A Christmas Present

I just finished a book my daughter-in-law gave me for my birthday called The Family Fang, written by Kevin Wilson.  wilsonkevin.com  An intriguing read, I recommend it as a stocking stuffer, especially if your gift-getter likes wacky, thought provoking humor.
The story revolves around two grown children whose artistic parents' love for the avant-garde has shaped their lives for good and otherwise. Raised as child A and child B, props and pawns in their parents disturbing performance art, they leave the nest running, in search of normal lives. Flashbacks reveal a childhood of family outings in crowded malls, a favorite with the Fang parents, where staged performances elicit the worst of human nature from unsuspecting passersby and create chaos--the only true "art." The children feel sad (and a kinship) for the unwitting audience that is video taped and used in the elder Fangs' abject art to procure grants and fellowships to produce more and wilder performances. Chaos dogs the adult children, as poor life choices ultimately bring them back home to face their art and their fears.
The author does a great job suspending the reader's disbelief. I found myself laughing out loud as the parents torture their children with embarrassment for art's sake. Wilson masterfully pokes fun at all the arts through the lives of The Family Fang.

The link below is performance art at its BEST--a Holiday Gift to you. Peace.

http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=Vnt7euRF5Pg&vq=medium

 

Holiday Preparations

The space heater whirs at my feet. A red cinnamon-apple candle smells delicious. The artificial tree, just decorated yesterday, feels fresh. Old scared, scratched ornaments, inherited hand-me-downs, crocheted Santas and wreaths, children’s art projects, bread dough Clauses and gingerbread men—dates penned on their backs, adorn our sentimental corner of Christmas.

I’m late this year. Hauling the decorations down slowly from the attic, one plastic tub at a time, I’ve been searching for my Christmas Spirit. “Joy-filled,” we are told, yet the season seems lacking amid school shootings and church statues smashed. My friend’s mother died, reminding me of my own sweet mother’s passing. Thinking of friends sick in the hospital or nursing homes, I’ve been fighting the urge to stay in bed.

This year our children and grands are circling the tree to celebrate after the New Year. This has left more time for preparations, yet it seemed I was caught in an invisible tangle of tinsel, drawn up like cuffs around my wrists. In my youth I had it all under control, scheduled—marching orders written and performed to the tap of the little drummer in my head.

This past weekend, in lethargic desperation I decided to accomplish ONE TASK—mail a box to the relatives up North. It took two days, but this accomplished, the Holiday cuffs felt looser. Yesterday, I awoke and pulled the covers over my head, thinking—only a week away and no cards have been sent. Guilt crawled under the covers and tugged at the tinsel. Remembering my earlier ONE TASK premise, I got up, grabbed the first card on the stack, wrote ONE line, and signed my name. At 5:30 am on my way to the gym, I mailed my first holiday card. I shook the tinsel to the ground and decorated the tree in the afternoon.

Today I’m enjoying the stockings hung on the mantle and the musical snow globe sparkling in the morning sun, but there’s one more tub that must be procured from the dusty attic. A spot has been cleared, ready for the crèche, prepared for the Baby.

Damp-cold

It's cold. The sun is shining outside, but the humid Louisiana air chills my fingers and neck. Damp-cold, like a curse word.

The trees on the far bank of my river shiver their reflection in the brown water as it trembles along. The silver-dollar sized leaves of the pear tree chatter to the ground from the slow breath of the North wind.

My old terrier licks her arthritic paws. Blue eyes beseeching, I give her a doggy ibuprofen. It's time to scavenge the closet for the space heater before we both turn into ice cubes.

Living Word

Happy Hollidays Y'all.

Jonah 2: 1-10 paraphrased

I remember praying to the Lord my God from the belly of my selFISHness, saying,

 “I called to the Lord out of my distress,

   and he answered me;

out of the belly of the refrigerator I cried,

   and you heard my voice.

You cast me into the back,

   into the mass of leftovers,

   and the food surrounded me;

all the syrup and salad

   covered over me.

Then I said, ‘I am driven away

   from your sight;

how shall I look again

   upon your holy temple?’

The Tupperware closed over me;

   the gravy surrounded me;

spaghetti was wrapped around my head

   at the bottom of the bowl.

I went down to the crisper

   whose drawer closed upon me forever;

yet you brought my life up from the Pit,

   O Lord my God.

As my life was ebbing away,

   I remembered the Lord;

and my prayer came to you,

   into your holy temple.

Those who worship vain idols

   forsake their true loyalty.

But I with the voice of thanksgiving

   will sacrifice to you;

what I have vowed I will pay.

   Deliverance belongs to the Lord!” 

Psalm 55:22 paraphrased

Cast your crap upon the Lord,

for he will take it and fertilize the most amazing fruits in your life.

Les Bon Temps Rouler

There’s a party at the river this morning. Looking out my window, you might not see it. The cool November air swirls a mist above the warm sienna water, and an eerie morning glow dawns through the silence.

I’ve been remembering my family and friends, saying prayers for loved ones, living and dead. The holiday season with its television worldview sometimes spills onto my life, gravy smeared across the red and green pressed tablecloth. But my heart drums a back-beat of blessings today.  I begin to sway to the melody of memories and laughter. A few tears mix it up, as the sax wails its mournful notes. Gratitude catches the upbeat, and my soul fills with harmony.

There’s no need for annoying conversation at this party. My ten-year-old housecoat is the perfect outfit. No one cares about my bed-hair or chipped nails, witty comments, or if spinach dip is lodged between my teeth. What a great party. Thank you, Lord. You really know how to throw ‘em.

Justice

She went to court today, shackled at her ankles and wrists.  2 ½ years she sat, waiting for justice, refusing to plead out -- 30 months, 913 days, 2 birthdays, sleeping on bunks in a dorm with 29 other women, lights on day and night, toilets and showers in view of the deputies, no ac in the summer, one fan, and little heat in the winter, unable to hug her kids. Yes, it's jail, but where is the speedy trial guaranteed by the constitution?

Mug shots flash across the television. The D.A's charges announced, no sensation in the rebuttal--found guilty by a jury of local news.

Bail is revoked. Family can't afford a lawyer? No problem, by law everyone must be provided legal counsel. Assigned to one of twelve public defenders, who handles 500 other clients, "a deal" is worked out with the prosecution. "Plead guilty to a lesser charge, and get out sooner." Keep it out of court -- less work, less money spent, looks good on paper, move on to another case. But WAIT, what if she's innocent? "Plead out. It's in your best interest," repeated over and over for years, as she sits, her life on hold.

What's the cure for a broken system not accountable to taxpayers? Certainly not a society driven by fear. "Mercy, Lord," it yells. "They're in jail. They must be guilty," It chants over and over before plunging headlong into a rerun of Law and Order.

She shuffles from the van with 4 others dressed in orange, INMATE stamped across their backs.  Chains clank with each step, as they drag on the ground between the ankle bracelets. Back from court, she is one of the fortunate. Time, patience, and a frustrated judge has garnered a temporary release to her ailing mother's supervision.

A court date is set in 4 months, but this is subject to change. Unprepared because of time restraints or budget cuts, counsel on either side can beg the courts forgiveness and postpone the hearing again and again. Ironically, a simple clerical error, a stroke of the computer key, has been known to send a person back to jail on a technicality. Due process?

My Name is Chris and I'm A Writer

Ahhh, Blogspot, I have not forsaken thee. Forgive my transgression. Life has attempted to choke my creativity. My priorities were askew, but fear not, I have not forgotten thee. I have come to make amends. My soul has been revived by the Bayou Writers' Group 9th Annual Bridge to Publication. www.bayouwritersgroup.blogspot.com

This past weekend, BWG hosted six excellent presenters for a full day of fun and networking.

• We were inspired by the poetry of author Stella Nesonovich stellanesanovich.com who warmed our hearts and walked us through the streets of N.O. 
• Poet and story teller Mona Lisa Saloy monalisasaloy.com  gifted us with her stories and singing, as we pulled up a chair and sat with her family.
• Novelist and BWG past president, Jess Ferguson jessyferguson.blogspot.com  is still educating, encouraging and inspiring us with "the power of a made up mind."
• Humorous editor and author Linda Yezak lindayezak.com explained the need for a professional editor.
• Agent Brooks Sherman fineprintlit.com/agents/brooks-sherman , listened to our pitches when he wasn't answering questions concerning what New York wants. 
• Saturday's finale and my favorite, mystery writer C. Hope Clark chopeclark.com  encouraged us to join contests and be proud to say "I'm a writer." 

I walked away from this conference with a renewed commitment to myself and my writing. In the next week I will set long and short term goals and revisit them regularly. I plan to enter multiple contests, being persistent and methodical. I will continue to write what I know and research what I don't. Educating myself about technology, I plan to increase my electronic presence. I've made up my mind. How about you?