“How does a black person not get shot in America?”
“How does a black person not get shot in America?”
Intro to Solid State Chemistry – MIT 3.091
(When MIT makes statements like “introductory level” I don’t think they have a normal concept of the term. Nonetheless, no harm, no foul. And one of their very best courses with one of the very best professors, Prof. Grossman, is also one of the most generous with texts, discussions, and even the actual certificate, which is free.)
One of the very best things about MOOCs is the free textbooks (or portions of textbooks) so often included in them. A gazillion years ago, when I was in school, a science textbook averaged $150.
(And science majors rarely have the luxury of getting to buy a used textbook.)
Again, with MOOCs you can poke around. Visit. See what you like. Sometimes you’ll surprise yourself. Even some subjects with work beyond what you feel you could manage in the strictest sense can still be fascinating.
(So don’t be intimidated just because the first question on the first quiz is this)
The thermite reaction, used to weld rails together in the building of railroads, occurs when iron(III) oxide (Fe2O3) reacts with elemental aluminum to produce aluminum oxide (Al2O3) and elemental iron.
(a) Write a balanced equation for this reaction, using any correct set of coefficients. Depict the reaction arrow (⟶) as ‘->’.
And if you’re not at all intimidated by it, do yourself a solid –
I have become a certified MOOC freak. There are several different platforms for MOOCS – Massive Open Online Courses – such as edX and Coursera, and happily many others are available on YouTube. (Many are available through those platforms as well as on YouTube.)
I prefer the edX platform if I use one. I have never gotten a certificate or worried about that at all, so I ride free, just for the joy of cramming my ever-curious mind.
What’s so amazing is that anyone at all can, for free, peek in at some of the most elite and incredible classes being taught today.
Harvard’s most popular course, “Justice,” for instance, taught by Professor Michael Sandel, is a class everyone should at least check out. I am big on “archived” courses, because they are always “self-paced,” but Justice actually just began again for real, so check it out.
Here’s the little course intro video and text below:
Taught by lauded Harvard professor Michael Sandel, Justice explores critical analysis of classical and contemporary theories of justice, including discussion of present-day applications. Topics include affirmative action, income distribution, same-sex marriage, the role of markets, debates about rights (human rights and property rights), arguments for and against equality, dilemmas of loyalty in public and private life. The course invites learners to subject their own views on these controversies to critical examination.
The principal readings for the course are texts by Aristotle, John Locke, Immanuel Kant, John Stuart Mill, and John Rawls. Other assigned readings include writings by contemporary philosophers, court cases, and articles about political controversies that raise philosophical questions.
Other favorites of mine are Boston University’s War for the Greater Middle East taught by the amazing Andrew Bacevich – archived now at edX – and all three of the foremost Lincoln/Civil War Historian’s – (Dr. Eric Foner’s) – courses on Civil War and Reconstruction from Columbia University.
It was the дома graphic.
The дома/матрешка (home/”matroshka”) ⇑ graphic you made.
Sessions did not “testify,” per se, yesterday. He offered a defense of himself, free of the annoyance of cross-examination and kept his consistently partisan blinders as high as always.
I have no doubt that he does not question his own integrity.
That was believable. And not shocking.
I think this Jeff Sessions was actually the best counter-argument to yesterday’s Jeff Sessions. It’s oddly on point. (And prescient, as well.)
Richie was kind enough to let me post this from his Christmas Compilation of our Drunk Writers’ Club. (Poem by me, but graphics by him, and the graphics best my poetry.)
“Американские СМИ раздули скандал из-за фотографий встречи Лаврова и Трампа
Россия и США сделали шаг к снятию напряженности — так в Москве и в Вашингтоне оценивают итоги переговоров Сергея Лаврова с американским президентом и госсекретарем. Обсуждалось создание зон безопасности в Сирии и подготовка встречи Владимира Путина и Дональда Трампа в июле на саммите G20.”
They are having way too much fun with this. They keep putting “Yankees” higher and higher in the stories. [США]
Nice comparison of Merkel/Trump v. Lavrov/Trump:
You don’t need to know a syllable of Russian to get this “report.” I’ve never seen Russians this expressive.
MHA day and I really needed me a little Rope-a-Dope illustration to get me in the right frame of mind.
It’s a beautiful thing.
I decided that I’d post a slightly fuller picture for the record; and for the many who have no idea what “rope-a-dope” is.
This is Ali “losing” all but the last 7 seconds of 8 rounds.
That’s the fucking rope-a-dope, folks.
Col./Prof. Andrew Bacevich is never one to shove sunshine up anyone’s ass when it’s raining. He’s always been beautifully no-nonsense, and everyone who knows him and knows the price he and his family have paid for our ongoing Middle East debacles, understands that he grasps the true costs.
In this short clip where the questioner says: “I need cheering up,” Col. Bacevich answers, I think, for many of us who spend so much mental energy and time in the weeds of the Middle East.
One cannot be a Middle East scholar and cheery at the same time.
In college my suite-mate asked if I would play Orange Blossom Special for the big, annual sororities versus fraternities talent show. It was a huge deal, and being that Leah was a piano player and led workouts 3 nights a week, she was chosen to come up with our choreography, and music. It was a pretty cute idea, and she asked me, a fellow “sister,” if I thought I could play Orange Blossom Special.
I barely covered my scoff. I could play anything.
I was pretty sure I had heard it, at least in passing, but more importantly, I knew there was not a thing in the world I couldn’t play.
As a violinist I had passed the Paganini test; which meant–
And some random bluegrass song? Simple. I asked her to please look for the music and, most importantly, to find a recording of it I could hear. I would be fine. I understood that there was altering – each version was different – but the sheet music would give me a start and then hopefully, in a day or two, I’d have the thing down and could move onto more pressing issues. Like school. And my boyfriend.
Here’s an example – a good one – of Orange Blossom. Compare to the incomparable Paganini at the end and, musician or not, you’ll understand the differences and therefore the difficulty facing the girl who was weaned on Symphony Fare.
I was famous for my “playing by ear.” Even scolded for time to time on my over-reliance on it.
But even when I was being told that I relying too much on my ear, to the point that it was detrimental to the “fundamentals” of sheet music and the vaunted “sight reading” I still almost always had the backup of the sheet music there.
“If [I] could play Orange Blossom Special, there were a whole bunch of full music scholarships” out there waiting for me.
“What about the tape? Did you find that?” I was beginning to feel a tinge of impatience and even a slight dismissiveness, like a virtuoso violinist is want to become. A first chair violinist in excellent adult orchestras before most people even knew what a violin was, I had some of those snobbish tendencies that “stars” and “geniuses” can fall prey to. Tendencies that this incident would start to temper before long.
“Good. The tape will be fine. Sorry you went to all that trouble, Leah.”
That afternoon I found an old fashioned tape recorder sitting on my bed with a cassette tape of an Orange Blossom Special version one of the music department heads had suggested she get, and we listened to it; first together. I’m pretty sure I didn’t say this, but
I was always a very “by ear” violinist. Truth be told, if you’re a violinist, a real one, by definition, you have an amazing ear and you learn mostly by ear. (The sheet music, again, was meant for backup.)
But this shit wasn’t like anything I’d ever heard or played before. It was harder to play – or hear – by ear because there were an inordinate number of chords, interspersed with a weird pizzicato that could only have been played with the fingering hand, making it almost impossible to figure out what exactly was going on there.
AND THAT SHIT WAS CRAZY FUCKING FAST. (The tune, I mean.)
This wasn’t Paganini and his muse, Satan.
And suddenly all my pride slipped out of me. I was completely terrified and unsure of myself… and on a clock., with a big audience in the offing.
Well now, with my new electric, Orange Blossom Special has been haunting me again.
God help us all, I have an idea.
And for a moment, here, I will emphasis, to myself as no one else is listening, why a long damn bow and useful instrument fucking MATTER.
(The only thing I can say in favor of Orange Blossom is that the bowing is a world away easier than Paganini and his awesomely satanic bowings.)
I wouldn’t doubt it for a second. In fact, the first time I heard him, the same thought went through my mind. Unprompted.
Here’s his/(Paganini’s) “24 Caprices, Op. 1: No. 24 in A Minor” (Sometimes referred to as “Dance of the Demons” or “Dance of the Goblins.”)
Itzhak Perlman; bringing Paganini and all his devils, goblins, demons, and ghosts to their damn knees. (For a non violinist it might not be obvious, I suppose, but this actually is miles and miles more difficult in a thousand ways than the old Orange Blossom Special. Nonetheless, Orange Blossom did serve to show me how much I had been missing, was a challenge, and is unquestionably not only extraordinarily difficult, but, better yet, extraordinarily impressive.
Orange Blossom isn’t demon possessed like Paganini, but it’s pretty cool anyway.
Also, Paganini takes a helluva lot better bow than I currently own, in every incarnation. All of it. Orange Blossom does not.
Why did my mother bury my umbilical cord?
I wasn’t sure, but I had an idea. And I knew I had to get to New Mexico to find out.
And I knew that that was just the first step in this freak show version of a game my dead mother was sending me on. And I have to admit, I was curious, but also pissed.
But now, 10 years later, I’ve got to say, Mom, it’s been worth it. And now that I see the big picture, it’s too beautiful to be angry.
But this is ten years, and those ten years encompass far more than one story.
Those ten years were planting the seeds. And they were long years. And there was so many times I didn’t think I’d see the end and even more times that I didn’t care. I certainly didn’t realize that getting to the finish of this oddball Odyssey my mother sent me on would mean the realization that it wasn’t her story, or my story, but a much bigger story, and a much lovelier story. Most importantly, what she always knew and what I just found out was that the finale she concocted was the greatest magic trick of all.
It was so planned out – this dramatic scene designed to go off within a month after her death – the time we had to clear the apartment out.
And the Dr. Seuss book from 1990, with a personal inscription to me, signed just months before his death, the perfectly preserved Dr. Seuss obituary inside it – which she had hidden away for over a decade, clearly showing that her intention when she got the book and managed to acquire the inscription from Dr. Seuss she meant for me to have it after she died.
And an invitation.
An invitation that was a clear sign of a twisted mind attempting to tempt another twisted mind into playing a twisted game. A summons. A very deliberate one.
So yeah, she had had this trick up her sleeve a long, long while. And as crafty as she is, and to go all out like this in the presentation, there was no doubt in my mind that whatever she had in store would be one hell of an odyssey, and one that would likely not always be fun.
And that’s what the book says, too. I realize the book is a cliché now. It wasn’t then.
There are two more points:
So I took the bait. I bit, so to say.
I mean I ate the paper. It said “EAT ME” and so I did. Stuck it in my mouth, chewed it, and swallowed the bitch Hell, maybe mom had found some LSD and had left it as a surprise inheritance. The message might have been one huge hit of blotter acid, for all I knew. I wasn’t taking that chance.
There was no downside, is what I’m saying. If you think I’m going to chance missing an acid trip because I don’t want to swallow paper, you’ve got the wrong girl. I wade through cow manure up to my knees holding a bucket of water so I can “wash” the first shit-caked shroom I find so I can eat it on the spot. Cow shit. For real.
You think I’m not eating the EAT ME message?
Unfortunately, the invitation was free of any added mind altering substance. It was, itself, the mind-altering substance. It fucked my mind up better than anything I’ve actually ingested, and it still hasn’t worn off.
I never imagined that when I finally got the joke, it would actually be this good.
All I know for sure is that it was one long, cold winter and now, finally,
So, below is the fictionalized version, but you have to start where I did:
the buried umbilical cord.
“Oh, the Places You’ll Go!”
Inside, just a month before he died, Dr. Seuss had written to me:
Always remember that life is a great balancing act.
Tucked inside the book was a perfectly trimmed and preserved copy of The New York Times obituary for Dr. Seuss.
And a tiny note from Mom that said:
And I knew it had begun.
We’ll talk about that later. For now, this isn’t a bad place to start. It’s where I had to start.
I’ll un-fictionalize it as we go, but the whole Buried Belly-Button Brain Teaser is all too real. Remember, ATN, how I had to go to Ghost Ranch?
This was why.
I had to start burying stuff.
A few nights before she died my Mother told me a very confusing tale. I called Tony crying. I said “she was mean to me.”
That was a lie. I didn’t know what the hell to say. I was quite confused myself and it would be awhile before I could even begin to piece together Mom’s Scavenger Hunt, because I was a bit locked up at first.
So, yeah, here you go. Mom was right that it would probably take 10 years to get to the end of this and then back around to the beginning, again. I couldn’t imagine it at the start, and if I would have been able to, I don’t think I could have sustained it.
But I have. I’m shocked.
So, I guess the only thing to say now is:
Silver Sunflowers and Buried Umbilical Cords; Ch. 1
“Your umbilical cord is buried in Albuquerque, New Mexico.”
My dead mother’s words echoed strangely through my bones and into my stomach, where they rattled around, reaching their sonar into my womb and whispering their strange chorus to the little girl growing there. Mom’s ghostly echo was more eerie wailing than melody, more under-worldly than other-worldly, and more Bean Sídhe – Banshee – than angel.
“Your umbilical cord is buried in Albuquerque, New Mexico.”
My mother told me so long enough and often enough that I was desensitized to how bizarre it was before I was even old enough to know what an umbilical cord was, let alone go any further than the Dairy Queen. So, instead of being the obscure oddity it obviously was, it became, to me, just another little scrap of the blanket I managed to stitch together with scattered recollections, photos, and overheard whispers; creating the constantly flowing patchwork quilt of belief about the person I had been, as well as the person I was becoming. My umbilical cord was buried in Albuquerque. I had always known this.
“Belll-eeee-buh-tawhn,” I enunciated loudly, aiming my mouth at my still flat belly.
“Mine is buried in Albuquerque. You still need yours,“ I told the sprig of life growing inside of me. “But don’t you worry,” I cooed, patting my navel, the stub left over from what had once been the lifeblood connection to my mother; “our cord is running top-notch. You may well turn out to be the healthiest baby girl ever to be born.”
How did I manage to miss a sentence from my mother about a buried anything, let alone a buried belly button? Part of it, I think, was just the passé way in which she had mentioned it, like it was the most normal thing in the world. I’m pretty sure that for some length of time I simply believed that all mothers’ buried their infants’ umbilical cords. That is the way she said it.
“Your umbilical cord is buried at such-and-such a place. Your Granny’s Uncle Stan’s niece’s mom buried hers in Maui. And Nixon’s belly button is under the frozen tundra of Siberia, which explains a lot, when you think about it,” I could almost hear the slightest judgmental twang in Mother’s imaginary voice as it loop-de-looped through my overactive Neocortex. The truth was, I simply hadn’t given the slightest bit of thought or attention to anything about my navel other than how it looked in a bikini since I could remember. I will freely admit there was the obvious slip on my part of only half-listening to almost everything Mom said since I turned the ripe-old-age of about eleven, because it was then that I decided my particular model of mother was a little strange. Still, I would have expected even me to catch that freakish “buried umbilical cord” turd out of all the other mess.
So, I went off to college, graduated, got married, and life was going fine.
At least, life had been going fine until everyone started dying.
Dad had been easier to understand than Mom from the start. He snorted cocaine throughout the 80’s, bought me a red convertible when I turned 16, and taught me to wire anything electronic by the age of eight. My dad was the kind of dad to get you the best pot you ever smoked for your 18th birthday. He was also temperamental, brilliant, volatile, and hopelessly in love with my mother, so normally, he’d almost surely know about the Buried Belly-Button Brainteaser. Unfortunately, the day we found out Mom was knock-knock-knockin’ on heaven’s door, Dad jumped 21 flights off our fire escape, essentially breaking down heaven’s door.
Dad always did have to hog all the attention.
Still, it was Mother who managed to get in the last word, true to life.
The day of Dad’s Fire Escape Fiasco was just a day before Thanksgiving, and Mom took her last breath in my arms as a cold Christmas Eve rolled into the sunrise of a windy Christmas morning. I sent Giovanni, my husband, home to bed, while I held on to my one and only Mother, watching her gently slip between the Here and the There as if the separation between the two was merely the finest of membranes; as if death was a circus act, and my mother was the only soul fortunate enough to find the surprise in even this Cracker Jack box. She would slip away, again and again, only to revive with the softest of giggles, until, finally, the giggles ceased to return. I stroked her hair in wonderment and smelled her barely detectable, sweet almond smell, drawing in every possible molecule of her so that I could remember the way the softness of her arms felt, inhaling and inhaling until I knew I had to let go, because she had let go, and this was her show, this was her ovation, this was her curtain call, and this, at last, was her final bow.
As an only child, emptying Mother and Dad’s apartment was almost two long months of sacred and very solitary business. Thanksgiving and Christmas sliced frozen tree limbs and downed power lines through me, until I thought I would snap like the branches breaking all around me.
“I can’t wash my hair, it smells like my mother!” I screamed the day of her funeral when they tried to make me take a shower. I could hear them whisper their worry-clad gossip about me at the house after the service, but I didn’t care.
I did bathe at some point soon after that, but mainly I stayed in my bedroom at first, filling journal after journal, becoming successively stronger with each one, until, thanks to the nine hour drive by Dad’s sister, Aunt Marie, we managed to see that my childhood home, filled with the memories and mementos of my dead parents, was emptied on time. We went through everything, step-by-step, together, until that final day, when there was no choice but to hire some trucks and men to move furniture, either to our house, or to a nearby storage unit. I was so tired by the end of the day that I told the movers just to leave an impossibly heavy mahogany bookcase in the corner of the living room. It was silly, because we’d moved everything else, and I’d always expected to have it. As a young girl, I used to imagine it in my home one day, but on this day I was just overwhelmed, and couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out what truck to put it on. I didn’t want to stick it in storage, but even in our big house, I had no idea where to put it.
“Leave it,” I verbalized monotonously, making a swatting motion toward it with the hand still inside the house. My other hand, as well as half of my body and the entirety of my mind, was already gone from that tomb. I was suffocating, and between a bookshelf and a breath, I took the desperate person’s way out. Let it be gift for the next tenants, or the apartment manager. Let it roam wherever it pleases, was my attitude about it.
A big Yugoslavian man – a man I secretly thought of as “Igor” in my internal dialog – a man who did not speak English easily or comfortably, got up his courage to overrule me.
“No. You must take,” Igor near ordered. “We bring to your home. You see. It make you many days with your family.”
“I’m done. Let it be for someone else. Leave it for someone less sad. Someone less –” I put my hands on my shoulders and did some slow knee bends, pantomiming to Igor, to myself, and to the entire world in general, “—someone less burdened.”
But Igor, big, strong, Igor; hired for his muscles, not his mind, refused to let go.
“Your parents love you.” Igor stated as if he had known them intimately. “Your parents, give books you. Your parents, they want you have book box.“
“You think it’s so great? You take it,” I swatted one last, fading time in the direction of the shelf that had held night after night of magic stories, and then attempted to cross the threshold of that apartment for good.
“Not for me. From them to you,” Igor insisted, bending down low enough to find my gaze, and then somehow pulling my eyes to his by just the force of his need.
For you,” Igor emphasized with all the weight of his blue round eyes and stubbly square chin. “No just for them, no even just for you. For them, for you, for yours and theirs. For the many’s.”
The ”many’s,“ huh, Igor?
“The generations?” I both ask and correct simultaneously. I know what he’s saying. I knew it as soon as he drew my eyes to his. “Family.”
Them and me and all that shall follow.
Igor, apparently sensing progress, exclaimed, “Jes, the generations! The many’s!”
His childlike joy was so boundless I almost expected the big Yugoslavia to begin jumping up and down in the empty living room. Pure happiness, however, is short lived. Igor has a mission, and it is not yet fulfilled.
“So you take,” he reiterates to me with the heavy heart of one who has left much behind. Whether I must take a “book box” or not was becoming a far less important issue than the time and trouble I was wasting arguing with a big Yugoslavian mover.
“Fine,” I shrug. “Find room in the truck to the house.”
Igor and another man who was nearly as big as Igor and spoke only in Slavic syllables, unintelligible to me, hoisted the last vestige of my parents from their now barren apartment with considerable joy considering the heft of it, and as they did, a wrapped, gray box with a silver ribbon fell off the top of the monstrous mahogany and right into my little child-sized hands. Despite the curls of silver ribbon falling from the top out onto all sides, Mom hadn’t bothered with a card for the package. Instead, she had chosen a black Sharpie for her final message; written artistically and boldly in a beautiful, horizontal, scrawl across the backside of the gray wrapping paper:
“Open immediately after your newborn daughter’s umbilical cord stump falls off.“
In somewhat smaller writing, just underneath that, she wrote, “Congratulations.”
Igor was so joyous he could barely contain himself.
“Oh, you have baby? You see? For the many’s!” my big, Yugoslavian mover seemed a frenzy of rightness too bright not to acknowledge, even on a day of such impenetrable darkness.
So that was how I found out that I was either pregnant, or that my mom was far crazier than she had appeared.
* * *
That was also why I hid the gray package with the silver ribbon, and the pregnancy, from my husband. The man I married began to turn a little sour the weekend of Dad’s wake, and by Mom’s death he had started strangling me for sport. The trauma unit at the local hospital confirmed the pregnancy after Gio believed he’d strangled me to death, just days after the bookcase and the strange posthumous present my mother had left me.
I had saved my life by managing to pee all over myself in the hopes that Gio would conclude I was dead, leaving him just enough time to rip the wedding ring off my lifeless finger and run like hell. They never caught him that night, and they haven’t caught him yet. Had life not gone so twistedly awry, I almost surely would have honored my mother’s wish that I wait until this little growing life inside me lost her dried up stump of what had once been her only true connection to nourishment, to me, and to life: that left-over remnant of her cut cord. Somehow, though, after the way things went down, I got the feeling my mom would forgive me and I wouldn’t be banished to purgatory if I hurried the ritual on a bit. It might merely have been Mom’s mark of mystery, transferred to me on that swollen-mooned night, but sitting in my new, safe, room on that first night at the YWCA, I could have sworn I heard her voice whisper, barely audible under the Bean Sídhe’s hollowed cry of impending death, that it was time. I felt her fairy dust-filled eyes leaning over my shoulder, smelled her soft almond skin, and somehow felt sure she was there and that we opened the gray paper and silver ribbon together.
Still, when I tried to ask my mother why she buried my umbilical cord, the scent of almond turned to dust, and the Banshee’s wail drowned out the song of my only mother, and though I strained with all my heart, all I heard was the Banshee’s plaintive keen.
The ladies from the shelter and a couple of my new friends put me on a bus this morning for Santa Fe, New Mexico, headed to a shelter that is deep, deep, deep underground. I’ve been to New Mexico before, but never to live. The fingers of my right hand make their way carefully to my clavicle bone, feeling the James Avery circular silver wire, hooked gently in the back, then, finally tip-toeing their way down to the sterling silver sunflower hanging from it, the silver sunflower with hearts for leaves. The silver sunflower from the box with a silver ribbon; the box that fell into my hand because Mother put it there for me, and because Igor cared about the many’s. The box with the silver sunflower that brought all that buried umbilical cord business back into my consciousness. The box with the sterling silver sunflower that started me asking every single person I laid eyes on if they knew what it meant when a mother buries her baby’s umbilical cord. I asked all the staff at the shelter, and I asked the volunteers, as well. I interrogated each and every woman staying at the shelter, the homeless guys on the street, the checkout clerks at the nearby grocery store, bus drivers, drug dealers, freaks and geeks. Anyone within earshot got questioned, yet I didn’t so much as get a bite on my line. Last night a few of my new friends at the shelter took me out for some pool, but all I could seem to see was an untapped umbilical cord resource.
“My mother buried my umbilical cord. Do you know if that means anything?” I tried to casually question a guy in a Budweiser hat who was beating me at pool.
I had two girls from the shelter by my side, but they weren’t shocked, because I’d already been through the whole rigmarole with them.
“Your mother buried your fucking umbilical cord?” the man drawled, standing straight up in distain; looking like he’d just been slapped. A little bit of brownish, snuff-adorned saliva snuck down the corner of his thin bottom lip.
“Really?” he asked again. “And you wanna know what in the hell that means?”
Suddenly I realized that he looked like a toad. A toad in a Budweiser hat. Still, I decided to take my chances.
“Yes,” I answered sincerely. Who knows, I thought. Even a toad might know something. “I want to know very badly,” I said, naked in front of the toad, hoping for even the smallest clue in this offbeat scavenger hunt.
The toad lined up his shot and sunk the 8-ball, ending the game.
“It means she was fucking crazy,” he croaked, laying down his cue.
“That’s what I thought,” I sighed.
Although that was a lie. I didn’t think my mother was crazy, at least not in any DSM-[name-your-version-here] sort of way. “The thin line where genius and insanity meet; that’s your mother” was how Dad described her, and it was a dependable truth that if she ever did do anything that might finally make me truly begin to doubt her sanity, she’d always end up looking like twice the genius in the end. She knew her own mind. I could envision her, down on her knees, creating a tiny grave with her fingers in the sandy New Mexico dirt. I imagined her taking the fragile little stump of cord, wrapping it in a handkerchief, and lovingly putting it in the cradle of silver sand she had created. I pictured her taking one last look at the precious miniature package before pushing the earth back over it, hiding it away again, this time for the rest of her life. I could see her perfect nails, now grimy with Albuquerque soil. She had traveled a long, long way to perform this act, so it must have had a great meaning for her.
The question was what meaning?
It wasn’t till my first night at the hidden old mansion of an adobe on the outskirts of Santa Fe that I asked a beautiful Native American the question that had become rote for me.
“Do you know what it means when a mother buries her baby’s umbilical cord?”
“Of course,” Mahala answered, turning her copper face toward mine. “Why?” she gently whispered.
“My mother buried mine in Albuquerque, New Mexico,” I told her as tears filled my eyes. “And I never asked her why.”
“It is simple,” Mahala said. “That is where your soul is.”
Oh. My. God.
For some, it was hard to square his loud-mouthed, profane humanity with his genius.
That, for me, was never the problem.
We were so much alike that I certainly told him to go to hell with all the brilliant cussing skills I had learned so well from him and, I think, bested him at.
I remember the first time I told him to go to hell, in fact.
It stood out, because at that point I didn’t cuss.
I was very young and very “good;” only six years old at the time, in fact.
I remember – and can gauge my age – because we still lived on Palm Drive in Beverly Hills. (We lived there less than a year before moving to Stanley where we stayed through splitting our time between his Park Ave apartment in New York and our small stint in Upper Saddle River before the well ran dry again and we finally had to pack up all the places and I, at ten years old, became the only adult in the family.)
Anyway, we were wiring a “chandelier” of some kind over the big table in the huge dining room, me running the last wire through the ceiling with my “spidey sense perfection” as he called it, up on his shoulders, was almost through the drilled hole above when he lit a cigarette, made me lose the end of the little red plastic bump I had so carefully threaded through the wall up through the ceiling above, only to have him snap at me for him screwing the whole operation up.
Using his big head of wavy red hair like the horn on a saddle and his shoulders as a spring board I vaulted right off him onto the table, looked him in the eye and said,
Then turned on one toe, hopped off the huge wooden table and started off, head high, when I heard him slap the table hard with his big hand – the way everyone who knew him remembers he did in his constant, big-ness that encompassed all sight, movement, and certainly sound –
“Come back here, you little monkey,” he beamed, arms open wide for me to jump back up into, which I did, whispering the response he so loved into his ear in the middle of our bear hug, “No, daddy, I sloth.”
I had had a “chinning bar” from the age of toddler until I went off to college and we were still at “Number 5” when the “monkey”/”sloth” thing started, so I couldn’t have been older than 3 years, and was almost surely 2. Mom and I walked to the library every weekday and we had gotten some book on Strange Animals. I remember the Lemmings especially; the picture of them all jumping off the side of a cliff. Except I remember it as Lemons jumping off the side of a cliff. You know, Lemons.
Jumping off a cliff. Anyway, the book also had Sloths in it, and although I have no specific memory of them at all, I know I would just hang by my little legs upside down on the bar a lot, and one night Dad called me a “little Monkey” to which I responded, “No, Daddy. I Sloth!”
Anyone who knew him would understand how he would eat something like that up, and especially how he would hang onto it as one of many little back-and-forth type lines he loved to collect with friends. If you were close to Dad very long there was probably at least one little inside joke that also served as short performance art between you. One of his closest, longest, and truest friends and Dad had a pretty good little 5-line joke they readily did for friends on whether God was black or white.
(Of course Joe won. Dad would have never continued it if the underdog position didn’t win. God was black. “Hell, it’s only fair,” Dad said when he told me about the little routine they had worked out. He was so pleased with it that he, of course, had to tell me before he and Joe were able to show me.)
“You’re a Monkey!”/”No, Daddy, I Sloth!” was, till the very end, something we said to each other almost every time we saw each other for the next 30 years.
That was my damn daddy.
And I want to wish the man who loved me, annoyed me, and raised me in the oddest way imaginable, a happy birthday!
We loved each other, and my mother – all three of us so interconnected that no force, even ourselves – could ever break that bond. Mother left the cussing to me, but although she shunned it herself, I discovered quickly that she also approved of my minimally applied directed cussing at my father.
It filled a much needed void which was not her forte.
(My mother rarely cussed, the closest thing to an actual cuss word she used even semi-regularly – the only one that wouldn’t turn everyone’s head with shock – was “bloody.” She and Dad had spent about a year in England, staying mainly outside London in a beautiful old country house where she was bored out of her wits, as her journals attest, and other than her diaries and a few pictures, the only souvenir she brought back to the states was the co-option of “bloody” into her vocabulary. The perfect non-curse word, curse word. She occasionally said “damn,” which usually elicited some shock, I’m sure she said “shit” a few times in her life, but that was rare enough that I can’t remember a specific, and if she ever said “fuck” I would have died of shock on the spot.)
Dad said “fuck” every other word. He also played up the Okie Colloquialisms in California, and it was smart. He was, when he wasn’t too full of himself, a genius at self promotion.
My dad was undoubtedly brilliant, and I have loudly lionized him for the last decade, while quietly writing the story of the real genius, my mother.
And now that story will be unearthed. Step by step. Stone by stone. Just as she planned it. Clockwork. Reproduced so many new places each step of the way that stopping it is a ridiculous thought.
She was too smart for that from the beginning, even without the aid of technology.
(Although the technological side of it does feel like a sweet coup for the Universe, one further feeling of the sun smiling down. There was a time when all things were turned against us, and this story ever getting told. Injustices piled high and lies reigned. All that has changed, and the first clue in The Dr. Suess Scavenger Hunt comes in a few hours.)
So sure, once I decided that I would simply write “backwards” – completely natural for me – the issue of keeping those sacred texts safe became pressing.
I was learning to write deeper.
I was learning that writing helped me to understand what I thought I already knew. By the time I began Ms. McCann’s second grade class at Horace Mann Elementary I had seven journals hidden away in our Stanley Drive attic.
I was addicted to Annie and would scuttle between New York and Beverly Hills to see it. My dad could always get me the ungettable tickets and before long I had a sweet, red bound script on my lap and a letter from Mike Nichols himself in my little hands. Soon I would begin my own version of Annie at my school; not just producing, like Dad, but also directing and starring in it. Meanwhile journals were piling up and that began for me another problem.
I realized, child though I was, that there had to be something to placate my genetically over-curious mother who I was sure would snoop.
The answer was pretty straightforward, even for a seven year old.
I would need a decoy journal. Written left to right. Something for my mom to read so she wouldn’t keep looking and find the good stuff.
The ironic thing is that not only did mom figure out my little scheme quite quickly – in fact she had anticipated it – but she also respected it.
She thought it was clever.
And in a truly beautiful and loving example of her extraordinary farsightedness, she also recognized the profound implications of allowing me to continue believing that I was fooling her, namely that it allowed for me a space to explore my thoughts and feelings without the self-censorship that almost always accompanies a child’s journaling.
As a bonus, I got the benefit of feeling clever in a completely harmless way, which she also understood as healthy.
And as I was a very good kid there wouldn’t be a whole lot of other avenues for me to experience the satisfaction of feeling like I was getting away with something.
In college my friend Brenna was endlessly fascinated by my backward doodles while I talked on the phone. (I didn’t doodle pictures. Instead I would write some random word over and over and over and over, mindlessly. Only backwards.)
When I finally married, despite how close – both physically and emotionally – I was to my parents, I ended up impulsively eloping since I knew they didn’t like him.
I didn’t tell my parents until the next day. “Surprise, I’m married!”
My mom’s first question was,
“Consider keeping them here,” was all she said.
And she didn’t just mean the ones I was writing in at the moment.
She meant the two dozen big boxes worth stacked high in Dad’s work closet that began with a little girl’s very first secret from her mother. Her daughter’s stash of secret code.
Secret code hiding in plain sight.
Box after box after box – stacked high in dad’s amazingly tall work room closet, grew month by month of my marriage, untouched except to put a new one away for safe keeping. I wrote a lot, too. Sometimes hours a day. (It should be pretty clear by now that I can write quite a lot.) By the time my parents died I had been married 10 years, and in that time the number of used up, backward written journals had more than doubled, and I had to take two boxes up into the attic to make more room.
And all that time, no one even batted a damn eye.
It makes you feel like a god, almost, to have a secret that big and that powerful. And not an egoistic god-complex, kind of god; but touched by a sweet sense of the infinite.
There was also none of the two-faced, false front thing, either. At first, I made a serious attempt not do write backwards in front of anyone. I didn’t want to be found out. This was my secret. I never wanted anyone to know about it. But it didn’t take very long for me to become bolder.
In the end, I spent decades writing completely backwards in front of everyone, and no one ever noticed but my mother and Brenna at college. Ever.
And it was there in front of anyone and everyone to see. Mom saw it. But she was looking. She paid attention. Nothing escaped her notice. Nothing. Sometimes I thought my mother was more like an antenna than a human. And Brenna, in college, saw. But she, also, was a “noticer.” A noticer in close proximity to me almost all the time.
But nobody else saw. I wrote in those top secret journals in front of Tony a million times and tons of other people, every place I went, spanning decades. And no one ever noticed.
That was an amazing discovery. To have the world unveiled with such force, to realize beyond all doubt at a very young age how very little people notice, changed at once my perception of everything else in my world. And everyone else, as well.
Once, sitting in the middle school cafeteria table, not eating a thing while writing so furiously in my journal that I failed to notice that a real asshole – a proud bully – was standing right over me with his little group of bully wannabe’s.
He looked at my sacred spiral notebook and demanded: “Gimme that.”
I didn’t know what to do, but he grabbed it so fast that I didn’t have to make that decision.
I froze. It was open, I had been writing… it was right there. And now my hubris, which had made me sloppy, overly bold, and thoughtless was about to kick me in the ass. My secret of a decade, destroyed, in a matter of seconds.
He studied the page for a minute that for me, took hours, and then made a very unfriendly sound.
I couldn’t breathe.
Finally he said, “you have very pretty handwriting,” and handed me back my book.
“Thank you,” I replied, reaching for that journal as if it was breath itself.
People are very unware as a species. Completely unimpressive.
Tony never seemed too interested in the box of decoy journals stacked in our garage – at least he wasn’t interested yet; that would later change – but when my mom found out she had only a few weeks to live only to have my dad cut in line and manage to die first, the last thing on my mind were journals.
I was shell-shocked, anguished and lost. And my marriage was fine.
Still, mom understood that with neither parent alive my secret journal hideout was about to disappear, which to me seemed unimportant in the extreme, but there was no whim too silly for me, the only daughter of my just-widowed dying mother to turn down. One last game of “journal intrigue” seemed like the exact right ending.
It wasn’t the old journals themselves, so much, that were important.
What my mother understood, and what I would all too quickly come to understand, was the significance of the secret, itself.
Secrets bond us to others. A secret that only you and one other person in the world knows is a bond forged in titanium. To have that secret handed back to you, to carry alone and by yourself, well, you can’t. It just keeps the dead person from ever really dying. That secret remains past death.
It spans immortality with grace and ease.
Especially a secret like this one, which was conceived by my mother for the whole purpose of spanning immortality in the first place. The journals got incorporated in later. She had her wildly bold and hyper-imaginative immortality scheme cooked up long before I was even on the scene.
And it’s a doozy.
Anyway, Tony didn’t believe in secrets.
For Tony any secret was fundamentally sinful.
(Anyone else’s secret. He had plenty of his own that were anything but innocent.)
For me my backward journals are, quite literally, as close to sacred as anything physical could possibly be. They have existed for as long as my ability to write has existed, an outward manifestation of my very soul that I never shared with anyone.
And over all that time, the longer the secret stayed secret the more value the secrecy itself seemed to have. Everyone has thoughts and feelings they never share with anyone.
And we all have the right to that.
There was no way for me to know back then that whatever instinct made my mother suggest that maybe I should keep keeping that secret a secret would end up having value, but that is, indeed, what has happened.
Stick around. It’s just getting good.
DO YOU SEE IT?
it’s been there all along
I’ve been there all
Found this one on Saudi-US Information website listed under the hashtags #nottrending #antiviral
Lucky you have me, I guess.
I was, perhaps, a bit defensive about one particular term chosen by Batmish for my otherwise ridiculously complementary bio page in his graphically extraordinaire Christmas “Art As Arson” publication; and that term was “arcane.”
He called me a “dabbler in the arcane.”
I’m beginning to see his point.
“Deeper” was a word my mom used a lot. Not “more deeply,” but “deeper.”
“Remember deeper.” “Question deeper.” “Think deeper.” And always, always: “Love deeper.”
Mother was big on impressing upon my memory just who was the boss. She felt that the memories of most people were not utilized as well as they could be. She said that the memory was like a dog, and wanted to be trained. In fact, often, when I asked her to take a picture of a beautiful rock formation or sunset or lake or geyser or whatever else it was I wanted to remember from our journeys together, she’d just say, “Take a mind picture.”
The first time I remember taking a mind picture was in Kodachrome Basin State Park, when we were living in Utah. I wanted her to get a shot of the Grosvenor Arch, with the sunset pouring through it like a waterfall, but she was out of film. She threw her arm around me and said, “You take a mind picture, and I’d better take one too. Yes, that’s right. This scene is just too beautiful not to be saved for posterity.”
So we stood, side by side, both awed by the beauty of the great rock formations and the once-in-a-lifetime sunset.
“Okay, my darling. Do you know what you want the picture of?”
“Yes.” With my eyes I tried to catch the colors of the over-heated rainbow flowing down through the Arches and onto me.
“Are you looking at your picture right now?”
“Yes.” I squinted my eyes.
“Do you see the colors?”
“Can you see the frame?”
“Do you see the picture exactly?”
“Yes, Mother, yes!”
“Good. Now concentrate with all your might. Remember every ridge. Memorize every detail. Replicate every hue in your imagination. You got it?”
“Yes! I see it!”
“Good. Then get ready to swallow it. We’re going to swallow our pictures, okay? You ready? 1, 2, 3. swallow… Now!”
I swallowed. Then giggled. She giggled too, but took two more Swallowing Pictures before she said, “You will remember this Arch forever, because you have impressed it into your mind, my darling Tami. You just took a picture that can never be destroyed, stolen, or lost. You just took a picture that you can take with you wherever you go, forever, and no one can ever take it away from you.”
It makes me wonder if she knew, somehow, how my life would turn out.
Some people have jewels in safe deposit boxes. I have a soul in some notebooks.
I have written in journals since sometime in the first grade.
I have written all kinds of things in journals. My deepest secrets, my purest thoughts, quotes, and questions on life, truth, tragedy and comedy. Anything that comes to mind. Sometimes it’s long prose, sometimes poetry, but often just ideas, or a funny remark that someone has said. Unfortunately, I am separated from most of my journals right now. Some I will most likely get back. Others, I know, I will probably never see again. But I will always have them in my mind. Because once you write something down you’ve built a road connecting the valleys of your own brain. You lay down some actual track when you engage of the act of writing. It deepens the memory.
At least, that’s what my mother told me.
It was my mother who made me obsessed with writing everything down. I was about four years old, sitting snuggled up close to my mother at one end of the couch with her reading to me, when she paused, leaned into my ear and announced, in her most majestic, secret whisper: “Once you write something down, it is in your memory forever. Did you know that, my darling Tami?”
Wide eyed, I shook my head. No.
Her big blue eyes were suddenly a dancing circus in front of my small face.
“The act of writing is a mystical thing,” she continued. “More than the mere marks written upon a page; writing a thing down can actually bring that thing into being. It is already halfway there as soon as your pen touches the page! And understanding? Writing will rain down blessings of understanding and knowledge into your life! I tell you the truth, my little angel, the ballet of the pen is, at times, divine.”
Then Mother paused, took both of my hands between her long thin fingers, and turned me around to facing her. She leaned her head slowly in and I followed with mine, until our foreheads touched, and I looked up into the kind face of my pixie mother’s sapphire-rimmed eyes.
“But you already knew about the mystical nature of writing, of course, didn’t you, my sweet Tami?” my mother asked, smiling.
I didn’t know anything at all about the mystical nature of writing, but I don’t say so. Mother gave my nose the lightest of kisses and then kissed my forehead with her slightly puckered lips, while fluttering her lashes like butterfly wings in my hair.
(I love her love her love her.)
Still smiling warm sunshine, she took my left hand in her right, and mimicked writing on a page.
“The beauty of writing,” she said — while not so much holding my hand as dancing with it — “is that as your fingers skate across the page making the words on the paper they are also digging new little tunnels in your brain. A new road has just been built somewhere in your memory simply because you moved your pen. You will remember longer, because you have written a thing down. But more importantly,” she whispered, pouring her fairy-blue eyes into mine, “you will remember deeper, and if you should ever lose what you have written, it will remain, forever, deep within your soul.”
She made journaling sound like secret magic. And I wanted some.
My first diary, when I was seven, was leatherish with a metal attachment that clicked to close it. But just closing it didn’t seem safe enough to me. I wanted a lock. I wanted a place where I could write everything down. Everything. Anything. I didn’t want anyone else to ever read it. It was my magic journal. I was pretty sure that dad wouldn’t snoop in my stuff, but mom would read all she could. She would try not to, but she wouldn’t be able to help herself.
It wasn’t her fault.
She was born genetically over-curious.
So I felt that I had to consider other security plans, so that I, too, could partake of not only the mystical side of journaling, but also get new memory tunnels in my soul and roads in my brain.
There were plenty of good hiding places in and around our house, and I decided that I could move the sacred book around so that it would most likely never be found, but that still left one other worry. People were always looking over my shoulder when I wrote. Mom did it without even meaning to. I wanted to take my journal everywhere, and I wanted to record in it under any and all circumstances.. I wanted to be able to write whatever I thought at the moment without the writing affecting any of the behavior around me, but that seemed possible only if people couldn’t read what I was writing.
So I began writing the way I had before I learned better.
You see, at the age of four, once my mother realized that our five-day-a-week treks to the library had morphed into her only child learning to write, or something like it – I wrote “wrong;” that is, I reversed everything when I wrote, like a mirror, right to left instead of left to right – she intervened and ordered 2 big boxes full of teaching materials and taught me to read, and more importantly, to write.
Properly. Left to right.
It was difficult, but I learned. I don’t know why I had naturally reversed everything, and it would be years before DaVinci’s mirror writing became well known, so it was worrisome to my mom. I’m left handed, but so are a lot of people, and they don’t do that. I was still allowed to write my way, right to left, but I was encouraged, first by my mother, and then by the conformism of school, to
It always felt forced, and to this day my handwriting is much, much prettier when I write my way. Now, with this first journal, and my concerns about bearing my soul in it, I took back up my strange habit in force.
And I think that helped me to remember even deeper.
“Deeper” was a word my mom used a lot.
Not “more deeply,” but “deeper.”
I have to concur.
“The Senate Intelligence Committee didn’t do its job. No one, not one person on the Senate Intelligence Committee, asked the question Attorney General Jeff Sessions needed to answer: How long has he been working for Donald Trump while secretly making cookies in a tree?!”
I needed that.