Armenian Martyrs Day, 2011

"I should like to see any power of the world destroy this race, this small tribe of unimportant people, whose history is ended, whose wars have all been fought and lost, whose structures have crumbled, whose literature is unread, whose music is unheard, whose prayers are no longer uttered. Go ahead, destroy this race. Let us say that it is again 1915. There is war in the world. Destroy Armenia. See if you can do it. Send them from their homes into the desert. Let them have neither bread nor water. Burn their houses and their churches. See if the race will not live again when two of them meet in a beer parlor, twenty years after, and laugh, and speak in their tongue. Go ahead, see if you can do anything about it. See if you can stop them from mocking the big ideas of the world, you sons of bitches, a couple of Armenians talking in the world, go ahead and try to destroy them....for when two of them meet anywhere in the world, see if they will not create a new Armenia!" ~ William Saroyan, The Armenian and the Armenian

Is This Thing On?

Having not written in months, I sit here somewhat shy and tentative. There are changes afoot. Great changes.

I am poised to reenter the working world, five and a half years after leaving to raise my daughter. I had my first legal job at age 15, a job I kept for three years. I moved out of my mother's house at 17 and had been supporting myself ever since. The transition from working, independent woman to stay-at-home-mom was not a smooth one. I don't think I ever really adjusted to it. I'm not very good at letting others "take care of me." My partner is an unsung saint.

On Friday I had my first "official" interview in 16 years. It felt huge. I walked out excited and slightly manic, bristling with energy that felt almost electric. I am excited and also fearful, that after so many years, I have gotten out of the habit of daily work, but also eager to feel like I am making an impact in the world.

Here I am, intending to write about something else and this topic snakes its way in, while I have no time to really explore it and so much more to ruminate and write on. So I set it aside, for an unnamed later date, that hopefully I will be able to revisit and explore more thoroughly.

“When you're 50 you start thinking about things you haven't thought about before. I used to think getting old was about vanity -- but actually it's about losing people you love. Getting wrinkles is trivial.” ~ Joyce Carol Oates

This quote was passed on by my friend Sylvia and it resonates for me today. While I am not yet 50, it rings true on the eve of 45 just as much.

Today I am going to a memorial for an amazing man who lost a battle to cancer. Another friend battles leukemia nearby. My sister has just had surgery with unforeseen complications in another state and I feel helpless here. I am recovering from pneumonia and the weeks I have been ill and the slow recuperation have only succeeded in mirroring my own mortality.

Our bodies are one-use-only units. Life is precious and we take it for granted.

In forty minutes I leave for Tomales and the memorial. A shower beckons. More soon...I hope.

I Found A Stick!

Mojo took the Minion to see The Princess and the Frog for the fourth time yesterday. Most little girls identify with the heroines of these movies. But my kid? Has been going around all day pretending to be Louis, the jazz trumpeting alligator.

Candlemas

If Candlemas Day is clear and bright
winter will have another bite.
If Candlemas Day brings cloud and rain,
winter is gone and will not come again.

New Photo

After almost four years, I realized it was time for a new profile photo. This was taken last night with the fabulous Hipstamatic for iPhone.

Christmas Morning

Sneaking downstairs while everyone sleeps, just to see the tree alight, the packages wrapped and piled around its base, the "fireplace" we made from cardboard boxes and construction paper.

Last night I read Clement Moore's poem and the passage describing Christmas at Fezziwig's from Charles Dickens "A Christmas Carol" to the excited kids (and the cat) while the smiling face of their father encouraged me on.

As Peggotty, I say this every morning at Tableau, before we open the Dickens Fair proper. This morning, the words ring truer than before: "This will be the best Christmas ever!"

Yuletide blessings to all.

Changes

After having successfully completely every NaBloPoMo since its inception (okay, three) I have to accept the fact that I have too much going on with my life right now to commit to blogging everyday this month. This is harder than it seems.

Today I am getting my hair cropped after not having done anything with it for six years. I'm nervous and excited all at once.

Here's the "before" photo (taken last June)

If You're Tired of Tea Then You're Tired of Life

The phrase "Mama, may I have a cuppa?" as spoken by my four-year-old, makes my Cockney heart swell with pride.

Knackered

Teaching cockney and dialect coaching followed by rehearsal made for a full day. I've got nothing in me bit sleep.

Busy

My head is full of Cockney cant and slang as I revamp my handouts for this weekends workshops in preparation for the Dickens Christmas Fair. No time to write, of course.

What a sorry excuse for a blog!

Talk to the Bird

It has been, I hope understandably, more than a little crazed in these parts. So here is a photo that I took back in August of a pelican on the Santa Cruz Pier. He will be your temporary host today.

Silly Heads

Wishes

I long for the mantle of fiction with which to cloak the truth.

Well, that and a good eight hours of sleep in a row.

A dish of gelato wouldn't be turned away either.

The Funeral

Arrived at the church, my mother sniping, complaining and criticizing me the entire three hour drive. I kept my father's voice in my head and refused to take the succulent bait she tantalized me with, responding to everything with, "Yes, mother" or just reaching over and taking her hand.

I escorted her into the church, still clad in jeans and t-shirt and fled as quickly as she would let me to the car to retrieve my clothes.

There are three Patriot Guard Riders here, as motorcycle escort (though not flying any flags), all on Harleys. I approached one of the men and thanked him for being here and for everything they do. He smiled kindly and said this was his second most rewarding job. (I will ask him what the first was on my way back inside.)

The man looked at me, removing his dark glasses. "Are you alright?" he asked gently.

"No," I admitted. And he opened his arms and enveloped me in a hug while I sobbed openly into a stranger's arms.

He is old enough to be my father.

Why is it that we often feel most alone in the company of family?

Pleh

Two family deaths in one week and two full days of rehearsals and teaching dialect classes has resulted in one shell-shocked and brain-dead blogger. Add to that an average of four hours sleep for the last three nights. My internal censor has checked out entirely at this point.

I am leaving in six hours to drive two hundred miles to a funeral in the morning, returning tomorrow night. Right now, there is too much to write but I've not the facilities to do so.

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." ~ Plato

Dreaming

Mojo and I are watching an old Cosmos. Carl Sagan is talking about the Library of Alexandria and I am dreaming of what it would be like to have a library card.

In a Tizzy

I'm in cockney hell!

Penny for the Guy

Guy, Guy, Guy,
Poke him in the eye,
Put him on the bonfire ,
And let him die.

Memory

Day four of NaBloPoMo and it is literally the eleventh hour.

I am sitting here in front of the computer trying to update my materials and do a class outline for the new Advanced Cockney class I am teaching to participants of the Great Dickens Christmas Fair in San Francisco. I am failing miserably.

Instead I think about my cousin, Punky, who I just found out tonight lost her battle with cancer. I am think about family and memory and the stories we pass on. I wonder about memory and how it becomes compromised, specifically how my memory has become compromised. The memories change when they are transmuted into story. They change with the telling. And as years pass and the tales become ingrained they are almost more vivid then the actual memory. They also become clouded with others stories, especially as they overlap.

It's day four at the eleventh hour and I am lost in memory. My daughter sleeps quietly beside me and I think about the stories I will tell her of the people she never knew. Those who came before. I wonder what stories she will tell in time and how our memories shape the future.


The best memory is that which forgets nothing but injuries. Write kindness in marble and injuries in dust. ~ Persian proverb

To Bed

A thinking woman sleeps with monsters. ~Adrienne Rich