All Dressed Up

art by fafi; keep art alive

When I was a young girl my imagination was quite possibly my most treasured posession, and best friend. Some of this stemmed from being a voracious reader who consumed stacks of books carried home from the library, or brought home for keeps after visits to a few bookstores that my grandmother would take me to. It was also most likely inspired by the love for movies that my mother helped to introduce me to, most often during middle of the night insomnia-fueled viewings of musicals and classic films. We went to the movies often, too. I remember vividly going to see Disney's Robin Hood, the release of the Star Wars films, and the re-release of The Sound of Music. My imagination and I loved to create characters, often on paper in numerous spiral bound notebooks, but also in myself. Creating a new me was one of the best games I could ever think up -- one day a gypsy fortune teller, another as Maid Marian, the next Holly Golightly, and the week ending as Princess Leia -- when everything else seemed stagnant, I could always change myself into someone else entirely.

Julia was a princess kind of girl. She insisted on only wearing dresses that would spin, and that were of the brightest hues. She was a Disney girl, full of those happily ever after fantasies. That said, she also admired the animae versions of the adolescent heroine, in shows like Sailor Moon and Muldiver. Most of these stories contained similar themes of an outsider girl -- different in some way, or craving something different -- is somehow given the power to change her existance either through love or some supernatural power. Mostly, though, it comes down to love. Granted, most of these stories are filled with very limited and unrealistic versions of love. My mother used to joke that you never saw what really happened after the princess married the prince, that if you had you would most likely see her doing dishes and cleaning after the prince's horse. Somehow, though, it was never the promise of a prince that seemed to interest Julia; instead it was the fanciful garb and the idea of having something "special", be it powers or title.

Veronica takes to more than just the costume of a princess. She seems to adore the prospect of being treated as a princess should be. She wants things to be beautiful, flowers and rainbow colors everywhere, and she strives for attention. I watch her in just about any situation and she has this power to charm just about anyone. Part of it is her outgoing personality, she will literally talk to anyone and is very generous with her words and what she is willing to give. Her new favorite pastime is to gather up flowers, or draw pictures, and gift them to the everyday people she encounters. A freshly picked rose is given to the person who bags our groceries, a painted castle left at the neighbors front door to greet them on their return home. One memorable Veronica encounter happened when we lived in Chicago. We were riding the train and she decided to re-name all the passengers that sat in her close proximity. By the time we reached our stop everyone around us were laughing with each other, and waving goodbye to the charismatic toddler who christened them names like Eggbert and Leeloo. It does not take a very big suspension of disbelief to see her ruling over a kingdom of her own.

Max is fascinated by the costumes Veronica wears. His favorite token of imaginative royalty is the crown. Back when we lived in the small one bedroom, in Fullerton, the kids used to play this game out on the balcony. Veronica, and my roomate at the time's children, used to set up this throne with the wood planks that were left by the previous tenants. Max would excitedly sit on them and the kids would then find any object within their immediate reach and try to balance it on his head. They would call Max the king, and after awhile he caught onto the game and would say "the king! the king!" I think the fascination with Veronica's tiaras stems from Max's memory of his past reign as household king.

Perhaps I am raising a future realms great leaders. Or maybe we all secretly long to play at being someone else. It is just as we grow older that we save such desires for Halloween, or the occasional masquerade parties. What would we dress as if it was socially acceptable to put on different costumes regularly. Who would you be today?

I pack my suit in a bag

I'm all dressed up for Prague

I'm all dressed up with you

All dressed up for him too

Prague (All Dressed Up) ~ Damien Rice

L.

Hide and seek

art by rusty wex; keep art alive

Spring is alive in our neighborhood, I can feel the honey bee buzzing of energy and heart-beating reverie. Sitting in the corner of my kitchen by the two open windows, my favorite place to write as of late, I watch the signs of the season in the tiny details of life outside. The woman from upstairs who has the newborn baby, she usually walks about with the red-eye squint of sleep deprivation and a scowl on her lips, a non-verbal curse at the morning sun. But, this morning I noticed a every so slight bounce to her step, and an actual smile as a hello when our eyes met and I nodded to greet her. Later in the afternoon, when school had let out, the teenage daughter that just moved in across the way went running -- no, it was skipping -- past my window and into the parking garage. I heard giggles that you know came from a blushing girl, that were loud and raucous, and so infectious that I had to giggle a little myself. She came out eventually, with a shy boy in tow, his eyes on nothing but her. The looks on those just been kissing faces were the sort of thing that line of birds on the line should be singing about. They were every pop songs favorite couple, with her hiked a bit shorter parochial school uniform and his ripped jeans and torn at the sleeve t-shirt, they were Southern California's post-modern Jack and Diane for a mid-afternoon moment.

Last night Veronica refused to wear any clothing beyond her polka-dot underwear. She told me that her skin was too hot for such things, and that clothes would only slow down her dancing. Julia put on the classical music channel, by request, so the scarcely-clad Veronica could practice her self-taught ballet. "You know, she is actually a good dancer, Mom. We should get her into a class," Julia remarked. And, she is right, Veronica has the agility and sense of balance of a dancer; or, a fairy. Some nights I peek under her nightgown to see if her wings have arrived. After the dancing, and a bath, she told me that there would be no getting dressed unless we went outside to talk with the moon. This is a warm evening ritual we started when she was barely walking, around the time that she fell in love with the book Goodnight, Moon; and, spent more time wishing the moon a fair evening than all the times spent reading and re-reading that favorite book.

On our walk back into the house Max looked around furtively, scanning the sky, asking me finally "Where moon go?" Veronica answered authoritively, with hands firmly on her hips, "Max, the moon went to play hide-and-seek with the stars." Veronica being the family expert on all lunar playtime activities, of course.

Julia has been spinning about the house in the glow of love's soon arrival. She kisses everyone as she walks by, and is constantly singing even when her iPod is gifting her ears with song.

As for me, I am just hoping to catch some of the fever around me. The blues have taken resident in my skin this week, and I am waiting for it to take the first bus, and leave. I want to trade my mood in for Spring's bursting pallet of color.

spin me round again
and rub my eyes
this can't be happening

when busy streets
a mess with people
would stop to hold their heads heavy

hide and seek

Hide and Seek ~ Imogen Heap

L.

Save the world

art by ray caesar; keep art alive

Questions are something that I have always been rather fond of. I have an ever curious nature that is not easily sated by surface small talk. Long, deep conversations that last well into the early hours of morning are some of my most favorite things be a part of. Perhaps it is the writer in me, or the fact that humankind just interests me, but I have this need inside me to know people's stories. The truth that I have discovered, through my inquisitions of those I meet or come in contact with, is that people love to discuss themselves; they enjoy having a reason to expose their plots and unearth their mysteries to a someone who is actually listening. We are all suckers for surveys, magazine page quizzes, and even truth or dare games. Casual therapy between friends can be the building blocks to connection and healing; and, at times I do believe we all need a prescribed dose of that.

Veronica is at the question-asking stage. She throws quite a bit of what I say back at me, wondering at what it all means. This is not a ploy to change my responses, or instigate anything. Nor is it a bargaining tool to navigate things to go her way (though she does possess quite a bit of bartering techniques). Instead I see in her just this enormous curiousity and a burning need to know. Tonight she asked me two different questions, one that I found amusing and could answer easily; the other took my breath from me, and made me momentarily pause to sort out how I would answer her. This is a change for her, this new tiny detective who peels apart words and phrases, sights and sounds. And, I think I am still trying to get a grasp on how deep and detailed she wants my answers to be.

The simple question was "what does already mean, momma?", as she had just used the word in her impatient tone of "let's get out of the car already." I love that she questions things that she not only hears, but says herself. She picks up sayings people utter around her; overheard conversations, teenage vernacular from Julia and her friends, slang lifted from television shows or heard in song lyrics. Most times she uses the new-to-her phrases correctly, she has a strong vocabulary, a good grasp on language, and a sharp ear for how things should sound. But, when she is not completely sure what something means she tries it out, then asks for confirmation that she has used it right. I told her "the way you used already means hurry" and she smiled at me, pleased with herself for expressing her feelings correctly. For a second she glowed enough to light up the dark parking garage.

"What is the end of the world, momma?" was the trickier question she threw at me. It gave me quite a pause, and I admit my first instinct was to change the subject. She has inquired about death a lot lately, especially asking about my Grandmother who passed away long before she had the chance to meet her. I was not sure if this was a question that veered into the realm of death, or if this was something she had pictured in her mind as an actual end of the earth. There was some cartoon that ran through my memory-scape, that I cannot clearly recall. It had a character standing at the end of the world, as if the pages led to something blank and final, and there he was standing and looking straight into an endless abyss. I also pictured Jim Carrey's character in The Truman Show finding the far edge of the set, the flat surface appearing to him as if it were the end of the world. Was it this kind of ending she was seeing in her mind's eye?

These mind wanderings and imaginings just lengthened my hesitance to respond, and for a second or two I thought I might escape without having to come up with an answer. Veronica would have none of that and asked again, "what is the end?" I told her the only thing I could, that I really did not know. Perhaps it would be if the whole world were to die. She mulled that over for a bit then responded with another question, "you mean like the dinosaurs that all died?" I said "yes, something like that." The conversation was put on hold as we went into the house and she was distracted by her brother who had fallen asleep on the couch, and her desire to have some of the dinner that was now ready for us to eat. It was a bit later, as I tucked her into bed that she said to me in an almost whisper "we should be like superheroes, momma, and take care of the world so it does not end."

I smiled and agreed with her, told her that her papa already prepared her for that job by giving her a superhero middle name. Veronica Hawkgirl, she is making plans to save the world.

So I walk up on high

And I step to the edge

To see my world below

And I laugh at myself

While the tears roll down

'Cause it's the world I know

It's the world I know

The World I Know ~ Collective Soul

L.

I woke myself up

art by Sylvia Ji; keep art alive

Momcore is a term I first discovered in a review of the musician Julie Doiron. I was listening to her latest album Woke Myself Up and delving into research on the artist and her past albums, while working on a review of the newest that I was creating a draft for, when I noticed it. The term was used to describe a state of mind, and art, that concentrate on hearth and home; the notion of an artist turning a kind of domesticated life into something full of grace and beauty. The word, and the seeming definition, stuck with me and sat in the back of my mind for weeks after. It was during this spinning round of momcore that I found myself ruminating on my own role as a mother, and what being a mother means to me; as a woman, a person, and an artist.

More often then not when you mention to someone that you are a mother there is this dismissive tone, and a flash of disinterest, that occurs and overtakes the listener. It is as if this realization of this piece of who you are suddenly makes the other bits disappear, and leaves you less worthy of expression, of interesting conversations, or of any kind of creative thought at all. As if the act of bringing a soul to life, and helping to mold them into people who will exist in this world, somehow lacks imagination, a pioneering spirit, or any intellect. When you think on it that way it makes the preconceived opinions and repression seem ridiculous and borne of ignorance, don't you think? I suppose that thinking on this, and some of my experiences as a mother, is part of what made me decide I wanted to try my hand at something like this.

Momcore will not be a place to dictate a list of parenting skills, or act as a platform to be an expert on anything to do with being a mother, at all. I am no expert, and I falter and fail often; but then again is it not in our mistakes that we learn the most? This will not be a space to state how adorable my children are, nor will it detail every new word they come up with to describe an event in the bathroom, or to tell tales of something they stuck up their noses. Instead I am hoping this will be a place I come to for examination of my days, to dig deeper into the struggles I face as a mother, and where I look below the surfaces of who I am as a woman, and what it is really like to face growing up while you are helping others grow up, as well.

We live in a society much different than that of our own mothers, or their mothers before them. The neighborhoods, villages and communities that once thrived and came together to work as collective parenting are rare; most of us live for years in a place without even knowing our neighbors first names, much less what their own families are like. Long gone are the rows of houses filling up streets and cul de sacs, all housing stay at home mothers and two or three children minimum, with the 9-to-5 departure and arrivals of the working father as the norm. The post-modern household that exists now may have two working parents; it may contain stay at home fathers and breadwinning mothers, or single parents, or partners of the same gender or much older new mothers having babies than we have ever known before. All of these changes are not bad, and they do not set us back as people in any particular way; but I know that I am not the only one to find the experience often isolating, and as lonely as the inhabitants within the pages of Douglas Coupland’s novel Microserfs were once touted and detailed on the page.

I wanted to find a home for my thoughts on motherhood, a place to describe what my house looks like on a daily basis in all its shining chaos and catastrophe, and to develop a small side space to ruminate on the trials and travels of a woman who is figuring out what it means to grow beyond the patterns and predictability of being a wife and mother; a place to note how it is to come out the other side of a day and still remain my own definition of me. Hopefully this will help me discover things about myself, and my children, that I may not have recognized before. Perhaps it will be a stepping-stone to hop across and connect with other parents looking for connections and support from other mothers and families out in this world. And, in the end, hopefully it will act as both a writing prompt and artistic motivation for myself, and possibly anyone who takes the time to stop by and read now and then.

Now for a little character introduction and a few words about the persons I will mention most often:

Laura: Today I am thirty-eight years alive. I am the mother of three, a wife, friend, writer, worker, survivor and daily warrior in the minefield of being a family. I tend to be obsessed with music, films, good television shows, pages in books, first days, and new starts. I long for change. The lure of the road and chances to uproot myself and start over tempt me a little too often for my own good. I write often, and talk even more. I tend to be a bit of a control freak, have struggles with long-term relationships, and often exist in chronic overwhelm mode. But, I do wake up every morning and persist in trying to live my life, and for the most part, even though I have much more figuring out to do about myself, I am happy with whom I have become.

Julia: My oldest daughter who is now fifteen years old has lived through miles of my trips and stumbles while I tried to sort out who I was, and what I was doing with my life. She has the biggest heart of anyone I have ever known. She is smart and sarcastic, struggles with low self-esteem, is kind to everyone, and sometimes cares a bit too much about what other’s think of her; and she is completely boy crazy. She is a lover of music and fashion, is a talented artist, and has very definite goals, and a well-mapped out plan, for her future.

Veronica: The girl least likely to be a middle child. She is four years old and itching to start kindergarten, asking every morning if it is September yet. She is dramatic, extroverted, sassy, bossy, and possesses an imagination so ripe and vivid that it could take any opiate-induced animated dream sequence and put it to shame. She is wise beyond her years, silly, artistic, and a lover of classical music and flower gardens, and told me recently she wants to be the president when she grows up because they get to stand on a stage and talk all the time.

Max: The youngest member of our circus troupe. At two years old he is the quiet one, a bit emotional, and very gentle and careful with everyone and everything he comes in contact with. He memorizes dialogues and lyrics, and can mimic tones of voices and vocal inflections perfectly. Some of his behaviors and personality traits correlate with early signs of autism, and I am in the midst of finding out if that is a diagnosis we will be living alongside of. He is unique in so many ways, and is my first experience with raising a boy. I find myself often in awe of the way he is, and how he reacts to the world around him, which is so different from the way the girls and I seem to.

David: My partner in crime and parenthood. Today is both of our birthdays and the marking of our seventh year of marriage. We have had a rocky go of it at times, and recently spent a year living apart from one another; but we are both dedicated and working hard at making our marriage and family not only work, but be something that brings happiness into each other’s lives. David is the birth-father of my two youngest children, and the stepfather and friend of my oldest (they have had their share of struggles as well, but are both working on a new goal of being friends). We have not always been the perfect couple, and often have been questioned at why we are together, but in the end we have a connection that is deep and stronger than our mistakes, and we truly love each other, and the children, very much.


I woke myself up
To rest my weary head
from all the work I’d done
in those dreams I had
I Woke Myself Up ~ Julie Doiron

L.