home to France

It’s too late to write. What am I doing? The white glow from the computer is the only light in the room.  My mind is full. I think I’ll go back to France for the night. Come along for the ride if you will.

The flight is long. It always is. Not in hours; in anticipation. I listen to the voices around me and do my best to nod, pout my lips, and keep quiet. I want Les Francais to think I am one of them for as long as I can. When I have to speak, I do my very best accent of oui and non.

I look out the window and see it approaching. Butterflies. The wheels descend. We touch down. Immediately, I feel home.  My heart feels a certain peace, there is a warm rush in my gut and I smile. 

I walk outside and feel the sun on my face, drop my bags and just stay still for a moment. The sun seems a little warmer here in southern France. I look about and smirk at all of the small colorful cars I love whizz by. Even the street signs are more gladdening to me, with bright blue arrows instead of our stodgy rectangles. 

I get to my flat in the village, up a winding cobblestone street. The shutters, a shade of turquoise are wide open letting in the balmy mistral winds, the floor, a terracotta mosaic is beauty understated. The patisserie is down a charming fleur framed block, and la fromagerie is down another. Café’s line the streets, never seeming to close and animals are always welcome at all. Trees canopy me as I walk along narrowing paths and passerby’s really do carry baguettes in their armpits on their way home for family dinner.

I venture out to the countryside and watch as the sunflowers raise their head to sun in the morning and bow their heads in the evening as faithful parishioners. I walk out to the fields and get lost in them, the stalks taller than me. There is an absolute enchantment in being immersed in the reeds, entangled in their grace. In the distance I see the proud, rugged Montagne Sainte Victoire reaching into the heavens with its vibrant, varying hues from limestone, clay, and Cypress friends.

Fast forward to the lavender fields. I can always smell its sweet perfume in the breeze, the thyme and rosemary mélange. My eyes look as far as they can and see only a blur of violet haze, in the tiers of a maze. My hands float atop the sea of buds as my fingers grab a bunch and pull gently. The scent lingers on my skin. My eyes happily squint from the golden sun resting in the cobalt sky, as picturesque as the day Van Gogh and Cezanne painted it. To be under the same sky, shielded by the same sun, walking the same streets is all but surreal.

It is extraordinary here, my sanctuary, my home.

I do not want to go back. Not yet.

But it is late. Next time I will go back to the market place and sit for a moment in the hall of my favorite cathedral...

For now, I must return to my waking life, and leave my home behind. 

xmas morning

Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light. Love those lyrics. Love the song. Christmas carols in general are lofty in their own right. They ooze a certain magic.

Turns out Boston got a white Christmas after all this year. I exaggerate. The most gentle and slight of snowflakes fall, but see them I do...and one or two is better than none at all.

This morning I'm plagued with deletism. I write, perhaps too honestly...overcome by the Christmas spirit, or...simply me, and...press delete. We are not that acquainted I do believe. I was divulging my Christmas wishes...well, other than human kindness spread through the world like disease, and a peace almost unrecognizable. Yet I withhold my own wishes and prayers as I oft do...for they are my own. And they will come to fruition in due time as long as I hold on to the things I must...and keep my joy bright.

"O Tidings of comfort and joy!"

MerrY...JoLLy...ChriStmas

santa's change up

Today was the day. Everyone would be expecting him. Gosh he loathed his job. He didn’t see the point anyway. There was no gratitude, no real gratitude anyway. No one ever really came up to him directly and said, “you know, you do a fine job, thank you.” For a split second, the thought of not going hustled though his head, but he knew too much was at stake. Begrudgingly, he put on his tattered coat, his hefty boots, and his old headpiece. He thought to himself, I can’t even get a new suit? This one has been around for ages!

There were strings loose and pins sticking out. The material was starting to get itchy. He scratched and scratched some more, then murmuring under his breath, just deal with it, ha! I’ll show them deal with it! Just then, he took off his faded red coat with sullied white fluffy piping and threw it to the floor. “I’m wearing what I want to wear this year!” Chris huffed. He stormed into his closet and stared at his clothes, mostly red, greed, and…and wait…there was something blue hiding in the back that caught his eye. Aha! He snatched the blue dazzler, not caring what it was and pulled it over his head. “Perfect.”

He put his hand to his chin, tapping his finger on it a few times. “And now, pants.” How about these, he murmured to himself, as he pulled out some acid wash jeans. And there Chris stood wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt. It wasn’t until he looked in the mirror that he realized what the shirt said, “I’m with stupid.” He, He, He, Chris laughed. He had forgotten the Mrs. brought it back for him when she went to Vegas while the two were on a "break." Splendid. "But I can’t do tonight without my hat," he whispered to himself concertedly. Finishing the ensemble, he placed his his favorite threadbare, red pointy cap on his newly dyed, brown hair. This will be a Christmas to remember, Santa said with effect. I’m doing things my way. I’m shaking things up. 

He took out his polaroid and called for Blitzen.

mojo

It seems of late I’ve lost my mojo. I had no idea the declaration of my sin--the taking of a bedfellow, to Insomnia would cause so much damage to our relationship. Everything is topsy-turvy around the hiz-house, and I’m none too pleased. The hard lesson learned: be careful what you wish for. Though I only asked for brief relief, and I’m quoting verbatim. Mr. Nocturnal and I no longer share the same sofa and Insomnia won’t even glance my way. As a result, I’ve lost my mojo, my words, the very thing that pulses through me, that maintains…me. So I sit and stare at you blank screen, we’ve done our thing before, and inspiration undulates…but it’s not enough. 9:57. Tick. 9:58. Tock. I hear you. It is early. I will wait for you if I must...

------------------------------------------- 

She opened her eyes to the darkness falling and heard the faint whirring motor at her feet. He felt her stirring and clumsily climbed up the middle line of her legs, then her chest, and plopped himself down right under her nose and nuzzled himself in the crook of her neck. She snickered and moved her head to the side, itching her nose from the tickle of his whiskers, and placed her hand on his body, petting him only once before drifting back asleep. What seemed like moments later, he began to grow restless. He tried curling up by her side, almost in a perfect circle, and then sprawled on his back all the way at the edge of the bed again.  But he wasn’t comfortable or tired. He had slept long enough. And just then, his ears perked, sensing someone was coming, could hear footsteps on the the stairs. 

"What is it Wrinkle?" She said startled.

glimpse

“No, no, no, this is how you do it,” and her little body wriggled and shook, mimicking the moves of the Macarena. "Brava Little One," J said, loading the groceries into the car. "Let’s go guys! I’m freezing," hollered another voice already waiting in her seat. “And, that’s not how you do it!”

It is cold isn’t it? Drawing the sides of her inflated winter coat together and whisking up Little One, she softly whispered, I love your Macarena. Little One, beamed. “I’ll show you the whole entire thing later,” and began humming, nun-nun-nuh-nuh-hey-Macarena. AYE-AYE!

"Ughhh. Would you stop!" Snarled Kid. J glanced in the rear view mirror to Kid, smiling big enough so that she could recognize it in the way the wrinkles gathered in the corner of her eyes and gave a wink just for her, then reaching her hand back and placing it on her calf, she gently stroked her leg, calming her. And now both faces meeting in the mirror and a silent pact between them with nothing but the Macarena in the background. AYE, AYE!

conversation clutter

PEYTON: I love this song; can you turn it up? This is our favorite song right now, right?

ME: (Tunes now cranked) Love it. Remember we couldn’t figure out the words but Sara was actually right about them?!

SARA: (Off in her own world…tuning in on the last words…) No! I don’t have anything to write today.

PEYTON: Outburst of laughter and uncontrollable comments.

ME: Silent snickering. Don’t worry Sara. I will check if you have homework.

SARA: (Very defensive) I don’t! I don’t have anything to write!

PEYTON: Still cracking up. No you don’t get it. She was saying you were right.

SARA: No you don’t get it. I don’t have anything to write!

ME: Cracking up. Uncontrollably. Neither of them get it (but a lesson on homonyms is not my aim at the moment).

letter of sorts

Sleep eludes me. Encore. And I say that in my very best droll French accent. I'm not sure why; blame it on delirium. In fact at this stage, all of life's musings seem to blur into a haze. As an act of desperation, I can think of nothing else to do but write to her majesty herself, Insomnia, and plea for my repose, in hopes she will be so kind to grant me even one day of partial shut-eye.

Dearest Insomnia,

Treasured companion of mine, how I know of your intentions. To your disappointment, my every whizzing thought is hardly catchable however. I do believe if we met somewhere in the middle, I would be more productive on the next round. Hear me out? Without you love, I wouldn't be, I couldn't be...my words simply couldn't parade together. It is in your wake I do my work, but your constant and incessant supervision is growing weary and, sadly, our relationship is becoming sour these days. And, if I may, while I'm being honest about matters, Mr. Nocturnal and I have been seeing each other behind your back to make up for your tyrannical ways. I'm sorry. I'm only asking for relief, brief relief...if you could be so kind. Let me close my eyes, let my mind be quiet: no stories, no thoughts, no needing to jump up and write down an idea, no toss, no turn, just still. I have about an hour and half left dear, what do you say...shall we?

Most probably forever yours,

jess

close call

I'm no Ebenezer. In fact, the smell of fresh pine (or even pine candles for that matter) just gets me all Christmassy. But, this Elf on the Shelf business makes me a little wary. For those not in the know, here's the lowdown: A scout Elf is sent to a family via Barnes and Noble, whereupon he or she (let's be politically correct here) is named and adopted. From that moment on, the elf is not be touched or it will lose its magic and cannot report its findings to Santa...namely, whether that child has been naughty or nice that particular day.

True parents, this is a genius tool to manipulate your children into good behavior for 25 days or so, ("ah ah ah, the elf is watching"), but it's a bit melodramatic. Part of the magic of Christmas lies in our imaginations...in the, what we don't see and never do. The reindeer we think we hear prancing on the roof, just missing Santa slipping up the chimney, or cookie crumbs left messily on the plate. Do we really need such an elf? It's cute idea in theory. It's made a bang for its buck...great for commercial America. But flawed in my traditional, perhaps simple opinion.

The other day I took the kids into the mecca bookstore as we often do...to read, chill in comfy oversized chairs, browse.

To what to their wondering eyes did appear? A whole wall full of elves covered in decorative plastic...that's what.

Much to their surprise. No. That's not the word. Shock, stun...and it was then did I witness Christmas spirit almost make a grand exit with childhood innocence trailing behind it.

"Jessica, what's that? How did they do that?" Why is our elf in so many boxes? Why is he in this STORE? Doesn't he live at the North pole with Santa or at a kid's house??!?" Insert nervous laughter.

(Fear sets in. Eyes widen.) They look to me for answers.

And I scramble. And scramble some more.

And I rest my case. But it bears repeating...

It really is our on-the-inside that holds all things beautiful. The things we do not see so readily.

I cleaned up the mess and we made it out alive. Upon return, I gave into the shpeel, gave our elf a hug for good measure and comfort, let them see he's loved and perhaps has feeling (adults are allowed to, fear not). Yet in a world where so much seems to be tactile, it feels good to know at this time all true warm and fuzzies come from somewhere inside, hidden from view...unless of course you're of this generation and are fed the tangible daily concept that $29.99 elves are reporting back to Santa and if you're not "good," he won't bring you any toys...er...Harsh.

"And now here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye." Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince

culture dawg

One of my sweetheart friends made it home. When I say home, I mean back into the world of the symphony. It's not my beeswax to say much, to put it out here, only that after a long such hiatus from what was, the days in the conservatory of music, he found his way back and in turn his way forward.

As for me, I've always been a little of this, a little of that kind of gal, but have to say I felt a little bit like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman going to the Symphony (sans the indecent part of course). Upon walking in to the grand lobby of one of the top 3 concert halls in the world, I notice gold adorning the gilt-edged modest architecture and handsome mythical statues that meet my gaze, and as I reach for my ticket, my bohemian white cascading skirt catches on my scuffed brown boot (yes, boots--no heels tonight) and nearly put on a new kind of show for the high-fallutings: Girl In Black Polka Pot Panties: free of charge.

"Oh, please do watch yourself, dear," said the woman taking our tickets. And I pull up my skirt up just in time, laughing too loud, as always.

The music starts and I am enchanted. The conductor is frenzied and then not. His arm moves as if detached from himself. I like him already. I hear a deep sigh beside me and know what it means. I close my eyes. There is a mercurial nature to the symphony, and it seems the more mercurial, the more I like it. The reflections of the varying instruments bounce off each other, dazzling us, or at least me, dancing together, singing their songs, and then the big kuhuna, the giant cymbal crashes making waves against the wall.

I made it through, calamity free. Mostly.

It is possible to rock here. It may not make it into my playlists, but it can, it does trigger something in the present and put you under a spell for a moment.

A little film noir. Add some percussion and he's back.

gobble no more

In the spirit of thankfulness, I'm hoping you thanked your turkey today...

If you are one of the masses... Poor, poor turkeys...

Scavengers we appear to be.

I don't think I'll ever stop being puzzled by this.

peace

I love all books, and so naturally never grew out of loving the one's when I was a kid or discovering newbies now. Ferdinand, the bull remains one of my favorite characters. He's a wallflower; I can relate. He likes to sit in green pastures, smell the flowers, take time. He's a loner. I also happen to be a literature freak (lit major, never goes away) and have the glorious dissecting bug in me...find deeper hidden meanings, sift through cultural historical text, context. But today, I read an article that tore my sweet friend Ferdinand apart, and it got me thinking...

For those that may not know, or may need a refresher, Ferdinand is the story of a bull who just didn't want to be a bullfighter. He didn't protest for peace (this comes later), he was simply being himself. His mother, a cow, realized this was who he was and let him be because it made him happy. He would go to his favorite spot under a cork tree and smell the pretty flowers, when one day a bee stung him causing him to run and charge all the way into the bullfighting ring. When he got there he saw all the flowers in the women's' hair and just sat down quietly and took in all the beauty. Everyone cheered for him to fight, but he simply wouldn't. It wasn't him. So they took him home and he was happy.

To me, for me, Beautiful story.

The article (to follow) is interesting. It has, from a nerd's point of view lots of provoking arguments and facts about the time in which the book was written, but it makes Ferdinand look bad. It makes it seem as though "sitting out" is always the bad thing to do. I'm not saying it is or it isn't. I'm just saying, I don't like slandering Ferdindand.......or am I?

The book was published in 1936, during the Spanish Civil war. At the time the book was burned by Nazi germany and forbidden in Spain. It explains Ferdinand as a tool for anti-facist propaganda. Turns out Ferdinand was too peaceful, came off as too much a pacifist by wanting to smell those flowers.

The author, Munro Leaf, always rejected any such meaning/voice/agenda, but then again he may have chose to keep quiet in times of war. Especially if he were Ferdinand himself.

Digging deeper I found Ferdinand is ever so popular out there. And it seems more towards a guide in the voice of war. This could be a good thing, and yet...I scratch my head.

I could be wrong. But I'm going to say, as a wallflower, a loner, as a lover of peace, as someone who loves to sit and smell the flowers, with my two cents, or maybe one cent...Ferdinand is lovely. He is a wonderful character, a needed character of ALL times, nations.

rockin' robin

presents...

Does a girl ever really get over her rock n' roll crush of the 90's? The answer is NO. NO. NO. NO. NO. I could say No a couple more times, in fact I feel like I should for emphasis, but I'm sensing the point is clear. If it's not, they say pictures speak for themselves. This is me early, albeit really early, waiting for Him. Yes, capital necessary.

My ultimate crush, Chris Robinson of The Black Crowes. Moment of silence. Rapture. Swoon

Pitter-patter. Thump. Thump. (sound effects of my heart). Me squealing. What is it about Him you ask? The way he holds his guitar, his slightly hunched, virile stance, his long chaotic hair and rebellious unkempt beard (I'm really just a hippie), the purity of his voice. Did I mention the guitar? Put a guitar in any man's hand and he's infinitely more sexy. Not sure the physics of that, but it is a fact. I regress. Chris is not just any man. He's been my crush for as long as I can remember, and I got to see him again last night. Squeal. Heaven.

I admit to bias, but everyone agreed amidst the cloud of Mary Jane and happy feet, it was one of the best shows they've ever seen. At one point I was even 3 feet from the stage. Groupie right? Oh yeah. Face melting guitar riffs, crooning gentle tunes...3.5 hours of non-stop beautiful madness.

Ah. Mazing.

inators

I spent a good chunk of my day today creating inators with one of my favorite little people in the world. If you don't know what an inator is, you're clearly not acquainted with Phineas and Ferb, which is a down right shame, even blasphemous in my opinion. But, for the sake of clarity, let's call it an invention. Some of my favorite inators:

Voice-inator: Because Doofenshmirtz is self-conscious about his voice, he concocts a device that makes voices higher, resulting in his sounding lower and more manly...only to have Perry foil his plans as always.

Shrink-inator: Doofensmirtz plans to shrink objects for his beloved train set.

Copy and Paste-inator: Doof hates to wait in lines, makes copies of himself so he won't have to wait anymore, which is of course is thwaretd by Perry about 15 minutes later. "Curse you Perry the Platypus!"

Make Up Your Mind-inator: Doof wants to obliterate anyone who can't make up their mind.

Ugly-inator: He tries to make everyone else ugly due to his poor (and comically vocal) self esteem.

Slow-Motion-inator: Creates this just for Perry the Platypus, his nemesis, in hopes that it will slow him down so he can't stop him from his evil schemes.

Leaf Blower-inator: Very specific. Intends to blow all the leaves onto his neighbors lawn and aggravate him.

This one is not an intor, but it's one of Doofenshmirtz's greatest inventions:

EULG. a Glue-esq substance that breaks materials apart. Genius.

I could go on, but I realize I am an adult. I need to be sophisticated or something. (I may have passed that point after the third inator?) But, seriously. If you're not watching this show, what are you doing with your life? And truly, we should all be scheming up our own inators. It need not ere toward the dark side (in fact please don't-we don't need anymore diabolical creations or devices in our world). Sara and I created a Summer-inator today...the technicalities of which I won't delve into detail here. We may be onto something and need a patent. My lips are sealed.

So go ahead, put on the tube, be amazed. Get your own league of whomever, listen for references to Poe (yes, Edgar Allan), crack up at ridiculously clever acronyms (inator: BO-AT...Buoyancy Operated Aquatic Transport, pronounced as spelled) and laugh your way into the next episode. Cartoons haven't been this good since Bugs Bunny and the gang.

a new piece of me

As the election is drawing closer, I can't help but think of our past presidents. I don't know a great deal about each of them, but I do know everyone has an opinion...about everything. Say whatever you will, it's just not our job to judge the private lives of any individual...none of us care to be under a microscope. This speech (and many others from him) distinguishes the man behind the president and simply inspires.

and the world spins madly on

This story doesn't need words and still says so much. In a way it's been my story. Always a delicate dance, a push and pull...when one pushes, the other pulls, when one is trying so hard to grasp onto something, the other dances away, slips just out of reach, between each others fingers.

You'll need to watch this more than once. It's that kind of beauty.

why veggie? I'll tell you why

I was asked today, why vegetarian? The answer, though easy, doesn't translate well for some reason. I figured, maybe it's time I tried to explain myself.

It's not political, it doesn't project on anyone else. It's a very personal thing. Always has been. It is real simple: I love animals. I love them to my core. I see the sweetness of animal on the plate, remember how it feels to look into its big eyes, and think how it might have been killed. When I am in the grocery store and I pass the butcher shop, I cringe at how the blood is pooled on the corners of the cow packages, or how the ribs of little lambs and cows are on display in showcases. It's gruesome to me. And we as humans select the best one, like jewelry in a shop, blood now dried on its carcass. I am sad for those animals. I love passing them in cars, seeing them happily graze...so free and unaware. Those are the lucky ones. The unlucky, the ten billion animals (just in the U.S.) slaughtered for human consumption, those usually come from factory farms where there are no beautiful meadows or pastures, just tiny constricted spaces so small that the pigs and cows are cramped in the same position day and night. They suffer branding and mutilation, live in their filth, which then of course farmers pump them with oh-so-healthy-for-us-antibiotics to keep them from getting sick. Chicken's beaks are burned off using a hot knife because they peck at each other due the tight-quarters and frazzled conditions, and poor hens' feet grow distorted and tangled around the wire. There are many who now push toward hormone free, cage-free etc. and the reason is obvious (kudos). I could go on and get much more graphic, but I'll keep it a family show.

My point is, all this has affected me. It doesn't in any way, affect the way I view others eating meat. As part of my job I need to cook meat for the kiddos (or at least toss chicken nuggets in the oven). I touch it, I'm around it, in fact almost everyone I know eats it. Nothing about anyone choosing or not choosing to eat meat is a problem to me. Again, it's a very personal thing. I just simply can't do it. I see the animal. I see the animal's experience, his or her life. I wouldn't eat an animal any more than I would eat whomever is reading this right now :) Like I said. Simple. And to honor animals, I had to include my favorite of all. This was my sweet cat Romeo. He was the love of my life. Anyone who knows me can attest to that. We were quite a pair, the two of us.

what we seem

People surprise us. No one is ever really what they seem, or rather if I may, how we presume they seem, how we project or hope they may respond, how they may simply be in life. One can never make assumptions about anyone because in truth, no one really ever knows the other. Not truly. I don't mean this to be morose, only ventilating a healthy dose of fresh realism I've gathered. Point blank: The will of another is their own. We can’t know what lies in another person’s soul, how they were brought to be, what makes them tick. We can’t know what the actions and reactions of others will be and how it will affect our lives in just one moment or with just one word or the accumulation thereof. We as humans are so fragile really, all wanting to connect, yet leaving so much of that in the fate of others. It seems unfair sometimes. I believe in goodness, in the good in people. It is a strange and oddly sobering reminder when the all-too common unpleasantness in people greets me, when the wounds and individual stories of people shuts me and mine out, quietly closes the door on my toes and yearning heart, as I laugh a tear and realize I never knew them at all. When I whisper, I assumed this one was different. But I remember, people surprise me. Every time. And hope soars, loftier than any assumption or pain. It blooms into beautiful experiences from my eyes and I have learned much in this ride. And people do surprise. True they can burn more scalding than the sun, and ironically though they tempt with temporary warmth and shine, and though some feathers may fall from my wings, I am no Icarus. Warn me not. For I know, almost around every corner there is another who can soothe, heal, inspire. Today I was reminded of that beautiful, unexpected, surprise.