Category: writing

Oasis

Oasis in dp

I-90 runs through Illinois and just off the Mt. Prospect road exit was a place that meant something to a lot of us that grew up in the Northwest suburbs of Chicago. It wasn’t a beautiful place, just a typical 1950’s utilitarian brick and glass, I-could-easily- be-transformed-into-a-minimum-security-prison…or-a-school, design. It was the Des Plaines Oasis, a road side rest stop/restaurant/and well known gathering place for local teens in the wee hours of the night.

Even though you may have never driven I-90 through Des Plaines, you’ve probably seen it. It was the building lit by fire from the flame thrower Carrie Fisher used to torch the Blues Brothers while they made a call in a phone booth. By the time this film was made in the 1970’s, the restaurant had already changed hands from the old Fred Harvey franchise.
Here’s the scene.

They tore it down this past weekend to make way for road widening. Not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but it got me wondering where teens will go now at 3 in the morning to eat waffles and drink gallons of coffee after sneaking out of the house.

Back then, it was the only thing around for anyone under 21 when your munchies sent you into the night in search of a plate of fries and a hot fudge sundae. Everyone I knew wandered through that place at some point on a weekend. Looking at the door in the photo, got me thinking of all the people’s hands that touched that door handle over the past 50 plus years. Friends, lovers, classmates, neighbors and uncountable others; the famous and the civilian suburbanites; they all grabbed that handle and made their way to a leatherette booth where a plastic coated menu awaited their hungry eyes. So many of them are now gone from this world, mixed with the dust of the demolition.

In some less patchouli smelling, eight track dimension of my memory, the words that Izak Dineson wrote in her book (later a movie), Out of Africa rose up again…

“If I know a song of Africa, of the giraffe and the African new moon lying on her back, of the plows in the fields and the sweaty faces of the coffee pickers, does Africa know a song of me? Will the air over the plain quiver with a color that I have had on, or the children invent a game in which my name is, or the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that was like me…?”

All things must pass. Thank you and goodbye, Des Plaines Oasis. You were the scene of many hilarious conversations with friends dear to my heart. And thanks Fred Harvey Restaurant (way back when) for your pencil-stuck-in-their-hairdo servers that let us just hang out when the rest of the world was closed for the night.

Somewhere in the air over where you once stood, there is a shadow of me with waffle syrup stuck on it somewhere. It’s quivering with laughter and humming a song from Tumbleweed Connection.

All things must pass. Gone but not forgotten.

Salt in My Wound

sea salt

Question: Am I missing out on some sort of secret, super delicious farm salt? Mountain salt, perhaps? Or maybe it’s prairie salt that I should be wanting…

I went to open a box of Triscuits and noticed that the label proudly announced, “Made with sea salt.” Wow. Really?

Technically, all salt is sea salt. Mined salt is nothing but seriously old sea salt that was trapped when the oceans receded from current land masses some 300,000,000 years ago. So… sorry gourmet sea salt peddlers, you’re going to need to come up with a better catch phrase.

That, or maybe I can start bottling and selling Earth Air and Wet Water. Yes, I think I will. Let me get to the patent office before someone steals my idea…………….
And this is what I do to avoid working on the damn speech I’m supposed to be giving this weekend.

Poetry Day: Where Your Wings Were

Crying-Angel-angels-20162613-1024-768

You know that place between your shoulder blades

that you can’t reach?

Even if your hands can touch behind

they are useless

to soothe the need,

to fill the place

where something important used to be.

Sometimes-

you can reach it

with a shower brush.

Fire and joy fill the spot

as a million tiny severed connections-

evidence of your divinity-

come to life again.

It’s where your wings were

once-

right there

part of your body

before you fell-

before you came here

to understand

what love is

and what pain feels like

and what it means to be a human.

So, tell me,

was it worth it

when you lost them?

Do you miss them every day?

You can feel them again, you know-

when someone holds you close

their hands meeting at the broken place

where your wings used to be.

The touch causes skin to sing again

and flex to unfurl your glory.

Gone now-

Tell me, human,

was it worth it?

Poetry Day- Elixir … for Valentine’s Day

Yuko heart pic

Elixir

Viscous fluid

once known – that filled our fragile lungs

nurturing as we grew

forming out of nothing-

Fluid breathed that once expelled, left us yearning

for the fullness it offered every open space within.

Expelled and replaced by some

Sad substitute necessitating constant vigil-

Until – one day- again

a breath taken becomes so much more than

all the breaths we took before.

This breath, this invisible treasure –

holds pure essence of another

mingled in its molecules.

We taste on tongue and inhale deeply-

memory of something lost

that fed and formed us

Now back again-

filling every open place

and we are home.

It comes unseen on random breeze

Impossible to anticipate.

Its elixir

Poured by angels

Down parched throats

Anointing each remaining breath as

Worthy food

To feed a hungry soul.

It is no wonder-

Should it leaves us-

Why we gasp and whither

Having lost it twice in one life.

Poetry Day: Move

shovel

MOVE

Do you want me to move you?

Show me

just a little of who you really are-

I will make a shovel out of words-

and dig down beneath your soul

so I can lift it out-

intact

and present it to you

from every side.

When you see it

all together like that

and not in the scattered,

broken pieces

that you think now define you

as no longer complete-

as damaged goods –

then

you will see what I see

and this sad home

that you have made in your head

will be too small-

forcing you to move

to more suitable accommodations.

Jar of Wonder

Jar of wonder

I’ve used the last of the lotion I concocted several months back and I can’t seem to toss out the cool jar. It’s squatty and round and it once held a moderately pricey and amazing royal jelly body butter from Savannah Bee Company.

Custom blending makes me feel like an alchemist; scooping and stirring and sniffing this and that to decipher its compatibility with the other bits and bobs. I do the same thing with spices, much to the entertainment of my family. Oh, crap. Here she goes again. It starts as a chore because I’m out of something that I need. Once I get going, I fall into the spirit of the scavenger hunt around my home. Every bathroom has some Bermuda Triangle area of lotions and potions and tiny tubes and bottles from hotel stays and gift baskets that I open and smell. If it passes muster, it comes with me to the kitchen.

I start with something thick and un-tinted like Nivea and add a few tablespoons of it to the jar; then the fun begins. A teaspoon of Curel, another of Jergens another of some cocoa butter weirdness and on it goes until it’s almost full to the top. At the end, I add a big dollop of some perfumed cream with a soft and lovely fragrance like the old Breathe Romance from Bath & Bodyworks which, of course, they no longer make just because I love it. Luckily, I’ve been a miser with my last jar so I save it for mixing like Merlin would have saved his stash of dragon blood for spell work.

I’ve made a tiny treasure of this oft used vessel and now call it my Jar of Wonder and the lid bears some of my artsy handiwork and sparkles like a starry night. It seems so much more lush and decadent with the beauty lid when I go to rescue my indoor-winter sand paper feet and hands.

The point of all this is that when I found the jar empty this morning, my first reaction was the same as it is when so many good things end; a downslide into an inventory of all that once was and is no longer at my fingertips. It’s just a jar for cripes sake. I know this. But, cut me some slack. I live in mid Michigan; the second cloudiest place in America, so my vitamin D sunshine levels are dangerously low in January.

And as it turned out, while I was on my search for ingredients, the more I found, the deeper it sunk in that I do indeed have far, far more of everything of this sort than I could ever need. Even if that means I have a whole lot of a little of this and a little of that.

So, it’s not a 40 oz. vat of royal jelly body butter. No matter. If I had a giant container to mix and stir in, I could probably make 40 oz. of my Wonder Cream and be up to my neck in it for months to come. And is that not the way of all our “I don’t have enough…” stories?

Maybe we don’t have Jay Leno’s garage full of cars and motorcycles to choose from that might match our outfits today, but we can always find a way to get from point A to point B and that was the goal anyway.

Perhaps we aren’t in the throes of big-big love at this part of our lives, but we may have a dozen friends and family members who collectively fill our cup with joy and that is really something.

So I don’t have any royal jelly body butter left, but I do have all this other stuff that, together, works remarkably well.

The point is, when you’re feeling like you’ve just run out of something and you’re going to feel its absence because you have come to count on it, go on a scavenger hunt in your life and see if you might have a variety of things you can notice and celebrate and bring together to make your own Jar of Wonder to soothe the rough spots in your life.

Look around. You just might surprise yourself.

Poetry Day: Phoenix

Stealing_Heaven_Phoenix_Rising_by_Apophysis

Phoenix

Only in the opening of climax

do we awaken and

release the immortal phoenix

dreaming deeply within-

its vastness experienced

as our bodies rise

sternum to the sky

to receive the ecstatic lightening

that burns away

age,

body,

class,

race,

care

and situation-

we all rise

on wings we have kept tucked

tight to our backs

hidden beneath street clothes

extending them only

in private-

with another-

who came in the name

of

LOVE

Of Fire, Football and Flaming Couches…

So, the Michigan State University Spartans are Rose Bowl bound. That’s a really good thing. It’s been too many years since they had the opportunity to shine that way on a football field. We’re all happy here in East Lansing. What we’re not happy about is the stupid, dangerous and embarrassing practice of drunken student revelers who set fire to couches to “celebrate” wins or “mourn” sports losses. It’s obnoxious and it lands this town in the national news highlighting the hand full of idiots who do this, effectively taking away the bright shiny light that should be squarely on the kids who earned a spotlight with a stellar win in a tough competition.

Fire.

Fire has always been a symbol and a tool for survival, transformation, protection, destruction and a host of other processes that are uniquely human when we employ its heat for our end goals. As far back as we can track, humans have gathered around fires for meals, councils, protection from predators and ceremonies. The mesmerizing qualities of fires, especially big ones, is commonly known. When you combine that hypnotic quality with a group of older teens and young adults, often fortified with alcohol who are primed to behave like idiots anyway, fire becomes a convenient and dangerous outlet when left in the hands of tall children.

So what do we do about it? I suggest we give couch burning the Roman Christmas Tree Treatment.

Christmas trees, pine boughs, holly and ivy were not originally Christian symbols. They were Druid/Pagan symbols. Druids worshipped their own nature deities outdoors. After the Roman invasion of Druid territories where sacred tree groves were cut down or burned to stop their worshipping, occupying soldiers found that Druids were secretly carrying branches and other bits of nature into their homes so they could continue their already centuries old traditions inside at the family hearth. Realizing they couldn’t stop every family from this practice, they embraced the practice and declared that the birth of Christ was to be celebrated at the same time of year (winter solstice). They began decorating their quarters with pine boughs and even creating wreathes made of pine instead of their traditional laurel from their homeland. They embraced the “problem” and over time completely redefined the practice so effectively that today, modern Christians will argue until they are blue in the face that “Christmas Trees”, celebrating the birth of Christ (an April baby according to research) at winter solstice has always been their own tradition. That’s how easily history is rewritten by the winners.

Here is my version of The Roman Christmas Tree Treatment for MSU’s pesky couch fire problem. Enter; Hephaestus’s Fire Circle. We have a cute Sparty mascot to cheer on the student athletes and others on campus and he’s perfect for the job. Funny, feisty, adorable, spirited and welcoming, Sparty is the man for all things P.G. and MSU. Who he isn’t is a symbol for all the other stuff that also smolders just below the surface of every gathering of “spirited” young people and that is unbridled passion and a big helping of stupid.

Not so long ago, college campuses regularly hosted pep rally bonfires. It was typically a homecoming tradition, and some schools continue the practice today. They continue even after a very unfortunate and avoidable tragedy at a Texas campus bonfire where several students died when their fifty nine foot high wedding cake structure of eighteen foot logs collapsed during construction.

First rule of Hephaestus’s Fire Circle: No fifty nine foot structures with eighteen foot logs.

Here’s how the new tradition would work. First, we need a Hephaestus. There are a ton of guys on campus who spend every free moment pumping iron in a gym somewhere so they can double as a Macy’s Parade Balloon Hercules. Get one of those guys. Have a contest and let the girl’s chose him. That guarantees female participation and like every bar owner worth their salt knows, where it’s ladies night, guys show up. Put him in an ancient Greek costume with a leather iron worker’s apron and he will be the host of the fire circle.

Cordon off a massive circle area somewhere south on campus and add low fencing around it keeping revelers back several feet from the large central fire. Between the revelers and the fire, there should be a circular mound of sand going all the way around the fire. Fraternities, sororities, campus groups, apartment complex residents, rental home housemates and any other groups that would like to be a part of the event can sign up on line to bring an object they have created to burn in Hephaestus’s Fire.

Last night, they could have brought a large Buckeye effigy made of paper, wood or other burnable material. Onlookers comprise the farthest ring and possibly sit in bleachers for a better view. Participants gather with their cohorts around the circle outside the barriers. The circle moves clockwise. The first group’s representative steps up and presents their object to Hephaestus who examines it, announces to the crowd what it is and then ceremoniously tosses it onto the bonfire. He can pound a big sledge hammer on an anvil to make a lot of noise while the crowd cheers. The circle moves clockwise again allowing the second group to present their object and so on until all groups gathered around the circle have been addressed and all objects burned. When the last object is burned, there is music and entertainment and then the fire is extinguished when the sand that surrounds the fire is shoveled on to it by hundreds of fire volunteers. The public disperses and the fire volunteers complete the extinguishing process until it is deemed completely out.

Campus gets a brand new tradition and a way to bring kids together in a safe celebration. Kids get to burn stuff. Win-Win. It’s the Roman Christmas Tree Treatment. If you can’t beat them, join them…and guide them to safety. I’m just sayin…

Hephaestus