"Just 'cause you've got the monkey off your back, doesn't mean the circus has left town"
George Carlin
Incarnate (2015)
8 years ago
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Auntie teaching Lynn to make fried Cauliflower
They are having conceptual differences. She's wearing him down.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
On Tallulah Bankhead
Twice this year, I have been told I sound like Tallulah Bankhead. I don't know whether to have another Mimosa, or have another Mimosa.
The story of my Aunt's Husband's First Wife
Uncle George worked for the New Haven Railroad, and on the side, to make more money, he owned a pet store. While he was working nights for the railroad, his then wife (Aunt Angie says we'll call her "Jezebel"), ran the pet store.
One day Uncle George came home at 8:00 in the morning as he did five-days a week, and said to his 4-year old son as he said five-days a week; "Hey honey, where's mommy?"
And the son, his name was Lew, said, as he often did, "She's still in bed." Uncle George smiled at his son and ran up the stairs to kiss his good wife good morning. He opened the door and turned on his heel and never walked that way again.
It's a hellava story.
One day Uncle George came home at 8:00 in the morning as he did five-days a week, and said to his 4-year old son as he said five-days a week; "Hey honey, where's mommy?"
And the son, his name was Lew, said, as he often did, "She's still in bed." Uncle George smiled at his son and ran up the stairs to kiss his good wife good morning. He opened the door and turned on his heel and never walked that way again.
It's a hellava story.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Chicken BelGioioso (Romano & Cappicola stuffed Chicken breasts) w/apple gravy scrapings over garlic potato mash & sauteed brussels
Lynn's turn to show Aunt Angie a dish:
Chicken BelGioioso (Romano & Cappicola stuffed Chicken breasts) w/apple gravy scrapings over garlic potato mash & sauteed brussels.
Lynn chopping shallot:
How a bird might see the Brussels sprouts:
le bird
le bird a voo sauce
Service:
Chicken BelGioioso (Romano & Cappicola stuffed Chicken breasts) w/apple gravy scrapings over garlic potato mash & sauteed brussels.
Lynn chopping shallot:
How a bird might see the Brussels sprouts:
le bird
le bird a voo sauce
Service:
scaryrobotspider
Find the cute doggy face in this photo. Or the scaryrobotspider. Either one. #scaryrobotspider #cutedoggyface
8 Famous Last Words to my Aunt from the Album of the same name
Also from the Play "Throw Away your Wigs" (the Lost Recordings)
"You realize I've never done this before, right?"
Before:
I didn't ask her to make this face, she did it all on her own. Hire her for your next film. Or commercial. Just come by, take her to WalMart. (Don't touch the shopping-cart if you do. It's hers. Trust me I learned the hard way).
After (again, no coaching. I think she looks fabulous).
Author's note: No Aunts were harmed in the making of this blog post. Views and opinions expressed on this blog are solely those of the catholic-guilt conflicted-Buddhist-Italian niece of Angelina Masullo Girtell. Mrs. Girtell declined to be interviewed for this comment.
"You realize I've never done this before, right?"
Before:
I didn't ask her to make this face, she did it all on her own. Hire her for your next film. Or commercial. Just come by, take her to WalMart. (Don't touch the shopping-cart if you do. It's hers. Trust me I learned the hard way).
After (again, no coaching. I think she looks fabulous).
Author's note: No Aunts were harmed in the making of this blog post. Views and opinions expressed on this blog are solely those of the catholic-guilt conflicted-Buddhist-Italian niece of Angelina Masullo Girtell. Mrs. Girtell declined to be interviewed for this comment.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Stories about My Husband: Another Way of Looking at it Altogether
Aunt Angie has reminded my husband, who teases her incessantly, that:
A: She is Italian
B: Since she moved in two months ago, he has almost lost two fingers
C: She knows how to get bloodstains out of everything
It's been very quiet here this evening. Very quiet.
A: She is Italian
B: Since she moved in two months ago, he has almost lost two fingers
C: She knows how to get bloodstains out of everything
It's been very quiet here this evening. Very quiet.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Stories about My Husband
Chapter one: Why My Husband's Work Clothes will always have Bloodstains
One night, I posted this on Twitter: "My husband bought a chainsaw and is cutting down a healthy tree. I don't know why."
The overwhelming male response was: "Because he bought a chainsaw."
Tonight, while sorting laundry, I came across one of my husband's t-shirts, non unlike many t-shirts I have seen before it, and rather than shout-a-stain-out, I thought to leave it.
I thought then to ask my husband if he wanted to keep the stain, because after all, it is his shirt. He smiled and said "Yes, leave it."
I was reminded in that moment of his father. The first day I met his father my thought was "good Lord I have never seen that much paint on a person."
My husband's father worked and he worked hard. He was a tile man. He cut tile by hand and grouted on his knees. Later, he cut with a water saw. The spots and splatters on his pants were not only paint, but floor glue and plaster and grout and so on.
He taught his son to cut tile and his son taught me, and I have to say, it's very messy.
To that, my husband's father taught me "Dirt is the badge of the workingman."
Well, if dirt is the Badge, blood is the Medal.
I think when my husband is out; getting gas, banking, going to the parts store to get another part that won't fit and if it does it'll break the 4th time he uses it, he passes other workingmen, and they nod at each other.
They wait in line together or throw back a cold one after a good day, sit next to each other in Hospital Emergency Rooms and say to one another, "Looks like ya' cut yourself."
"Yup. Damn [insert the name of any tool or process]."
"Man, I hate when that happens."
It's a moment.
Recently, there was a woman who was in a Bi-Lo parking-lot. She quickened her pace, stole glances behind her to gauge the distance between her car and a wild-looking, dirt and bloodstained man, calling to her waving his hands.
If she could have heard him, she would know that she dropped something out of her cart. (Your "personal" grocery item is at the service counter by the way.)
If she could hear me, I'd say “Ma'am, if I didn't know that man was my husband, I’d run too,” "but he's a workingman, and that blood is code."
So that's why I won't get the bloodstains out of my husband's work clothes.
That, and because it's a royal pain in the ass to do.
Next: Chapter Two: Another Way of Looking at it Altogether
Author's Note: Husband states: "We do not go to the emergency room; we go to Lowe's & get duct tape & rags. "
Please correct your copies. Thank you.
One night, I posted this on Twitter: "My husband bought a chainsaw and is cutting down a healthy tree. I don't know why."
The overwhelming male response was: "Because he bought a chainsaw."
Tonight, while sorting laundry, I came across one of my husband's t-shirts, non unlike many t-shirts I have seen before it, and rather than shout-a-stain-out, I thought to leave it.
I thought then to ask my husband if he wanted to keep the stain, because after all, it is his shirt. He smiled and said "Yes, leave it."
I was reminded in that moment of his father. The first day I met his father my thought was "good Lord I have never seen that much paint on a person."
My husband's father worked and he worked hard. He was a tile man. He cut tile by hand and grouted on his knees. Later, he cut with a water saw. The spots and splatters on his pants were not only paint, but floor glue and plaster and grout and so on.
He taught his son to cut tile and his son taught me, and I have to say, it's very messy.
To that, my husband's father taught me "Dirt is the badge of the workingman."
Well, if dirt is the Badge, blood is the Medal.
I think when my husband is out; getting gas, banking, going to the parts store to get another part that won't fit and if it does it'll break the 4th time he uses it, he passes other workingmen, and they nod at each other.
They wait in line together or throw back a cold one after a good day, sit next to each other in Hospital Emergency Rooms and say to one another, "Looks like ya' cut yourself."
"Yup. Damn [insert the name of any tool or process]."
"Man, I hate when that happens."
It's a moment.
Recently, there was a woman who was in a Bi-Lo parking-lot. She quickened her pace, stole glances behind her to gauge the distance between her car and a wild-looking, dirt and bloodstained man, calling to her waving his hands.
If she could have heard him, she would know that she dropped something out of her cart. (Your "personal" grocery item is at the service counter by the way.)
If she could hear me, I'd say “Ma'am, if I didn't know that man was my husband, I’d run too,” "but he's a workingman, and that blood is code."
So that's why I won't get the bloodstains out of my husband's work clothes.
That, and because it's a royal pain in the ass to do.
Next: Chapter Two: Another Way of Looking at it Altogether
Author's Note: Husband states: "We do not go to the emergency room; we go to Lowe's & get duct tape & rags. "
Please correct your copies. Thank you.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
From TED - Talks Golan Levin makes art that looks back at you
Take a break with Art from TED
Golan Levin, an artist and engineer, uses modern tools -- robotics, new software, cognitive research -- to make artworks that surprise and delight. Watch as sounds become shapes, bodies create paintings, and a curious eye looks back at the curious viewer.
Half performance artist, half software engineer, Golan Levin manipulates the computer to create improvised soundscapes with dazzling corresponding visuals. He is at the forefront of defining new parameters for art. For more: Golan Levin
Golan Levin, an artist and engineer, uses modern tools -- robotics, new software, cognitive research -- to make artworks that surprise and delight. Watch as sounds become shapes, bodies create paintings, and a curious eye looks back at the curious viewer.
Half performance artist, half software engineer, Golan Levin manipulates the computer to create improvised soundscapes with dazzling corresponding visuals. He is at the forefront of defining new parameters for art. For more: Golan Levin
Monday, June 29, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Carmela Continues to Enthrall her Audience
See, Carmela was a little uppity, you know, she thought she was better than everyone else.
Now We're also writing a song
Called, "You Keep your Broom on your Porch, and I'll Keep my Broom on Mine."
Aunt Angie's hoping for a Grammy.
Aunt Angie's hoping for a Grammy.
My Aunt is Telling Me a Story
about a woman named Carmela Miozzi who goes by Lanza now after that guy she married.
It's a really good story.
It's a really good story.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
You'll Want to Dress
Set stage:
Sunday morning, 6:30 AM.
I wake, drink coffee, and shower by 7:30 because I have promised my husband that I will drop my husband off at the golf course by 8 AM for an 8:15 tee-time, and I must drop my husband off because his truck has a trailer, and his work equipment is on that trailer, and he does not prefer to drive this trailer-married vehicle to the golf course as it may die a slow and agonizing death at any speed above 35 mph.
I am not, in the least, envious that he is playing and I am not. I have a promise to keep. “A promise made is a promise kept.” That’s what my husband says, and he got that from his mama, and she was as fine a woman as there was until cancer took her when my husband was 19, but that’s another story for another day.
In this one going on now, I have promised my 84-year-old Italian, Roman Catholic Aunt that I will play golf every-other-Sunday until I find someone, of whom we both approve, to take her to church - a church that is ten-minutes away - and that until we do indeed find someone, I will not enter nor pray in a Catholic way, but will heartily and happily deliver her only - every other Sunday as agreed.
This agreement was made by my Aunt, only after searching, observing, and somewhat-hesitantly agreeing to go to the church we identified, among others, as being acceptable, with an out-clause just in case.
I set everything up so that after I deliver her to God, I can return home, fix the dryer, vacuum my bedroom, fold the towels and return in time to redeliver her home after Mass has concluded, and look “nice” doing it.
I take all of this into consideration as I dress; I have a lovely blue and teal tie-died dress I bought at the market, I am covering it with a stylish jersey deep blue overtop, and am wearing teal and black casual sandals. I tie my hair up. I apply mascara. I wear a bra.
I look OK in my opinion as I drop Lynn at the course. People see me. They do not gasp, they wave. I feel confident in my choices.
I kiss my husband goodbye, I visit the store at his request to buy ingredients for dinner, I make sure I have mimosa-makings because I am here, I am a realist , and I understand, in a deep, soul-spiritual way, that this will be a three-mimosa day.
I return home, empty the dishwasher, waken my Aunt, trim her hair, give her a mini-facial so she feels pretty at church, send her off to dress while I smoke a cigarette on the front porch because we do not smoke in the house anymore, and she joins me. She sits on one of our comfortable porch chairs.
She sighs.
I say, “What time do you want to walk in to the front church doors.”
She says, “Well, Mass starts at 10:30, and if I’m early, I could say the Rosary, so ten o’clock.”
I say, “Check your cell-phone that you refuse to learn how to use, and tell me what time it is.”
She say, “Oh it’s ten to ten, we can’t make it.”
I say “Why?”
“Well," she says, "because you’ll want to dress.”
Sunday morning, 6:30 AM.
I wake, drink coffee, and shower by 7:30 because I have promised my husband that I will drop my husband off at the golf course by 8 AM for an 8:15 tee-time, and I must drop my husband off because his truck has a trailer, and his work equipment is on that trailer, and he does not prefer to drive this trailer-married vehicle to the golf course as it may die a slow and agonizing death at any speed above 35 mph.
I am not, in the least, envious that he is playing and I am not. I have a promise to keep. “A promise made is a promise kept.” That’s what my husband says, and he got that from his mama, and she was as fine a woman as there was until cancer took her when my husband was 19, but that’s another story for another day.
In this one going on now, I have promised my 84-year-old Italian, Roman Catholic Aunt that I will play golf every-other-Sunday until I find someone, of whom we both approve, to take her to church - a church that is ten-minutes away - and that until we do indeed find someone, I will not enter nor pray in a Catholic way, but will heartily and happily deliver her only - every other Sunday as agreed.
This agreement was made by my Aunt, only after searching, observing, and somewhat-hesitantly agreeing to go to the church we identified, among others, as being acceptable, with an out-clause just in case.
I set everything up so that after I deliver her to God, I can return home, fix the dryer, vacuum my bedroom, fold the towels and return in time to redeliver her home after Mass has concluded, and look “nice” doing it.
I take all of this into consideration as I dress; I have a lovely blue and teal tie-died dress I bought at the market, I am covering it with a stylish jersey deep blue overtop, and am wearing teal and black casual sandals. I tie my hair up. I apply mascara. I wear a bra.
I look OK in my opinion as I drop Lynn at the course. People see me. They do not gasp, they wave. I feel confident in my choices.
I kiss my husband goodbye, I visit the store at his request to buy ingredients for dinner, I make sure I have mimosa-makings because I am here, I am a realist , and I understand, in a deep, soul-spiritual way, that this will be a three-mimosa day.
I return home, empty the dishwasher, waken my Aunt, trim her hair, give her a mini-facial so she feels pretty at church, send her off to dress while I smoke a cigarette on the front porch because we do not smoke in the house anymore, and she joins me. She sits on one of our comfortable porch chairs.
She sighs.
I say, “What time do you want to walk in to the front church doors.”
She says, “Well, Mass starts at 10:30, and if I’m early, I could say the Rosary, so ten o’clock.”
I say, “Check your cell-phone that you refuse to learn how to use, and tell me what time it is.”
She say, “Oh it’s ten to ten, we can’t make it.”
I say “Why?”
“Well," she says, "because you’ll want to dress.”
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Tomatoes, and Basil, and Gardenias Oh My!
I love the Gardenias from our garden
And the tomatoes
and the basil (in pots)
Monday, May 25, 2009
Break in Case of Emergency
Let's just keep a watch out for the person who does something well in an emergency. That's who I'm puttin' my money on.
From my Drama-Dame Stuff
My glass, sorrowfully short of both champagne & of orange juice - empty in fact - speaks ill of the help & ferociously of the hostess.
Daily Prayer
I will learn to use the tools I have.
When I find them.
It's not like they're lost, it's like
they're very, very secure.
When I find them.
It's not like they're lost, it's like
they're very, very secure.
Sore Gift
I have a gift for placing a thing
in such a perfect place, that no one
can ever find it.
Sore kind of gift to have, really.
in such a perfect place, that no one
can ever find it.
Sore kind of gift to have, really.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
84 and Rockin' It
Introducing, Angie Masullo Girtell
We are creating a book, a Blog, a Website: "A Couple in the Kitchen" launching soon.
Here's a taste: Beef Chuck with Rigatoni. Roasted Red Peppers from tonight at http://twitpic.com/5ljao
We are creating a book, a Blog, a Website: "A Couple in the Kitchen" launching soon.
Here's a taste: Beef Chuck with Rigatoni. Roasted Red Peppers from tonight at http://twitpic.com/5ljao
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Homer and Marge
Homer
"My wife is not a doobie to be passed around!" ~ Homer Simpson
Marge
"My wife is not a doobie to be passed around!" ~ Homer Simpson
Marge
"I don't hate you for failing, I love you for trying." ~ Marge Simpson
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Spring 2009
For three days now, the rain rinses fine
yellow dust from yawning jasmine and oleander.
It bends early irises, creates a nervous first
dance between the freesia and arugula, draws
a syncopated song from roof and chimney.
Soon, we will open the house windows and doors,
read books on lazy swings, sip the scent of gardenia,
fill the house with magnolia and white sage.
But for now, we stand at the window,
and watch the wash of winter.
yellow dust from yawning jasmine and oleander.
It bends early irises, creates a nervous first
dance between the freesia and arugula, draws
a syncopated song from roof and chimney.
Soon, we will open the house windows and doors,
read books on lazy swings, sip the scent of gardenia,
fill the house with magnolia and white sage.
But for now, we stand at the window,
and watch the wash of winter.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Mad Ramblings Because it's Spring
If you stare at me with a crazy eye, and tell me what to do, rest assured I will invite my friends, and for fun do the opposite to you.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Poem for My Husband 12
He mumbles. In his sleep, in waking, pacing
to the kitchen and back, he looks for
eyeglasses, the newspaper, a blue-handled
hammer his father gave him, a shoe.
He calculates always, the curse of genius.
He does the math, and while it adds up,
it never works out for humanity
in the end.
Still, he gets in his truck and leaves, to mow this one's
lawn, trim that one's trees. Cries with a man
whose wife is gone, listens to a long-tale teller
ramble on. And at home, and at night, he mumbles
these love songs to me.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Money Changes Everything
If I had a time machine, I'd travel back in history, find the first person who said, "Ok, put it in writing," and kick his sorry butt. Next, I'd travel back one minute, find the guy he was talking to who said "I'll pay ya' tomorrow," and kick his sorry butt too.
Then I'd come back to the present, sit on my back porch, and paint the flowers in peace.
Bad artists copy. Good artists steal.
.
The Picasso School of Art Promotion: Sell first, explain later
The Picasso School of Art Promotion: Sell first, explain later
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Micommunication Chronicles Part 3
Dearest Husband, it was not the washing of golf balls I found curious. It was the use of the dishwasher to do it.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Why is PiMPY3WASH so Darn Pimpy?
I’m fascinated by a washing machine named PiMPY3WASH. As you may have read, the washing machine belongs to Ryan J. Rose, has its own Twitter account, and is programmed to send Ryan a message when it completes a load of wash.
That was fascinating to start with, but what draws my attention now, as of 02/12/09 at 4:30 PM EST, is that PiMPY3WASH has exactly 499 followers, 415 more followers than its creator.
Granted, some of these followers may be Bots, but I’ve looked, and I think the vast majority are us non-bot types.
From casual observation of Mr. Rose, I can see that he’s brainy, funny, and quite clean. He certainly does laundry more than I do.
Why then, does an inanimate object that sends out no message other than “A load of laundry finished washing at: Sat Feb 7 00:48:51 2009” garner more attention than the man behind the machine?
I asked Ryan what he thought about the why of it; his response?
“That’s a difficult question many people have pondered. If you figure out something good, let me know ;-)”
I think it possibly has something to do with being “in” on something, but it’s the what “it” is that I can’t figure out.
Or maybe, folks are waiting to see if one day, PiMPY3WASH suddenly (and possibly of its own volition), will follow them back. Asimovians everywhere wait with bated breath.
Or maybe, just maybe, they’re hoping that PiMPY3WASH will teach them how to make millions through never before tried Internet Marketing “programs".
For me, I follow Mr. Rose @ryanjrose. I can’t wait to see what he does in the future. Other than another load of wash I mean.
If you're one of the followers, leave a comment and let me know why. I'm genuinely interested, and so too it would seem, is Ryan.
Reference articles:
The L.A. Times: http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/technology/2009/01/twitter-washing.html and also numerous other blogs and websites.
See it in action: http://www.youtube.com/ryanjrose
That was fascinating to start with, but what draws my attention now, as of 02/12/09 at 4:30 PM EST, is that PiMPY3WASH has exactly 499 followers, 415 more followers than its creator.
Granted, some of these followers may be Bots, but I’ve looked, and I think the vast majority are us non-bot types.
From casual observation of Mr. Rose, I can see that he’s brainy, funny, and quite clean. He certainly does laundry more than I do.
Why then, does an inanimate object that sends out no message other than “A load of laundry finished washing at: Sat Feb 7 00:48:51 2009” garner more attention than the man behind the machine?
I asked Ryan what he thought about the why of it; his response?
“That’s a difficult question many people have pondered. If you figure out something good, let me know ;-)”
I think it possibly has something to do with being “in” on something, but it’s the what “it” is that I can’t figure out.
Or maybe, folks are waiting to see if one day, PiMPY3WASH suddenly (and possibly of its own volition), will follow them back. Asimovians everywhere wait with bated breath.
Or maybe, just maybe, they’re hoping that PiMPY3WASH will teach them how to make millions through never before tried Internet Marketing
For me, I follow Mr. Rose @ryanjrose. I can’t wait to see what he does in the future. Other than another load of wash I mean.
If you're one of the followers, leave a comment and let me know why. I'm genuinely interested, and so too it would seem, is Ryan.
Reference articles:
The L.A. Times: http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/technology/2009/01/twitter-washing.html and also numerous other blogs and websites.
See it in action: http://www.youtube.com/ryanjrose
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Five Days in Arkansas, For Nick Masullo, 1952 - 2008
1.
The pilot urges us to look out
of the right-side windows of the plane,
asking with a smile in his voice if we have ever seen
a bald eagle in flight.
There it is, winging next to the Airjet as we ascend.
2.
When I was five-years old and my brother eleven, he taught me to play chess. This as a distraction after his failed attempt to enter me in the Little Miss America Pageant.
The family joked that his eyesight was always poor.
I liked that he believed I could pull off a crown.
“Each piece, from Pawn to King, has its place and its own characteristics of movement. Remember that: in this and in life there is order, and the Queen rules the board.”
He is a fastidious man, he always has been,
it serves him well now.
His shower strictly scheduled and timed,
each body part cleansed in its specific order.
His skin smells of amber when he is done.
I have inherited some of this compulsion for order,
but not all – I save private chaos for manic paint
on sleepless nights.
He can afford no chaos.
Or privacy.
I say I will make mashed potatoes this evening. He smiles.
I make enough for five days. Not enough for him.
He is more mother to me than the mother I had, and certainly more father, but just as they are to me strangers, he is in many ways an unknown.
Each day now, he is a stranger to himself
taking inventory each morning
to determine what has left him, what he has left.
I stand beside him and hold his head between my hands
to stop the now constant movement.
I kiss his forehead.
His eyes meet mine and still I see joy and wonder there.
How can that be I ask?
That’s what happens when you live in the moment he replies.
I argue with God as my form of prayer of late,
cry and drink mimosas too early in the morning,
listen to Abbey Road over and over and try to learn to play the tambourine and bongos
with an urgency that causes me
to lose the beat and rhythm.
I know timing is everything.
I know there is no time.
I cover his clean shirt with a beautician’s cape,
joke that his back-length hair needs a perm. Then feed him,
soft food to keep him from choking.
I search my mind for new humor,
some witty thing to make his eyes laugh.
My sister is the funny one.
People say surrender – to God, to the Universe, to “it”.
Okay, I’ll surrender, but not without a fight.
His friends come each and every day.
Tonight the musicians are here.
They play his own songs for him
with a tenderness I envy and admire.
They are his arms and legs and hands.
Too rapidly they are becoming his ears and eyes.
Charm and talent will only get you so far on life’s road I tease.
That seems to be the road I’m on he replies.
In all this, he has never lost his voice.
3.
When I first arrived, my sister-in-law mused
at my newly cropped hair. An emotion-fueled night
with blunt instruments, and a bottle of wine
called Running with Scissors I explain.
I pull out a book from my bag of the same name. It is a theme.
Back in my hotel room, I open her gift to me,
carefully wrapped with cobalt tissue paper, tied with gold string
and glass beads. I saw her select these beads with concentration
the day before. I thought she would make earrings for herself.
In my hand I hold her Grandmother’s silver shears,
smaller than my palm. In her note she warns
that they are sharp. She warns not to run.
4.
Bob Dylan is singing Forever Young through my earphones
and I am sobbing and cannot stop.
I think one day I will write this all down, that I will understand
the complexities of my emotions
and my brother’s emotions
and my nephews’ emotions
and my sister-in-law’s emotions
and my sister’s emotions
and my husband’s emotions
and everyone involved’s emotions
and that job is too big to think about
so I think about what it is I can think about,
and tell the flight attendant No
although I wonder if I should have taken the cookies after all.
I write for three minutes at a time, and while this seat on this plane
leaving the Ozark Mountains is a really lousy place,
there is in this moment
flight with a bald eagle, and mashed potatoes waiting.
5.
There are no revelations today.
No secrets uncovered.
No cures.
No no-fair calls.
There is melody, the Spring maybe.
There is a prism in the window raining cool
color on wood and stone, and in this white light moment it seems,
is the road we're on.
For Nick Masullo, 09/1952 - 09/2008
The pilot urges us to look out
of the right-side windows of the plane,
asking with a smile in his voice if we have ever seen
a bald eagle in flight.
There it is, winging next to the Airjet as we ascend.
2.
When I was five-years old and my brother eleven, he taught me to play chess. This as a distraction after his failed attempt to enter me in the Little Miss America Pageant.
The family joked that his eyesight was always poor.
I liked that he believed I could pull off a crown.
“Each piece, from Pawn to King, has its place and its own characteristics of movement. Remember that: in this and in life there is order, and the Queen rules the board.”
He is a fastidious man, he always has been,
it serves him well now.
His shower strictly scheduled and timed,
each body part cleansed in its specific order.
His skin smells of amber when he is done.
I have inherited some of this compulsion for order,
but not all – I save private chaos for manic paint
on sleepless nights.
He can afford no chaos.
Or privacy.
I say I will make mashed potatoes this evening. He smiles.
I make enough for five days. Not enough for him.
He is more mother to me than the mother I had, and certainly more father, but just as they are to me strangers, he is in many ways an unknown.
Each day now, he is a stranger to himself
taking inventory each morning
to determine what has left him, what he has left.
I stand beside him and hold his head between my hands
to stop the now constant movement.
I kiss his forehead.
His eyes meet mine and still I see joy and wonder there.
How can that be I ask?
That’s what happens when you live in the moment he replies.
I argue with God as my form of prayer of late,
cry and drink mimosas too early in the morning,
listen to Abbey Road over and over and try to learn to play the tambourine and bongos
with an urgency that causes me
to lose the beat and rhythm.
I know timing is everything.
I know there is no time.
I cover his clean shirt with a beautician’s cape,
joke that his back-length hair needs a perm. Then feed him,
soft food to keep him from choking.
I search my mind for new humor,
some witty thing to make his eyes laugh.
My sister is the funny one.
People say surrender – to God, to the Universe, to “it”.
Okay, I’ll surrender, but not without a fight.
His friends come each and every day.
Tonight the musicians are here.
They play his own songs for him
with a tenderness I envy and admire.
They are his arms and legs and hands.
Too rapidly they are becoming his ears and eyes.
Charm and talent will only get you so far on life’s road I tease.
That seems to be the road I’m on he replies.
In all this, he has never lost his voice.
3.
When I first arrived, my sister-in-law mused
at my newly cropped hair. An emotion-fueled night
with blunt instruments, and a bottle of wine
called Running with Scissors I explain.
I pull out a book from my bag of the same name. It is a theme.
Back in my hotel room, I open her gift to me,
carefully wrapped with cobalt tissue paper, tied with gold string
and glass beads. I saw her select these beads with concentration
the day before. I thought she would make earrings for herself.
In my hand I hold her Grandmother’s silver shears,
smaller than my palm. In her note she warns
that they are sharp. She warns not to run.
4.
Bob Dylan is singing Forever Young through my earphones
and I am sobbing and cannot stop.
I think one day I will write this all down, that I will understand
the complexities of my emotions
and my brother’s emotions
and my nephews’ emotions
and my sister-in-law’s emotions
and my sister’s emotions
and my husband’s emotions
and everyone involved’s emotions
and that job is too big to think about
so I think about what it is I can think about,
and tell the flight attendant No
although I wonder if I should have taken the cookies after all.
I write for three minutes at a time, and while this seat on this plane
leaving the Ozark Mountains is a really lousy place,
there is in this moment
flight with a bald eagle, and mashed potatoes waiting.
5.
There are no revelations today.
No secrets uncovered.
No cures.
No no-fair calls.
There is melody, the Spring maybe.
There is a prism in the window raining cool
color on wood and stone, and in this white light moment it seems,
is the road we're on.
For Nick Masullo, 09/1952 - 09/2008
Thursday, February 5, 2009
The Miscommunication Chronicles, Part I
02/05/09 Dear Husband, I DO love cranberry juice & thank you, even if it in no way resembles the chicken stock I requested.
02/03/09 Dear Husband, thank you for changing the sheets for the 1st time in a year even though I did it an hour earlier.
02/01/09 Dear Husband, if, when you remove your socks in the future, you shake them right side out, you will save us both an enormous amount of time.
01/30/09 Dear Husband, either rinse the dishes first, or buy a new a dishwasher.
01/24/09 Husband, throwing the screen door in the trash after beating it with a hammer is not fixing it.
02/03/09 Dear Husband, thank you for changing the sheets for the 1st time in a year even though I did it an hour earlier.
02/01/09 Dear Husband, if, when you remove your socks in the future, you shake them right side out, you will save us both an enormous amount of time.
01/30/09 Dear Husband, either rinse the dishes first, or buy a new a dishwasher.
01/24/09 Husband, throwing the screen door in the trash after beating it with a hammer is not fixing it.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Can't Help Lovin'
Birds gotta' swim, fish gotta' fly.
I'm gonna' love one man till he dies.
That's how I heard it.
I'm gonna' love one man till he dies.
That's how I heard it.
On South Carolina
Here, the moon at midnight masquerades as dawn.
Georgia visits on the wind, and the mockingbird strings its song until sun bids good-day to ocean.
Georgia visits on the wind, and the mockingbird strings its song until sun bids good-day to ocean.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Pick One
image copyright Karen Masullo 2008
We reveal the ignorance of our questions,
as we reveal the ignorance of our answers.
We reveal the truth of our questions,
as we reveal the ignorance of our answers
We reveal the ignorance of our questions,
as we reveal the truth of our answers.
We reveal the truth of our questions,
as we reveal the truth of our answers.
OCD Me?
I'm a good candidate for OCD, but I'm just too lazy. That stuff takes commitment.
If I have to walk back upstairs to check if I left the iron on, to hell with it, we're insured.
OCD-lite.
If I have to walk back upstairs to check if I left the iron on, to hell with it, we're insured.
OCD-lite.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Web2.0 Pick-Up Lines
I was at a cocktail party tonight, and someone asked me, flirtatiously & with no preamble "so, how many you got followin'?"
I told him none since I started using the new restrainingorder.twitter.com app.
I think he was impressed.
I told him none since I started using the new restrainingorder.twitter.com app.
I think he was impressed.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
First Clikball, then this
"Dying is easy. Comedy is hard."
Reportedly the last words of Sir Donald Wolfit, British actor and director. 1902-1968
Well-delivered re-quote: Peter O'Toole, My Favorite Life
Reportedly the last words of Sir Donald Wolfit, British actor and director. 1902-1968
Well-delivered re-quote: Peter O'Toole, My Favorite Life
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
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