Meaningful Nothingness

When I was a kid there was nothing more joyous than the last day of school.

That last minute seemed like an eternity.

I swear the clock moved backward.

Then finally…

FREEDOM!

No more pencils, no more books!

Of course there was the required summer reading to do, but wasn't the last three days of summer vacation enough time to read Stuart Little?

The summer spread out in front of me like a big picnic blanket.

A little of this a little of that.

Nothing to do but think about what I was going to do....

Noteworthy achievements like:

Digging the worlds biggest hole.

Seeing how many circus peanuts I could fit into my mouth.

Testing the duration of a thick piece of chalk by starting a line in my driveway and ending who knows where.

Seeing if it were at all possible to do a 360 on my swing set.

Making a tree house out of odds and ends around the yard.

Finding out if I could somehow contact my dead pets from the great beyond.

Making the world's longest dandelion chain.

Ditto the gum wrapper chain.

Unraveling a baseball to see what was in the middle.

Listening to every record I owned at every rpm.

My summers were filled with endless quests for meaningful nothingness.

Today I am sitting on my porch and there is not a kid in sight.

No whooping and hollering.

No skateboards or bikes.

No scooters or trikes.

The quest for the world's biggest hole has been "ditched" to make way for the quest for the world's greenest lawn.

Clotheslines that used to serve as the world's biggest slingshots are frowned upon or downright banned in some neighborhoods.

That's a shame too.

Grown-ups are ruining all of the fun!

I feel like picking up a piece of chalk.

And starting at the end of my driveway

Making a line.

Not caring about:

What the neighbors think.

My back.

How much lead may be in the chalk.

What my ass looks like stooped over

Why

I will not care that this is not an important team building exercise or that it will not make me a well rounded individual.

Not going to care a whit that it won't help my daughter get into the college of her choice.

Could care less that is not an activity approved by professionals within the community.

I'm not gonna give a hoot that it isn't something that is going to look good on my resume.

I am on an endless quest for meaningful nothingness.

Hoping to find those perfect summers of my youth that have somehow gone missing.

Get out your piece of chalk and join me!

Peace - Rene

For some reason, that I have not figured out, IE users are having tremendous difficulty posting comments. If you find you cannot and would like to comment on anything please do so at xenia6408@mypacks.net and I'll get back to you as soon as I am able...as always... you rock.

Music That I Write To

WARREN ZEVON

Stephen Talkhouse

Miami Beach, Florida

November 25 (or) 26, 1992

Photo by: Mindy Hertzon

Warren Zevon - Genuis

When I am feeling writer-ly one of the clues would be to hear Warren Zevon, on blast, throughout the manse. My family knows this and will say, "You gonna write?" whenever they hear that opening guitar riff and piano slide on Poor, Poor Pitiful Me. I let myself get sucked into that hit of music for a bit, let it swirl around my head and then add on cue with Warren "I don't wanna talk about it"...

The music of Warren Zevon has been a constant in my life. I grew up listening to him sing Iko, Iko, Hitch Hiking Woman and Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner. His twisted brand of storytelling made me sit my little ADD arse still for a few minutes to just listen, putting myself into the picture. Each lyric a stroke of the brush that brought to life a dark carnival ride of characters and situations, from the fucked up kid who should've been on meds of Excitable Boy to the envy inspiring hilarity of a line like "little old lady got mutilated late last night" on Werewolves Of London to the anthemic cry of Lawyers, Guns and Money, Warren dragged me, quite willingly, into his weird little world, introduced me to his tribe, and allowed me to freely write as if I were describing a dinner party gone horribly wrong to a blind person or reporting from the scene of a fatal circus accident.

The man was also a romantic genius and could write a damn fine love song. Hasten Down The Wind is heart achingly beautiful, "So he's hanging on to half her heart, he can't have the restless part", oh, those lovelorn pangs are nothing short of magic. Covered by so many artists, Hasten, to me, will always belong to Linda Ronstadt. Her voice was just meant to sing that song. Another widely covered gem is Reconsider Me. I want to believe every word of the hero's plea " And I'll never make you sad again 'cause I swear that I've changed since then."

It is truly a sad thing that there will be no more new music from Warren. Fortunately I never tire from what he's left from his brief time here.

I will keep him in my heart for a while....

Enjoy every sandwich, people...

If you have another moment this short interview by Crystal Zevon is worth your time.

Do you have a favorite artist that you listen to while writing or creating or even cleaning the house?

What inspires you?

Peace - Rene

For some reason, that I have not figured out, IE users are having tremendous difficulty posting comments. If you find you cannot and would like to comment on anything please do so at xenia6408@mypacks.net and I'll get back to you as soon as I am able...as always... you rock.

On My Fookit List

Number one on the list

Would have to be this.

Isn't it delicious?

It is currently sitting on my bedroom floor

split open like a loaded baked potato.

I currently have no laundry mojo.

I am also suffering from Post Vacation Dementia

and find myself having to get re-acquainted with the remote and my own local television stations.

I have caught myself twice answering the phone with my mother's greeting.

I woke up the first night back and for a split second was confused as to where I was ( no drugs or alcohol were contributing factors)

I think the best way to treat this temporary disorder is to gently ease myself back into reality

And that all begins....

As soon as I get back from the beach.

Peace - Rene

For some reason, that I have not figured out, IE users are having tremendous difficulty posting comments. If you find you cannot and would like to comment on anything please do so at xenia6408@mypacks.net and I'll get back to you as soon as I am able...as always... you rock.

I'll Pass That Along...

Over my vacation I picked up “Who’s Writing This?” by Daniel Halpern (1995) Harper
at a yard sale for twenty five cents.

Quite a steal for the getting of knowledge.

The question asked of 55 famous writers was “Who is really controlling the pen?”
Based on Jorge Luis Borges “Borges and I” essay.

The answers were sometimes deep, sometimes reflective and some really made me chuckle.
But they all made me aware of something that I have know for some time, and I have been silent about…

Someone else is in charge of the writing.

Such rich wisdom at bargain basement prices.

I identified with so many of quirky traits that inhabit many of these writers. Mainly the fact that I could not ever call myself a writer…even after I have just read to you, something I wrote. Even after you have just asked me if I write…Even after you have just told me that you really loved what I wrote in that poem…Even after I just spent half of the damn day typing many sentences into Microsoft Word...Even when I get up at 2:00 AM to jot a thought down...

No I don't write.

But you liked what I wrote...it was really, really good...

What did I write? I didn’t really write that, but I’ll pass that message along ...

Oh sure, I can type out that I write in confidence, or write out that I write a thousand times on a piece of paper…but saying that? Out loud? I could not do that in my own voice.

It would have to be in that slow, honey on the back of her tongue, drawl of her voice…

And oh how I wait for her sometimes, like a lovesick teenager…to use me up.

She who writes.
She who nags and seeks and dizzies me in the details of her way.
She who is the personification of how writing makes me feel.

Jane Smiley puts it perfectly to her readers in her contribution to the book:
“Before you came along, all there was to my act of writing was that seductive sliding feeling followed by elation and the fatal wish to share it.”

Yes! Yes! Yes!

Jane goes on to say that each attempt to share that feeling was met with suggestions for improvements, perplexed looks and well meaning words. And that the most important, addictive thing to come out of any of her work was that seductive sliding feeling. Something, she learned, that just can’t be shared with others.

Amen, Jane.

It’s a near constant itch that I need scratched.

But it’s not my itch…it’s her itch.
And therein lies the rub :)

Peace -Rene

For some reason, beyond my control, comments cannot always be posted while using IE, if you are having trouble...feel free to email me...you can find the address on my profile. Sorry for the (hopefully) temporary nuisance

Peace - Rene

Water Therapy

Sugar frosted feet
And sun kissed knees
Freckled faces
Saying "Cheese"

Families on the beach
Under umbrellas
Building sandcastles
For Cinderella

Some folks bring everything
But the kitchen sink
We only bring towels, oranges and sunscreen
And something to drink

An orange just tastes better
While sitting on the beach
There's nothing more delicious
Except maybe a peach

The water beckons
With her salty hello's
"Come a little closer,
Let me tickle your toes."

Her tidal aroma
Through my senses does swirl
The breath of life
My spine uncurls

Her many voices
A roar, a crash
A giggle, a whisper
A puddle splash

Buckets of seashells
Getting too heavy to hold
Can we throw some back?
No, each one of them is gold

We sit on our towels
As we count up our treasures

An infinite number
Of simple pleasures

Among them

sun, sand and water

What a perfect day

For me and my daughter.

Peace - Rene

all words and images by rene 2009

Let there be running water...

Kitchen renovations are almost complete at Ma's. Just in time for us to leave! :(

I wanted to dive into this sink ( it's plenty deep enough) as soon as the water was hooked up!



Let there be a machine that cleans the dirty crockery and vessels of the weary and prune handed....and then there was dishwasher.




Let there be be drawers for said crockery and vessels and let the drawers be deep enough for a small human to sleep in.



And may those drawers have sliding levels, providing loft space for smaller crockery and utensils.



And may there be smooth abundant countertop, as far as the eye can see...

Smooth, clean, unstained and uncrumbed...

All is good!

The floors still need to be put in and the walls need to be primed and painted but it really is lookin' sweet.

You deserve it Ma!

Peace - Rene

Nice Shot

The only thing competing with the temperature for the century mark, this past weekend, would've been my husband's blood pressure.

I admit, I may be a contributing factor.

Mea fookin' culpa.

Before I get going on the details I need to give you a little bit of background on my husband and I.

Me. Creative, spontaneous, liberal artsy, leans to the left.

I think on the fly and I can change my opinion mid-sentence.

I should work at Waffle House, my husband tells me.

I can be impulsive but I really have come a long way in that regard, I now wait a full five seconds before making any decision.

I admit that some of my choices have led to Lucille Ball-esque scenarios but my husband gets a lot of mileage out of those escapades with his stories.

They are big hits at parties.

Wouldn't be possible with out me doin' the things I do.

The stuff that legends are made of.

It is my full time job to make sure he remembers how to smile!!

My husband.

Linear thinker.

Carefully plans everything down to the molecular level.

Researches and fact checks everything twice.

Trusts no one.
Not even Mapquest.
Will actually get a map out to fact check.
"495? that's insane I'd never take 495. 290 is clearly the better choice. No nothing hacks"

Moves at glacial speed.
Wait.
The glaciers may actually move faster now.
The archenemy of spontaneity.
Conservative
He's a loving husband and a caring, present father.

Now on with the story:

It all started on a humid Saturday morning in our suburban incubator.
God know the temperature was hot enough to hatch a stone let alone an egg.
And there came a yelp from Man cave.
A yelp for help.
I dash in to see what's the matter and find my husband squirrel like and frantically digging through boxes.
"I can't find my Topps baseball blabbedy blah"......

I don't know what he is talking about.
OK, I block out what he's talking about....

I know he loves his baseball cards like the Rainman but that's as deep as I get into it.

"Where did you move them?"
Why? He asks me Nancy Kerrigan like Why?
You are always touching my things.

It's true. I do move things.

But it is only to clean and dust Man cave.
I try to put things back but once you dust, you lose the dust outline.
Let's get a grip here.
Is this the fookin' Smithsonian?

So we do a hard target search of the area.
Nothing.
He is now mentally picking out caskets.
Then it dawns on me.
I had to move some summer clothes out of Man cave and I may have placed the baseball cards in the spare bedroom to get them out of the way.
I sneak off to the spare bedroom and there they are, sitting on the bed, all smiles.
So freaking busted.
I sulk back into Man cave, cards in hand, tail between my legs.
My husband lights up.
Did he just say "my precious"?

No, not to me.

To the cards.

"You found them"!

So you did move them. You are always touching my stuff. I wish you wouldn't. You are careless..blabbedy blah...

Wish I wouldn't touch your stuff?

Everything?

Be careful what you wish for.

The morning evolved thusly:

I cleaned the kitchen within an inch of it's life.
Scrubbed the cupboards and cleaned the newspapers off of the table.
Hubby comes lumbering out of the bathroom.

Who took my papers? I was reading those.

"You mean you weren't doing that in the bathroom?", I ask

Rene!
You can't help yourself. What is it with you today and my stuff?

Apparently he is still reeling from the horror of this morning.
A wee bit bitter too.

What I did next made him pine for the mornings events.

Whilst backing the truck out of the driveway I smacked the passenger's side rearview into the frame of the garage door.
The impact ripped the mirror off with a bile inducing,that's gonna cost you $800, craaaack.
Perfect.
Cherry on the cake, right?
I looked at my daughter’s face and she made the perfect "oh sh.." face.
That's my girl!
God she looks like me.
Dad is going to freak, Mom. Seriously.

Wise words grasshopper.

My husband comes running out of the house as if he were on hot coals.
He sees that we are OK.
But stops short when he sees the damage.

I think that painting "The Scream" by Edvard Munsch would be an accurate depiction of the scene.

Go big or go home.

You are a successful pain in the ass today, honey.
But at least you're onto your own stuff now.

What is with this my stuff, your stuff with him, lately?

"You know Rene, I have a mental national debt ticker running every time your feet hit the ground."

That was so funny even I had to sit down.
"Priceless," I said
"Not exactly," he grumped
Aw,you just needed new material, I consoled
I saw your need and I fulfilled it.
You are so going to be the life of the next party, you know that.

I inspire! I proudly tell him.

Take a break, he tells me, I'm all set for the rest of the year.
He walked over to the rearview and shook his head in disbelief ( or was it shock and awe?) at the lifeless dangling mirror.
Unbelievable.
Nice Shot, Rene

Peace -Rene

This a repost from last summer, but it may be new stuff for many of you, Enjoy the fireworks!!