Movie Night

Last night I went to the movie Fruitvale Station, based on the true story of Oscar Grant, who woke up one day and decided to change his life. Through a series of events and connections throughout that one day he ended up shot and killed by a police officer as a result of an escalated misunderstanding. His death was deemed a homicide. My favorite scene was when the BART subway train pulled out of a station, window upon window passing with the blurred silhouettes of so many heads--so many lives held there in that passing moment, heading off in a single direction but with multiple possibilities and futures. And then the train is gone and we're left with the echoed stillness of the station, wondering what is to become of things. It seems to me the heart of the movie was that scene--our lives unfolding, passing like a time chart, and though we each have our own destinations and dreams and fates we are always connected. We're in this together. I'm still trying to figure out how to process the injustice that occurred. And maybe there is no answer but awareness and compassion, a reminder to withhold judgment. Sometimes there is nothing we can do but to acknowledge and in this we give honor and help to prevent such injustice from happening again.

p.s. I'll be away from a computer for a few days as I'm taking the kids on a little vacation up to Minnesota to see friends, catch a Twins game, check out a museum, enjoy some beach time and whatever else we end up doing. I'll be back online Saturday.

A Gypsy Mind

Last night I drove the car knowing one of the tires was low so I was extra cautious and fixed on that fact, paying close attention to every turn in the road. And this morning I hopped in it again but forgot about the tire until I reached my destination, my mind instead roaming the road, singing along to the music on the stereo, noticing the fog obscuring the tops of buildings, driving faster. And nothing happened. Isn't that the case with worrying about things--you think about them too much and you miss out on everything else around you. One of my favorite Tom Petty lines is "most things I worry about, never happen anyway." Every time I find myself worrying about something I remind myself of that song. It does no good to over think things--that only leads to more worry and second guessing. I try to keep a state of mind that is wide and open--noticing the world as it passes. It's like playing pool. When I try too hard I always do poorly, but when I'm just playing casually, chatting with friends and hanging out, not paying too close attention to the game I always surprise myself by playing better. It's the same with writing--I can't write when I'm trying too hard to come up with something. The best writing happens organically, almost from out of nowhere. One would think that a serious, fixed mind is best in most cases, but I'm thinking the opposite is true. Better to be loose and carefree, not trying to control what's around you but observing and absorbing.

A Poem On a Monday

When I'm on a beach or at a pool surrounded by mostly naked bodies I always think how funny it is that we expose so much of ourselves when on all other occasions we are cloaked and hidden. Imagine wearing nothing but a swimsuit to the bank or a store or a theater. I'm not advocating we all run around half naked, but picture all that skin in places deemed inappropriate for such exposure. This poem addresses that notion. It was previously published in Blue Earth Review.

At the Beach

  

Near naked, all of us, we lie down

in the sand, not sleeping, unrolled

like rugs under the sun. Or swimming,

slick-limbed, or floating. 

We are unzipped from our shame,

as if we were alone in bed.

Where else are bodies so public?

Suppose all of us here on this beach

were transposed to another place,

our unhooked bodies within the walls

of a café, eating dinner. Towels spread

out over tiles under the soft light

of ceiling fans. Loose skin exposed

on that cooled floor drinking, ordinary.

We eat without tables, take

our sandwiches from a casual

place in our laps. None of us

hiding, tucked in on ourselves.

On our backs flat or held up by

leaning elbows, we toast

to submission, promise the earth,

our bodies, to be what we are.

Casey Lord

On Learning

This morning at 4 am Fisher awoke and hollered "mom, I love you more than anything." And then a few minutes later Phoenix woke up and yelled for me to give her a book. Is there anything more pure than a thought that rattles out through the dark of sleep? This is how I start today, with words my children won't remember expressing. I have a good memory but still there are a lot of holes in what I learned in school. I finished the book The Days of Awe last week and it got me thinking about the holes in my high school education, particularly with history. Yes, basic facts were planted in my mind but a lot of it just remained as seeds because when you're young and in the midst of socialization and discovering yourself you don't appreciate or put much stock in learning about things that don't affect you currently. Kids are selfish, and it is meant to be this way as it's part of the process of aging. So to think what learning about historical figures and lessons at this stage of my life is intriguing as I have more appreciation for life than I did back then. So I have a new passion--reeducation. Imagine if there were schools for adults to simply reacquaint them with these lessons and facts--no need for grades or tests, but simply to appreciate. I see a lot of biographical reading in my future. We shouldn't let the responsibilities of adulthood--taking care of kids or working or getting caught up in all our routines--take away from continuing to feed our brains with knowledge.

Randoms

Top photos of the week...

 Interesting distinction

 going in circles

 king of the playground

 queen of staring

 random dude at jasper winery

 tree huggers

 parade wavers

 thumb suckers 

long walks

to follow me on instagram, find me at lordcasey.

To Share

All my life I've felt a bit like a hermit--like there's always a part of me that's alone and distant even in the midst of a crowd. I don't think this is an abnormal feeling as I'm sure a lot of people feel this way. There are a few people in my life that I feel wholly myself with. But I'm trying to change that, trying to be wholly myself with everyone I meet because I want honest and richer encounters. If we are to mean anything doesn't that command an audience? As social creatures don't we need to share? Think of how inspiring it is to be around inspiring people. Think of how people can challenge you to do better or to discover a new way of thinking. I often wonder if we would do half of the things we do if there was no one to tell it to, no one to witness. It's as if it is ingrained in us to try to please and impress. Because if we didn't think of all the inventions and discoveries the world would have missed out on--all the music and art and films. All the words. There is so damn much to learn and experience and feel in this world that we need others to fill in the gaps we have missed or don't have time for. We need to share. The more I live the more I realize how basic things are. Sharing and the company you keep are the hallmarks of lessons we teach our kids. Interesting how often we forget these basic lessons as adults, as if there are more important lessons to hold to. But things don't have to be so complicated--share of yourself and surround yourself with people who inspire you to be better. And in this one can come to a greater sense of self.

On Timing

I didn't post anything here yesterday because I was in a funk. It didn't feel right to string together words and ideas from that place--I didn't want to share that state of mind. All day I tried to meditate, to see the beauty in things, to let the negativity go. I needed to process and feel it and release it. And last night I happened across my buddy Tim (the nomadic gardener guru I wrote about on Tuesday) and I was telling him about my funk-riddled day. How I was questioning my belief in giving away what you most need because it seemed the universe wasn't sending it back. And he said this--it isn't the right time. Just because you think you're ready or open doesn't mean what you think you want or need will happen right then. Maybe you're meant to have other experiences first, maybe there are other things you need to learn. And the best we can do is to be at peace with the moment in front of us. To be liquid and malleable to the present with the belief that this is the right thing, for now. My lesson in all of this is to work on my patience, to know that things will occur when they're meant to so in the meantime just be open and find the joy and the lesson in what is happening now.

People I've Met

I've met some amazing people lately, and oddly enough (given my recent focus on gardening and farming) quite a few of these people happen to work the land. During 80/35 I met a gentleman from the Council Bluffs area who farms and writes fiction. And just last week I met Tim and Tom (no relation). Tom's passion is gardening. He has a regular office job but he also has 4 garden plots throughout Des Moines. He wants to quit his job this fall and travel through the workers on organic farms (WOOFING) program for the next year, working on various farms in exchange for room and board, and eventually hopes to end up in the south to farm in an urban area full time. His dream would be for gardens to grow on the roofs of buildings downtown and residents of the buildings could have their own CSAs. I told him there is no place like Des Moines to start that venture as it is a place that embraces people with ideas--large enough to garner support and small enough to avoid much competition with ideas. We need dreamers. Tom is from North Carolina but has lived elsewhere and traveled the world, preferring always the smaller towns to get a better sense of how people live. He's one of the few people I've met who's hopped a train, which he did at age 14 for a few months. His wants and needs are little, and so he's spent several years working on various farms and earning what he needs to travel. His favorite place in the world is a village in the south of France. He stopped in Des Moines to visit his daughter and grandsons on his way to Las Vegas to scatter the ashes of his grandmother who lived 100 years. But he was surprised with the city--how clean and vibrant and friendly it was--found a few gardening jobs and is hanging out a bit longer. Eventually he'll wind up in Hawaii for the winter to stay with his son on an eco-village where all the food you could ever need grows on the surrounding trees. I'm trying to convince him to write a memoir. I think I've mentioned it in a previous post but I'll say it again--we should never assume the ordinary about the people around us. Everyone has something about them that can fascinate, that can teach, that can entertain, that can inspire. I'm thinking I'll start including a weekly post about the people I meet.

A Poem On a Monday

As promised, here's my poem about farms--how everything that grows is a slice of the countryside, how everything that happens out there becomes part of the earth. I was inspired some years ago while driving on a rural highway past farm after farm when the idea that my presence and the exhaust from my car and the music I was listening to and the birds I saw perched on fences--all of it was impacting the atmosphere that grows the food we eat and thus to eat is to bring that atmosphere into your body. The idea struck me so much that I pulled over and wrote the bones of this poem. It was previously published in Harpar Palate. Here goes:

What’s On a Plate

All meals have the earth in

common, whole landscapes

for breakfast, lunch. This is

what it means to eat: a well

at Parson’s farm, rust from

rain on silo roofs, doe blood

from a barbed wire fence;

gravity pushes all things in

to the dirt. We eat from there.

Radio towers out in the country,

words on waves in the ground now,

a tractor’s red reflectors, wind

chimes, the breath of all who

pass by. The earth must

harbor breath from 20 years

ago. My eyelash is in the soil

somewhere too. There are

dreams in the country and who

knows what cows dream. 

Oak and dog bark and wild noise,

there probably has never been

a time when wind and four legs stood

still. Midnight and 5 am, lonely hours. 

There’ve been bruises and sweet talk,

cigarette butts and an unstrung aura

that binds itself to dirt and the heads

of everyone who’s ever been,

all of it gets folded in. And bare

feet from daughters running

perpendicular away from it all.

The prints do not trace back.

Casey Lord

Tomorrow

I just read the kids a few of our library books before their naps and I told them we needed to return them at the library tomorrow. Fisher said this: "mom, how come you always say tomorrow?" His question was like a dart to my brain. It gave me pause with how simple and powerful it was. Why do we spend so much of today thinking about what we have to do or want to do or plan to do tomorrow? Our thoughts are always running to the past and the future, occupying our minds like a second home. Is it laziness (I can't even count how many times I've told myself that tomorrow I'd remember to drink more water--simple things like that that I often don't follow through with), is it avoidance (we're not pleased with how the day is playing out so we invent the next), or is it that we overextend ourselves so that we can't keep up with all the things we need to do. Reasons vary. But what do we miss when we don't engage fully with the present? And maybe that's not possible to do all the time, but Fisher's words remind me how I need to try more--and I have the rest of the day to honor that. This morning I held the present in the golden light through my window, thought of nothing but what surrounded me...

And now the clouds are rumbling and water drips from higher places. I see droplets held like a breath on blades of grass. A hummingbird flew sideways. I'm just going to go with it.

Randoms

I was watching a robin stand there in one spot on the ground for a long while. Because I didn't move and no other animals moved it didn't have to move. I wondered how long it would actually stand there if the world would let it. Maybe all the birds just want a place in the world where they don't have to take flight. And how would our lives be different if we didn't have to continually react and make do with the intrusion of others? Maybe the world happens twice--one part intention and one part necessity (our lives forever converging with the whims of others). I've had a lot of serendipitous exchanges with new faces lately, which truly makes life richer and more expansive. To meet people and exchange ideas is to grow in ways you never thought of before. It builds new intentions, makes us question what we always believed was right. Because do we really know what is good for us if it isn't challenged? So while it is nice to just sit and be sometimes, I welcome the intrusion of the world.

You know how when you see a scene of beauty--the mountains or a prairie--and it's marred by things like cell phone towers and electrical wires? At first it seems an intrusion on the landscape, but perhaps it is even more beautiful to the mind that questions why these things would be placed there. Is it held stronger in the mind that sees the potential of what it could be?

I like the intrusion of wasps and bees and anything that makes me go from a perfectly calm state to a frenzied one in the flash of a second, making me feel utterly ridiculous to be jumping up and twitching my hands and twisting to avoid the strike of something so tiny. Anything to jolt me and make me laugh at myself.

Just a Speck

Sitting under the sky I always get that sense of being a speck on the planet. I think of all the millions of people out there and all their noise and stories, the constant movement. Images from all across the world that I've seen on the news splashes across my mind. And I feel small. But to travel is to shrink the world--things no longer seem overwhelming when you see them for yourself, when you feet are walking across the grounds of The Louvre in Paris or the cobbled streets of Antwerp, when you sit on the world's largest park bench designed by Gaudi in Barcelona. Breathe the air of London, the green of Ireland, ride a gondola in Venice or a water taxi with pro-Bin Laden t-shirt wearing fellows in Belize. I was standing in the middle of Times Square a few months ago and all I could think was--this is it? The only place I've traveled where I still felt small was Hawaii. I remember sitting on a beach staring into the ocean--whales breaking on the horizon--and thinking about how small of a speck it was in the ocean, the nearest great land several hours away by plane. It's a stunning place, but it's out there in the middle of what seems like nowhere. Small. I remember reading an essay by the great Annie Dillard about the tsunami in Asia that killed over 100,000 people. She posed this question--would you exchange the life of your child to save all those thousands? And this--she told her young daughter how unfathomable it was to think of that great loss of life and her daughter answered that it's easy--so many dots on the water.

Lessons From Bugs

I remember once sitting near some potted flowers of various colors and as I looked closely I saw a handful of tiny bugs--ones I've never seen before and couldn't name. What was interesting was that each bug crawled around on its comparative color. There was an orange bug on an orange petal, a green bug on a stem, a white one on a white flower, and so on. Each instinctively camouflaging itself right there in front of me. It was amazing to witness the delicate workings of nature--how something so small is a window to that vast network of natural law. And think of cicadas. They live underground for 17 years. This year they are expected to emerge by the billions on the east coast. 17 years! Think of what you've done with your life in that frame--almost the length of time a parent has their kids living with them. We are not all that different from even these tiny wonders of nature are we? Don't we gravitate towards like-minded people? Don't we sometimes camouflage ourselves as an avoidance mechanism? And don't we spend years loving and learning and building our lives to bring us to this moment? Every hardship I've faced has given me the strength I need now. And we can look back and see how the events and relationships we've experienced had purpose in bringing us here. As if so many things were meant to happen just so.

What Goes On

Yesterday I took the kids blueberry picking at a farm near Nevada. There's nothing like scorching in the Iowa sun between rows of blueberry bushes with beetles and grasshoppers tumbling past ankles in some great flight while dust from gravel roads tickles the back of your throat. Nothing like that light when there isn't a cloud for miles and the green takes on a more vivid hue. It's stinky, sticky, and loud with nature. And when you pick your own fruit and bring it home to savor you bring those images with you. All of it goes into that berry. I have a poem about this very idea that I'll include on Monday. Phoenix picked one berry and then sat down and pouted about who knows what--it changes so often. Fisher became a master--he always cherishes delicate work.

 And here's a few more pics that my friend Tana snapped when she visited. Right now I imagine she's in Vondel Park in Amsterdam pushing her son in a swing and pointing out cool looking bikes and magicians and flowers and performers. I imagine there's lots of golden sun and lots of music competing for sound. They can hear 8 different languages spoken within 10 minutes of watching people pass. And because she and her son are beautiful they turn heads, cause hearts to warm and smiles to form that will eventually spill into a reflection in a canal where it will shimmer on the water and catch the eye of some sky bird. All because someone happened to glance at my friend.

Reaction

Sometimes we don't acknowledge the simple ideas because they are that--the basic facts that comprise our life like a table of contents that we skim and rarely reference. The other day I had one of those thoughts. When the idea first came to mind I was anxious about following it to see where it would lead and what new ideas it would uncover. And then it struck me with its simplicity--I realized how plain it was, how basic. It was the idea that every action we take is the reaction of opposites. You work so you won't be poor, eat so you won't be hungry, read so your mind won't be blank, go so you don't stay, and on and on. Does our living always come from a place of doing something to prevent the opposite from coming true? Even if we don't consciously choose to take action to avoid a certain state, everything can be traced back to that truth. Everything is done in the name of something else. Of course! So my thought wasn't as profound as I initially felt it would be, but that's okay. Sometimes recognizing things so basic they are often overlooked helps us appreciate our potential and to see the quiet beauty in our lives. We do amazing things every day and we don't even know it. It's always there, just as the dew catches each blade of grass every morning, or the way spiders weave intricate webs out of necessity and we stand back and see a kind of art. Things don't have to be profound to be interesting.

A Poem On A Monday

You know how the music you hear at a certain time in your life will forever be a monument and a reminder to that moment? Years later you hear that same song and it takes you right back there. And too, there's olfactory memory--in fact each of the 5 senses is a time machine. And every event in our lives that we remember through our senses marks us and maybe we carry those marks in our facial expressions, the movement of our bodies, our voice. That was the idea behind this poem.

What We Take With Us

Maybe the line of your lips in motion,

the way they part to say goodnight,

if frozen would echo that trip

you took to the ocean. The slower

you speak, the closer I see your figure

on the sand sitting with your back

to the States. Salt air and mist draw

your face and you draw it, out

to the curve where the water

seems so smooth and so unsafe.

Perhaps the way you sit on that beach

stems from your hour spent bow backed

on a bench beside a canal in Amsterdam,

when exhaust and fried onions hung in the air

over that conditioned river. You took

that posture with you when you left.

You have learned how to breathe by

walking the streets when it rains,

the pause you take between good

and night.

Is the reason why we can’t forget

because we hold everything in at

once? Like water, the way it

carries all of its own movement in

one place. The wave that rounded

a boat two nights ago, now arched,

then still for a second by your feet.

I see your feet were bare.

So forgiving, then, is jumping in

and sinking, and just as forcefully,

rising up for air.

Casey Lord

For Amy

Since today is the day that my friend Amy is shipping off to Iraq, I'd like to dedicate this post to her. For the next several months she will by flying in a helicopter to help rescue and nurse the wounds of the injured. Amy and I go way back--picture pig tails, mud pies, banana seat bike rides, and lots of dancing. Our parents were tight, so we spent most weekends at one or the other's house, often sleeping over. We were so close we even had the same dream about a gorilla and we woke up in fits at the same moment. We used to sit in our parents' cars and imagine we were driving to California, picking up hitchhiking twin boys. Time and teenage trials drew us further apart, and once high school ended years went by without contact. We maybe only saw each other twice in a decade. But we carry our childhood with us no matter the year and so part of me always counted her as a friend. We both wound up in Des Moines two years ago and we met up again. Nothing had changed between us though we had changed. I remember being in awe of her--her stories and her demeanor, her strength and her tact. She's one of the best listeners I know, she's present, she's funny, and she speaks from her heart. No wonder she has so many people who love her. So I ask everyone reading this to picture Amy, to hold her in your mind so that she may carry your hope and gratitude with her through all those days and nights that she's away on the other side of the world. It doesn't matter if you support the war or if you pray or have certain politics--just wish this life well. And while you're at it, send that same kindness to her family who will be walking around as half of themselves until Amy returns home. I love you Amy, and I feel so fortunate that we have reconnected. You are amazing and I hope that your every step is done with great care.

Randoms

One of the most beautiful places I've ever been is Cinque Terre on the Italian Riviera. Showed up without a place to stay and found the tourist center, where the woman there hooked us up with a lady named Maria. Maria spoke no English, not that I assume that of people, it's just interesting to try to negotiate renting a flat from someone when you speak different languages. The place was huge: two bedrooms and a large kitchen that led to a patio fringed with lemon trees. Maria took our passports and tucked them into the waistline of her pantyhose and we didn't see her again until the morning we left and she handed us our passports, extracting them from the same place. We spent days clinging to cliffs, hiking the old goat path that connects the 5 villages, like scabs where the mountains met the sea. At one point on the trail etched in stone was this: Fuck you Americans. You are not welcome here until you abolish the death penalty like every other civilized country. The best meal was on the beach with a bottle of wine and some cheese and salami. No glasses or plates or knives and forks. We made sure to buy a screw top bottle.

I have a confession--I am a little bit hooked on playing computer games. I've gone through stages of playing solitaire, mejong delta, candy crush, and recently Smurf's Village. I'll play every day for weeks and wake up one day and not play it and never play it again.

I've been writing songs. I wrote my first one a couple months ago and now I have a whole album of them.

Don't let a day go by without asking who you are.

On Withholding

Yesterday was the annual grandma fest. We spent the day at grandma Brenda's swimming, swinging, water ballooning, cupcaking, and running through corn fields. 9 cousins, 3 moms, 1 cool aunt, 1 grandma, a dog and a cat by the name of Kitty Sue who caught a bird, which fascinated the kids and which they saved. It was a loud day with all those kids living their hearts out, never holding back.

 My view looking down.

 Fisher didn't want to break this one.

 Clearing a space in the corn for bigfoot with cousin Bo.

 Ice cream and eyelashes.

 Phoenix was attached to cousin Paige's hip all day.

With Aunt Shelby.

Last night after the kids crashed I sat on the back patio and watched the sky turn black inch by inky inch. It was my only intention. And now I wake and the world is just as I left it. And I will sit here and watch the light gather, withholding nothing from me. There is much that I can handle, but withholding is one of the hardest things to bare. It's a cruel thing when people withhold how they feel about others and a burden to your mind when you hold back the words of your own heart. Of course words of judgment should be withheld as they should hopefully not even be imagined. But how we feel should be known. What we want, whether it's possible or not, should be shared. Though kids are often scared of the dark, they never keep others in that place. I want to live with that kind of fullness and that noise. Though it may seem loud, it quiets our forever questioning minds. 

The Cold Truth

The world is a revolving door. People come and go from our lives all the time, some staying longer than others of course, and some you miss more. Many of my dearest friends live states away and I see them only a few times a year. My friend Amy is shipping off to Iraq on Sunday. I promised her I would imagine her there every day. And she'll return only to move to Hawaii. My son Fisher was missing is father the other night, crying into his bigfoot doll. I told him it's okay to miss people because it means he has a big heart, it means there is a lot of love in him. And then to give his heart purpose I told him to imagine that every time he misses his dad a bird will carry that message, swooping nearby and chirping in his father's ear. And then his father will know it's really the song of Fisher and he will sense his love. If only making the words of the loss in our hearts known were that simple. More and more I'm realizing one can only rely on themselves. With all the coming and going in our lives we can't expect attachment, can't assume people will stick by us no matter how hard we want to believe. No wonder the world can be such a lonely place--though we are surrounded by so many faces when it comes down to it we don't have a hold on anyone. The sooner we realize nobody has our back but us, the better we'll be.

Aren't We Strange

I don't watch much TV these days but when I do I search for shows that highlight our quirks. Did you know in England some years ago extreme ironing was all the rage? Some adventurer decided to combine the mundane task of ironing clothes with his love of rock climbing, surfing, and skydiving. It became a quest to see who could get the best photo op of themselves ironing in the most bizarre and random places. Because who doesn't like to go spelunking while smoothing out the wrinkles in a dress shirt? There are several shows that follow people who enter eating contests--they'll proudly display the gold-plated spoon they won for eating the most ice cream in 60 seconds, share their tips for devouring in record time. There are extreme couponers, hoarders, doomsdayers, parkourers... I think that's what I find most fascinating--how people get so extremely into their decided passions and how quirky these passions can be. I don't feel like I take anything to an extreme, though I admire people who do. I'm more of a bits and pieces type--there is so much out there to know and do and I take what works for me and move on to the next. And too, watching these shows reminds me how vast the world is as there is no one I know who partakes in any of these aforementioned activities. It makes me see the world like a painting by Dali--strange, surprising, surreal. I like to observe people and imagine what their quirks are, what they are hiding. And this doesn't come from a place of judgment but rather genuine curiosity. I guess I've always sought to be surprised by people, to be captured by the unexpected, to be struck with wonder.

On Hearing

I've noticed since I became a mother that my hearing has changed. I can detect the smallest of sounds, and most of all I hear the voice of children hollering "momma" as if I'm that in tune with them that I hear their voices in different places. And it's not just my own kids--when I'm out at a park or any public place my ears always zero in on childrens' chants for their mothers and I will search the crowd to make sure their cries are answered. Often I know I'm only imagining it when I hear their voice carried through the air on the backs of birds and bugs and wind scuttling leaves. I should know to trust listening. Yesterday morning as I sat on the back patio writing under the stars at 4 am I heard the cry for momma as if it was carried on the back of a beetle--so small and faint. I thought it couldn't be real as my kids were sleeping, but the sound started to grow. What had been a distant speck of a sound grew closer and I realized it was my daughter after all and she was hollering for her dang pacifier. I should have known to follow my first instinct. As a parent you realize quickly how instinct seizes you and how more than ever in your life you need to follow it. It's a sentiment we hear so often from people--I should have followed my gut--but we don't always do that, as if we don't trust ourselves enough. But being responsible for another life you don't have that option--you have to be the one who carries that weight, who follows their gut, and follows through. When my kids were born I felt that there was a new confidence born in me. Me--the woman who didn't even like to order a pizza over the phone was now the woman who said I got this. A friend of mine wrote a novel last year (it's really great and I'm confident that it will be published and you all can read it soon). He used me as sort of an inspiration for one of the characters. Her name: Casey. Occupation: mother and poet. He asked me to write a few poems from the character's perspective that he would include in the novel and so I did and here is one:

I hear you call for me in the song of the swallows

or the wind threading through branches. Momma

in the rallying bark of neighborhood dogs.

Momma in the footsteps of strangers passing

in leafy streets. Motherhood means hearing –

sharp as the crack of a bat – your name

always on the tip of my tongue. It means

I think of you without thinking.

I want to say that I am infinitely aware

of you but that isn’t enough. Who but a mother

could say that every look at you is a lesson

of time? Though days are long, the years are short.

Even grown into your name I still picture you

small – your eyes like stars in your head

as I push you in a swing, and you begging –

skinned knees and all – for it to never stop.

I am the reluctant wind at your back.

A Poem On a Monday

You know that feeling you get when you look upon something with quiet purpose--maybe you're decompressing the chaos of your day by just sitting and looking at the sky--and you sense an answer or a connection somewhere in your chest but you just can't name it. Still, it feels right and so you keep on gazing. If I lived by the sea I would spend at least an hour every day just looking at it to see what that might mean. I get that same stirring feeling when I hear good music, and since coming off of 80/35 I thought I'd include a recent poem where I try to lock down that feeling.

Ghost Thoughts

There’s a certain blinking wick of yellow when the sun

sighs a tree—a same kind of light that occurs

anywhere else in the world. Everywhere the same

but the eyes that see it. I don’t know anything

but the ticks of my body. And sometimes, the sense of an idea

attached to my chest trying to claw its way out,

trying to ascribe words to the whisper

in the back of my throat before it passes.

But it’s already known up there in the light of tree tops—

no wonder we gaze so hard and so long as if it will speak,

as if somewhere in the void between our bodies

and a great height is a singular air. We look

at oceans and stars and mountains and light in the trees

as if they sing the tune of our hearts that speak in tongues.

A sort of music that draws out the grey of our thoughts

like salt in a broth. The questions no longer matter.

All that is hidden even to our own minds finds

a way out of the basement stairways under tall roofs,

from rooms where the windows’ only view is ankles

and worn shoes. Go on looking—that’s you,

unborrowed of intention.

Casey Lord

A Weekend in Pictures

I feel like I've been chewed up and spit out in what was one of the best weekends I've had in a long time. I spent all weekend downtown in lovely Des Moines, IA at the 80/35 music festival. I was there for all 18 hours of it and then some. I caught so many great shows (Gloom Balloon, Yeasayers, HD Harmsen, David Byrne & St Vincent, and the Pines among my favorites), I danced till my legs throbbed and my clothes clung with sweat, scored an all access pass and watched the Wu Tang Clan from backstage, and I hung out with and met a lot of really great people. I love all the random connections and conversations made at events like this, where everyone is happy and grateful. So many stories, but for now I'll just detail it with pictures...

 I brought the kids for a few hours both days because I think live music is good exposure for youngins. Phoenix and I rocked it while Fisher sat nearby with his tattoo mustache and sucking his thumb like a pro.

 Hung with these fine folks for most of Friday, before getting split up and finding some other friends...

 Me and Shelby at the Wavves show--and that tall guy in the back with the big smile is a buddy of mine from high school who I run into once a year at 80/35. (Joe, or Deez as he used to be known)

 Spent Saturday evening with these lovely ladies--they're all so damn sweet and fun!

 Checking out the view from the stage during Wu-Tang Clan. Apparently they were an hour late but I wasn't aware.

 Giving it up!

 More stage action. They were super friendly guys.

After Wu-Tang I met some new friends and speed walked with them to the Vaudeville Mews to check out the Poison Control Center after party show. Of course on the way we passed some guy walking with a tree. Typical. PCC killed their set and sent me off in their flurry to crash. 

A State of Mind

Make your state of mind more important than what you are doing... I read this line yesterday and it held residence in my thoughts all day. I went for an early morning run downtown and there was nothing but my feet on the pavement, no one but the occasional bum, and the starkness of buildings and doors and intersections magnified by the absence of bodies. Part of Locust Street was closed so I ran right down the heart of the road--I've always had a strange affinity for being in the middle of streets one can usually only drive on as there's a certain intimacy there in seeing all the oil spots and cracks and bumps up close and the sidewalks and buildings out of reach. I ran to the river and stood there sinking my eyes into the horizon--the sun rising over the capital building, the ribbon of its' light drawing a line across the water to me. I vowed to carry that image with me the rest of the day. Later on I took my kids to a parade. Then they worked on hauling dirt for a landscaping project with their father. He took them swimming and then I took them to see fireworks. We sat in the back of my father's truck on a country road--the best kind of view. And that statement about holding an important state of mind was like a bell chiming over and over. To hear their exaltation's over every flair of light, and even the fireflies blinking across fields and cats streaking through the dark and kids with sparklers, was to think they were on top of the world. Both kids kept shouting: this is the best day ever! Kids sense and connect to the world wholly don't they? Their state of mind always more felt and important than what they're doing.

On Vitality

There's poison ivy in my back yard. Every year it appears and every year I carefully and painstakingly try to pull it all by the root so it doesn't come back. But time and again it does. I can't help but think this is like our longing--some deep-rooted seed in us that no matter how hard we try to eradicate and move on it's still there and it always will be. And like poison ivy marks us with a rash when we touch it, maybe it's a sign that what we long can never be. Maybe we aren't meant to achieve some of the things we long for, but rather it's a source that propels us forward--keeps us progressing in our lives, keeps us striving for better. But damn I want to scratch that itch sometimes! And why should we deny our hearts to want, even if it can't be had. What you long for is telling you something that no amount of covering up with new plantings or trying to forget can deny. There's a whole world inside of us that takes place beyond our awareness that feels and categorizes and responds and shapes the world we encounter outside of us. It even processes thoughts without our awareness, and it longs without our wanting it to. Poison ivy to the earth is what our subconscious is to our bodies. And as a green leafy plant, poison ivy captures the sun's energy and provides us with the oxygen we need to survive. So too the longing rooted in our subconscious is a source of energy, feeding us with vitality.

Don't Read the Reviews

A friend invited me to the movie Much Ado About Nothing last Sunday. I knew it was a title of a Shakespeare play, but I didn't read the reviews, didn't know what I was in for. I just assumed it would be a modern tale loosely based on the classic story, so when it started I was taken aback--it was literally in the words of Shakespeare, following the play to a T but in a modern setting. The surprise of not knowing only added to the experience as it was more fresh and captivating to my mind. If I had read the reviews I wouldn't have experienced the film in the same way as invariably others' opinions would have influenced my own, would have taken a seat in my mind and steered my thoughts. One of my favorite lines from the film goes "shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humor? No. The world needs peopled." What struck me was not just the beautiful string of words but the idea that the mouths of critics should not prevent us from forging our own way. Yes the world needs critics, needs planners, but maybe it's best to turn your ear and jump with your heart fully--listening to their reviews after you've had your way, and only then not to change your opinion but to use it as a source to build on, to shine a light on what you might have overlooked, essentially to progress. I remember going to a laser light show in high school, thinking all the while it was going to be set to Pink Floyd. So when I sat down and Aerosmith was brought to life with those lights I was shocked--I kept thinking Pink Floyd would come on at any minute. But after a while I just sat back and enjoyed what was in front of me. And then towards the end of the show the screen went black for a moment and the words "hi casey" appeared through the dark. I looked back and saw that a guy from my school was working the lights. It was a surprise that can only come from not knowing. The only constant in our lives is change and I vow to face it with this same kind of clear mindedness, awaiting to see what surprises unfold. I want the serendipity that comes with not reading the reviews.

Compassion

I have the worst name recognition--my mind sometimes a complete blank when I see a familiar face and try to pin the name to it. Though I may not remember a name, I do remember everything that is said. I will recall their quirks and the conversations we've shared, all the small details. Years can pass and I can still remember their words even if their name can't find a home on my tongue. I've always wondered why that is, but now I'm thinking it's the voice and details that fill up the space in my mind, leaving no room for a name. But I do always appreciate when someone adds my name to their hello, as if some rope was dropped from the sky. I've been looking at the sky a lot these days, searching for a sense of grounding, a need for gravity, a sure thing. I've been like a fog--some mist or a scent. I haven't felt solid. My life is rearranging itself--an earthquake of sorts--and I feel like an impostor pinning on a face of normalcy. And to think of all those nameless faces I have assumed nothing unordinary about, I feel a loss for understanding. There is so much that goes unnoticed. And I want to notice these tremors of our lives. I want to be a source of compassion--though the sources and details of our lives may differ, there is nothing at all different about the emotions we feel. And maybe that fact is what I need right now to find my own ground. I think we all feel lonely--I know I do. But maybe instead of focusing on our own state we should recognize all those in the world who share what we are feeling, and then the fog will lift and we'll be clear.

A Poem for a Monday

I've always been fascinated by the Japanese aesthetic of wabi-sabi--a way of viewing the beauty in a world that is flawed and impermanent. Simply, it is the art of imperfection. Wabi-sabi is a Buddhist teaching that encourages one to embrace life through what one senses, here in this natural world that is rough and imperfect, which then allows one to better connect and engage in life as it happens rather than get caught up in the stressful distractions. If you accept and let yourself process and feel the stress and damage instead of trying to bury it, you might find a new awareness or meaning there. Wabi-sabi can change one's perception of the world as one learns to see even simple objects as interesting and beautiful--a cracked tea pot, aged materials, autumn leaves fading to the earth. So today's poem is sort of my ode to this philosophy.

Out of Sight, Out of Mind

They say when you’re stabbed or shot

or lose a limb you feel nothing of the pain

until you see it—the blood, the inside singing

out in D flat—the you that was. And even then

there is shock, a drawer with a cockroach,

phone call that wakes in the night

with the word of your future. But once

you really see it and the brain does its work,

the body comes undone, organs lit one by one.

Then is pretending the pill for pleasure?

Better to be untouched

by the world or the woods. Does this mean whole?

Does my worrying about loss lose me,

my longing scratch the eyes out of could be?

Seventh floor of a hotel and a drunk leans

by the window. You know the rest—

parking lot bloated with glass, a street bathed in shrill

voices. He breaks a leg—

perhaps only a leg because his mind

was too far gone to sense the danger.

To be dulled is to live. And yet.

Art and beauty—a cord of wood constructed

of fake wood, the eyebrowless Mona Lisa,

fence made of sheets in the wind.

All of nature, chipped and worn—imperfect.

Your dog with half a tail, lover without a six-pack

and dimples. Rusting car in the drive,

even your brand new will not be new tomorrow—

the universe already threatening its mark.

So much in your life is perfectly wrong.

Casey Lord