Brewed Nature

Why I'm Voting For Obama

2008-10-29T18:20:00.004-05:00

My ShoutLife friend, Lisa Holloway, posted the following blog to which my reply follows:

The Obama Conundrum Tuesday, October 28, 2008 - 10:04 PM

Rather than hi-jack my own (other) blog to continue making Obama quips, let me just put it out there: What about Obama do you find reassuring?
---
Lisa Holloway
New Horizon Writing
Visit My Website

First, let me start off by saying I am never reassured by any politician.
Here's why I am voting for Barack Obama:

I would normally vote for an independent, but this election is too important to me to END the Bush/Cheney tyranny that's plagued this country for eight long years. So I have to support Obama to make that happen.

Obama's tax cuts will help anyone who makes less than $250,000. I don't know many people that wouldn't help. In my opinion, if you're making over $100,000--you're well off. Over $200,000--you're rich so you can afford to help spread some love. And if you're a small business owner who can't figure out how to keep your income under $250,000 by investing (protecting) the rest of your money into your own company, than you don't deserve a break. Large corporations should have to pay much, much more into our society. CEOs and profiteers can easily take a cut in pay and still live very well--and that money could help raise those who deserve it--the worker bees. Increase their salary. Even Obama said in the last debate that he has no problem taking a cut in pay. **PERSONAL EXAMPLE: In my town, the city board thought it wise to provide tax cuts for incoming corporations like: Target, Walmart, Borders, Barnes & Noble--because they need it. Right. This shut the doors of many of our smaller locally-owned businesses like bookstores and gift shops and ma & pa grocers who couldn't compete and lost business. Why not give small-business owners a tax break? Oh, wait, that's what Obama wants as well. What a smart man.**

I want health insurance. And I don't want pre-existing conditions to stop anyone from getting it. McCain's plan of a 5,000 dollar tax break to all won't help everyone--especially those who have more severe health problems and require more expensive policies. Ok, so you have $5,000 to finally purchase that health insurance you've needed for years but had to go without--now, how are you supposed to pay for the rest when your policy is costing you more than that? And the whole idea of purchasing insurance from other states just brings about way too many problems to get into here. Besides, shouldn't the richest country in the world provide health care to all its citizens? Shouldn't good health be a civil right? I don't see how it's not. America is listed 24th for Infant Mortality Rate. That's pathetic and embarrassing.

Abortion should be a legal right for women. Whether it's legal or not, if a woman wants an abortion she will find a way--even if that way kills her. Making abortions illegal won't change the number of abortions per year. Whether I would have an abortion or not is not the issue here. Each woman should be able to make her own moral decision--especially keeping in mind the Free Will we were all granted by God. It should never be regulated by the government. Just like prohibition--that didn't work either for the same basic reason. Laws will never dictate singular actions-just punish them.

I believe, even though Obama is a politician, that he is sincere in wanting to help American citizens to the best of his ability. I believe that he is a good man.

Obama will create green jobs and lessen our dependency on countries we should not want to deal with for our oil--which is the only reason we deal with these countries in the first place. Our country will become more self-reliable and it will boost the economy while cleaning up the planet.

Obama understands, better, what many citizens are going through financially due to his own financially-challenged upbringing whereas McCain has no clue with his seven houses and his wife's inheritance. (Saw a clip the other day where she said it was such a bother to fly around all over with a commercial airline that she decided to buy a personal jet for her and the hubby. How convenient for them.)

Obama is young, intelligent and hard working. McCain is physically weak and was, supposedly, in the bottom 5 people of his college class. I am TERRIFIED by the notion of Palin becoming President if anything should happen to McCain.

Obama wants to bring our troops home--out of a war that should never have begun (in Iraq) in the first place. Bin Laden is hiding where? That's right, in Afghanistan--so we think. THAT'S where we should be (and should have been all along) until he's found. Now THAT would protect our freedoms and bring about the revenge Americans crave. THAT'S where the al Qaeda are training to kill Americans. War should never be a business. Halliburton and its shareholders should not profit from death.

I could probably go on, but this is enough for you all to attack me with, I figure.

Peace,
Lydia

Grandma's Gone--Stream of Thought

2008-10-29T18:19:00.002-05:00

I recently found out that my grandmother passed on in March of this year. My brother and I weren't notified because of cut family ties, which we're both quite upset over. My grandma was more like my mother than my own mother was. She was loving to us both. We lived with her until I was 7 and my brother, around 10. This is a stream-of-thought piece I wrote after thinking back on how good our life was with her--until we moved out. Things changed drastically then--it seemed our childhood ended after grandma's house. But that's covered in other posts here.

My brother and I became best friends in my grandma's backyard. We had a sandbox and a swing set, but we tended to gravitate toward the trees instead. He in the crab tree and I in the shorter cherry tree. He would pelt me with fallen crabapples. I never retaliated with cherries; instead, I'd return confiscated crabapples--our form of dodgeball. Flowers, trees and croquet. Sticks, squirrels and a pet dog. We'd return from school, watch Spiderman and then out to the backyard! We spent hours out there. I dare say for us both that it was the highlight of our childhood. The eight-foot tall wood fence was our barricade from the neighbors--keeping our imagination safe between the two of us. Squirrels ran along top the fence line clicking and gawking--stuffing bits of nuts into their suitcase-cheeks, jealous of our play. I eagerly helped grandma weed while she taught me the names of all the different perennials that were bedded in the bordering garden around the grassed-in square. We'd help grandma collect fallen branches and twigs, and tidy the yew hedges that framed the flagstone walk and steps into our hidden retreat. It was heaven to me. Accompanied by my two favorite people--Scott and grandma. Uncle Dennis would visit every weekend, and Scott and I had the grand pleasure of preparing the family game of croquet--setting up the little wire brackets made of bent hangers. Ivy, Wild Ginger and hundreds of Lilly of the Valley clumped tight against the wood fence. Grandma would call us to dinner and we'd reluctantly file into the kitchen through the back door. After our prayer, we dug in, shocked at how hungry we were. Gingersnaps or Oreos for dessert. Sometimes cobblers. The dog sleeping under the extended, 50s-style counter with a red and green ameba-looking pattern, the smells of homecooking, the jar of Easter-colored eggshells above the sink--all of it always an added comfort to our meal. After our bath with GI Joe and his scuba gear, we'd play with our wooden Noah's Ark set, our wodden train set or our Tinker Toys. Grandma would shuffle us off after a while, into our bed--the same bed. Too bad for Scott that I still sometimes wet it. But we were still best friends. And we always looked forward to the next day's adventures in Grandma's backyard.

Tiki Grill

2007-04-16T20:30:00.001-05:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

Cooked out on the Tiki Grill.
Five-dollar-bill stories for a buck--
Just your luck.

Line up to get your

Bratville and Cornland,
Guess what?
Little sandwiches on a doily platter even;
Coldplate style.

Everyone scatter--the Tiki Gods are calling . . .
Set down your bamboo glasses and
Leave your paper-umbrella-frame-of-mind behind.

Unfinished Business

2007-01-31T22:05:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg, edited by John J. Desjarlais

This story won first place in the Phidian Art Society's annual writing contest of 2004. I thank John Desjarlais for his editing skills which helped polish it enough to gain notice.

My routine at the library was typical. I shook my wet umbrella, unlocked the door, and flipped on the lights. The fluorescents blinked into life. I lay my purse in the usual spot behind the check-out desk. I put away the door keys and grabbed the keys in the Tupperware till in the top drawer in order to check the overnight drop-box.
It held a book and a stick. I tossed the stick in the trash and laughed to myself about the things children do. I often found twigs, stones, and leaves in the drop box, put there by schoolchildren to perplex the new librarian. But I was glad some things entertained children besides video games. I re-locked the box, trapping the younger me up inside it.
When I updated the due-date stamp, I realized I’d been here almost a year. I jotted notes to myself and made my way to the children’s section to turn on the lights. On the way, I noticed a book on the floor. It wasn’t there last night. I wondered who might have been in earlier. The library board members had keys, and some of them had children. So it was not unusual for me to find things out of place when I came in. It was an older version of Charlotte’s Web. Classic, I thought. I replaced the book on its shelf, and returned to the children’s area desk.
After entering titles into the accession log and cataloging several new books, I decided to fix some tea before opening the doors for official hours. In a small town like this, on a rainy day, I didn’t expect much traffic. I crossed to where I kept the hot-pot. When I reached the check-out desk, I stopped short.
A book had been returned to the desk. I hadn’t heard the door or anyone in the library. But someone had been in, before opening time. The book was face down but I could see the title on the spine: Charlotte’s Web. How odd.
I spun and hurried back to the children’s section. I peered down every row of stacks to be sure no one else was present. No one was.
I went back to the desk and approached the book as though it might leap up at me. “It must be a second copy,” I told myself. Picking it up gently, I saw that it was the same version as the one on the floor. I opened the front cover to see if the book’s card was in the pocket. It was. It had last been checked out three years ago. A popular book like that? Well, there was the other copy on the shelf – right? Clutching the book, white-knuckled, I returned to the book’s proper place in the stacks.
The space was empty.
I caught my breath. How could someone have walked into the children’s section without my noticing? My work desk’s placement made it easy for me to see all of the children’s section, intentionally. I didn’t like the thought of someone sneaking around, avoiding me, even if it was a child. To know I’d been watched didn’t sit well with me. Perhaps it was the same jokester who gave me the stick-gift. Perhaps I’d been so engrossed in my work I didn’t hear them come in. But the door was still locked. Wasn’t it? I checked. It was. Perhaps I’d left it ajar somehow. Since it was now opening time, I unlocked it. I must have absentmindedly placed the book there myself. Did I? I didn’t recall. There had to be a logical explanation. I decided to replace the cowbells we hung on the door when Thelma the 80-year-old part-time assistant worked so she could hear people coming in. At other times, the bells were an annoyance, but this time I felt comforted when I picked up the bells and banged them against the glass door while hanging them up. I straightened out some books at the front of the library, determined not to miss anyone again.
Every 15 minutes for the next hour and a half, I checked on the kids’ section, and then returned to the front. When the phone rang in the kids’ section, I ran to answer it. Someone asking about Saturday hours. When I passed the check-out desk in front, I saw the book was back.
This time it was open to the end. I stood frozen for a moment, too scared to breathe. I strained to hear something – anything that would provide an explanation. Nothing.
I noticed the open book had the last several pages ripped out. It seemed that someone was trying to call attention to the damaged book. But who, and why? And maybe it wasn’t a someone, but a something.
Thunder boomed outside and gave me a start. Rain rattled on the roof. I doubted anyone would come out to the library on a gloomy late October day like this. I considered leaving early, but what excuse would I give to library board members? There’s a book that keeps moving around by itself Are you on medications you didn’t tell us about when hired, Miss Manning? And I feel like I’m being watched Have you seen a therapist about this?
I decided to keep busy. It occurred to me I should get accustomed to something strange happening, in case it kept happening. I adjusted my glasses and started with several non-fiction selections, since those took longer to catalog. When I figured out what Dewey decimal number to use on the third book, I felt it.
It was similar to the feeling you get when someone’s watching you. Or when you think someone is. Only this was more intense. The hair on my neck stood up. Goosebumps pebbled my arms. The air chilled. I tugged my sweater closed. I scanned the windows along the east wall of the children’s’ section. All closed and locked. My gaze turned toward the front of the library where a girl of about nine or ten stood. The bells hadn’t rung.
She came toward me, hesitatingly. She moved fluidly, pigtails swaying. She held a book in her hand. Her eyes were full of intent as she stopped about ten feet from me. “Oh, you startled me,” I said, wrapping myself tighter in my sweater. “I didn’t hear you come in. Do you need some help?”
No reply came, at least not a verbal one. She came about five feet closer and held out the book she had been clutching to her chest. It was Charlotte’s Web. She turned the pages to the end and pushed the book toward me.
“Yes, I see it’s damaged,” I said. “Were you in earlier?”
She said nothing.
“I don’t have another copy,” I said, the words fumbling, “but I’m going to order a new one.”
Still she said nothing. Setting the book down with the pages still open, she sighed – or seemed to – with her head lowered, the eyes saddened. She walked to the shelves, turned to give me one more look, and then continued into the stacks. I jumped up to follow her. I turned down the aisle but she was gone. I grabbed my bag and coat, not even bothering to put it on. I ran to my car, pelted by a downpour, jumped in and sat – cold, wet, ashiver. It took me ten minutes to regain an ounce of composure. I realized that I hadn’t locked up and so I forced myself to return to the library. I hastily switched off the lights and locked the door. I did not look around, my fear made sure of that. I sprinted back to my car and drove home. I turned the heat to high, and although I did dry off, I never warmed up.

I hated the idea of going back to the library, I told my friend Elaine on the phone, long-distance.
“Who wouldn’t?” she said. “That’s creepy.”
“You believe me, right?”
“Sure,” she said. “I’ve done some reading on this. Especially since it’s Halloween and all.”
“But you’re a Christian, Elaine,” I said. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
“All things seen and unseen, we say. When the apostles saw Jesus walk on water, they thought it was a ghost. It shows they believed in them. They were afraid.”
“I think she’s more afraid of me than I am of her,” I said. “Do you think she’ll be back? Why do they come back?”
“Unfinished business,” Elaine said. “She’s got unfinished business. That’s what the books say, anyway. Maybe she needs help.”
“What kind of help?”
“Who knows? It’s got something to do with the book, though.”
I agreed. After hanging up, I thought I’d like to see her again; she looked so helpless, and afraid, and guilty. I looked like that, too, at her age -- when Uncle Dan came for visits and put his hand up my skirt. He ripped a piece of my childhood away. I wondered if this girl knew what it was like to blame yourself and wish to be dead.
I went back to work. The lights came to life and I prepared for the Day of the Dead celebration coming up on November 1. I paged through material looking for scary stories for the children, but I thought that my own might scare them enough. Still, I’d keep it to myself.
The bells on the door jarred my attention, and I looked up to see Mrs. Larson step in. Her hand reached out for the railing along the entrance ramp and its grip guided her along the way. “Hello, Dear,” she said.
“Hello, Mrs. Larson. Returning a book?”
“Yes.” She found the end of the rail and let go. Her eyesight was failing. Her feet fought for balance and she hobbled toward me. “It was on that Bermuda Triangle place. A load of rubbish if you ask me.”
I took the book from her outstretched hand. “You’re not a big believer in the supernatural, I take it?”
“Heavens, no,” she said. “I just enjoy reading about it so I can pick it all apart. Besides, my granddaughter Jamie loves that spooky stuff. I tell her scary stories when she visits. It gives me a way to connect with her. Oh! That reminds me – she found she has a book that is overdue. Could you look up how much she owes? I want to help her pay for it – her mother’s making her pay for the whole thing.”
“Actually, we’ve decided to have a second amnesty day this year since there are so many overdue books,” I replied. “If she brings it back November first, she won’t have to pay any fines. That’s also the date for our Day of the Dead celebration for children. I’ll be reading some scary stories, the kind she likes. Do you know if she’s coming to that?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll tell her mother about it. I’m sure Jamie would love that.”
“You know, I could tell a scary story of my own.” I thought Mrs. Larson would convince me it couldn’t happen. “I thought I saw something – well, someone in here before. A little girl who tried to return Charlotte’s Web, then disappeared, then tried to return it again.”
“Yes, I’ve heard all about that.”
“You have?”
“You’re not the only one, Dear,” Mrs. Larson chuckled. “There have been sightings of that girl every year since Hannah Cole was hit by a car and killed Halloween night three years ago. She always comes back with that book to return. Because of that, we go through librarians quickly around here. They didn’t tell you, did they? Of course not. Why scare away another? But it’s rubbish. The librarians who left and claimed to see her say she is upset because she can never finish the end of the story, and wants a new copy. Apparently she was on the way to the library to return it when she was struck. You can look it up.”
My breath, stuck in my throat, finally came out. “I will. Thanks, Mrs. Larson.”
“No, dear, thank you – for forgiving the overdue book.” She turned to depart.
“I hope Jamie can make it to our celebration,” I called after her. “We’re asking the children who attend to wear a skeleton costume.”
“I’ll tell her – about returning the book, too. Goodbye, Dear.”
As soon as she left, I rushed to the library’s archive of the town newspaper and there it was: the story of Hannah’s accident, just as Mrs. Larson told it. I entered the stacks to retrieve the book. My fingers traced the worn cover. I opened it to where the ripped-out pages once were. My eyes skimmed to the last page of print:
“What’s a life, anyway? We’re born, we live a little, we die. A spider’s life can’t help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone’s life can stand a little of that.”

It was November 1. I’d been at the library for an hour now, making final preparations for the Day of the Dead celebration. The children would be here any moment. I arranged the books I planned to read on a table and looked out the window to see several skeletons running up the sidewalk toward the library. I was glad to see that the children had chosen to dress up. Some parents strolled through the stacks and some sat along the back wall in folding chairs. Twelve little skeletons sat around me on the floor. They calmed down, seeing we were about to start. I asked who knew about “El Dia de los Muertos,” The Day of the Dead celebration in Mexico. A couple older skeletons explained to the younger ones what they had learned in school about the holiday. After this brief lesson in culture, I showed them the books I had selected to read to them.
“But before I read,” I said, “do any of you have books to return today? Today is amnesty day. Do you know what the word am-nes-ty means? It means you won’t be charged fines if you return your overdue books by closing time tonight.” I looked toward the parents, to address them as well.
And there she was. Hannah stood behind Mrs. Larson, very still.
Mrs. Larson pulled on her shawl, looking chilled.
Jamie, Mrs. Larson’s granddaughter, spoke up. “I was afraid you’d be angry,” Jamie said, “so I kept putting it off.” She handed me her overdue book.
“Thank you, Jamie,” I said. I lifted my chin and spoke in Hannah’s direction. “It’s important for you all to know that I don’t get mad at you for having a late book – I have late books, too! Sometimes, I don’t even charge the fine if the book is only a day or two late, so bring them in or put them in the drop box. The important thing is for the library to have the book back so others can borrow it, too. And if it is damaged, we can work something out. Accidents happen.”
I smiled at the children, and at Hannah.
Hannah smiled at me. I picked up the first book to read, and began. When I glanced up, she was gone.
After the event, several families returned to bring in books. I was glad I decided to hold another amnesty day. Most of the overdue books were returned in one night. I sat at the checkout and marked off fines for everyone who had returned something. I was tired. I took my time cleaning up. I heard a thump outside and saw a child walking away from the drop box. I’d been so wrapped up in the celebration and the desk work that I’d forgotten to check it.
I took the keys and opened the box. It was dark now, and I had a hard time seeing the contents. Some litter – two books. I took out the books and withdrew the crumpled sheets of paper. I nearly put them in the trash can by the door but noticed they were book-sized. I held a piece up to the light. There were footprints – no, tire marks – on it. The top of the page read: Charlotte’s Web 165. My heart jumped, and I smoothed out the other loose pages like a rumpled skirt. Ten of them. Ten dirty, yellowed, torn, trampled pages. “Thank you, Hannah,” I said.

The Box--A Children's Play

2006-11-11T00:50:00.001-06:00

The Box
by Lydia Daffenberg

CAST
Larry
Janitor
Teacher
Kid 1
Kid 2
Kid 3
Kid 4
Kid 5
Kid 6
Kid 7
Kid 8
Kid 9
Kid 10

Scene 1
Time: modern
AT RISE: School hall. Students are hurrying through hall to get to recess. One boy lags behind, slowly putting his books in his locker. A janitor comes in with cleaning cart, sees gloomy boy and starts talking with him.

Janitor

Hey kid, what’s wrong? How come you’re going so slow? It’s recess time.

Larry
I hate recess, that’s why.

Janitor
What do you mean you hate recess? That was always my favorite.

Larry
Well, it’s not mine. I always get picked on or beat up.

Janitor
Yeah, I know what you mean. I used to get picked on a lot, too. Kids called me Nerdo. Well, what is your favorite class period, then? (Pauses) Science?

Larry
Science is ok, but I really like Language Arts.

Janitor
What’s that—reading and writing and stuff? We used to call that English.

Larry
Yeah, Language Arts. I especially like to write.

Janitor
Oh, an author, huh? What do you write?

Larry
I like to write stories, mostly.

Janitor
You’ll have to tell me one sometime, kid. Now you’d better get going before you get in trouble.

Larry
Couldn’t you give me a pass to go to the library instead?

Janitor
Nope. Sorry, I don’t have that kind of authority around here. I just keep things tidy and in their place. Say, speaking of . . . (digs out strange box from cart) years ago I found a very special box left behind on the school stage. No one ever claimed it from the lost and found, so I’ve been using it ever since. (Janitor holds it up for a bit.) Maybe you’d like it?
(Hands it to Larry)

Larry
What does it do?

Janitor
It changes people’s perspective.

Larry
(Looks confused, puzzled over what the janitor said, shrugs.) Uh, thanks. It sure is different. I wonder who would leave it behind? (A teacher enters and addresses Larry)

Teacher
Now, Larry, we’ve discussed this before. There’s to be no dawdling on your way out to recess. Get going now. (She shoos Larry offstage who slowly goes off pondering box.) When you come back in, we’ll be discussing ancient desert dwellings. (Teacher follows Larry offstage)

BLACKOUT
Scene 2
Time: Immediately following
LIGHTS UP on recess. Kids are playing with balls, hoola-hoop & jump rope. Some standing in groups talking. Larry enters still pondering the box as he walks. Three kids approach him, snickering to themselves.

Kid 1
Hey, look, it’s Laaaaarry. (Bullies laugh as they approach, looking tough, but stop dead in their tracks as soon as they sees the box)

Kid 2
What’cha got there? (Pointing at box)

Kid 10
Some stupid science project?

Larry
No. It’s a special box. (Both kids gather around Larry to get a better look.)

Kid 1
Wow, that’s weird looking.

Kid 3
What does it do? (Two more kids are coming over to look at the box.)

Larry
It changes people’s perspective.

Kid 1
How does it do that?

Larry
I don’t know yet, I just got it. (Pauses, then excitedly) But I know someone left it behind on the school stage years ago!

Kid 7
How come?

Larry
(Speaks spookily) No one knows. (Kid 1 takes it from Larry, looking at it intently while the rest of the kids join the group.)

Kid 4
What’s that?

Kid 1
It’s a special box with powers.

Kid 5
Whose is it?

Kid 2
It’s Larry’s, he just got it.

Kid 8
It’s Larry’s? (Reaches over and pushes Larry.) Larry, tell us about the box! (As Larry’s telling story, Kid 3 takes box from Kid 1. All kids follow suit, passing and taking turns looking at box.)

Larry
It was left on the school stage years ago. No one came forth to claim the strange thing, so the janitor has been using it ever since. He just gave it to me in the hallway. He says it has the power to change people’s perspective.

Kid 9
What does that mean?

Larry
I don’t really know. I think it means—change people’s minds.

Kid 3
Oh! Like a Jedi mind trick! (Some kids laugh.)

Teacher
(Enters and blows whistle, ending recess.) Line up! (Some kids start to go in.)

Kid 1
Ok, ok. Give the box back to Larry. (Kids pass it up to Larry. Kid 1 addresses Larry) Be sure to bring it again tomorrow if you want a pass from a beating. (laughing) All kids go in followed by teacher.

BLACKOUT
Scene 3

Time: Next day at recess

LIGHTS UP on playground. Kids come out and gather around Larry who is holding the box.

Kid 1
So, Larry—why do you think it was left behind?
Larry
Well, I’ve been thinking about that. See this dent on the corner of the box? (Holds box up pointing to corner) That’s how I figured it out. (Puts box on bench. Takes out piece of paper) It was a long time ago—way back in the early 90’s. (Pauses for audience laughter) There was a boy who wanted to try out for the school play, but was afraid of getting laughed at. He wasn’t very popular. Kids called him Nerdo. (Kids all laugh at name. Larry continues.) On the first day of tryouts, he stayed hidden in the theater just watching. He never got up the nerve to audition. That night, his family visited his great-grandfather’s house for dinner. He told his great-grandpa about the play and how he wanted to be in it. He said he didn’t think he’d make it anyway, so he wasn’t gonna bother trying out. His grandpa took him up to the attic and dug out the box from an old trunk. (Kid 1 makes creepy sound and wiggles fingers in air—some kids laugh. Larry continues.) He gave the box to him and told the boy it had special powers and that he should take it with to tryouts the next day. The boy did as his great-grandpa told him. Since he signed up last, he had to audition last. Right before it was his turn, he looked at the box and thought hard about getting a part in the play. He put the box down backstage and went out on stage. All the kids were sitting in the theater watching him. He took a deep breath and began. When he was finished, everyone in the theater was silent—even the director. Then, all he could hear was applauding and cheering. The director told the kids that she was going to announce the parts so they didn’t have to wait over the weekend to find out. She told everyone to line up on stage. The boy retrieved the box from backstage and joined the other students. The director saved the lead role for last. When she called the boys name, he was so shocked, he dropped the box. That’s what caused this dent. (Larry picks box up and points to corner. Kids make sounds of acknowledgement . Larry continues.) He was jumping up and down and raced home to tell his family—forgetting all about the box. That evening, as the janitor was cleaning up, he found the box and kept it. He’s been using it ever since, which is why he’s so friendly and outgoing. That’s what happened.

Kid 7
Wow! The box does work! It changed everyone’s mind about the boy!

Kid 10
Hey! (Looking at Kid 7) You’re right! It did!

Kid 8
You’re lucky, Larry. I wish I had a box like that.

Kid 1
Me too. (Teacher enters and blows whistle to end recess) Same time tomorrow, Larry?

Larry
(Confidently) Sure! See you tomorrow. I’ll have a new story for you. (Kids all talk excitedly amongst themselves as they file into the school.)

BLACKOUT
Scene 4
Time: Next day at recess.

LIGHTS UP on playground. Again, kids gather around Larry who holds box.

Kid 9
So what’s the story about today, Larry?

Larry
(Confidently) A Native American ceremony. Does everyone see the points here on the box? (Holds box up for all to see.) Those are desert cliffs.

Kid 4
How do you know that’s what they are? They just look like cones.

Larry
I know because the box made it clear to me, that’s how.

Kid 1
Yeah, be quiet and let him tell the story. They look like cliffs to me.

Kid 6
I can see them too, Larry! Tell us!

Larry
Well it goes like this. (Larry sets box down on ground beside him.) The Indians of the desert cliffs performed rain dances when it was very dry. One hot, dry day, the medicine man called all the people together to perform a rain dance. Their crops were wilting and they needed water to drink. They placed clay pots around them in a big circle and began to dance. (Larry begins to dance and twirl around. All the kids begin to follow his lead, giggling. Larry speaks loudly over the laughter.) They didn’t laugh about it! It was very serious to them, and they had to concentrate very hard while they danced. (Kids become quiet while continuing to dance. All the sudden, LIGHTS DIM a big crack of thunder can be heard and lightning strikes. It starts to rain.)

Kid 5
It worked! It worked!

Kid 3
It’s raining! (Teacher blows whistle and kids go running for cover. Larry almost forgets the box. He runs back and scoops it up, trying to protect it as he runs in after the kids.)

BLACKOUT
Scene 5
Time: Next day in hallway.

LIGHTS UP on Larry who is crying. Janitor enters.

Janitor
Hey, Larry. What’s wrong?

Larry
(Very upset) I forgot the box at home! I can’t go out to recess without it—the kids will all be mad and beat me up!

Janitor
Nonsense. They don’t care about the box anymore. I’ve heard everyone talking about you around here. They say you’re a great storyteller. All the kids are talking about going to recess to hear your stories. I haven’t heard them mention the box.

Larry
But it was the box that got them to stop bullying me!

Janitor
I’ve got something to tell you about the box. (Larry wipes his eyes and looks at janitor.) It’s not special at all. Well--other then it looks strange. But, it doesn’t have any powers. Everything that happened was because of you. Because you started to believe in yourself.

Larry
But you told me that it had the power to change people.

Janitor
Well, it does in a way. It helped you change yourself. You believed in the box’s power and so you became brave and confident. And when you changed your perspective about yourself, everyone else’s perspective of you changed as well. You don’t need the box anymore. The power is in you.

Larry
Really?

Janitor
Really. You don’t think I’d throw you to the lions, do you kid? They’re waiting to hear your stories, not to look at the box.
Larry
Well, maybe you’re right. Everyone has been talking to me more. And kids have been asking me all day how I made it rain.

Janitor
See? It’s you they’re interested in. Now you’d better get going—I think you have an audience out there waiting for you.

Larry
Ok. (He walks slowly off stage)

BLACKOUT
Scene 6
Time: Immediately after

Lights up on playground. Kids are all waiting for Larry.

Kid 1
(Addressing the group of kids) There he is! He’s coming! (Kids all get excited when they see Larry. They whisper amongst themselves. Kid 1 turns toward Larry and addresses him when he approaches.) Finally! We were worried you weren’t coming out, Larry!

Kid 6
Hey, Larry! Weren’t you going to tell us about the time your kite caught on fire?

Larry
(Realizing the janitor was right, becomes the most confident he’s been yet. He stands on the bench and addresses the crowd of kids.) Well, it all started like this . . .

BLACKOUT
Scene 7

Time: Next day in hallway.

LIGHTS UP on Larry holding the box, talking to the janitor

Larry
Here you go. (Hands box back to Janitor.) You were right, I don’t need the box anymore! Thanks. I gotta get to recess! (Runs offstage. Janitor looks at box and smiles to himself, nodding head. He sets it on his cart and looks offstage at someone.)

Janitor
(Raises finger in the air) Hey kid, why the long face? (Pushes cart offstage.)

***Curtain***

Donation

2006-04-07T11:04:00.001-05:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

I wonder what parts they used to
Make Frankenstein people
From pops.

Did they remember to add
His blood, sweat and tears
Or is it something that they forgot?

Did they think about where his organs had been?
They'd traveled thick in the jungle at Nam--
They'd been in love and pissed off and pissed on.

Where had Frankenstein's organ's been?
The one's now dead being replaced again.
What were the stories of those?
Had they even been his?
Did anyone know?

I wonder what part--
His liver?
His heart?
Perhaps pop's eyes to see.

Will I let them take me
And make me into a Frankenstein, too?
I wonder what parts they would use.

Family Ties

2006-04-04T19:29:00.000-05:00

I'm the lone daughter of an Irishman. Not many people have the option of picking a parent, but in a way, I did. I chose to have a relationship with my father. I didn't know my father throughout my whole childhood. My parents divorced when I was 10 months old and I never saw him until I turned 19. I looked my father up because I gave birth to my first child, a beautiful baby girl, and wanted him to be part of her life--a part of my life. I heard he was in Lafayette, Indiana and found his number without much difficulty. It was my half-brother Allan with whom I first spoke. We talked and I realized that my father's side of the family had always been eager to have a relationship with my brother and I.

We began visiting with our father regularly and, right away, everyone could see a striking similarity between my brother and father. Even their mannerisms mimicked one another's—especially how they held their cigarettes. They clicked. The DNA was visible. For a long time, I couldn't seem to find a strong tie between my father and I. Nonetheless, I enjoyed being around him and was happy to have him back in my life. I just couldn't say that he and I shared many qualities. But very recently, within the last few months, I had found something that made me feel connected to him. Something that would link us in a special, personal way. Something that would finally make me feel I was a part of my dad.

My father had come up to Dekalb in late December to go to a Madrigal performance that both my children were performing in for the high school. I knew it would be something he would enjoy, as he was into fantasy writing and the Madrigal’s medieval flavor would appeal to his tastes. He really enjoyed the show, and we went to breakfast the following morning, as was tradition when he would visit. We began chatting about my son Joey’s up-coming play, The Music Man, in which Joey was the lead, my daughter Amber would be doing lights, my husband Mike would be manning the spotlight and I would be stage managing. I found out that my father almost went to school for theater at the University of Illinois instead of joining the Marines. That would have been a huge life shift for him, as he served two full tours in Vietnam. Funny how one decision can change a person’s life so much. He had been in a play, like my son, but was really a backstage techie—just like my daughter and I. Suddenly, my children and I had a strong connection with my father through our love of theater. After he had returned back home, I had to wonder if interests could be hereditary.

January and February flew by, and it was already Saturday March 4—time for the final show of The Music Man. Again my father traveled, this time with my grandmother, to see the performance. I looked forward to their arrival and proudly escorted them both to their reserved front row seats. I beamed after the show about the play and my family’s job well done. So did dad. I later found out that, during intermission, he and my grandmother were bragging to those around them that the lead was their grandson, and that our family was very involved in the play. Our bond was tightening like a warm, strong hug.

My husband couldn’t make the family breakfast the following morning, as he had to work. During breakfast, my father was all-a-buzz with theater talk: where the kids would go for college, what plays he had done in school, which plays he thought Joey’s theater group should do, roles he thought Joey would be good in, discussing with Amber how lighting had changed over the years. None of us wanted it to stop. He told us a story about when he was in high school, in his one acting role, he and the girl playing opposite him had decided to enter the stage off-cue and ad lib and move furniture around during the scene. He recalled how mad the director was at them afterwards. We all had a good laugh about it. Dad and grandma decided it was time to get going. It had started snowing and we were supposed to get a small accumulation in the area and he didn’t want to drive through it. They made sure to stop by my husband’s place of employment on their way out of town to say goodbye to him.

It had only been a month. He and my grandma were in California at my aunt’s retrial. There were a few emails from Dad explaining how the trial was going for his sister, and how they’d be back home soon. My last email from Dad said the trial was going longer than anticipated, and that he was flying home to get the car, then driving back out to CA after paying bills and filling prescriptions for both he and my grandma.

Then came the call early Sunday afternoon. My brother’s voice was shaken. Dad had gone off the road somewhere near Ft. Worth Texas. The car had rolled over and over. He had been thrown 45 feet—obviously not wearing his seatbelt. He had been conscious at first, and couldn’t feel anything below the waist except his toes. Then they began to lose him. He had been resuscitated four times. He was stable in ICU. That’s all he knew. He gave me the phone number and what bed Dad was in. He gave me the attending doctors’ and nurses’ names. That’s all I now knew.

I hastily began to make plans for me to travel out to be with him. We decided I was to take a bus leaving the next evening, staying the week in Texas. I decided to call the hospital and check his status in a few hours, and tried to focus on finishing cleaning the house and finishing the laundry—especially since I’d be gone all week. My worry mounted around 5:30 and I recall saying to my husband that I had started to have a bad feeling about the situation. I called the hospital at 6:30 and was told all they could say was that my father was in critical condition and was doing very, very poorly. I began to sob. The nurse asked me if I had my half-brother Allan’s phone number. I didn’t have his cell and so the nurse gave it to me saying I should call him for further information. I called Allan. He told me that he was sorry, but that Dad was brain dead and they were keeping his body alive until they could harvest his organs because he was a donor. I remember being in shock and basically repeating what I had just heard. "What you’re saying is that Dad is brain dead and they are just waiting to take his organs?"
"I’m sorry, Sissy," came my brother’s reply. I began bawling. My husband came over and comforted me, rubbing my back saying he was sorry.

"No. No, no, no." I kept saying it. "No." He’s not gone. This man that I had just learned I shared a creative passion with. This man whom I could now see even in my children. No! It was just starting, just really beginning for him and I and my children. It couldn’t be.

Then I got mad. Mad at my dad. Why didn’t he have his seatbelt on? Why didn’t he pull over if he was tired? (We assumed he had fallen asleep because of the time of the crash, we later learned of other possibilities.) Why did he have to be so damn stubborn?

Sadness, Madness and Shock played catch with me, and they each threw too hard. It stung.

It is now Tuesday, and I am finally coming ‘round to the understanding that I will never see him again. That he will never see my kids’ plays again. That we will all be cheated by death, not just my father.

Today I have also realized something comforting. I have realized that the qualities of impatience and stubbornness have always been mine as well as my dad’s. I just didn’t see this similarity before. It’s the Irish in me. I can see my father even more now when I look in the mirror. He’s telling me I was always his princess—even when I wondered if I was. And, that the same impatience and stubbornness in him and I continues on through my children—for they, too, share these traits. They, too, are passionate like the Irishman who is my father.

How to Squeeze Blood From a Turnip

2005-12-03T09:41:00.000-06:00

The near monopoly of ConEd electric is helping the rich keep the poor under their thumbs. Oh, I know, they're not the only company doing this. There's also NiCor gas, lending companies, phone companies and more. These companys' behaviors are due to their immoral business practices that have become the norm. Six-figure CEO's across the country are declaring (not even defiantly), "Everyone's doing it."

What am I going on about? Let me tell you. The last two years have been very difficult, financially, for my family, as it has for many others. Vast layoffs and an eroding economy have ensured that. I have always paid my utility bills but, yes, they've been notoriously late almost every month. This week, I received a letter from ConEd saying--well here, I'll just copy it for you:

Deposit Notice:
Until now, we have provided electric service without requiring a deposit.

However, because of late payments a $100.00 deposit is required.

This deposit will be paid in 3 installments with the first and subsequent installments of $33.33. The last and final installment will be in the amount of $33.34. Future bills will reflect these installment amounts.

For Your Information:
Deposits will earn interest at a rate determined by the Illinois Commerce Commission and will be refunded when you have established a satisfactory credit standing.

Of course, the obvious question is, "How am I suppose to pay for this when I can barely pay my regular bill?" Then a second question pops-to-mind, "Are these people idiots?" A third question shouts, "Do they want my family to freeze to death this winter?" A final fourth question ponders, "Are they even human?" If only I could ask that six-figure CEO, perhaps he could clear up the blurred logic his company employs. He'd probably blame my lack of understanding on my proletarian position in life. But I can't get ahold of him, he's busy lounging in front of his fireplace puffing a pipe with his heat blazing so hot that his faithful dog pants profusely at his feet. No, he doesn't even need slippers--for him they're just a fashion statement.

Homo sapien Cave Rats

2005-11-01T08:25:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

A permanent mindset of mine is that we are mammals living in nature. Now to that you might say, "Well, duh." But really think about this--I do a lot. Our 6-inch walls are all that seperate us from outside. Heck, cavemen had thicker walls than us, yet we remain greatly detatched from nature. We have excluded the fact that our daily reliance is on Earth as our home and our sustenance. We feel advanced and immune because of our 6-inch walls inset with fancy doors and double-paned storm windows. We are oversecure. We are vulnerable. We've forgotten who we are--mammals living in fancy, amenity-laden caves.

We hear it all the time: "Don't forget where you came from." Meaning, when you are successful and rich, don't forget your humble upbringing. Shouldn't we extend that further? Perhaps re-define? As a species, don't forget where we came from. No, not the Bronx or the south-side of Dekalb, but from Earth, from Nature--evolving over time to appreciate the finer things in life like 2x4's and drywall, shingles and furnaces.

If you don't believe me, take a look outside your window. Nature is saying hello.

I Wondered About You Today

2005-10-02T23:12:00.000-05:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

I wondered about you today--
What you were doing
What you were thinking and saying
(Did you see that star over there? We're on the same hemisphere, you know . . .)

If your thoughts lead you over a river,
Through a dense forest or glen; and,
What you were thinking of just then
(Of our walks and talks?)
When the light flashed a twinkle my way suggesting
It was you saying, "Hey."

I wonder what you were doing then, today,
When I wondered about you that way . . .

When you were overhead in the trees,
Peering down at me, or there in the flicker of the fire, there beside?
I grow tired and retire for the night, the embers decide to expire, finally.

I'm free. Sub-Thoughts roam.

I float about and find you (and me) at home amidst my quandries--
We're always questioning

But, overall, complete.

I wondered about you today.
I know down deep you wonder, too.

Who wouldn't, ey?

Empty Nest OR Why My Kids Flew The Coop

2005-06-16T20:30:00.000-05:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

I know now why women cook. Oh sure it's out of neccesity at first. But after the kids are older, cooking becomes a hobby to lure Them back into Mother's den. It fills the Hen's nest that is now empty or soon will be, only the rooster residing alongside--and it's quiet, all clucks
aside.
There she is, the mother. Looking at the spring in a new askew-view. Understanding now. Finally. Receiving the message of Mother Earth, showing the cycle, clearer now than ever before. The purpose of Woman is everything. Without She, no Hes nor continued Shes
(All necessity). End. Period.

I Wasn't Born With Clothes Either . . .

2005-05-01T11:38:00.000-05:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

My childhood is filled with memories. Here's one now:

Narrator's Age: 9
Setting: Small Midwest Town
Time: 1979

I had done something bad. In her eyes, that could have been anything from not finding something she sent me to retrieve, to not completely dusting because I had missed a few pictures. Either way, I was bad.

So she kicked me out. "Get out! Get out, you little brat! You can't do anything right! I'm sick of looking at you! Get out!" I went to put my shoes on. "No! You don't get to take those, you weren't born with them!" I sighed.
"Great." I thought to myself, not daring to speak. "I wasn't born with my clothes either--should I strip down?"

Off I went, following the long winding driveway down to a street in our subdivision. I was more scared this time because I was about to be brave. All the other times she had done this to me, my brother would come running after me about 10-15 minutes later, saying I could come home again. But this time was different. I was gonna make a run for it and finally live in the woods like the Indians. I was gonna walk until it was dark, then camp. I picked up my pace--I didn't want my brother to find me this time. A neighbor drove by and could see right through my faked nonchalance that I didn't have shoes on--just socks. They gawked as they turned the corner. I hustled toward my friend's house--a pig farm. I figured I'd hide out there for a bit then keep going after I was sure they weren't on my track.

I knocked. Nothing. I knocked again then entered the screened porch and sat down so that no one could see me from the road. They must have been at the store. I waited and planned my new life as an Indain. I was a Girl Scout, I could handle it. I knew how to fish and what plants to eat without getting poisoned. I could survive. Even better than I had been in this life.

After a while, probably 20 minutes worth of waiting, they came home. Just like the white man, they sold me out. My friend's mother called my mother telling her where I was. I never knew what my mother's excuse was for her horrible child--I could only imagine. Everyone believes a good Christian woman.

My beating was worse that night. Of course, for being bad, and for being obstinate. But it was worth it to me. It was little me not being so helpless. After all, if there's one thing I got from her, it was her strong will.

Skunks Like Bratwurst

2005-04-19T02:00:00.000-05:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

Back in the late 70's, my family owned a Winnebago which we would drive to Door County, Wisconsin for a week of RV camping. We always stayed at Wagon Trail Campground at the very tip of the peninsula. Often, my brother, Scott, my mother and I would stay the whole week and my dad would drive up to meet us on weekends--when he wasn't working.

On one of those weekday evenings my mother was doing laundry at the lodge. My brother and I remained back at the campsite, sitting at the picnic table eating our brats by the smoldering fire. I heard noises from the edge of the forest. I quietly signaled to Scott. We both turned around in time to watch three skunks meander out from the woods and into our campsite.

Ignoring us, they wondered toward the fire which sat between us and them and circled it--their striped snouts sniffing all the while. Scott and I sat, petrified. We had heard stories of people getting sprayed who had to take tomato juice baths to get rid of the smell which, we had also heard, didn't work very well. We thought that if we moved--they would spray. We didn't communicate this, we just knew the other knew. Both of us remained very still.

We waited for them to go away, but they didn't. Instead the three skunks waddled under the picnic table and began rubbing on our legs--acting like they were our pet cats. Scott and I stared directly into each other's eyes, our terror easily discerned by the other. Being the oldest and my protector, Scott took the lead. He whispered his plan to me so quietly that his orders were nearly telepathic. "When I count to three, we'll get up and run for the camper. Ok?"

"Ok." We waited for the skunks to move away a bit--so they weren't touching us. Then came the count.

"One--two--three!" We swung our legs over the bench and sprinted toward the camper door. Scott threw open the screen, then the door. We dove in. He slammed the door shut, sealing us from harm and stink. We had made it. We sat in our sanctuary breathing hard, feeling our heartbeats, listening. In our minds, the skunks were under the camper. We were sure of it. Then we remembered our mother. She would return soon and surely get sprayed--we had no way of warning her. A moment later, the door opened. We both jumped, but it was just mom carrying the basket of warm, folded clothes. She was safe and so was the laundry. We rattled off our story, but could see through her astonishment that she slightly doubted the extent of our skunkly encounter.

I looked down at what was in my hand. To Scott and I, it was proof of our ordeal. My brat was squished. I had been squeezing it so hard that, after I opened my hand, its outline remained. Our laughter calmed us. I finished my brat. Turns out, it was the best tasting one I've ever had. Now that's comfort food.

Five Newly-Defined Words

2005-04-16T11:25:00.000-05:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

edition: any addition of writing done to a piece while editing.

egocentrifugal force: a person who exhibits egocentrifugal force makes everything in a conversation revolve around themself.

highfalutin hyphenation: the act of over-hyphenating--in words or in sentence structure (many examples of this found on Brewed Nature).

the mayonaise: the scoop, the story.

comic sketchiness: when a comedian is not clear.

Blogexploding It

2005-04-15T10:40:00.000-05:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

I admit It.
I did It.
I zoned out and clicked It--

All the while

Earning credits with It.
I'd never done It

Before.

I wanted to see what It

Was like.
Do you

Do It?

On Being Zelda

2005-04-13T17:43:00.000-05:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

I've become the Zelda I've never wanted to be
He's become, who would have guessed, "The Great Gatsby"

I start, you finish
Numbers too large to keep score
If I wasn't dead already, I'd probably die some more
Instead I just click off.
I know, you scoff . . .

But your self-doubt speaks:
"What do you think of this?
How does that read?
Does this represent me?"

"It's great, what can I say,
I'm Zelda and your Gatsby."
Go ahead, take it away.

Now

2005-04-09T18:18:00.000-05:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

Here it is--the poem of the now
Sunset-lit
Spread out, soaked

Colors against closed lids
Bounce balls over words
"Here it is--the poem of the now"

The Pink Ribbon Wins The Blue Ribbon!

2005-04-06T01:05:00.000-05:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

Any ad campaign worth anything has a unique gimmick to get people's attention and money. Organizations go out of their way to think up something original for their trademark--something that will set them apart from other organizations. That's why, when it comes to ribbon campaigns, I don't get it.

There are so many ribbon campaigns out there, it's hard to remember what the different colors stand for. I've seen yellow, pink, red, blue, green, white and patriotic color-themed ribbons. The only one I have down for sure is that pink is for breast cancer. I believe red is for AIDS, and the patriotic color-themed ones are remnants of the Patriot-Pandemic that swept America in the 9/11 aftermath. I'm not sure about yellow--if it's officially only for Support Our Troops--I've seen it with other slogans too. And I have no idea what blue, green or white stand for.

As a kid growing up in the late 70's, I saw yellow ribbons tied around the trunks of trees and instantly thought of the song Tie a Yellow Ribbon 'Round the Old Oak Tree. I tried to remember the rest of the song so I could figure out the mystery of why. I think the yellow ribbons were for hostage troops, or in memory of lost troops, in some middle-east skirmish--or something. I dunno, I was a kid young enough to only be concerned with myself. I remember some of the ribbons I saw being very weathered and ratty looking, and I didn't understand why people wouldn't take them down or replace them.

When it comes to wearable ribbon campaigns, however, I believe the breast cancer campaign--the pink ribbon--was first. Then 9/11 came and everyone was wearing the colors of the flag, the ol' Red White and Blue, smack-dab over their hearts. You could make the pins however you wanted. With thin silk ribbons--one strand each of red, white and blue--or with wide pieces of ribbon that were pre-printed with all three patriotic colors. But, like in the late 70's, ribbons frayed. People got tired of replacing them and moved on to permanent ribbon-pins that they purchased at Wal-Mart checkouts across the nation. Instead of pinning a ribbon on, people were pinning a ribbon-pin on. These new real pins were all about the bling. They had tiny stones set into them and some even reminded us that, "We Will Never Forget." So we cheapened 9/11 a bit more and pop-cultured ribbons at the same time.

There was a problem though. All across America, safety-pins spilled from junk drawers, just asking for a purpose. This was the birth of the ribbon-campaign campaign that PR directors of organizations everywhere latched on to--now only needing to be creative when it came to the color of the ribbon. After all, the 9/11 pins were here to stay, so other ribbon campaigns were deemed a guaranteed success. Soon everyone wanted a ribbon of their own to proudly pin to their lapel so you could see they cared--about something. You might not know what that something was, but you knew they did indeed care.

After all that, we wanted to continue to show we cared because the rest of the world didn't believe we did. They thought the US was a child--only concerned with itself. So we decided to keep this new care-ethic of show. We wanted to wear our hearts on our sleeves. We decided to go more public with our ribbons and turn them into magnets for our cars. Like the young capitalist just starting his new business, we slapped magnetized signs on our vehicles advertising the cheap way.

But something always leads to something else, and we even started getting sick of our own magnet-ribbons. PR directors came together with a mission to find a new gimmick. They found it in care-bracelets. Perhaps you've seen them. Different-colored plastic bands. Again, the color of the band signifies the cause. Some of them have logos pressed into them as well--telling just what the bracelet's all about. This is necessary because, like the ribbon campaigns, no one can remember what the colors stand for!
So the blue ribbon goes to the pink ribbon, after all, it was first.

Do You Know Green Man?

2005-04-02T14:51:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

The return of spring has really pushed me toward living blogs: blog-posts that have to do with life and rebirth. On this continued thread-of-thought, I bring you Green Man.

Green Man is a comforting figure to me--old and familiar--like we've been acquaintances for a long time. I can't even remember when we first met. He's hard to pin down, to define. There's an understanding, however, an innate presence of him within our psyche that, once found, makes sense without explanation.

Very little is known about Green Man and his beginnings, or on just how long he's been around. Adding to the mystery, his identity and form have probably evolved and morphed several times over the years, blurring his origin. His image is abundant throughout Europe--found on old buildings, shops and, interestingly, in churches.

Green Man has been said to represent nature--his spirit or energy present in all vegetation. This energy continues its flow to us through our consumption of plants. The God of the Forest, the life spirit: Green Man. Elusive yet known. Dr. Dan Noel's article, Who is the Green Man?, suggests that Green Man offers a balance to Mother Nature as a male form of nature--a "Father Nature."

The anthropomorphic form given to Green Man shows the importance early man put on this ancient figure. That he would be displayed, copied and mutated over time hints at Green Man's role as a dominant representational figure in the past, perhaps even a forgotten pagan god. His leaf-face and vines, which are often depicted spewing from his mouth, symbolize man's reliance on living vegetation for our existence and the connection of living organisms. We are continued energy-- fauna through flora. We are He.

In his examination of Green Man, Mike Harding mentions a possible Green Man reference within the character, Jack-in-the-Green, who's role in May Day processions of the past and of today is to lead in dance before the May Queen. Other possible character references Harding points out are: Robin Hood, Robin Goodfellow and Puck.

There's a 40ft. tall Green Man that stands outside The Custard Factory in Birmingham, UK. It was created by master sculpter, Tawny Gray. Check out the site. I want one.

The Green Man in the above photo hangs in my kitchen. I've had him now for over 10 years. I've moved a lot within those years, and everytime he's always been hung back up in a prominent location of the household.

Where can you find Green Man hiding this year? Outdoors and within yourself, he's there.

Three Sisters Gardening; A Native American Method

2005-03-30T15:32:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

If you're interested in gardening, you may want to experiment with a Native American method of agriculture this year in your vegetable garden. It would make sense that the Native Americans would be one up on their fellow Americans when it comes to agriculture. After all, they had been employing its practice on this fertile land hundreds of years before the white settler seeded his first corn plant. It is their expertise of living off the land that enables them to teach us a thing or two when it comes to gardening, especially organic gardening.

I came across the Three Sisters planting method when I was living close to the Oneida Reservation located near Green Bay, Wisconsin. The Three Sisters are corn, beans, and squash. This companion method planting is mutually benefical for the plants. The corn becomes support for the climbing beans which produce and release nitrogen back into the soil that the corn depletes. The squash acts as a living mulch of sorts by keeping weed growth down and helping retain soil moisture.

The plants are grown on a mound approximately 1' high and 20" wide. A few corn seeds are sown in the center of the hill. After the corn is about 6" tall, the beans and squash are planted around the corn. The original beans used were a climbing variety, and may be hard to find, but any bean plant will release nitrogen into the soil and climb to some extent. Each mound needs quite a bit of space in-between so the squash can sprawl down the hills and across the ground.

The Legend of the Three Sisters

The term “Three Sisters” emerged from the Iroquois creation myth. It was said that the earth began when “Sky Woman” who lived in the upper world peered through a hole in the sky and fell through to an endless sea. The animals saw her coming, so they took the soil from the bottom of the sea and spread it onto the back of a giant turtle to provide a safe place for her to land. This “Turtle Island” is now what we call North America.

Sky woman had become pregnant before she fell. When she landed, she gave birth to a daughter. When the daughter grew into a young woman, she also became pregnant (by the West wind). She died while giving birth to twin boys. Sky Woman buried her daughter in the “new earth.” From her grave grew three sacred plants—corn, beans, and squash. These plants provided food for her sons, and later, for all of humanity. These special gifts ensured the survival of the Iroquois people.(1)

The above links will give you more information. Give it a try in your garden and let me know your results! I'll publish mine around harvest time. Happy gardening!

1. Erney, Diana. 1996. Long live the Three Sisters: Organic Gardening. Nov. p. 37-40.

First in Line

2005-03-27T17:42:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

There's something to be said for keeping with the artistic intention of a work which is the reason I chose to use a small font to keep the structure, hence flow, of the poem intact.

Hints of renewed life flit along hitching a ride on lukewarm breezes;
The forgotten colors of earth promise return like the carnival coming to town.
I breathe in anticipation becoming a child--
Imagining the taste of cotton-candy,
Hearing the distant sounds of the calliope and delighting in the clowns' painted faces.

A few survivalist leaves cling relentlessly to thin-ended branches--
The remaining undergarnments of almost-bare trees--
Dancing their last bump and grind of the season in the 10 o'clock burlesque,
Preparing for their grand finale: Spring.

Curvaceous new buds will soon emerge, pushing the aged and tattered leaves aside--
The new stage show replacing the worn-out with heightened excitement.
The ravaged, seasoned leaves hang; their crumpled bodies sagging toward the ground,
Reminiscing their Glory Days.

The park is yet bare of new life but that of a small boy who
Stampedes through melted snow puddles
Killing Ol' Man Winter with every leap--
Aiding in the reunion of earth and water into muddy pools.

I wait around to be the first in line to purchase
A red perforated-edged ticket and an overflowing bag of stale-tasting popcorn,
Wondering if my stamina will outlast the young lad's.

Happy Lady Day! (Ostara)

2005-03-20T00:00:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

Whether one calls it Eostara, Ostara or Lady Day, pagans of varied traditions celebrate this holiday. It is observed on either March 20: the Vernal Equinox when the sun crosses the equator entering the astrological sign of Aries or March 25: the traditional folk date when festivities begin on its Eve. This is the begining of Spring; the victory of light over darkness. This time of year represents the warrior aspect of the God who appears victorious over the long, dark days of winter. The days are now equal to the nights in length. This is the festival of fertility.

Eostara is truely a lunar holiday honoring the Teutonic lunar Goddess, Eostre. (This is also where the name for the female hormone, estrogen, comes from.) At this time, there is a new moon (when the moon does not appear in the sky). This time of darkness lasts three days. The next Vernal full moon (Eostara) is celebrated; the return of the Goddess. Interestingly, this correlates to the story of the ressurection of Christ after three days, which Mike Nichols discusses in his in-depth article: Lady Day; The Vernal Equinox.

Whichever date one choses to observe, traditionally, this is a time when seeds are blessed for the season's planting and eggs are colored and placed around the home and altar. Hares have roots in Celtic Paganism, and are an obvious sister-symbol of the egg. Both represent fertility. It is no surprise that the fertility of rabbits has been an observed fact of nature for hundreds of years. At one time, it was thought that rabbits laid eggs because rabbit burrows are commonly concave with fur lining the sides. This resembles a bird's nest. The colors of light green, yellow and pale pink are used to represent the returning colors of Spring. Yellow and gold also symbolize the returning strength of the Sun (his fighting spirit) from his winter slumber.

A traditionally-rooted pagan custom is to give women the gift of a new broom, and to men, a new staff. Each of these can be seen to represent a fresh start, a new beginning. A broom to clean away the old and start fresh, and a staff to "start out" fresh, with new strength, seeking out new possibilities. Twisted bread and sweetcakes are prepared and served at dusk--reminding one of the sweetness of the season. It is an excellent time to plant seeds or start a magikal garden. Partake in the outdoors and relish in the returning warmth of the air and the returning growth on the earth. Listen to the birds sing. Spring is here, rejoice!

Gay Governmental Welcome Wagon

2005-02-25T13:57:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

It looks as if the "Don't Ask Don't Tell" policy that was brought about by the Clinton Administration may be repealed. The 9,500 "outed" gay soldiers who have been discharged are now costing us a pretty penny in replacements. That's because many of these discharged homosexual soldiers were highly-trained in such areas as language skills (Arabic).

Of course, the real reason for considering a repeal is that we need soldiers. People aren't signing up for some reason. Could be because we're at war. Recruitment of reservists dropped 24% in the last four months. So the government will vote soon on whether or not to change this policy and welcome gays into the military with open arms. After all, it's not that they couldn't perform their tasks well--on the contrary. It's not that they didn't want to stay in the military--on the contrary. But, as we all know, in war, rules change and morals go unchecked. Our government isn't willing to extend civil rights to homosexuals, but finds that a body is a body, and is willing to extend a new right to homosexuals: the right to die in war. Interesting double standard.

What an embarrassment for Mr. Bush. The president has made it clear that his religion has decided his moral stance on gay rights in this country. Now, pragmaticism is outweighing his morality. Not wish-washy at all. Don't forget, all's fair in love and war. Except, in this country, not all's fair in the love between homosexuals, whereas all's still fair in war.

Perhaps, for gays in America, this will finally be the last needed step toward the door at the end of the long hall leading to their civil rights. Perhaps.

Anything Can be a Blog

2005-02-05T14:41:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

I'm back in college and haven't written a new blog in some time. Since I've been so preoccupied with school, and needed a blog idea, I decided to create a cut-up of the material used in my classes over the last two weeks. The cut-up method is a writing method that was used by William S. Burroughs and Brion Gysin (and other writers, I'm sure). One literally takes pages of writings and cuts and pastes them, adds and edits them into some form of prose. Here it is.

Each year, after the winter blizzards, bacterica to bats, toadstools to trees, whippoorwills to whales--the night of thaw, the tinkle of dripping of the living world boggles the mind. Yet, all organisms, over the neolithic revolution in the fertile crescent bring strange stirrings, not one is united by a common bond. Just as you are descended from the winter. The hibernating skunk, curled--tied together by an unbroken lineage that can den--uncurls himself and ventures forth through time to the infancy of our planet.

The track is likely to display an indifferent diversity of life, including tigers, lions, gorilla and affairs uncommon at other seasons. The months of the year: Januar; Februar; März; April; Mai; Juni; Juli; August; September; Oktober; November; Dezember-- are three reasons for music in the Torah.

Pythagoras' a2 + b2=c2 is in the driver's seat. What evolution has accomplished in geometric progression in the abundance of years, can be destroyed in a much shorter length of time. What dropped the reins, I follow, curious to deduce: do I preserve diversity or destroy it? The future of life is in our hands. Basic college mneumonic preservation of meaning. Deutsch, Mathamatics, Music and Biology.

Five Things I Experienced on Inauguration Day

2005-01-20T19:10:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

1) seeing one of the Bush daughters (the blonde) giving the sign of the horns
You know, like at a concert. Pinky and pointer finger up and the middle two held down by the thumb. Daddy was busy waving to people from a stage and there was the family--just hanging back. What's a girl to do when bored following daddy all over the country to ensure a cushy allowance and perk benefits? She was probably thinking, I-am-so-bored, I-am-so-bored, I-am-so-bored. I know! Flash the horns a few times! Yeah!
The best part was when a man from the audience signed it back! Rock on. Where's a lighter when you need one?

2) hearing a Fox News broadcaster misquote a group of protestors' chants when asked what they were saying by her fellow news broadcaster
She listened for a moment and said they were saying: Hey Bush, whadd'ya say, how are you feeling today? instead of the correct chant: Bush, Cheney, whadd'ya say, how many babies have you killed today? Because--I'm sure the protestors were concerned about the president's well-being. (Turns out she never was any good at the part of the english test where you have to figure out a word's meaning from the context of the sentence.)

3) hearing a man exclaim "Fuck Bush" repeatedly LIVE on CNN

4) seeing Bush's vehicle in the motorcade accelerating past a stretch of protestors with four secret service men at an easy jog alongside the vehicle
(Bush all-the-while thinking La-la-la-la-la I'm not listening! He looks away blocking the proles from his senses. This is MY day!)

5) feeling left out
This $40 million dollar extravaganza was funded almost completely by taxpayers. Dang! Why wasn't I invited to the luncheon? I would have enjoyed catapulting my peas toward many-a-number of folk in that room! Fuuuun. Well, no matter. They probably got my address or name wrong. I'm sure you got an invite, though, didn't you? I would suggest we use the money on needed equipment for the soldiers at war or for healthcare, education, the homeless, stem cell research or for tons of other areas of civilian need; you know, use the money pragmatically. But that would be downright silly of me.

Step Ladders

2005-01-15T10:15:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

This is a short story I wrote a few years ago. Although "image" is the overall theme of Step Ladders, I've recently heard some real-life stories of financial hardship that remind me of other aspects of this story. Step Ladders seems an appropriate contemporary social commentary.

Priscilla pulled her Berreta up to the curb. She wished she would have been able to keep the Grand Prix after Harold’s death, but the payments were out of the question without his paycheck. She could barely hang on to the house at this point. Her car looked out of place alongside Suzie’s Cadillac, Betty’s Lexus and April’s BMW. Priscilla was glad she had decided to wash the car on her way here. That helped appearances, at least a bit. She stepped out, smoothed her skirt and picked off several cat hairs from her top. She reached into the back seat and grabbed her canvas bag, which held a notebook, several different colored pens and her weekly planner. Hearing the low rumble of a car approaching, Priscilla peered out the back window. Sharon parked her Taurus behind Priscilla and stepped out.

“Hey, Priscilla! You ready for some party planning?”

Priscilla straightened and pushed the car door shut. “Sure. How are you doing? What happened to your bug?”

“Those Volkswagens! They usually have to special order parts. They gave me this clunker to drive until next Wednesday! I hardly handled the trip here from the dealer, let alone having to use this car all week. I think the muffler’s going.”

Priscilla forced a smile. They both headed toward the door while Sharon continued complaining about the Taurus. Priscilla pressed the doorbell and smoothed her skirt again.

April opened the door and squealed. “Sharon!" She set 3 year old Brittany on the white tile floor and grabbed Sharon, vigorously hugging her. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you! April turned toward Priscilla. “And how are you doing?” she asked in a plastic sympathetic tone, her head cocked to one side.

“I’m fine, April.”

“How are the kids doing?”

“They’re fine also--we’re all getting along just fine.”

“Well, if you ever need anything, don’t you dare hesitate to call--OK?”

“Thanks, April, that’s very kind of you.” It seemed that after Harold died, April got even more enjoyment out of asking how things were going. She had always treated Priscilla that way--knowing that Harold’s chosen career as a body mechanic didn’t quite measure up to her Howie’s position at the bank. Of course, it didn’t help that Howie happened to be their mortgage broker, and had obviously filled April in on their financial history--including the bankruptcy and remortgage. Howie certainly didn’t have any patron/broker privacy oath to follow, and it showed in how April treated her. “You look great, April,” Priscilla said, and she meant it. She always did--spotless outfits with matching earrings, hairband, lipstick and nailpolish, a Stepford wife.

“Thanks, Priscilla. Come on in, gals!” April guided Brittany to the living room where Suzie and Betty’s girls were playing. She paused at the doorway. "Now, Brittany, you be nice and share your toys--okay?" April continued into the dining room where Suzie and Betty sat at the table cutting out felt shapes of pumpkins and black cats.

“Look who’s here!” April gestured toward Sharon and Pricilla, announcing their arrival. She cleared felt from two more spots at the table. "Ladies, come--sit down." Sharon and Pricilla sat down at the table. Priscilla took a notebook and pen out of her bag. April sat at the head of the table and began the meeting.

“I’m glad we all know each other from last year--that way I can avoid formalities. We need to do some planning for all the parties this year, but especially for the Halloween party coming up. What Suzie and Betty are working on is our first craft item of the year.” April reached across the table and picked up a felt pumpkin and cat cutout. She pinched them between her french-tipped fingernails displaying them to everyone. “I had this great idea of having the kids decorate picture frames during the party, then one of us takes a picture of them in their costume. They can bring it home as a gift for their parents. Suzie and Betty will cut out the shapes. What we still need is an instant camera and picture frames. Any ideas?”

“I have a Polaroid at home.” Sharon directed her words toward April. “Lots of film for it too--my uncle used to work for them.”

“Wonderful! That just leaves us with the frames. That’s going to be the most expensive part. I was thinking of sturdy cardboard ones.”

“I can get those,” Priscilla said. Everyone looked at her.

“You have some at home?” April asked.

“No. I’ll pick them up.” Suzie and Betty busied themselves with their shapes and Sharon raised her eybrows at April.

“Um, they’re probably going to be pretty expensive--we need 29 of them,” April said, looking uncomfortable.

“Maybe we should all pitch in.”

“No, that’s OK. I can handle it. Really.” Priscilla jotted down “frames” in her notebook.

“OK, well, if you find out they’re too much, let me know and I’ll collect a few dollars from everyone. No need to spend all your money on third graders!”

“Don’t worry, I won’t be spending all my money.”

“OK. Well, great! That’s taken care of. Do you all want to go into the sunroom? I have cucumber sandwiches and iced tea for everyone. Then we can plan the games and discuss ideas for the other parties.”

All the ladies followed April into the sunroom. Dainty mini-cucumber sandwiches dotted a doily-covered glass tray which, of course, complemented the crystal pitcher. Fresh sprigs of mint from April’s herb garden decorated each sandwhich. The ladies chatted about teachers, husbands and recipes. They periodically paused to redirect wandering toddlers back to the toys in the living room. The next expected topic was somewhat delayed--at least it seemed to be to Priscilla.

“Your Halloween vest is sooo adorable, April,” Suzie said. Priscilla sat back in her chair, smiling to herself, more about her correct premonition than for any other reason.

“And, I don’t know how you do it,” Betty added, “your accessories always match! You’re like a Barbie doll!” April just grinned. The fact that she didn’t blush led Priscilla to believe it was because such comments had become commonplace to her by now.

“You should try shopping with this girl!” Sharon said. “She’s been a godsend to my wardrobe--always points out the perfect outfit.”

“Your nail color and lipstick are great,” Betty said, “they really pull out the orangey color in your vest.”

“Thanks,” said April, “It’s one of the new colors in Estee Lauder’s fall line. It’s called Burnt Autumn. I liked the name almost more than the color--I had to get it. Everything’s in dark earth tones this fall--have you noticed?”

“Now April,” said Suzie, “you know that most of us don’t notice those types of things--not like you do.” Suzie looked toward Brittany peeking around the edge of the door. “I bet little Brittany here is going to be a real fashion diva when she gets older.” Brittany ran over to her mom and buried her face in her lap. April patted her on the back and smiled.

Priscilla spoke up, “I’ve been watching several fashion shows on the entertainment channel lately. I did notice that there's a lot of subdued color in this fall’s line up. Really weird greens, too. I just bought Meagan a great outfit with dark forest green flares. She loves it. I’ve been thinking of getting a few new pieces myself to add to my basic wardrobe.” Priscilla noticed her chipped red nail polish as she tapped her glass, and placed her hands on her lap under the table. She looked over at Brittany, who was looking at her, and smiled. “Excuse me, I need to use the washroom.”

Priscilla walked down the hall and into the bathroom. Even in the bathroom everything was in its place, just as she had expected. Pricilla looked into the mirror and noticed that the third button of her shirt was missing. Her faced blushed and she pulled open the drawer under the sink. She dug around through bobby pins and combs, finding a small gold safety pin. Reaching into her shirt, she pinned the gap from the inside as best she could. She checked the rest of her outfit, double checked it and pulled some lint off from her skirt. She heard a noise and looked up. There was Brittany, looking at her through an open crack of the door. She stared at Priscilla with wide eyes. Priscilla’s smile returned. “Hello, sweety.”

“Are you an actress?” Brittany asked.

“No, dear, I don’t like to pretend.” Priscilla walked by Brittany and back into the sunroom. The ladies continued to laugh and gossip until April redirected the group back into the dining room to finish up their meeting.

***

Priscilla walked into the mall and looked over the floor map that stood near the entrance. She tapped her fingers on the hard plastic floor plan and smiled. Her freshly polished red nails traced hallway C to store 23B--Frank’s Nursery and Crafts’ location. She tugged down on her blazer that was riding up just high enough to see that it was a bit snug-fitting, with buttons and button-holes pulled taught so that the buttons threatened to pop off at any moment. Switching her purse to her other hand, she headed in the store's direction.

She entered the store smiling at the checkout clerks. Walking by them, she continued into the craft section of the store. She began at the first aisle and looked down each one as she walked. She stopped and turned down aisle 5, where her friend Pam was working at straightening items on a shelf. “Pam! Hi there!” Pam looked up at her.

“Oh my gosh, Priscilla, what are you doing here? You’ve never been in here before, have you? I can’t imagine you in a craft store. I haven’t talked with you in a few months--since the funeral. How are you and the kids doing?”

“Oh, I’m managing. I was out looking for cardboard picture frames for a craft item we’re making for Sam’s Halloween party. I’m one of the room moms.”

“Glad to see you’re keeping busy. We have some, let me show you.” Priscilla followed Pam into the third aisle. “There's several types but here’s the cardboard ones we carry. We have 4x6’s and 3x5’s. They’re white--is that OK?”

“Oh sure. The kids are going to decorate them, so it doesn’t matter much what color they are. I think I’ll need the 3x5’s. I don’t see a price, do you know how much they are?”

“Let’s see, I was just stocking these earlier and didn’t price them yet.” Pam paged through a thick book filled with abbreviations and numbers. “They’re $2.50 each.”

“Oh my, I didn’t think they’d be that much--I need 29 of them!" Priscilla paused, shifting her weight to her other foot. "Do you remember how you got your sister a twenty-percent discount that one time? I was kinda hoping you’d be able to help me out, too.”

“Gosh, Priscilla, I wish I could. That’s only applicable to family members. But, you did say that this is for Sam’s school, right? You should be able to waive the tax if you tell the girl at the register what it’s for.”

“Don’t you work the register sometimes?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

“Is there any possibility of you checking me out and slipping me that twenty-percent discount? I just don’t have that much cash on me and I’m not sure how much I have left on my card.”

“I’m really sorry. I can’t do that. I’m working on being promoted to assistant manager and I really don’t want to take any risks. You understand, don’t you?”

“Oh, of course! Don’t be silly. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

“You know, we should get together for dinner soon! You could bring Sam and Meagan over. The kids can play and you can play poker with Bob and me. It’d be fun.”

“Sure, give me a call.”

“Well, I better get back to work, I’ll call you soon. It was great seeing you. If I get that position, don’t be shy about coming in and applying. I’ll hire you, guaranteed! It’s a good part-time job.”

“Thanks, Pam. I’ll keep that in mind. Talk to you soon.” Priscilla walked up to the register. She smiled at the checkout girl. "Hi. This purchase is for the school--I was told I could get the tax waived?"

"Sure. Just fill this out." The clerk pushed a form toward Pricilla. "Sign on the bottom." The total came to $72.50. Priscilla sighed, dug her visa out from her purse and handed it over, hoping the purchase would fit on the card. She breathed another sigh, this time out of relief, when she heard the machine begin to click and print out the receipt. She signed for it, took the large bag from the girl and left the store, headed in the direction she had come from.

Once she reached the floor map, she paused. She turned and looked at the map again and tapped her red nails on the plastic. She headed in the opposite direction of where Frank’s was located. Her pace quickened when she spotted the Lord & Taylor sign.

Priscilla entered the department store and looked around. She walked up to the makeup counter and selected a tube of lipstick from the display case. “Estee Lauder!” she exclaimed, louder than her normal tone. She scanned the floor for attention. A lady nearby looked over at her and smiled, returning her attention to her purchase. “I just love Estee Lauder, it’s simply the best cosmetic line around--don’t you agree?” She directed the last of her statement toward the counter girl approaching her.

“Oh, yes, ma’am, it is a nice line. Can I show you something?”

“I’m in the mood for a change in my usual lip color. Could you show me some shades from the new fall collection?” None of them would suit her, and she knew it. She placed her shopping bag on the floor.

“Let’s try Pale Champagne,” the girl behind the counter chimed, clearly excited to have a customer to wait on. Priscilla took the tube from the girl, drew a line of color on the back of her hand, considered it for a moment, then pushed the tube back at the girl.

“No, that’s definitely not for me.”

“Okay, um, how about this one? Spiced Rum.”

“Ooo, well it sounds good now, doesn’t it,” she hesitated slightly noting the gold name tag pinned to the girl’s smock, “Penny?” She smiled at her, and Penny, in turn, smiled back. Priscilla pulled a tissue from the box sitting on the counter and, after wiping off the lipstick, applied the new shade, again musing about the tone not being quite right. “Nnno, I don’t think this one’s right, either.”

“This one’s called Burnt Autumn--it’s one of our most popular new colors.” They exchanged tubes and Priscilla repeated the wiping and applying of lipstick colors.

"No, this is much too dark for my porcelain skintone. Now, what are those?” Priscilla pointed to an array of tubes behind the girl.

“Um, they’re not Estee Lauder--”

“That’s okay, I’ll look at some of those,” came Priscilla’s quick reply.

“Okay, let me see . . .” Penny turned and bent down to where the tubes were lined up on a shelf. The tissue Priscilla held in her hand became camouflage for the tube that remained beneath it, and she reached for another tissue using it to wipe off the third color from the slightly stained blotch that now remained on her test hand. Penny straightened and turned back toward Priscilla, carrying several tubes of lipstick. She selected one and opened it, handing it to Priscilla while telling her all about the highlights of this particular line of cosmetics and something-or-other about animal testing--or the lack thereof, but Priscilla was no longer interested in the particulars of lipstick.

“You know? I think I’ve changed my mind. I think I should stick to my usual color after all. I forgot how difficult it is to find just the right one.”

“Well, ma’am, perhaps it’s that red blazer of yours. It’s hard to match any color other than red with red.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Maybe I should try again when I’m wearing a different color. But thanks for all of your help, Penny.” She smiled at the girl and, with her palm down, handed her the decoy tissue. “Can you get rid of that for me?”

“Sure. I’m sorry you couldn’t find the right shade.”

“Don’t you think twice about it, dear.” Priscilla was flashing her biggest smile yet as she, in one swift move, dropped the wrapped tube into the bag, grabbed its handles, and turned and strode toward the store’s automatic doors.

Is This Sexy to You?

2005-01-07T20:04:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

Sex sells. Does my sidebar picture excite you? Am I selling this blog to you by even using the word "sex" within this post? Is this a tease blog or are you just happy to read my posts? Could you masturbate to the sidebar picture with adequate results? Will I bottleneck blog-traffic with my pornographic clipart and racy prose?

One of the people who posted a comment to me seems to find Brewed Nature downright trashy. Was he serious? You decide.

At 2:47 AM, Billy Joe said...
I just caught my son masturbating while viewing your website. I do not appreciate the pornographic picture and the racy peoms. Please remove them immediately.

Fuck that. Not to worry, I'm not editing my blog. Billy Joe's protest, however, does remind me of my strong distaste for censorship and small-minded folk, and I appreciate the afforded chance to write on it, as it gives me an easy blog topic for the day.

I've never understood the blurred logic of people who complain about "pornographic" or lewd material. Why can't they NOT look if they think the material is offensive? Divert their tempted eyes? Do they lack self-control? Maybe they go around jacking to everything. Maybe they think everyone should be protected from themselves--that no one else has control either, because they sure as shit don't. Why do we even need any control? They're always pushing their perverted thoughts off on others, and I'm quite offended. How dare they try to make nakedness and sex dirty when it's natural. How dare they try to ruin a good orgasm by stripping people of their preferred release--be it skin flicks, nudie magazines or my blog.

They are clearly insecure about their own arousal from the same material they want banned--otherwise, how could they say that it is "pornographic?" It must arouse them.

Maybe they're afraid of getting caught in the act, I don't know, some people like that. It's ok, I give them permission; they can look at porn. I don't mind and I won't tell their parents.

Oh I know, "Won't somebody please think of the children?"--Maude Flanders, The Simpsons

Come on. Let's not be naive. Once a person hits adolescence, they're gonna be interested in sex, nakedness and good poetry. Besides, I'd rather my kids happen upon some sex site or "porn" than see the beheadings, killing and suffering that war creates.

Now, seriously, does anyone really consider the material on my blog to be pornographic? Gotta be a joke post by Billy Joe, right?

Either way, I am very flattered that my blog can be considered this exciting. I hope the whole incident becomes newsworthy causing me to get some huge writing gig--some big book deal or screenplay based on the raw sex-appeal that Brewed Nature exudes. Now I'm excited.

Put Your Best Face Forward

2005-01-02T14:37:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

Man has always sacrificed truth to his vanity, comfort and advantage. He lives not by truth but by make-believe.--W. Somerset Maugham, The Summing Up (1938).

We give up our freedoms a little more every day, here and there. Bit by bit. Be it through home association bylaws, The Patriot Act or our workplaces. This is especially true if one's workplace is literally in the business of money. Say, a casino.

Darlene Jespersen, had worked as a bartender at Harrah's in Reno, NV for about 20 years. She was fired because she was not wearing makeup. She had shown reservations adapting to the new management's appearance standards. After the axe fell, she took them to court under sex discrimination charges.

The U.S. 9th Circuit Court of Appeals ruled in support of the casino:

"The ruling found, however, that the casino's appearance standards were no more burdensome for women than for men."
--Dec. 29 San Francisco(Reuters)

Read story here

The court cited a 1974 ruling that a company can require men to have short hair while women can sport long locks.

Of course it ruled for the casino. Image rules. Image is everything--especially in a casino where botox-smiles and martini-grins float along rivers of cashflow. Perhaps Darlene forgot that. Never mind that since only women (and some lovely trannies out there) wear makeup, the ruling is based on sex. Makeup can not be considered personal hygene--merely decoration.

As both men and women have hair, the '74 ruling directed only toward males is based on sex-roles and is discriminatory just as much as Darlene's case which is directed only toward female employees.

Perhaps if the casino distributed an informative pamphlet amongst the female employees, it would aid in the adaption process. It could provide answers to common questions from employees such as:

How can I tell when I'm wearing too much makeup?
Is mime or clown makeup allowed?
Does purple and green eyeshadow clash?
Are there sister-company brands I must adhere to when purchasing makeup?
How often should I powder my nose while working an 8-12 hour shift on the floor?

Perhaps Darlene didn't know that image matters more than performance. Darlene,stop trying. Don't care. Why bother? Hon, just put your best face forward.

The Writers Part I & Part II

2005-01-01T10:37:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

Part I: Down The Town

The writers
The writers
Ah, where are the writers?

Hanging in bars and pulling all-nighters

Sick to death of life
And scared to hell of Death

They're all down the town,
The writers,
Hanging in bars and pulling legs off spiders--
Tugging on their lungs for another breath

The writers

Bitter as Hell and
Hellbent on death

The writers

Part II: Swirling Words in a Tumbler

They emerge,
The writers

Triumphant and greensea new--
Fresh amidst their overbearing reality

The writers emerge with Wisdom--
Perhaps found at the bottom of a tumbler--
But nonetheless

"Wise beyond years,"
The words fumble into place nearly declaring so

The writers

Forming life into flow, tempo and rhyme--finding time with the beat
Reflecting the soul in inked proposal

The writers

Humanity in the Face of Tragedy

2004-12-30T11:24:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

Our humanitarian alarm clocks are buzzing--time to wake up! Don't snooze past this chance--it's a big one! Donate some money, pause for concern. Enjoy your rally to feel because who knows when a catastrophic event, such as the Tsunamis, will strike again bringing ol' man Emotion out to lunch. He's usually tucked away in his easy chair in the retirement home. But, every so often, we remember him and decide it's time for a guilt-induced visit.

The death toll continues to rise and soon disease will feed Death dessert--as if he hasn't had enough already.

Food for thought.

A video clip of the destruction in action can be viewed here:
http://www.genmay.com/showthread.php?t=483516&page=1&pp=15

HEALTH-couldn't-CARE-less

2004-12-17T23:13:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

Since everyone these days seems to have issues with health care here in America, I've been thinkin' real hard on how to fix the problem since our government refuses to.

Wouldn't it be nice if we could come up with a plan to help the middle-class who feel a burden from health care costs, the uninsured who continue on even in their needy ways, as well as doctors who've had their income-dream bubbles burst from skyrocketing malpractice insurance premiums? Heck, even the very rich bitch about the rising costs of health care.

An idea struck me. Why not start a national ad campaign that would give everyone a boost in the right direction? That's right, advertise our way out of it. Just like we do for bankruptcies, weight-loss, and spiritual freedom. We just tweak the system.

A Major, National, All-Inclusive HEALTH-couldn't-CARE-less ad campaign!

Why, who wouldn't flock to treatment centers with deals like:

Big Blowout Sale--Angioplasty--Everything Must Go!

Or:

2 for 1 Kidney Dialysis Treatments--Good While You Last!

And the ever popular:

Free AIDS Drug Cocktail Review--Offered at your local Wally-World!

And, these are just off the top of my head. Just scratchin' the surface. Tryin' to do my part. Just thinkin' . . .

But really, why not?

Grammatical Challenge #1 OR Short Shorts

2004-12-11T19:44:00.000-06:00

This was once a final exam of mine in a creative writing class. What can you come up with?

The Assignment: A short story in the format of a one hundred word sentence.

Here's my take from way back in December of 2000:

First Class

Before I interrupted her lingering conversation with the man that scooted away backwards toward the door who had been in front of me (I pieced together bits of their exchange and wondered if ours would end up the same: friendly but congenial--at a safe distance), the woman behind the counter snapped her head back and gave out a chuckle which activated her auburn curls to bouncing on either side of her chiseled face, reminding me of my sister's prized porcelain doll that she use to dust twice daily when she was a child; "Some stamps please," I said.

Where Are the Gandhi's of America?

2004-12-07T22:27:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

I recently watched the movie, Gandhi. I've wanted to see it for years, but finally got around to viewing it.

Perplexed and dismayed of our bleak, authoritarian position in the world, especially after the election, I now wonder: where is our Gandhi? Sure, we've had our Thoreau, ourAbbie Hoffman--but where is the leader for this era? The leader whom the two different parties can both follow--nodding their heads in agreement with his/her moral judgment? Where is peace, love and caring in America? And how can it be that, in a democracy--the most popular form of government in the modern world--there is such a great lack of morals?

Furthermore, how can there be an almost non-existent popular vote for a third party? A true democracy? Is that not what we, as Americans, tout? Have we all been hoodwinked? Are we too engrossed in reality TV that we do not see the reality of our own state of being in this world? Can we so easily ignore the hatred of the rest of the world, and its just cause? Who are we that we can wear such big boots? Can we fill them? Are our boots even made here, in America?

Civil Disobedience, take a number and sit and wait, please; amongst hypocritical philosophies halfway thought out. No need to dwell. We are all powerful Americans! Bow.

Is humility a dirty word? Is humanitarianism a long-forgotten ideal? What will it take for us as a nation to see our faults, admit to them, and attempt a change? Are we too embarrassed to admit to our follies? How can we start a grass-roots movement against our own government when half the country has been brainwashed by power and greed--fed by the Almighty Dollar?

When will we be disgraced? When will our dignity speak up saying, "Remember me?" Will it take a civil war to care again? A revolt against our government--a corrupt government?

What is murder if it brings wealth to the nation? Is it then considered necessary or fighting for FREEDOM? Has time changed our view of totalitarianism? Why do people not see the truth in our nation's actions?

We must all be androids who are programmed against humanitarian actions. We must not care about our fellow man. We must all want to have more and more for CHRISTmas every year. Above all, we must keep our dignity and be CORRECT. We must save face. Screw the rest of the world, for we ARE Americans. Our truth is THE truth. Did you even doubt it?

A Thanksgiving Prayer

2004-11-26T11:03:00.000-06:00

Thanksgiving Prayer by William S. Burroughs

Thanks for the wild turkey and the passenger pigeons,
destined to be shit out through wholesome American guts.

Thanks for a continent to despoil and poison.

Thanks for Indians to provide a modicum of challenge and danger.

Thanks for vast herds of bison to kill and skin leaving the carcasses to rot.

Thanks for bounties on wolves and coyotes.

Thanks for the American dream,
To vulgarize and falsify until the bare lies shine through.

Thanks for the KKK.
For nigger-killin' lawmen, feelin' their notches.

For decent church-goin' women,
with their mean, pinched, bitter, evil faces.

Thanks for "Kill a Queer for Christ" stickers.

Thanks for laboratory AIDS.

Thanks for Prohibition and the war against drugs.

Thanks for a country where nobody's allowed to mind their own business.

Thanks for a nation of finks.

Yes, thanks for all the memories-- all right let's see your arms!
You always were a headache and you always were a bore.

Thanks for the last and greatest betrayal of the last and greatest of human dreams.
http://www.inter-zone.org/thanks.html

From The Security of our Caves

2004-11-21T08:21:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

I've been living out of apartments now for about six years. I've moved several times within those years and, although each neighborhood may have a bit of a different vibe, there is one quality of apartment-living that doesn't change: knowing one's neighbors. Well, more to my point, NOT knowing one's neighbors.

My apartment-dwelling lifestyle has made me realize how our apartments (and homes for that matter, just because one owns more space doesn't change this) are still our caves. We haven't evolved as much as we think we have. Sure, we have central heating, maybe even central air. But, our apartments are still our little caves which we decorate and pretend are not attached to anyone else. We park in the universal parking lot, dart into the building attempting to avoid one another, and duck into our warm, little alcove of walls that are still not thick enough to completely keep out each others' sounds. But, we try to pretend it's just us. It's our home, our building, our space, our cave. Decorations personalize this space and add to the illusion that we're away from the rest of the world. Our stuff comforts us; separates us. But just outside our doors lurk other doors in the hallway. Existing within a few feet. Doors to who-knows-what.

Most apartment dwellers don't even know their neighbors' names. And we prefer it this way. After all, in this survivalist world, who has time for others? Especially NEW others in our lives? But wait! That's how we survived as a species; by working together, communicating. Hunting together, fighting together, eating together, evolving together--back in the survivalist world. So I've begun my own mission; my own experiment. I began saying hi to my neighbors and smiling. Now I don't dart in, I stroll. I want to see one of them. I want to arrest their senses of what neighbors are and how we are to act. I want them to notice that I notice them. Sometimes, I'll even ask how they're doing. Some of them dodge me even more, now. But some actually slow down and smile back. And in that moment, there's something there. An acknowledgement of humanity. And that is something.

A Blog a Day?

2004-11-20T16:01:00.000-06:00

by Lydia Daffenberg

Why Brewed Nature for the title of my blog? Many reasons, and some I'm still making up. First, nature is brewed, so to speak. Nature takes time, steeps in nutrients and brews into delicious sights, sounds, textures and smells. Second, to blog is to brew; stew in one's thoughts, then share one's finished cup of creation. Third, which is attached to my second point, I have this nature to brew, stew and think. Hence, Brewed Nature. So, it is high time I share my ramblings with other ramblin' folk. Welcome. Now, the only problem, what to blog about . . .