(World Beat Music, © James Plakovic -- click on image to see larger version, click on link to purchase print)
My friend Kathy Plakovic, local nurse practitioner extraordinaire and the person who's vetted the medical questions in my novel Ginny Bates, is married to a really unique artist, Jim Plakovic. Jim is able to combine musical composition and art to create canvases which show an image created from musical notes which can actually be played, a piece of music which relates to the image. He was featured last week with the above "map" at Strange Maps. I LOVE his stuff. Also, Jim chose to stay home and keep house when their daughter was born, and he carries the title of Honorary Lesbian here in Austin (for other private reasons). A spectacular guy, all round.
For artists and historians, from Boing Boing: A video answering the question What Did Da Vinci Look Like?
"Siegfried Woldhek knows faces -- he's drawn more than 1,100 of them. Using sophisticated image analysis and his own skills as an artist, he's come up with a fascinating discovery about Leonardo Da Vinci. Da Vinci's life and work is well known -- but his own face is not. Woldhek used some thoughtful image-analysis techniques to find what he believes is the true face of Leonardo. Here, he walks viewers through exactly how he did it."
(Anatomically correct fabric brain art by Marjorie Taylor)
For textile and anatomy fans, from The Museum of Scientifically Accurate Fabric Brain Art, "Inspired by research from neuroscience, dissection and neuroeconomics, our current exhibition features three quilts with functional images from PET and fMRI scanning, a knitted brain, and two fabric pieces interpreting single neuron recording. Techniques used include quilting, applique, embroidery, beadwork, knitting, and crocheting. Materials include fabric, yarn, metallic threads, electronic components such as magnetic core memory, and wire, zippers, and beads."
For web site geeks, in Design Coding, The Poetic Prophet (a.k.a. The SEO Rapper) raps about web standards and proper design can affect the ranking and conversion of pages on your site.
(Photo © by Jill Posener)
The Art Law Blog covers exactly what you'd think it covers, law as it relates to art. Lots of interesting articles and updates.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
BROAD CAST 8 APRIL 2008: ART AND MORE ART
LOLCATS WEEKLY ROUND-UP, 8 APRIL 2008
Here's the weekly best of what I've gleaned from I Can Has Cheezburger efforts. There are some really creative folks out there. As usual, those from little gator lead the pack.
Monday, April 7, 2008
WE BRING DEMOCRACY TO THE FISH
(Ball and Net, giclée print on watercolor paper, © 2008 Liza Cowan)
WE BRING DEMOCRACY TO THE FISH
by Donald Hall, from White Apples and the Taste of Stone
It is unacceptable that fish prey on each other.
For their comfort and safety, we will liberate them
into fishfarms with secure, durable boundaries
that exclude predators. Our care will provide
for their liberty, health, happiness, and nutrition.
Of course all creatures need to feel useful.
At maturity the fish will discover their purposes.
© Houghton Mifflin Company, 2007
GINNY BATES: CELL DIVISION
(Limestone hills, Black Gap Wildlife Management Area, West Texas)
Another excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Ginny Bates. If you are already a familiar reader, begin below. The action in the story resumes immediately after my post two days ago. If you need background, check the links in the sidebar on the right, fifth item down, to get caught up.
March 2008
Long after Gillam and David had retired for the night, just as Myra was getting ready to turn off her light and go to bed alone, her desk phone rang. She looked at the caller ID, and when she saw Margie's number, her heart skipped a beat. "Ginny!" she called out as she answered it.
"What's up? Are you okay?" she asked Margie.
"I know it's late, but I thought one of you would still be up." Margie's voice sounded a little congested -- she'd been crying.
"We both are." Ginny was at the extension now, saying "Hi, honey. What's wrong?" Ginny still had a wet brush in her other hand.
"Oh, god." Margie began crying out loud. "Tell me you're not gonna hate me."
"There's no way on earth I'd ever hate you, Marjorie Rose" declared Ginny vehemently, which made Margie cry a little harder. "Please, tell us what's going on."
"I'm late for my period. Like by five days" wailed Margie.
Ginny sat down abruptly on Myra's daybed. Myra leaned over her desk, cradling the phone in both hands. "Oh, Margie. You must be so scared, angel" said Myra.
They let Margie wail for a bit. When her sobs slacked off, Ginny said "We can get in the car and be there in no time."
"No, don't do that. I have to figure out what to do" said Margie.
"Not without us, you don't. I mean, yes, you make you own decisions, but we'll be backing you up in person" said Myra. "Have you told -- it's Rimbaud, right?"
"Yeah, I told him tonight. He's with me right now. He's being great, he really is." Margie continued to cry.
Aside from knocking you up, thought Myra grimly. As if Margie could read her mind, she said "It was a condom failure, Mama. We both noticed it -- after. And I've been worried sick ever since. We both have."
"Have you taken a home pregnancy test?" asked Ginny.
"No, I'm not sure it'll be accurate this soon" said Margie. "And -- well, we had to do some talking. What I'd rather do is come up there, and go to the doctor. That way, I won't be guessing."
"I'll get an appointment for you tomorrow" said Myra. "Drive up tonight, if you want. You and Rimbaud both." The last bit was hard to push out of her mouth, and she saw Ginny scowl.
"No, I'm going to try to sleep tonight. I haven't been sleeping very well, and maybe I will now. I'll come in the morning. I'm not sure if Rimbaud is coming -- he wants to, but I think he should just go to class. It's terrible circumstances for you all to get to know each other." Margie tried to laugh, but didn't make it.
"Do you feel -- well, you don't know what it's like to be pregnant" began Ginny. "Are you sick to your stomach, or repulsed by food? Are you feverish?"
"I haven't been eating much" said Margie, "but I'm not nauseated. I feel PMS-y, really, kinda bloated and emotionally way off kilter, but that could just be the stress."
"We'll figure it out" said Myra. "You get here, and we'll be a team. You're gonna be okay, darling girl, I promise you."
Margie said "Oh, god, I love you both so much. I know I don't tell you enough, but I really really do."
Myra began crying. Ginny said, "You show it constantly, you're the best thing that ever happened to our lives, honey."
"Mama" said Margie, beginning to cry hard again. "Mama -- I don't think I can have an abortion. I just don't think I can. I believe in the right to choose, I think it's up to every woman -- but I'm not sure when life begins, and I can't -- live with myself, not being sure."
Ginny was now crying too. "I understand, Margie. I'm the same way. There's plenty of room and love for any child in our family, however they get here. We'll figure it out."
"Okay" Margie blubbered "I knew you'd say that, but I'm so sorry to --"
"Don't you dare apologize to me, Margie" said Ginny. "Not for this. Not for sex, and not for an accident, and not for babies. You have not disappointed me. Get that through your head."
"Okay." Margie blew her nose, then came back and said "I'll see you both in the morning, then. Send me sweet dreams."
"We do, and call us right before you get on the road, will you?" said Myra.
They exchanged "I love yous" one more time, and hung up. Myra and Ginny stared at each other. Ginny said "Well, no more painting for me tonight" and stood up to go clean her brush. After a minute, Myra turned off her desk lamp and headed for their bedroom. Ginny joined her as she was washing her face.
"Do we need to talk this over tonight?" said Ginny.
"For once, no. I think we're in complete accord. And we need to know the facts before we can make plans. I want to just lie down in your arms and thank god for our children, our health, our financial security, and each other, not necessarily in that order" said Myra tiredly.
"Amen, sister" said Ginny, picking up her toothbrush.
When the phone rang the next morning at 7:30, Myra rolled over in bed and answered it before Ginny could get to the extension in the kitchen. Ginny poked her head in the bedroom in a minute and said "That Margie?"
"Yeah, she's already on her way." Myra sat up, still tired.
"David's taking Gillam to school. I told both of them. I can make eggs and toast, if you want to join me."
"Be right there." Myra put on clothes suitable for the doctor's office and went to eat with Ginny. When David returned, he sat at the table with them as well, drinking another cup of tea.
Ginny asked "Rimbaud coming with her?"
"I forgot to ask."
"Well, either way, I'll put fresh sheets on her bed" said Ginny.
"I left a message with Dr. Desai's service last night" said Myra. "They don't open until 9."
After a long pause, Ginny said "Are condoms enough? I mean, don't women use -- something else, too, like some kind of foam or jelly?"
"You're asking the wrong girl" said Myra wryly. She looked at David and said "What did you and Helen use -- I mean, condoms were around since World War II, right?"
He was clearly mortified, but refused to give in to embarrassment. "Between Cathy and Ginny -- we used what they called the rhythm method. Which, as it turns out, mostly relies on luck."
"Then how did you make it ten years without getting pregnant?" asked Myra. She was not awake enough to notice Ginny making faces at her.
"Well...we weren't very active" said David, finally.
"And -- wait, are you saying Ginny was an accident, too?" Myra finally realized she was maybe digging too deep. Ginny's sharp kick to her shin reinforced that realization.
David had the grace to laugh. "Unplanned, yes. Accident, not so much."
"Well, you have to say that, she's right here" Myra joked.
When Margie walked in the front door, they were all still at the table. She looked terrible, dark circles under her eyes, pale skin, her hair not washed recently. Ginny wrapped her arms around her and led her to the table, getting her a fresh cup of tea. Myra took her hand and said "You hungry?"
"Yeah, a little. Whatever that signifies. Maybe some yogurt, and toast?" said Margie.
"I'll get it for her" said David.
"I asked Rimbaud to stay there. I felt like I needed the drive alone" said Margie. "Have you made the appointment yet?"
Myra looked at the clock. "No, but I can get hold of the office directly now." She reached for the phone.
David brought over apple butter and a banana as well. Margie began eating apple butter directly from the jar. "I remember as a kid, I felt deprived by not having all the kinds of jelly and jams that other kids had at their houses -- it was almost always apple butter here. But since I've been away, I miss it when I run out of the stash you send me."
"We'll send more" said Ginny.
Myra hung up the phone and said "We can go in at 11, get the blood drawn, and she'll see you right before she leaves for lunch."
Margie's face registered a small degree of relief. She picked up a Mary Poppins triangle of toast and bit into it. "Have you told the aunties yet?"
"No" said Ginny. "Tonight's shabbos, you can tell them yourself if you want. Listen, you want eggs? I can make you Ginny Eggs."
"No -- wait, yes, I do. I seem to be ravenous. Is that a good sign?" said Margie. As Ginny got up to cook, she said "Hunger and the means to fulfill it are always good signs."
At their next meal, a belated lunch at Margie's favorite veggie place, she ate even more exuberantly, this time celebrating the fact that Dr. Desai had declared her Not Pregnant. She had called Rimbaud from the car and they had wept together before she went into the restaurant with her mothers. Halfway through the meal, they remembered David and Gillam, and called them as well.
"I do want your children filling up my house" said Ginny, "but timing is everything."
"Did you talk with Dr. Desai about -- other measures?" asked Myra.
Margie laughed a little crazily. "You two are from the Stone Age sometimes. Yes, I got a backup contraceptive. Plus, she gave me a scrip for Plan B. But -- right at the moment, I feel like I'll never have sex again."
Ginny laughed. "Yeah, well..."
The waiter came by with more fresh bread, and Margie paused until she was out of earshot.
"Don't pass out, you two, but I'd like to talk to you -- about sex. If you're up for it."
Ginny bit her tongue as she was chewing and yelped. "Don't mind me. Yes -- what, exactly, did you want to discuss?"
Margie was selecting her words. "I know the stuff about who's the man with lesbians of your generation is hogwash, and please do not try to give me a lesson in top/bottom dynamics -- but, how do you work out -- who does the asking? Or consenting, or whatever you call it?"
Ginny looked at Myra. Myra said "You mean about initiation and receptivity?"
"Yeah, that's it. But no details, please have mercy on me" said Margie, focused on buttering a roll.
"I don't know how much help we'll be. I think we're extremely atypical" said Myra.
"We're even-steven, most of the time" said Ginny. "Easy-peasy. Sometimes I ask, sometimes she does, and I can't remember the last time one of us said no. Except for -- " she stopped.
"Right after my hysterectomy, for six months, I was not interested" said Myra. "But we worked through that."
"Jesus" said Margie. "I asked for this, didn't I. Well -- does that mean it's all the time, which is what it looks like, or what?"
"It's often" said Myra. "On average more than twice a week, unless we're on vacation. But not on any kind of schedule. And, that brings up a point -- we don't ask if it's not a good time. We don't use sex to heal arguments, we don't try it if we're tired or sick or worried, and we have other means of keeping a strong emotional and physical connection. So sex is just sex, not the glue that keeps up going. Ironically, I think that's helped make it more frequent, without the legendary lesbian bed-death ever coming along for us."
"We've never talked about it this way, have we?" Ginny asked Myra.
"No, but I've thought about it. I mean, I only had one relationship before you that was longer than 18 months, so I wasn't an expert on that aspect of it -- " said Myra.
"And I had longer ones, but not the frequency you did -- " said Ginny.
Myra turned back to Margie. "I think we're mostly just incredibly lucky to be on the same page. I don't know anyone else who's had it this easy."
Margie blew air out through her lips. "Okay, then, not about you two -- about other relationships you've had -- what was it like when you weren't matched?"
"I don't mean to pry, honey, but there's so many different ways that could be defined. Are you talking about when one person just plain wants to make love more often than the other one does?" said Myra.
"Kinda. Okay, here's the skinny, but don't you ever, ever bring this up again, okay?" said Margie. Ginny and Myra nodded, both of them a little pink in the face.
"Rimbaud -- I want it as much as he does, it's not that. I think the frequency is pretty balanced for both of us. But -- it's like, I know he'll never say no. And it's not what you just said, that you don't ask each other unless it's a good time. I honestly feel like if he had lost just lost a finger and was bleeding all over the place, and I offered to go down on him, he'd say Sure, let me just clamp this artery between my teeth. It's like -- scratching an itch. Which isn't fair, because he does love me, he treats me like I'm a jewel. But, still -- I know I'll never have to do without. I guess it's not much to complain about..."
"No, I get it, I really do" said Myra. "It was that way with me and Judit. She wanted to have sex every single day, and although it was never routine, how we did it, still -- I chose her in part because she was compulsive and I wanted to try that on, find out what it was like to have an unlimited supply. And I found out I didn't like it. I want -- the communication of negotiation, is one way to put it."
Ginny was staring at her. "The things I keep learning about you."
Myra grinned at her, but continued talking to Margie. "And, in Judit's case at least, it came from insecurity. She wasn't completely convinced that anybody really wanted her. Plus, she became sexual very early, like at age 12, with boys until she came out at 18, so she got trained to be like in a tractor beam with desire. No fluidity. And all touch, all intimate touch, brought up sex for her. She was a lot like what I think guys are like in that regard. Or, I should say, what male conditioning does."
"Yeah, that's not Rimbaud exactly" argued Margie.
"Have you tried talking with him about it?" asked Ginny.
"Once. And, it was a real mood killer, because he asked if I -- felt the way I did because I'd been raised by lesbians. It wasn't an accusation, it was a real question on his part -- plus, he was raised outside the U.S., so there's that cultural gap, too, and the only way he can get around it is to ask awkward questions, sometimes." Margie sounded a little defensive; she didn't want her mothers to judge her boyfriend.
But Myra didn't. "You were raised with radically different values, Margie. In the short run, I can imagine they feel like an obstacle. In the long run, well, if you don't come back and thank us eventually, I'll enter a re-education camp and confess my sins."
Margie laughed in relief and said "I'll sign the commitment papers, if it comes to that."
The waiter appeared to ask if they wanted dessert. Margie looked at her mothers and said "Could we go out for frozen yogurt instead?"
"You bet" said Ginny. She handed the waiter a credit card and said "Are we done with what you want to talk about?"
"For now" said Margie. "When I get home, I'm going to sleep the rest of the afternoon."
"Yeah, I think I need a nap, too" said Myra.
Ginny looked across the table at her and said "Every day? You and Judit, really?"
"No more" warned Margie.
As they left the restaurant, Margie linked her arms between her mothers and began humming under her breath. Ginny said "Before you go to sleep, I'm making you some tea that'll bring on your period."
"Ah, no wonder I'm craving chocolate yogurt" said Margie in sudden comprehension.
April 2008
Myra got a call at noon from Gillam. She could hear the clamor of his school cafeteria in the background.
"Hey, Mom -- I have a big report I'm working on with a classmate, about the history of slavery in the South, and you've got that whole shelf of books on it. Could I bring him home tonight so we can dig through your library?"
"Sure. Lots of those books aren't available other places any more, and the internet hasn't caught up with library de-funding. Is he going to eat dinner with us?"
"If that's okay with you. He's not vegetarian." Myra thought Gillam was maybe hinting.
"I could do hot pastrami and a potato kugel -- David asked for it sometime."
"Awesome, Mom. And, listen, could we use your study, like, even your computer? It's so fast."
"Like, yeah" she laughed. "Your mom and I are, god help us, going through our closets and the storeroom after dinner. Time to donate to a garage sale."
"Oh, I got stuff, too. Okay, see you after school."
Gillam's friend was a thin sandy-haired boy with big lips and intelligent grey eyes named Isaac. Myra gave them a snack and had an extra chair set up at her desk for them. David was painting, and Ginny was transplanting seedlings from the mini-greenhouse on the upstairs deck into a raised bed she could cover in case of a late freeze. After dinner was under way, Myra made a pan of peanut butter brownies and frosted them with chocolate: In her experience, thin teenage boys ate the most.
Allie and Edwina dropped in for dinner, bringing a platter of fried catfish. Myra made a last-minute tartar sauce and, after they all sat down and began eating, Gillam started talking to Allie and Edwina about his paper. At first, Myra noticed, his friend Isaac was nervous about discussing slavery with two black women, but when Gillam grabbed a notepad from the breakfast bar to write down some of their suggested resources, Isaac joined the conversation enthusiastically.
"Isaac makes higher grades in history than I ever have" Gillam said at one point. "Which is pretty funny when you consider that his brother, also in our grade, just sucks at it."
"But Jonah is way good at physics, and I can't retain those equations worth a f--flip" Isaac said.
Gillam, shoveling noodles into his mouth, said "Have you guys ever like swapped places for a test, you know, have him take your physics exam for you?"
"Nah, we wear our hair too differently" said Isaac. He said to the rest of the table "We're twins, and identical, but we don't dress the same."
Something tickled Myra's mind, and she tried to track it down -- a memory, maybe? Deja vu?
Allie looked hard at Isaac for a minute, then said "I hope you won't think this is rude, but do you have lesbian mothers, too, Isaac?"
"Yeah" said Isaac.
That's when the torrent broke through the floodgates inside Myra. "Your mother -- is one of your mothers Karin Barbaras?"
Ginny froze. Isaac and Gillam both reacted to the sudden tension. Myra forced herself to smile as Isaac said "Yeah. My other mom is Claudia Koch."
Myra said, in a surprisingly normal tone of voice, "I used to know Karin. Tell her hi from me. You and Gillam once met each other at a Dyke March when you were babies."
Gillam punched Isaac on the shoulder, and Isaac laughed.
"Tell her hi from me, too" said Allie. "How she doing?"
Isaac's grin dimmed. Faltering a little, he said "She -- d'you know, she has cancer?"
Myra was now barely treading water. "Oh my god, no. I hadn't heard. What kind?"
"Breast. Two years now." Isaac wasn't eating any more.
Myra could tell that Ginny's gaze was fixed on her, but she couldn't look anywhere except at Isaac's bruised expression. "And -- how's it going, honey?"
Isaac didn't register surprise at the endearment, although Gillam did. "She's on salvage. It's -- spread to her hip."
Bone cancer, then. "The pain must be godawful." Myra didn't realize she'd said it out loud until Gillam turned a shocked face her way. "I'm sorry, Isaac, I don't mean to put you through this over dinner. Let us know if we can help in any way. I'm serious."
"Thanks" he said in a muffled tone.
The silence was appalling, but Myra didn't notice. She didn't notice anything or anyone at the table now. She ate mechanically. Edwina jumped in with a subject change, and both Allie and Ginny tried to re-engage Myra, but she really didn't hear them. The other adults covered well enough that Isaac returned to his previous chatter. As soon as the main meal was done, Myra excused herself and said she had to go make a phone call. She went into her and Ginny's bedroom and closed the door with a comforting click. She lay face down on the bed, in the dark, and let herself remember Karin's breasts.
After a few minutes, the door opened and closed again. She could tell from the tread across the pine flooring that it was Allie. Allie lay down beside her wordlessly and pulled Myra's head onto her shoulder. Myra let herself cry, then. At one point she said "He could be our son, you know."
"Well, no" said Allie. "You got a son who wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you choosing Ginny. And Isaac's here because Karin loved Claudia. We make our choices, right or wrong, and everything speeds away from us that's not on the one little path we walk."
"Thank god I have Gillam" cried Myra. "And Ginny, I wouldn't have it any other way. Except..."
"I know. I get it" said Allie.
After Myra felt better enough to sit up and blow her nose, she said "You smell like peanut butter."
"There won't be any of those brownies left by the time you go back out there" laughed Allie. "Edwina's in your study with the boys, talking to 'em about Sea Island culture, and they're typing one-handed so they can pinch off chunks of brownie with the other hand."
"That means my keyboard is going to be covered in crumbs and frosting" said Myra. "Won't be the first time."
"Remember when Margie melted her box of crayons in the toaster?" said Allie.
"Yeah. When I got the screws off the bottom and looked in at those coils, it was actually beautiful, a rainbow metal kind of sculpture" said Myra. "And then there's time she put her waffle in the VCR, and that horrifying moment I caught her coaxing Juju into the dryer." After a long pause, Myra said "The worst part is imagining what Karin is feeling, having to leave her children behind. Worse than dying."
"Yeah" said Allie softly.
"I hate to ask this of you, Al, but she won't talk with me -- will you call her, or Claudia, and find out if they need anything? Especially -- things that money can provide. If you think they won't take it from me, maybe you could say it's from you, as a board member or something -- "
"I won't lie to her, but yes, I'll call her" said Allie. "Now we should get back out there, Ginny holding down the fort."
They got up and Allie went into the kitchen where David was doing dishes, while Myra paused to wash her face. Ginny was just finishing making Gillam's lunch. She came over and gave Myra a long hug. "You okay?" she whispered.
"Yes, and no" said Myra. "Is Isaac all right, did I freak him out?"
"He's forgotten about you, I'm sure" said Ginny.
"Well, let's grab boxes and clean out closets" said Myra. "Just the therapy I need for tonight."
At the end of the evening, Allie and Edwina offered to drop Isaac home. After they were gone, Myra said "You get a good running start on your report?"
"I think we have a complete outline and biblio" said Gillam. "And it won't be anything anyone else has." He hesitated, then said "What happened to you?"
Myra stepped out from the store room and sat down in the big chair in the living room. He plopped down on the couch. David joined them, curious.
"Karin Barbaras was once the great love of my life. Next to your mom, of course, and the gap between the two is exponential. But I've never stopped loving her."
Gillam's eyes scooted toward Ginny, startled. She came to sit on the arm of Myra's chair and smiled at him reassuringly.
"I never heard you even mention her before" said Gillam.
"It was a painful breakup. Needlessly painful. I did things I'm deeply ashamed of, and she's never forgiven me" said Myra softly. Gillam was now thoroughly shocked.
"So, Gillam...Isaac's mom is probably dying. I doubt she has another six months, unless a miracle occurs. I don't know if he's aware of it or not, at least consciously. I want you to extend him every kindness and help. Go above and beyond. And we will do the same."
At the look on his face, Ginny got up and went to sit next to Gillam, taking his hand in hers. He was taller than her, now; she couldn't put his arm around his shoulders any more when they were sitting. He completely surprised Myra by asking "Does he look like her?"
She laughed and said "Claudia was the birth mom. But, funnily enough, he did remind me of her. The gentleness in his face was very like her."
"Could I bring them both home for dinner sometimes, him and Jonah? I really like them, and it's a kind of replacement for Carly, them having moms like ours."
"I would adore feeding them" said Myra.
Ginny said "I hid one brownie for you, by the way, Myra."
Myra blew her a kiss and said "Stick it in Gillam's lunch for tomorrow. That's a recipe I'll have to repeat soon."
"It is so freaky, trying to imagine you being lovers with anybody except Mom" said Gillam. "How could it be you if you weren't in love with Mom?"
David spoke up. "I know what you mean, Gillam. I think of Myra before Ginny as someone waiting to meet her, marching steadily in her direction to make my girl's world complete."
Ginny's face melted. Myra said "Well, that's really the truth of the matter." Ginny blew her another kiss, and Myra stood up, saying "One last set of shelves to go. Gillam, you need to hit the sack."
He kissed her on the cheek and galloped upstairs.
© 2008 Maggie Jochild
Sunday, April 6, 2008
GINNY BATES: THE SHOW AT PSAW
(Roumanian Blouse Version 2 by Liza Matisse; © 2007 by Liza Cowan)
Another excerpt from my novel-in-progress, Ginny Bates. If you are already a familiar reader, begin below. The action in the story resumes immediately after my post three days ago. If you need background, check the links in the sidebar on the right, fifth item down, to get caught up.
26 January 2008
Ginny flew out of SeaTac for Burlington early Friday morning, catching the shuttle to the airport so Myra could get Gillam off to school. Myra hated it that their last weekend before David moved in, Ginny would be gone -- but art could not be denied. For Friday night dinner, she and Gillam grilled a variety of steaks and pork fillets, and dinner with their friends was a meat-fest. She hoped the smell would have left the house by the time Ginny returned.
Ginny called late that night, which was even later by East Coast time.
"What are you doing still up?" said Myra. "I mean, I'm thrilled to hear from you -- "
"Oh, we just got to talking. I am having a grand old time here. I'm staying at the same inn on Willard Street that you and did a couple of years ago, and once I got back here, I began missing you something fierce. So -- whatcha wearing?" said Ginny in a seductive tone of voice.
Myra cracked up. "Same as you, likely. C'mon, tell me everything."
Before they hung up, Ginny said she'd grab the shuttle back from the airport on Sunday for her return, since it was right before dinner time, and to save her a plate. "If Margie comes up, don't let her leave before I at least lay eyes on her" said Ginny.
"Okay -- I'm pretty sure she's arriving tomorrow because Gillam asked me to make swiss steak for Carly tomorrow night, and I think they're riding together."
"Swiss steak, huh? Have you ever made that?"
"Once, for Gillam, and it apparently was memorable" said Myra. "Which reminds me, bring back some real maple syrup."
"Remember when we dripped syrup on our nipples that time?" said Ginny.
"Stop it -- I have to go crawl into bed alone" said Myra.
"And that time we were both reading the Jane Smiley novel with a lesbian sex scene in it that may or may not have involved guacamole? -- " continued Ginny, in a teasing voice.
"Okay, I can play this game. Remember when we went to see Bound and after I got home, I put on my leather jacket and -- "
"I give, I give" said Ginny, giggling wildly. "Sweet dreams, lover. I'll call you tomorrow or Sunday before I get on the plane, not sure which."
"Tell Liza -- well, just tell her hi" said Myra.
Still giggling, they hung up.
On Sunday afternoon, Chris and Sima came over with a huge sea bass that Chris fileted for broiling as Myra made crab rangoon and Sima put together a beautiful Waldorf salad with fresh pears. Gillam and Carly had gone that afternoon to Uwajimaya's for the delicate almond cookies that were Ginny's weakness. Margie was out for a walk with Narnia, and when Myra heard the front door open, she thought at first it was them returning. She leaned around the breakfast bar, saying "Did she finally poop?", only to see Liza Cowan walking toward her with a dazzling grin.
"If you mean Ginny, I'm not privy to her bowel status" said Liza, setting down a large wooden carrying case with brass corners.
Myra was too thrilled to be embarrassed. She wiped her hands hastily and grabbed Liza in a hug. Then Ginny came in the front door, a duffel slung over each shoulder, and Myra momentarily forgot everything else. By the time they were done kissing, Liza had introduced herself to Sima and Chris, who were both acting a little like Myra had the first time she met Liza.
"It smells heavenly in here" said Ginny.
"We went all out for you" said Myra.
Gillam and Carly thundered down the stairs just as Margie and Narnia came in through the open front door. After a flurry of more introductions, Ginny said to Liza "I'm putting your bag in the guest room, which is at the end of this hall here".
"You're staying with them?" Sima said wonderingly.
"Yeah, I couldn't pass up the chance to see the artist's lair" said Liza. "Not mention the writer's habitat. And -- well, I'll let Ginny tell you."
When Ginny returned, Liza nudged the wooden carrying case with her toe and Ginny said "I have a treat for you, Myra."
Myra knew in that instant. "It's not -- the Liza Matisse with the green, the one that was on that video?"
"You guessed it!" said Ginny. "Because it's painted on glass, it can't be shipped. But Liza agreed to carry it on the plane for me, and we got it through all the security bullshit and stored safely in first class. Let's make sure it's okay."
She and Liza carefully unfastened the latches and strapping, and pulled layers of foam padding plus some kind of protective fabric from what had once been an old wooden window, four panes, now painted with Myra's favorite of all Liza's FAKE series. Ginny handed it to Myra, who held it up to the light and said "Oh, god, it's more wonderful than I remembered." Everyone clustered around, exclaiming over it.
"Where are you going to hang it?" asked Gillam.
"Not sure yet. Maybe Liza can help us find a good spot" said Ginny.
"I want it where I can see it all the time" said Myra. "Like, in my study."
Liza laughed. "Let me wash up and roam around your house, if I may, on my own. Then we'll confer."
"Sounds good" said Ginny. "How long till dinner?"
"Half an hour" said Myra.
At that moment, the front door opened to Allie and Edwina arriving. Allie stopped in the foyer, staring at Liza, then said "Holy fuck. I'm not dreaming, am I?"
"Nope, buddy. She hitched a ride back with Ginny" said Myra gleefully. After brief handshakes, Ginny showed Liza to her room and bath, while Myra put her gift away carefully in their bedroom closet. As the friends chatted, Carly and Gillam set the table, and Margie made a pitcher of lemonade, Liza began her tour of their house.
Walking into the rear of the house from the kitchen, she saw on her right a glass wall extending all the way to the back and halfway rounding the corner, interrupted by a sliding glass door, the wall showing a deck, pool, and lush yard rimmed by trees. On her left was an apparent wall that was in fact the backs of mahogany bookcases, three of them each three feet wide. Hanging on this "wall" were frames containing a "Sisterhood Feels Good" poster she remembered from the early 1970s; several dozen photographs of what must be family members, all of them dating before 1950; and an illustrated pedigree on yellowing newsprint, done by the unmistakeable hand of Ginny Bates.
The hallway emptied into Myra's study, with a facing wall which had an open doorway leading beyond into Ginny's light-filled studio. The doorway did, in fact, have a sliding door which was almost never used. Against this wall was a jade green leather settee and a massive rolltop desk with every pigeonhole and cubby stuffed by paper or writing tools. On the edge of the desk next to the daybed was a large black Bakelite phone which looked to be period until you noticed the round buttons inside the dial slots and a glowing round caller ID screen in the center. Hanging over the daybed was a huge, vibrant quilt by Annie Mae Young of Gee's Bend. Folded neatly on the daybed was a soft chenille blanket of fading vermilion.
The back wall of the study, from the desk to a bathroom door, was lined with more mahogany bookshelves and cupboards. The cupboard closest to the desk was only half-height, but it was three feet wide and four feet long. On top of it were a small copy machine, a stereo system, and a combination printer/scanner/fax. The shelf underneath was stacked with reams of paper, notebooks and office supplies. Below that was a series of twelve shallow map drawers, labeled neatly. Between this cupboard and the roll-top, a long leaf extended out from the roll-top, a typing table that was now permanently extended and reinforced with a supporting leg. On this table was a 21 inch flat computer monitor and keyboard. The CPU was tucked under the enormous keyhole of the desk, and the shallow U formed by desk, typing table and cupboard was occupied by an extra-large Aeron chair on a thin Guatemalan-print rug.
Leaning against the back wall, next to the bathroom door, was a folded tri-panel screen containing a stunning illustrated map of Skene, which irresistably drew Liza's eye. Hanging on the bathroom door was her own drawing of Tara With Cherries. The bottom half of the shelves next to the cupboard on the back wall was given over to two horizontal wooden file drawers. The shelf above it was filled with cassette tapes and CDs, and the shelf above that was vinyl LPs. The rest of the shelves, on both sides of the room from floor to six feet high, were filled with books and periodicals in meticulous order, interspersed here and there with small art objects or ephemera. In the middle of the room was a comfortable arm chair of matching jade leather and a standing floor lamp with a Tiffany shade of calla lilies. The walls not covered with shelves or pictures were wasabi green plaster. The floor was cherry parquet.
On the desk was a dark green banker's lamp with a brass base showing a lovely patina. There was also a neat stack of slender books and colored folders. In a hand-thrown plum and sea-green pot was a bristle of sharpened pencils, and in the cubby behind it could be seen the edge of an electric pencil sharpener. A wooden business-card holder painted Ginny abstract held vibrant cards for Myra where her occupation was listed as "dyke, writer, mother". The remainder of the lovely dark surface of the desk was clear and inviting. A stretch of the top shelf atop the desk was also clear, although a few tufts of black and white cat hair indicated it was a perch for somebody.
The walls above and to the side of the desk were covered in photographs and small drawings -- a witchy-looking screen print by Ginny, an underwater photograph of the four of them naked in a pool when the children were still babies, a large framed sketch of skimmers flying along the Gulf Coast, covers done by Allie or Ginny of Myra's books, a photocopied headline of a newspaper from April 1912 which read WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST, a folder for a Dance Brigade performance, a hand-drawn map labeled Nimipu Ancestral Lands, ultrasound photos of each child, a color Xerox of the page showing Max's "bleu period" from Maira Kalman's Max in Love, notices for each of Ginny's gallery shows, a photo of Ginny and Myra kissing with Margie holding a pinwheel as she sat on Myra's shoulders and Gillam in a snugli wearing a DYKE t-shirt, and, everywhere there was room, photos of friends or drawings by the children. Liza laughed to herself, remembering how Myra had told her she faced her desk away from the windows because she "needed to avoid distraction" -- this wall was crammed with the details of her life, but that apparently was just background hum.
Stepping into Ginny's studio was a shock, switching from rich and introspective to light and utilitarian. In the corner where the glass walls met was Ginny's large wooden easel. Next to it was a slightly smaller easel with a stool before it, which she assumed was David's. The flagstone-looking floor, really linoleum, was covered in flecks of dried paint. On the wall next to the door, parallel to Myra's daybed on the other side of the wall, was Ginny's daybed of saffron leather, with a pale blue blanket pushed to one side. In a U around the remaining walls was a counter-top of white stone, stained with color in many areas, and three separate keyholes for chairs. Rolling chairs were tucked into two of these slots. Underneath the counters were open white pine shelves filled with bins of paint, sketch blocks, palettes, and other art supplies. One small shelf held a Hopi pot, a pair of gleaming silver palette knives, and a few other personal mementoes. Two large cupboards of white pine hung on either wall, one containing cans of varnish, turpentine, linseed oil and other volatiles, the other holding a few ready canvases plus rolls of raw canvas and stretchers.
On the counters were grinders and basins for mixing paint, trays of hundreds of colored pencils, and hand-thrown pots containing many dozens of brushes, sorted as to size and material. In the back corner was the glass gecko habitat. On a little pedestal beside the gecko cage was a miniature menorah made of fimo and fitted with birthday candles that had burned down to wick and wax drips. Beside it on the back wall were two lipped rows of what appeared to be drying shelves for freshly-painted canvases -- there were three canvases up there, now. The overhead lighting in this room was of the same type as in the rest of the house, full-spectrum simulating sunlight, but the tracks and bulbs were much more frequent and a control panel next to the door gave Ginny enormous pinpoint precision over light in each square foot of the room.
Pushed against the back glass half-wall was a low rectangular wooden coffee table, also encrusted with paint flecks. Next to it, leaned against the cupboard, were several folded easels in various sizes, of wood and metal. There was only one small shelf of books, over one of the work areas. But the most striking difference between Ginny and Myra's work area, aside from the light, was that Ginny had not a single piece of art or memorabilia up on her walls: They were bare, cream-colored plaster. The drying canvases drew the eye all the more dramatically as a result.
As Liza walked over to look at them more closely, she noticed the lack of strong paint or varnish smell in this room. She knew from her own experience it should be overwhelming, since this space was tucked into a cul-de-sac without windows. She looked around and noticed the vents in the ceilings and a separate vent over the volatiles cabinet -- a professional system, then. She also noticed the extensive array of fire sprinklers: another good idea.
At that point, Ginny walked back and said dinner was ready, so Liza took her place of honor at the head of the table as everyone settled into chairs and took each other's hands. No words were spoken, just a fervent silence was observed, followed by everybody kissing the backs of the hands they were holding and declaring "Happy eats!"
Halfway through the meal, Liza's attention was diverted from the shining conversation and faces to two paintings on the glass wall beside her. They were clearly Ginny and Myra's children, back when they were little. After a minute, she said "Is it all right with you if I look at these?", standing up. Ginny, at the other end of the table, stood with her and answered her questions. Liza said "You have to show these, whether or not they are for sale."
"All right" said Ginny. "In that case, I have some others not for sale you might want to see." She took her first to the pair of paintings over the mantle, Self Portrait with Madrone and Myra with Hands on Fire. She explained their history. Then they turned around, and Liza saw the painting that dominated the foyer: Hettie. She sucked in her breath and moved toward it as on a conveyor. It took fifteen minutes of close inspection and talking with Ginny before she was able to tear herself away and return to their unfinished dinner.
After the food was cleared, they returned to the table for tea and cookies, continuing to talk. Liza was good at charming their children, keeping them as actively in the conversation as they were it was just family. At one point, Ginny went with Liza to finish the house and painting tour. When they got back, the Scrabble board was out and everyone else was playing Sima and Chris's version of the game, Cunning Linguist.
Myra explained the rules: "The points on the tiles or the board, don't pay any attention to 'em. When it's your turn, you can use any tiles on the board plus at least one from your tray, and rearrange the board in any manner you wish. The only rule is that you have to replace every tile that was on the board back on the board in some word by the end of your turn. You can use any word, foreign, slang, whatever. And you get rewarded not with points but with the admiration of the other players -- you're competing for prestige, to impress everybody else. The bigger the 'Ah' at what you lay down, the more you win. Also, if you want to cut in line and take your turn early because you have the most extraordinary possible word or words, then you can ask to do so."
Edwina was allowed to use Gullah and Chris was allowed to use Nimipu, so Liza added Yiddish and French to the vocabulary, squabbling in a cute way with Sima about the spelling of some Yiddish terms. Gillam and Carly knew all kinds of manga and snowboard slang the others did not, and Margie scored a huge "Aaahh!" with a Maori term she'd picked up from Rimbaud. They played until 11 p.m., filling and refilling the board with congested, fascinating criss-crosses of tiles. Finally Margie said "I have to get up at 6 to drop off Carly and make my first class, I guess I better get some sleep."
"You too, Carly" said Ginny. "You boys go on to bed."
As the young people kissed everybody good night, including Liza in their round of affection, Sima asked Liza "How long are you staying?"
"I fly back out Tuesday morning, I have kids of my own and a gallery to run" said Liza.
"You're all invited back for dinner tomorrow night, then" said Myra. From the looks on their faces, she could tell they would return. She said to Liza "I'll be sleeping in tomorrow morning -- Ginny gets up with the kids. So you can get up when you feel like it."
"I noticed the espresso machine" said Liza.
"Go for it" said Ginny. "And we have real cream in the fridge."
"Actually -- do you have Cremora?" asked Liza. Ginny was surprised, but Edwina cackled and said "See, I'm not the only one. Yes, they do, in the cupboard next to the breadmaker."
After everybody left and Liza had gone to bed, Myra began brushing her teeth and said "Best surprise ever, honeybunch. You must be totally tapped out, all that traveling plus the time zone change. Are you really getting up to see the kids off?"
"I have to" said Ginny, "I can't let Margie leave without hugging her bye. But, in case you think I'm too tired now to jump your bones, you'd be very wrong."
"We can make it a quick jump" replied Myra cheerfully.
"We'll see" said Ginny.
Ginny's show at PSAW technically began on the last day of February, a Friday which was Leap Day. She flew to Burlington on Wednesday to help Liza open crates and hang canvases. Margie came to Seattle on Thursday night, and Myra allowed Gillam to take off school on Friday so they could all fly out together that morning, with David, Allie and Edwina.
Myra was amazed at how much snow there was, and the cold was intense for her. She really liked the feel of Burlington, however, a combination of small town and liberal values. She'd once had a brief relationship with a dyke who'd been a member of the infamous Red Bird Collective from here, and she wished she and Ginny could peel off and go looking for women their age to befriend.
However, Ginny was rightly consumed with preparation for the opening in a couple of hours. She told Myra "My agent did tons of publicity in New York and Boston, and she says to expect folks to travel for this. It's my first exhibit on the East Coast, it's created some buzz."
"I hope the Shapiro side of your family is kvelling" said Myra. Ginny snorted and said "The dykelleh who's chosen to patshkie around instead of having a respectable career? Not so much." Myra heard David laughing behind them.
Liza dazzled in her ability to handle all the nit-picky details with patience and humor, while simultaneouly keeping Ginny the center of attention. It was a rare ability for another artist to have. No wonder she's fostered so much creativity around her over the decades thought Myra. She liked her own literary agent; Mai knew when and how to push Myra, when to reassure her. But she was not as smart as Liza, and intelligent nurturing was as essential to bringing out the most an artist could produce as contacts and administrative acumen.
During their visit here two years ago, Myra had run across Burlington's claim to chocolate ascendency, Lake Champlaign Chocolates An hour before the opening, she sent Gillam down the street with a hundred dollar bill to spend on these confections. He was gone long enough for Myra to start worrying. When he returned, he said "The architecture was amazing, Mom, I want to take pictures of that place. I looked around as I drank the best hot cocoa I've ever had." He had come back weighed down by bags, saying happily "I bought seconds! Just as tasty and I got a lot more for the money." They arrayed them next to the already sumptious snacks for guests, but Myra held back ten boxes and whispered to Gillam to go stash them in their rental car. "If we need 'em, we'll fetch them; otherwise, they're going home with us." He grinned conspiratorially.
The early crowd was large and only continued to swell. People shucked their polar fleece and down because the gallery warmed up to a toasty level from all the bodies inside -- except Vermonters tended to keep on those goofy wool hats, Myra noticed. Once folks were down to indoor garments, Margie whispered to Myra "You can sure tell the locals from the out-of-towners." She was an accomplished resource in naming designer lines and likely points of origin for some of the attire. She would drift by Myra and murmur "See that PIB by the Kalman boy mannequin? Manhattan or I'll eat somebody's Patagonia." Or "The herringbone jacket is pure Sartorialist, but I'd guess D.C. Beltway. Or maybe Montreal."
David stuck close to Ginny and received waves of attention as the "progenitor" of Ginny's genius. Ginny was in a constant encirclement of people who wanted to talk with her and having too good a time to notice Myra's much less prominent role at this show. Allie did, however, and cracked up Myra and Edwina by saying, a little loudly, "Yeah, she jumped out of his forehead wearing boots with spikes, and the rest of us, we just roadies."
Gillam discovered that at the annual Burlington Art Hop event, the first week in September each year, PSAW was going to present a showing of Berenice Abbott photographs. "Mom!" he exclaimed, waving the show card. "Please can we come back for this, I don't know another place I'll get to see her stuff! My photography instructor says she's an American genius!"
Myra was very pleased. "She's famous among dykes, too, did you know that? Funny how those two worlds, elite photographers and lesbian images, overlap but don't always know about each other. Yeah, I think we have to not miss this one, boychik." He made a circuit of the gallery with Myra, chattering animatedly about the straight photography movement and how cool it would be to have a large-format camera. He had kept his hair shorter since the chop-off he'd done at Helen's death, and Myra saw him occasionally be recognized by a visitor here as the transcendant little boy in Ginny's Writing on Waves painting that hung in that corner next to the stairs to nowhere.
Margie, on the other hand, was mostly schmoozing with others and proving to be a hit, from the looks of it. She, too, was radiant, giving Myra a jolt every time she recognized Margie as a grown woman. She thought of the lines "When did she get to be a beauty? When did she get to be so tall?" and felt tears scald her eyes briefly. At one point she overhead Margie telling someone that she was an art history major at Evergreen. That was news to her -- last they heard, Margie was considering geography her field. And it would not please Ginny, who had nothing good to say about art historians. Which was maybe why Margie hadn't told them yet.
They still had not met the exotic-sounding Rimbaud. Perhaps it was his influence.
They stayed late to help Liza straighten up and enthuse about the wild success of the night. The next morning, they got a late start and had a midmorning sandwichy-breakfast at Al's French Fries, filling two booths and passing around baskets of different kinds of fries. When they got to the gallery, they were gratified to see large numbers of people inside again. Liza confirmed visitors were driving in from other locales, a first for Burlington. Ginny slid back into her "meeting the public" mode, and not long afterward, Myra wandered out to the Alley, hoping for a quiet-ish spot. The chill promptly drove her indoors again, to Fresh Market, where she at at a deli table, pulled out her notebook and wrote most of a poem. This time, Ginny had noticed her absence and when she returned, Ginny linked her arm through Myra's, introducing her proudly to each new fan.
By the time they left for the airport on Sunday morning, Liza declared it the biggest show her gallery had ever seen. Ginny promised to return for the closing, to help with shipping whatever was unsold back home. Liza also asked Allie to consider doing an exhibition there, which Allie modestly began to decline until Edwina pinched her and said "You will so say yes to this woman!" They agreed to talk further. Liza said someone should make a line of Podinqo ephemera -- dolls, cards, even dishes -- and Ginny's eyes lit up. "I'll help you get that off the ground" she told Allie.
Two weeks later, when Myra got up at 9, the breakfast dishes were cleared and a fresh bowl of fruit salad sat on the top shelf of the fridge. She added granola and Brown Cow, then wandered into the back. Ginny was in front of the canvas she had begun last week but gotten stuck on and given up for a couple of days. She had a fascinating smear of phthalo green over most of her left buttock -- Myra wondered if her bottom was itchy and she'd been scratching it.
Avoiding contact with the green, Myra kissed her shoulder and said, "Found another way into it, eh?"
"Yes."
"Where's David?"
"Temple until noon, some meeting or other."
"Okay. Thanks for the fruit. I'll get dinner and hang with Gillam when he comes home."
"Mm-hm." Then Ginny came to for a moment. "You're an angel. I might actually finish this one tonight. Are you going to write today, or research?"
"Write, come hell or high water."
"......Love you."
"Don't sit down on anything upholstered until you wash your ass."
Ginny craned her neck to look behind her. "Huh. Okay."
When Gillam got home from swim practice, he said he had a paper due, so Myra sent him into her study to start on it and threw together a chicken-vegetable stew. David was watching TV, the volume low. After the stew was simmering, she joined Gillam at her desk.
"Okay, what's the haps on this one?"
"It's modern lit. She gave us three poems, and we are supposed to add a fourth, then compare and contrast. Not so bad, actually." Gillam the reader.
"What three did she give you?" Myra was trying not to be overexcited.
"Uh -- 'Funeral Blues" by Auden, something by Langston Hughes -- here it is, called 'Juke Box Love Song', and then something I've never heard of by Robert Burns. 'John Anderson My Jo' -- I'm not sure who is John and who is Jo."
"Jo means darling or sweetheart in Scots. You ought to know that, with our name."
"Oh. Cool."
"And Robert Burns was a Leo, did you know that?"
Gillam gave her a flat look.
Myra went on. "So, she assigned three male poets. At least two of them are queer and one is black, but still...Have you thought of who you might use as the fourth?"
"These are all love poems, so I thought of Emily Dickinson, who would be a woman and a queer. But she's just so, like, unrequited. Do you think there's something by June Jordan that would work?"
Myra was eternally proud of this boy. "I'm sure there is. We'll grab her books in a minute. First, let's begin with you reading each of them aloud. Meaning comes through differently in spoken word."
Gillam did justice to the first two, but when he got to the Robert Burns poem, he balked.
"I don't know what half these words mean, and I'm not sure how to pronounce 'em."
Myra took the book. "I know Robbie well. Here -- I think you can deduce that first one -- brent means smooth, beld is what it sounds like, bald. Pow is this part of the head, up top. Canty means happy, maun is must -- and that's it. You can get it from that."
"How do you know all that?"
"I memorized this poem when I was eight years old. My mother read it to me when I was a baby, and I used to say it out loud to myself."
Gillam looked at her. "I wish I'd known her."
"Oh, Gillam, you two would have adored each other."
"So...Will you read it for me? Like she would have?"
Myra swallowed and closed her eyes.
John Anderson my jo, John
When we were first acquent
Your locks were like the raven
Your bonnie brow was brent
But now your brow is beld, John
Your locks are like the snow
But blessings on your frosty pow
John Anderson, my jo
John Anderson my jo, John
We clamb the hill thegither
And monie a canty day, John
We've had wi' ane anither
Now we maun totter down, John
But hand in hand we'll go
And sleep thegither at the foot
John Anderson, my jo
In the silence that followed, Myra heard a strange sound coming from the studio. She got up and went to peek around the door. Ginny was sitting on the floor against the wall of glass, hugging her pulled-up knees and weeping onto them.
"Oh, baby, what is it?" Myra dropped down beside her.
Ginny was crying too hard to talk.
Gillam looked in on them briefly, then went to get a bowl of stew.
Finally Ginny said "I didn't know I was listening until that line, 'Hand in hand we'll go'." She was sobbing again.
Gillam returned to the study, but Myra was sure he was eavesdropping, too.
Myra slid her hand into Ginny's. "We will sleep thegither at the foot, Ginny Bates."
"But will we go thagether, or however you say it?" she wailed. "I don't want you to die first. I know that's unspeakably selfish, but it's true."
"Yeah, well same back atcha" said Myra, starting to choke up herself.
"I mean, I know I told you when the kids were little that if something happened to you, I'd find a way to go on. I have to, for their sake. But I didn't mean that as permission!" Ginny was almost shrieking.
"I've not died on you, have I?"
"You came close."
"But I didn't. I had my hand tight in yours, and I hung on. My body responded. I do believe that."
They leaned against each other. Myra took in the smell of the chicken, the twilight pooling into the room from the windows behind them, the richness of the colors crusted on Ginny's hands. Lucky, lucky, lucky.
Gillam suddenly stood in front of them.
"Me, too." he said. "I was scared shitless."
"Language" said Ginny with a laugh.
"Point taken and appreciated" he grinned back. "But tell me a better way to say it."
"Fuck if I know" said Ginny.
"Your nose is running a little" Myra advised Ginny.
Ginny looked at each of her bare arms, as if there would suddenly be something to wipe it on. Gillam leaned down and gallantly offered her his T-shirt shoulder. Instead of daubing her nose it politely, she pulled his sleeve so hard the other side of his shirt crept up his neck. She buried her face in the fabric she clutched and blew her nose with a vigorous honk.
"Oh GAG me" yelled Gillam. He jerked the T-shirt off over his head. Myra fell over laughing.
"This is my team shirt, Mom!" he ranted on. "And what is that, blood flecks in your snot?"
Ginny examined it carefully. "No, Cadmium red."
"Gross, gross, gross" muttered Gillam.
Myra sat up, kissed Ginny, whispered "Looks like I dare not die first, you terrible mother" and stood up to walk with Gillam back into the study, her arm across his shoulders.
© 2008 Maggie Jochild
Saturday, April 5, 2008
ME AND 'LECTRICITY
("Golden light shines above" "Jin deng gao zhao" Chinese poster from 1978)
This week at the Jochild Corral, the story has been focused on trying to get my phone fixed. My line went dead last weekend, though I didn't discover it until Sunday night because my DSL and online connection was fine. When I did find out, I had a dilemma.
In order to request service online with AT&T, I had to have a registered account with them. In order to register, I had to request an account number which could only be delivered to me via snail mail or a phone call. (Whoops.) No use in an emergency.
I'm not able to leave my house, and I had no other phone available. So, I contacted some friends online. Two were able to help right away, and one of them, Liza, waded through the labyrinth of voice mail options to finally get hold of a live person and explain I was stranded, unable to leave my house, disabled and extremely dependent on the phone for emergencies. She explained that I worked nights and slept days. She also explained that my DSL was fine, so it must be the connection outside my apartment where the problem lay. They said they'd get right on it.
What AT&T did was to make an appointment for between 8 and 5 the following day (during my sleep hours) and inform me of that fact by calling my voice mail. Which I had no access to. When the technician came at noon the next day, I was sound asleep, with earplugs in which are necessary if you try to sleep during the day. He left a card saying the problem was inside my apartment, I'd have to make another appointment to let him in.
However, by the time I got the card, my phone was working again. This lasted for about a day, during which time I tried to catch up on the sleep and work I'd been missing by the stress. At 4:00 the next morning, however, my dial tone disappeared again.
This time, Jesse stepped up to the plate, making calls for me. (Though Liza offered again, I want to point out -- I was trying to share the burden around.) When he talked with AT&T, they insisted the problem was an interior line and again said they'd be there the next day. Jesse passed this on to me and gave me a suggested set of diagnostics, some of which I had already performed.
I didn't sleep at all that night. I did pull and replace every line, switch, modem and phone in my place (I had extras, some of which were brand new) and nothing restored the dial tone. But, again, my DSL was just fine.
The thing is, I know from 'lectricity. If a line coming into a place has a circuit that is live (and the DSL function plus the read-out on my caller ID proved the circuit was live), then the problem is NOT that circuit. I also deduced that since the DSL was only added a couple of years ago, outside my apartment would be a separate connection for that -- when the DSL was added, the technician did not come into my apartment and install a new or additional jack. Once again, this was proof it was the configuration outside my place.
At 10:30 the next morning, a second AT&T repair person showed up. This was an older white man, a little bit older than me from the looks of him which could well mean he's close to retirement. He shook my hand and said "I already looked at your hook-up outside and the problem is obvious. I can't imagine what the first technician was thinking." He went to fix it. Twenty minutes later, he returned and ran tests on all my phones, lines, and switches, declared them all good and the problem solved. He gave me a card with his supervisor's name on it, all but suggesting I call to complain about the first tech being a moron. We shook hands again and he left.
It was Friday, and I was too tired to sleep, if you know what I mean. I registered for online repair reporting with AT&T, got my magic phone call, then sat up and wrote for a while. When I finally did crash, it was for 12 hours.
So, I could go a few directions with this story. I could do some sort of Boomer rant about how competence is something we seem to have given up on in our service industry. I could make veiled references to experience and somehow, ham-handedly, tie this event in to the Democrat candidacy race, except I'd rather shoot myself than add to that insanity right now. (Just a tip: If you want to get a huge break as a political blogger, write an essay about how fucked up Hillary is about something, anything at all, make sure to use acceptable liberal white-boy language, and it WILL be posted at Daily Kos, where 50% of what goes up is about what Hillary did wrong TODAY -- even in their fucking science posts, for fuck's sakes. Guaranteed acceptance over there if you're infected with CDS.)
Or, I could talk about how Lily Tomlin's lesbian subversive sensibility helped bring down AT&T as a monopoly the first time and what will it take to stop them now, since they are aiding the Bush regimen in impeachable offenses.
But, that's not what I want to talk about today. Today, I want to talk about how it is that I know from 'lectricity.
When I was growing up, if something around the house broke (car, washer, TV, toaster), never once did we call a repair person. Not until I was in high school and my mother had a chance to take our car to the guy she'd gone through high school with, Glenn Funk, whom she trusted. But that was only the car. Everything else mechanical, electrical, engineering of any kind was left to my father to fix when he got home. Mostly, this was economics. If he could not fix it (as turned out to be the case one year with the TV, or another year with the washer), we did without for months until somehow the money could be scraped together to buy a used replacement somewhere.
However, my father also loved to tinker, and he was good at it. He claimed it as a chore, yet repairs were clearly endeavors he approached with relish and curiosity. When he was able to troubleshoot and restore working order to an appliance or a motor, he would be in a zippy mood for the rest of the day. His reason for existence verified.
As an aside, when he was in his 60s I began compiling the notes I intended to use for a biography of my family. My mother, the conduit through which we all flowed, was dead and my little brother had often been too little to recall certain events, so I was forced to consult my father about some things. It was disturbing how faulty his memory seemed to be. I'd prompt with what grades we were all in, where we lived, what childhood illnesses we had that year, birthdays -- no help. By accident, I discovered that if I could name which car we had, which washer (front loader or top loader), if the fusebox had blown during the storm season, or any other mechanical detail which had no personal attachment to our emotional life as a family, his memory would flood in and he could verify a few basics. Pathetic, but true.
And during all those repair episodes, my father felt it necessary to have what he called a helper, what we (behind his back) called a slave. An underling to fetch, hold something steady, shine a light, or, most likely, vent his frustration on. Mama was always busy and not interested in listening to his crap, anyhow, so Daddy would demand one of us dance attendance as he grabbed his toolbox. Well, let's be clear here: He'd demand it of one of my brothers. Because, you know, only a penis enables you to solder or hold open a butterfly valve.
But my brothers learned, very early, to absent the premises when a repair was in the offing. They could escape the house, and did, if only (in the case of my little brother) to hide in the bushes until the calling stopped. I, on the other hand, the asthmatic kept indoors most of the time, had no escape. And, to be honest, I was interested in repair, so I let him sigh, look at me twice with resignation, then say "All right, Margaret, I guess you'll do. Come over here and hold these electrical tape strips on your fingers without letting them stick to each other, can you manage that much?"
In the way of all Boomer girls, I learned to not react to the misogyny, the put-downs. It was just a fact of life. Instead, I craned my head to see what he was doing, and I asked questions. When he blew up at me for "bothering him", I went silent -- not sulking, because that would lead to further abuse. Just silent. A few minutes later, he'd apologize and answer my question. In this way, I picked up knowledge and skills. One skill Daddy had down pat was electricity, how it functioned, resistance, conductors, the difference between AC and DC, transformers, you name it. And I absorbed it from him.
When I graduated from high school in 1973, my parents' gift to me (completely my father's idea) was a piece of shit 1965 Pontiac LeMans with 100,000 miles already on it. He borrowed the money for it from people I cared about who could not say no because it was intended for me. He borrowed twice as much as he paid for the car and pocketed the difference. It required constant repairs to keep running, and I began doing them myself, with the aid of older dykes and idiot books. That same year, my little brother Bill began running around with a bunch of freshman hoodlums whose passions were drugs and car repair (rural Texas, what can I say). A couple of years later, when high school began to look like something he might not finish without a stint in juvie, he switched over to vo-tech and found a way to stay mostly sober, mostly focused, his hands and head buried in an engine. He became the head mechanic in the family.
I learned to lean on Bill with regard to car maintenance (he was brilliant and never once put me down), but continued to do other sorts of repair myself. Occasionally I hit a learning curve that was tough, like televisions where, when you took off the back casing, had dire warnings about messing around in the innards. Or the time I didn't realize the 220 circuit breaker in the trailer where I lived with my lover and our daughter was outside, not in the back closet with the 110 breaker. That day, I touched a live wire with my screwdriver. I woke up half a minute later on the floor across the room, my back still tingling from where I had slammed against the wall and my lover, who had witnessed the spark and catapult, screaming her head off. I drank a glass of water, went outside and pulled the breaker, and finished my repair, with her bitching at me the whole time to call in a "real" professional.
("Electricity", fractal art by Vicky Brago-Mitchell)
Three years ago, I had a breakthrough in genealogical research. I had managed to definitely trace one branch of my father's line back to Isaac Stafford, born 1823 in Moore County, North Carolina, my great-great-great-grandfather. I discovered research done by distant cousins on the Staffords, and found that in every generation from Isaac on down, the boys had invariably become mechanics, engineers, worked at hand-on jobs in the oil field, and/or been inventors. George Austin Stafford, my great-great-grandfather, listed his occupation on at least one census as "inventor", though his income was derived from farming cotton. He was co-owner of the Stafford and Robinson Straw Binder Harvester Manufacturing Company which sold shares in 1891 in Montague Co., TX. Some reports state this binder was in operation before McCormick started manufacturing their binder that mechanized agriculture, but McCormick got the patent first and my ancestor was SOL.
George's older brother Thomas W. (Tom) Stafford was a wheelwright who was also an inventor. Tom, a third brother, Parker, and a brother-in-law Bryant Williams spent much of their adult lives trying to perfect a perpetual motion machine.
A family record notes that George Stafford lost his left arm at "65 years of age, July 10, 1935, at 5:00" to a strawbinder machine. He refused to see a doctor right away from some mechanical injury, blood poisoning set in and he wound up having his arm amputated. I have a photo of a "knife/fork" he devised, forged into a blade on one side, tines on the other, that he used for eating one-handed.
When I called Daddy with the revelation about this family heritage, he immediately responded "You see? It's genetic. And you know who else was born with that ability?" I modestly said no, and he crowed "Your brother Bill!"
Well, here's the thing. It was George Stafford's daughter Estelle who is our link to that heritage. She married Sam Barnett, a cowboy, and neither Estelle nor any of their kids showed this mechanical aptitude. Their son Lorenza (my grandfather) married Villa Mae Basinger and farmed the 40 acres next door to her parents. And it was Tom Basinger, another man with a genius for contraptions and mechanical devices, who taught my father (his grandson) all he knew about how things worked. Daddy often told us stories about clever work-arounds created by Tom Basinger, stories filled with admiration for the man he trailed around after as a small boy.
So, I think it's just as likely that the reason all those Stafford boys, generation after generation, demonstrated a proclivity for tinkering is because they were raised in that environment, with that expectation. Until me, not a single female in the line has been found with a bent for mechanics. And unless you want to argue that genes only travel to those with testicles (those who do argue such idiocy are not readers of this blog), then it's nurture at play here.
A nurture I only received grudgingly, and without recognition from the parent who bestowed it still 40 years later. Or, to paraphrase Alix, "I didn't get it easy, but I got it." (guitar riff, and fade....)
GINNY BATES QUERY FOR READERS
(Peppers at Pike Place Market)
A question for Ginny Bates readers:
I'm reaching a point (in the next two weeks or so) when I will reach the limit of continuous exposition in the novel for a period of a few years. I simply haven't written this section yet. I know what's going to happen, and have notes. But beginning in 2009, the novel starts having gaps, sometimes for entire years, with intermittent skips until around 2018, where the written draft kicks back in and goes on, with a few small gaps, until the end of this part of the saga in June 2020. (There is yet another book planned, featuring the grandchildren, but I haven't allowed myself to start on that yet.)
My question to you is: Would you rather I leave the gap and go on posting what I've got, or do you want me to refrain from posting the novel until the interim section is written and it will be a narrative whole?
If your answer is go on posting, do you want small notes about what has occurred in the interim that will give away plot development but also keep you from possibly being confused? I'd keep these summaries as succinct as possible -- for example:
February 2009 -- Once the new Democratic President is safely in office, Ruth Bader-Ginsberg conceals an Uzi beneath her robes and opens fire on SCOTUS, taking out everybody but Souter and Breyer. As she is led away in cuffs, she yells "For the soul of America!" Ginny and her father have a big fight about the morality of this.
Let me know in comments. Thanks.
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