The Poet

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I walked the vibrant sidewalks of Haight and Ashbury. Loud noises and colorful individuals weaved their way in a sea of bodies. I made my way down the bustling avenue where sound—as well as smell—played part in this concoferic assault of the senses.

As I came to the next street corner, I saw the man. He was sitting—quite simply—at a small fold-up table with an ancient typewriter before him. His fingers touched the keys and metal arms flew to the paper, making that familiar clicking sound; the one I remembered so well from when I was a kid.

The sign sitting next to him read: Pick a subject & price then get a poem.

I was captivated.

My mind fell back to Goonies, a small knick knack oddity store, and felt somewhat disappointed by the prophecies of Zambini—the digital fortuneteller I’d spent a quarter on. You know, I’ve always wanted to have my palm read and my fortune told, only I could never bring myself to pay for them—especially since it mostly likely would be a sham. This prospect was far more promising. To hear the words of a live person, which would write about whatever subject I wanted?

Brilliant.

I fished a few dollars from my pocket and extended these to the man at the typewriter. He took the bills and sized me up with deep eyes. “What’s your subject?” he asked in a light voice, sounding like the whisper of air though organ pipes.

“Adventures and daily living,” I said quietly.

The man drew a crisp, new sheet of paper from his backpack and slid it into the typewriter. He sat for a moment or two, then began to form thoughts and ideas onto the page before him. The rhythmic clicking of the keys was the indicator of his free-flowing thought.

I took a few photos as the muse recorded the final words that unfolded from beneath gloved fingers. The sheet was ceremoniously lifted from the carriage with a mechanical grating of the gearwork, and his chocolate eyes scanned the words he’d written.

He handed me the ashen page, the back of which felt rough, like raised Braille to a sightless man.

I folded the paper in half, tucked it into my pocket, and waited to read it.

To see mountains in mashed potatoes and canyons in curly fries… is an adventure indeed.

By the way, another photo or two of said man can be found HERE, as well as the absolutely lame Zambini prophecy.

To Be Safe

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From the time I was around 15 years old I have always worn a safety pin on my clothing.

The favored place is around a belt loop on my jeans, but they have been pinned to other places as needed; a tag on the underside of a skirt, through shoelaces, just inside a pocket. The location of the safety pin is not important, what IS important is what they do for me.

They keep me safe.

This habit started with a friend who did the same thing. His name was Jason Killilea and I noticed his safety pins along the bottom seam of his Jimmy'Z shorts for weeks before asking why he wore them. "To keep me safe!" he countered, and it made perfect sense.

Safety pins = safety.

Their name suddenly opened up a whole new mindset. And so I borrowed his unique idea and made it my own.

Safety pins along the seams of my favorite jean jacket. Safety pins as jewelry. Safety pins adorning my shoes. Safety pins everywhere! And when asked why I wear them, I have always echoed the answer that Jason gave to me decades ago: to keep me safe.

An added bonus is that I am amazed at how often someone is in need of a safety pin - and I get to be the hero who happens to have one handy.

I never would have imagined that this was something I would carry into my adult years. The funny thing is, though, I have remained safe.

Is it because of the safety pins?

Well, who am I to say that it's not?

MIA

Pin It I should have something to say this week.

Really, I should. I should have planned better and taken care of my responsibilities to blog on my day at my regular time.

However, I didn’t.

I could blame it on the fact that I am still down camping in the wilderness and won’t be home until later tonight. I know, I set this to post before I left and wrote it in a hurry amidst packing for my southern expedition. I am such a fickle friend.

Tomorrow morning I leave for California.

I will return though.

I promise.

In the meantime, you can always watch this because it made me laugh. Thanks, Shanna.



Don't worry, I'll be back in full force next week.

Try to smile without me...

Wimpy

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In roughly five months, Autumn will enter the not-so-hallowed halls of the county middle school, ready and eager to be forever changed by the Dread Middle School Experience.

I've always described these grades--six through eight--as the absolute only grades I would NEVER, in a MILLION, BAZILLION years, EVER teach. I mean, really...why would you subject yourself to that perpetual sloppy tween angst, the indescribable skin horrors, the shuddering pubescence...the...smells? Ick. I'm so glad I only have to revisit it one child at a time. Small, contained doses are okay. I'll be okay.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

What brought this on? I took my car in to the car wash today for its annual ultimate cleaning (I do mean annual), and, needing to kill some serious time, strolled across the four-lane to the mall with the kids. Has anyone ever attempted to cross a busy four-lane road with two kids in tow? I had a death-grip on Lawson's sweaty seven year-old hand, convinced that he would attempt to make a break for it at any moment and dive in front of a speeding Escalade. Forbearing that, I was sure that a rogue bus driver would decide that the curb was The Spot To Be. All other considerations aside, you know those eyes just aren't what they used to be, and I was positive I had missed a vehicle at some point in my look once, look twice, look a few dozen more times just to be on the safe side routine. I'm such a freak.

But we made it. We did a little spring and summer clothes shopping and then settled in to watch Diary of a Wimpy Kid. This movie was amazing....Ferris Bueller for middle schoolers. I cackled all the way through, and empathy-cringed at some of the more painful moments.

Diary is about this kid, Greg Heffley, who suffers acutely as he tries to fit in and discover the secret to the elusive "popularity." He condescends terribly to his best friend, whom he worries will just "never get it," because he's so different. He runs in circles trying this, and trying that, and failing miserably at each and every thing...because nothing quite fits. Meanwhile Rowley, that best friend, walks his own unique path happily and unapologetically. To Greg's frustration, it is Rowley who gains popularity without even trying while Greg's desperate efforts glean him nothing but a seat on the cafeteria floor.

It hit me about half way through the movie: what a hero Rowley is. What a fabulous movie for my daughter to be seeing on the cusp of entering middle school. I leaned over to Autumn and whispered into her ear. "You know why everyone likes Rowley so much?"

"Why?" she whispered back.

"Because he knows exactly who he is, and he doesn't try to be someone he isn't," I told her. She nodded, and we went back to watching the movie.

I hope she gets it, and lives it. It's something so many kids really struggle with, for a long time--being unafraid to be true to themselves. She's fearful of being labeled as different right now, and I understand that. It's difficult to see past being different to the other side of yourself--the strong, secure side.

Strong, secure...even when you're just this side of wimpy.

Frivolity

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A writer is rarely so well inspired as when he talks about himself.

- Anatole France

First of all, I have to apologize to my fan (I think I’ve got one specific Mel fan out there – or maybe a stalker?) about being a wishy-washy poster this month. I’ve had a bunch of papers to write for school and I’m afraid there’s only so much ram in my brain for producing written word on a weekly basis.

Second I just had to agree with Gerb’s blog this week. So much so that I’m tempted to just cut and paste and add a “Ditto from Mel” at the bottom of the page.

You may never guess from reading my posts, but I am actually better in writing than in real life – articulation-wise that is. I feel like unless I am VERY well prepared I can very quickly turn into a blathering idiot in real-life conversation. But I’ve also come to realize that I’m kind of a mood writer – probably comes from journaling. You know when you write in your journal when your happy you write the happy thoughts when your sad you write the sad thoughts. So consequently when I am feeling weary and down-trodden all that seems to come to mind is the Mel version of the “Hamlet Soliloquy” (in the “To be or not to be” sense not in the quality of prose). I do have one of those “little black rain-clouds” that can follow me around from time to time, but it’s not such a great idea to indulge in that on a weekly basis - plus so not fun to read about either.

I do have a frivolous thing on my mind today however. Ebay and I are going on a Cruise! Ebay’s ballroom team is going to perform on a Cruise ship for their tour this year and I get to go along and make sure that all the teenagers are minding their manners. I’m pretty stressed about getting ready for this right now, but once we get there I’m sure it will be totally fun.

So apparently on a cruise there is a formal night – where everyone gets dressed up a’la The Love Boat for the Captain’s dinner in the formal dining room. Now it’s been awhile since I’ve had to dress for anything formal so I had to go out and buy dress for this occasion – well I actually bought it online which leads me to the next issue. I like the dress pretty well but I’m having….how do I say this…cleavage issues with this dress. It’s pretty modest, it’s got sleeves and all of that. But it’s got this kind of wide neckline that in the real world,would probably be fine – prudish even. But I find that I am just not used to that much….exposure. But on the other hand I’m on a cruise – why not show a little cleavage? But on the other hand I’m supposed to be a chaperone and cleavage isn’t usually part of the chaperone uniform. But on the other hand I’m probably the only one that thinks it’s too low. But on the other hand I’m the one that has to wear it and how comfortable will I be if I spend the whole evening worried about over-exposure. But on the other hand I may be seated in the dining room by a dashing man that I might want to flirt with. But on the other hand I haven’t flirted with anyone for along time and was never really all that great at it in the first place – I’d hate to freak anyone out.

So there you go. I find that I am frivilously alternating between the push-up bra cleavage version or the wrap-around-scarf-nunnery version of the formal dress. I’ll be weighing this decision over the next couple of days… while watching LDS General Conference come to think about it. I guess that’ll pretty much make the decision for me.