band playing "Joy To The World" - from what seemed like right across the street.

They sounded pretty good too - at least a well-thought out version of the carol.

A quick look between the blinds let me see them on the front stoop of the Eastland hotel at the end of the block - a small crowd of about 12 people, including a  big bass drum.

This led to a short, sharp shock of confusion - indecision frosted with cluelessness.  I wanted to get out there, I wanted to record them, because it was an extraordinary thing I heard past midnight on a special night.

Did I mention it was six degrees?  And a wind.  No snow yet but you can sense it up there, gathering its strength.

Well, it seemed to me that if they were crazy enough to play I'd be crazy enough to try to chase them down.

That thought led me into getting layered up, switching trousers to the heavy cords I'd worn today, double-sox and Bean boots, a toque for my head and I was off, camera in my pocket.

And of course, they weren't anywhere to be seen - not even footprints in the snow.

Nothing at the Congress Street corner - just a couple of folks out walking home from the bars.  Or walking TO the next bar - can't tell in this weather.

Still the strange, expectant, magical atmosphere of the night led me on - around the block, looking in windows, waving at the baristas as they cleaned up.  No band.

I did see very pretty fairy lights on the building opposite my apartment.  Took a couple of pictures.

And now my melancholy is gone completely.  Just want to go to bed and see what happens tomorrow - or what happens later today.

The Longest Night of the Year

This winter feels different than others in recent memory and the feeling is a very interesting thing to contemplate.

Doing this blog brings thoughts from deep inside up to the light of conscious regard.  I know this night - longest of the year - is as far as I can go in darkness.  From here on out the days will get longer, slowly but surely.

I don't have to go in tomorrow - my schedule is very light for the next few days.  I do have a show to try to video but I'm not quite sure how to manage it.  We may well cancel it anyway.

Therefore it's tempting to stay up till dawn, to walk the watches of this longest night and to give space to the quiet thoughts from deep inside.

Still, those thoughts are already close at hand.  Spending so much time writing - both music and words - has called them up where I can think about them - cursing myself with a meta-sense of what's going on inside.

I like where I'm getting to.  I know I have occasional anxieties and sometimes they overwhelm me.  I wonder if my financial choices will work out.  I wonder if not going back to teaching was the right thing to do.  I wonder if my composing will get to where I want it to be.  I wonder if all my friendships are being well-served by my actions.  I wonder is working at the Orchard will let me be who I want to be.

The clarity of these questions - and the meta-sense of my feelings about them - are very close on a night like this.

There is another storm coming.  They're saying we could get almost sixteen inches of new snow on Sunday - only fifty-five minutes away at this point.  They're saying another storm is on the way Sunday night.

The snowfall will begin sometime in the next few hours.

Outside the cars are cleared off; some are surrounded by small snowbanks from not having been moved since last night's storm.  My car is in the garage and it's staying there.

The windchill is down to one below zero.

I suppose the biggest change is this: in years past I would have consciously wondered "how did we get here" but know, deep inside, every step Nature took to make this change.

Now I can describe that process and the capacity to see and create with that knowledge has changed what I know about what I see.

On this - the longest night of the year.

I Have Friends Out In This

Tonight it's no joke.

People are going to be lost tonight if people are not careful to look out for them.

It's 9º out there.  Nine.

A howling wind is blowing from the ocean and it cuts like a scalpel.  I took this picture from my front stoop.  The cold drove me back inside the door - standing, switching camera functions, taking a shot, checking the levels and moving to the next setting - doing this took up too much time.  

Try as I might I had to close the door and shiver for a moment.

There is a part of me that wants to completely layer up and go exploring - at least to just see what the town looks like, maybe poke my nose in Geno's and see what's going on.  

Things are being cancelled.  One of my swing dancer friends told me the Swing Nuts dance at the North Deering Grange has been bagged.  Going in to work today at the Orchard from 4 to 7 - also a little crazy.  It was cold and windy walking in - three hours later there was a good two inches of snow on the ground.

I've been checking on people to see if they are safe - most are.  My dear friend C. lives in North Windham on a well-traveled but rural two-lane blacktop.  She gets off work at 11, some 10 minutes from now.  I have to check with her on her way home as it's a very dangerous storm.

The intense cold makes the snowflakes almost crystalline - and this works in our favor.  The snow is fine and powdery.  If it was warmer it would be sloppy and wet - this is cry; I could walk from the garage in my regular black dress shoes and not really feel too cold.  My feet didn't get wet and therefore didn't get cold.

This is a deceptive comfort.  The wind itself will pull heat out of the body, this weather is fantastically dangerous.

So we will see how much we've forgotten about our cold-weather drill.  Let's hope we all sleep safe and warm in our beds tonight.

Cleaning windows on the funny house

It's amazing how comforting a cup of coffee can be.

A large cup is warming my hands right now - or at least when I'm not typing - music plays, I contemplate slow bites of a turkey sandwich here at the NorthStar.

The county is slowly re-wiring itself back together from the weekend's ice storm.  I have friends from the Orchard living in outlying communities who have gone 72 hours and more without power.

Only gas powered generators keep their iPhones charged and allow them to post to Facebook so we can all track their travail.

Those of you - if there actually are any of you reading this - who eschew technology on the surface can easily think we're all a little mad about it.

And you'd be right.

But sometimes a little madness helps.  Sometimes madness is all you've got.

A writer-friend of mine - a very perceptive writer-friend - has advanced the theory that we are are most authentic selves, in real time, when we are around twelve years of age.  

Generally around Sixth grade.

Her thinking is that having not reached the obsessive fixation on "others" implied by puberty - but still retaining the inherent "childlike" imaginative/creative qualities of pre-pubesence - we are most willing to be who we were made to be.

I'm not exactly sure I'm expressing her mechanism correctly - but I am sure there is something there worth looking into.

She came to this conclusion by examining her journals from that age.  This might mess the whole thing up right there because not that many twelve year-olds are avid journalists.  By being precocious - conscious ahead of her time, in the literal sense - she may be the exception that demonstrates the need for the rule - all twelve year-olds should be that intelligent - or at least journal their thoughts where they can learn from them.

Still, I look at my own thoughts from that time - what I remember of them - and remember conflict with being forced to play baseball, being removed from the split advanced class (what we would call a G/T class today) for not doing homework and drawing pictures all the time - which my mother never forgave me for to her dying day (or, well, maybe she did).

That's when I discovered playing and writing music - formally, at least, I began playing trombone in the school band and prevailed on Mom to buy me a blank book of big-lined music paper at Saied Music - OK, so maybe she got a little of me  - and my Dad wanting m to succeed in sports - which I played for the fun of and not to win - maybe that's what confused him most.

I think the coincidence of how I am myself at twelve and me at fifty-two - a strange mathematical synchronicity - is good to know but not really something to be upset over.

Quite the opposite - I left teaching, torpedoed my immediate financial condition - not that anything has really changed in terms of the day-to-day actions of my life except I write more and enjoy it more honestly - left teaching to break to cycle of trying to be myself in a way that wasn't the best choice.

So here I am, on a gray day in Maine, warming my hands on the cup of coffee before me.  The pictures are just random shots tracing my walk through the Old Port and here to the foot of Munjoy Hill.

And my question is this - am I trying to recover myself from 4 decades past or am I trying to be who I am now and that past is part of it?

Probably not worth worrying about it.  I've got music to write.

Taking Lunch

MobileMe gallery is here.

Well, the weather changed.

It turned cold - not too cold but cold enough.

It turned rainy - not too rainy but rainy enough.

The final result is that this whole part of Maine got hit with an ice storm, causing a fair amount of mayhem.

A lot of people are wandering around the Mall right now - most of the county has lost power, even the cable TV is out.

Four social outlets profit in this situation - bars, movie theatres, fast food eateries - and the Mall.

Which is where I am now.  

All told the first part of the day was quiet.  I spent most of it at home making phone calls to other people I knew would have been affected by the storm in some way.  Everyone is fine, either warmly ensconced or safely arrived home.

This still left me with the chore of driving in to the Mall and getting to work at the Orchard.  It looks like most of Cumberland county is here - maybe the bars are full - or the teenyboppers  have parents who are just as bored.

It was a very straightforward drive out - I had no trouble until the penultimate light before the Mall at Clark's Pond.

Apparently something, I guessing a powerline, had blocked off the traffic.  This led me down a side road approach to the Mall, along with a long, somewhat harried line of cars going in both directions.

The effort was justified by seeing two big - big - wild turkeys on the side of the street, next to the Comfort Inn.

They were working the ice-covered grass, scratching like dangerous chickens, completely unconcerned with the traffic passing mere yards away.

I had to volte face and pull over - as bewildered drivers passed me in both directions.  I'm glad no one honked or the birds might have bolted.

They might have bolted but I'm more inclined to think they just didn't give a rat's ass - they just went on about their work.

For all I know, they're still out there.

Is Anyone Else Creeped Out?

The scene started off on Sunday afternoon, sometime after my Sunday morning post.

The Maine College of Art runs a wonderful holiday art sale every year.

Well, the vibe is wonderful.  It's always crowded and you run into lot's of interesting people.  There are a lot of groups that intersect in such a place.  Friends from Apple, tango, former students, current acquaintances and old chums - they all tend to collide at such an event.

Which is not to say the art itself was all that great.

I suppose I can see my life getting into a context where colorful useless things are a priority.  My apartment is full of paintings and artwork - I even stole a note from Tom Felicia from Queer Eye and put some Hopi print wrapping paper into some frames.

And scarves.  My inner Doctor Who is served by scarves and tuxedo shirts.  There were a lot of very nice ones in colors I already own.

Still, it was a nice to wander over to the East End School, Portland's latest - B. W. goes there and A. is very fond of the staff - almost as good as the one where she works.

To top it off there was a lovely view from the front of the school - shown above.  It was still gray; a fine, fine snow was falling.  There was some visible evidence of sledding but nothing conclusive.  I think everyone was still getting their body temps up to an ambulatory level.

Come to think of it, what the hell was I doing there?

Oh yes, art.  Or, at least, finely arty crafts.

So here we are on Wednesday and I'm working in my other favorite haunt - the window of JavaNet.

And damn me if it's not 55 degrees outside, with a fine mist falling on the town.

Our snow is gone.  Yesterday there was a refresher snow, just patching up the holes scraped by shovels and brushes and it was a wickedly cold Tuesday at that.

But now it's all well and truly melted away.  The red brick of the sidewalks is all clear; umbrellas rather than mufflers rule the fashion of the streets.

Green anoraks and hoods.  Baseball caps.  Blue and white umbrellas.

Bareheaded people hurry by, preserving their coifs.

It's 55 degrees out there.  On December 10th.

Driving out to the Orchard and not feeling like my life is in my hands - or at least in the path of my steering wheel - is a new thing and I'm not sure what it means.

I will say that it's slightly troubling.  Changes in climate are supposed to happen incrementally, rather like the proverbial frog in the saucepan; you are not supposed to suddenly become aware of the process until the product slams you in the face.

Come to think of it, that's a pretty good metaphor for my life in the last few years.

Still, I'm not quite sure what to make of it.  Most of the time it's enough of a miracle for me to just see the dots, much less connect them together.

No clear ending here folks.  Nothing to see.  Move along.

Move along.

Snowfall makes the world turn over

It's started.

Here it is Sunday morning and the snow started last night.

I noticed it just when heading off to bed, more as a sudden frosting of white on the street than a dance of flakes in the air.

Perhaps it was too cold.  They fall in a different way, the snow is finer when it's colder.

No matter.  It was there.

Only two night before, at sunset, the sky was crystal clear, starless and open.

The crescent moon was etched in the sky, clear over the house across the way.  Cold light.  Warm light.

And so now, here we are.  In the last few minutes since I started a warmer snow is falling.  The flakes are larger, fluffier - more New England, I suppose.

I hear a sound that hasn't been in my ears since last year - a deep, rumbling scrape, the unique sound of a wide-bladed snow shovel pushed against red brick.

You will also hear trucks backing up, the beep of reverse warnings will become much more frequent as trucks plow out driveways.

The giant snowplows that were half hidden by growths of weeds during the Summer were dug out a month ago and were loaded on the front of big pickup trucks.

All of them owned by folks who make a tidy sum moving the snow - sums needed now more than ever.

I hope to stay optimistic during all of this - my personal situation, though at times rather thin, is fairly steady - but others who are losing jobs are finding this Winter has the cast of a killer - here in New England we can see how vulnerable people can be even to the most basic forces of Nature.

Back home in Tulsa you can still be humbled by the force of a tornado.  In Boston - even Portland - snow can b lovely, it can be a nuisance, occasionally dangerous - but never deadly.

Until things turn around - and I'm specifically counting on Barak Obama's election to do it - deadly may be back in play.

So - a siren sounds, a fire truck goes by on Congress Street, I see it flash by through Bosnia.

"Now is the Winter of our discontent made glorious Summer by this noble Son of York".

I have a feeling - maybe because I've not had my coffee or breakfast yet, but even so - I have a feeling that we will all be called to give a great deal of ourselves, more than what a self-referentially generous people usually give.

We shall see - but perhaps now we'll have a better chance of seeing together.

And now here we are

Taking my life - and other people's health - into my own hands - or my own sleeve (if I keep using it to cough into).

Or, put another way, if God had wanted us to use hankies he/she would not have invented long sleeves.

If wandering around downtown taking the air can be called "nursing" then I am nursing a cold.  It's in my nose and head; if I'm careful it will stay there and I won't infect the world around me.  Much, anyway ...

So now here I am at my usual Wednesday station at Mousse, the scone is done and I've switched from coffee to juice - quite a tall juice, now I look at it.

The Square is empty of farmers.  Two stands are selling wreaths, the hot dog stand now has commercial control of the center of downtown.

Since we're in the middle of the day and the Market isn't there to engage the crowd then you don't see the usual smiles and informal greetings that usual accompany Wednesdays.  Everyone looks a bit more hardened and business-like.  

At the same time when you do see two or more people walking and talking together - usually with coffee cups in hand - they stand out a little bit more.

Back at home there are two very disparate tangos on my desktop - one very folkish and melodic, the other a pattern-based sort of groove.  I can't help working on both at the same time, switching from one to the other, jamming on the brakes in my creative head.  

It's like painting lines in two directions on a highway using the same bucket of paint for both ends.  You paint a brushfull heading North then run back, dip in the bucket, paint heading South, then turn back to the bucket, paint further North, then back again and to the South.

A little schizophrenic, at best.

Still, my brain - and heart - haven't exploded yet, so maybe some good will come out of it.  At the very least I'll get two moderately boring tangos out of it - maybe the experience will lead to skills that make it easier to write one really good one - down the line.

Who knows?

Giving Thanks - waiting for the new town to arrive

MobileMe gallery is here.

Again - I fly out the end of a storm of contrasts.

Tuesday - a screaming nor'easter, straight off the ocean.  My surrogate older sister, Mia, up in Temple, is hit with 5" of snow on her deck.  Driving in the mountains is slick icy and deadly.  Flood warnings for everyplace else.

Here in town - torrential, blistering wind-driven rain.  Horizontal, coming in from the bay.  Flags, both in front of the hospital and the hotels, all snapping loud as Orson Welles' braces. 

Flood watches everywhere it's not snowing.

Wednesday - suddenly clear, sunny and cold.  A lovely sunrise greeted my preparations for going in to work - I was off by the time the sun set.

Thursday - Thanksgiving.  All the leaves are gone.

I've noticed this oddity before, never seen it in process.  Trees are a riot of colors, leaves blowing everywhere and suddenly they are all done, piles of crinkly colors underfoot.  Branches are bare - and before you know it, nothing is underfoot.  

The ground is clear as if a giant vacuum cleaner has sucked up the last of Fall and taken it to some strange hidden trashbin.

The ground is stark, the outline of the land and buildings is clear in a way you've not seen before.  In one way it's very sere, very empty.  But it's also very easy on the eyes, you can see what things look like, unclothed until the snows fly and cover it all with a blanket of variable white.

I admit that I have always liked this time of year.  You see three or four different worlds change around you as time goes by.  

The rich greens of late Summer.  The fading glory of the start of Fall and it's glorious later explosion.  Then the strange ending of the season, leaves mostly on the ground, defiant stragglers still clinging to their Summer places.

Finally - at some point, early on or later near Thanksgiving, a storm will come and ruthlessly strip them off, leaving stark trees, as if drawn by God's own steel-tipped pen.  

And that leaves us where we are, right now.  This strange, pregnant pause before plunging into the cold embrace of Winter.  The snows will come, soon; the ground lays waiting with outstretched arms to welcome the intimate closeness of a lover.

Here we are, waiting with empty fields, shopping malls parking lots, scarves on necks, layers of coats and cups of coffee, waiting for the next city to come, white and sere, cold and rich.

The next city to come.

You Stupid Darkness!

Mobile Me gallery is here.

One of my favorite strips from the old Peanuts comic begins with Charlie Brown asking why Linus is standing in a dark night with a lit candle.  Linus replies, quoting a Chinese proverb - "It is better to light one candle than curse the darkness".

Tell me the Chinese don't have a culture that is 3,000 years old.

Charlie Brown agrees, but then observes "of course, there are those who might disagree with you..."

Cut to Lucy, screaming at the night sky, "You stupid darkness".

Sometimes that's how it feels when I attend these rallies - and for good or ill, I tend to show up at most of them.

For those not in the know - last Sunday our local paper published an AP story cataloguing the increase in racist speech around the country since the election of Barak Obama.  I have some theories about this, which I might get into later.

One of them was a sign from a store in Standish, advertising Obama Bingo and offering a pool betting on when the President-elect would be offed - and how.  There were takers - and a note at the bottom: "I hope someone wins".

Needless to say there were letters to the editors, a Facebook group and, of course, a rally.

I wandered over with Sandy from the Orchard, who was acting as a freelance photog for the PPH.  I borrowed C's camera - the nice DSLR - and sat down to observe.

Oh yes - also to adjust their sound system to the darn thing would work - you'd think that people who do so much studiously public speaking would know how to adjust a sound system so there would be no feedback and both speakers would work.  I'm just sayin' ....

Sandy and I walked down from Parkside - the wind was howling off the Bay, it was insanely cold - the kind of damp cold that goes right through your parka and into your toes and bones.   Being diabetic doesn't help as the circulation in those small arteries isn't what it once was.

Still, it was interesting to see it all happen.

And so I listened to all the usual suspects I have always heard at previous events through the years:

- the "Aryan brotherhood recruiting response" rally

- the "rolling the pig's head in the Muslim worship center" rally

  - the "spray painting anti-black/Muslim graffiti" rally

- the "beat the crap out of the gay guy" protest rally (several of those)

- the "ham steak on the Muslim kid's lunch tray" rally

- the "take back the night against rape" rally

...and on, and on, and on ....

The rally itself was very moving.  Most notable was Steve Wessler of the Center for Prevention of Hate Crimes (who lives in Litchfield, of all places).  He always shares the most incredible stories from his work with kids in schools, keeping it incredibly real - the least academic feelings coming from an educational context.

The Governor was there, the Mayor-elect (always liked her, now I'm really impressed), the new Episcopal bishop was at a conference in New Hampshire and sent a rep.  Cops and DA's  and Mark Dion, the sherrif who shared a story about his daughter and how she dealt with injustice when a child - which was when I was teaching her - all of them saying what was obvious, what was needed to be said ...

... and all of it being things that I have heard all of them say before.

After a while you don't know which side of the comic strip you want to come down on - are you Linus, faithfully, confidently holding up a single candle against the dark of the entire universe?  Or are you his sister (his sister, we forget that) Lucy; just getting your mad on against the entire nature of it all.

What is the right response.  And why the hell do I keep showing up at these things?   If there are incidents against Natives in this state I know they're not showing up in the media.

Doesn't mean they're not there, it's just that they're not making it into the media.  To give everyone their due I suspect that any overt examples would make it quite easily.

Still, if you are the kind of person for whom these things register then it can get a little daunting.  The list of incidents and their attendant rallies is long.  If you're not the kind of person for whom this registers, well, you're probably posting things on the newspaper comment web pages and complaining about how all of this is a waste of taxpayer money to punish people for being stupid.

There is a clear movement to change - or to want to change - some of the fundamental attitudes of people in this country. An attitude - as we say in Oklahoma - of being "someone just looking for a dog to kick".

My own thinking - adumbrated above - is that everyone, without exception - can be in a place where they are looking for a dog to kick.  We just get there, that's how we feel.

The catch - or one of the fundamental burdens of our human nature - is that we can generally know what it is we think, what it is we feel.  More rarely are we conscious of what we think about what we think, what we feel about what we feel.

And that is what those dogs get kicked by.  

So I suppose that's what we do.  We keep holding up the mirror and telling people this is what you do, this is what you are.  We judge each other's actions by a standard - whether those for whom such things register will hear it, accept it - that is another issue.

But voices still must be heard.  I don't know how mine fits in, I suppose the radically different life I lead now will show me - but these voices must still be heard.

Either by lighting candles or by yelling at the darkness.  Either way will warn the dogs against the boots.