Newly edited: The Second Kind

After you gave me her poem, the name replaced,
I said there were two kinds of women:
those who inspire sonnets
and those who don't.

And then I laughed;
the tension was too much to bear.
It's fine, I said.
I tried not to sound like a martyr
but thought,
Why have I never inspired
art of any kind?
Not even a charcoal sketch or quick haiku.

Once, I convinced myself I was a rough draft
living  in the coffee-stained pages of your journal.
On that occasion, I didn't mind --
because we were a draft
and romance can be rough.

I am aware of my own gracelessness.
Yet grace is required of a muse.
Still, consider that I have desire,
and what is love without desire?
And here is patience,
because what is art without patience?

I remember now. Again.
And the uneasy laugh escapes again.
I conclude aloud
(with melancholy, not martyrdom)
that if I had been the first kind,
I would have abandoned beauty and art
as just moments.

Moments as transient as our forever.

Becoming Ms. Fix-it - Handy tip

Another Becoming Ms. Fix-it Tip:
Before using that circular saw you left on the patio for months, check that stinkbugs haven't claimed it as home.

The grass sighs

Melancholy floats in the wind today.
Memories are deposited by the rippling breeze,
and the waving grass sighs.

I remember when fall winds
brought fairy songs twisting around me
teaching me to dance and fly in concert.

Later, zephyrs nudged me to the future,
before towing me urgently by my whipped umbrella.
Yet, aren't I too young to hear the sigh?

These days beneath the crimson,
I see the dust has settled now as crystal morning frost.
These evenings, no nanny in the wind
and no longing for the memories.
But the grass?
It still sighs.

From somewhere: a bird.

I am cold, my sweater damp,
but I am only here.

Without decision,
I stay to watch a leaf parachute
and listen for the wind to shift

until the sighs fade in to day.

~Mari Nichols-Haining

One Shot Wednesday: A poetic flashmob.

There once was a lady who lived in a boot, after Jacobs and Kors took all her loot...

I love fall. The browns and golds and burnt siennas. Those reds and blacks--oh..all of the season's colors--they enliven me. I find myself inhaling deeply to catch the sweet leathery smell that permeates the air this time of year and wakes up my soul. Oh sure, the changing leaves are pretty too, but I'm talking about boots. I admit it: I love my boots and look forward to pulling them from the back of the closet each fall. Like the unique love felt by that mother (the one who lived in a shoe) for each child, I love every pair of boots I own for some unique quality.  Some might claim I have an unnatural obsession with them. 

Sometimes, I want a wife too!

The satirical essay below has been floating around for 40 years, so there's a good chance you've seen it before.  It was originally published in the first edition of Ms. in 1971.  A friend's status message reminded me of it tonight, so here I am. It's worth a reprint every now and again.

-------------------------------------

I WANT A WIFE

Judy Syfers, (1971)


I belong to that classification of people known as wives. I am A
Wife. And, not altogether incidentally, I am a mother.

Not too long ago a male friend of mine appeared on the scene fresh
from a recent divorce. He had one child, who is, of course, with his
ex-wife. He is obviously looking for another wife. As I thought
about him while I was ironing one evening, it suddenly occurred to me
that I, too, would like to have a wife. Why do I want a wife?

I would like to go back to school so that I can become economically
independent, support myself, and, if need be, support those dependent
upon me. I want a wife who will work and send me to school. And
while I am going to school I want a wife to keep track of the
children's doctor and dentist appointments. And to keep track of
mine, too. I want a wife to make sure my children eat properly and
are kept clean. I want a wife who will wash the children's clothes
and keep them mended. I want a wife who is a good nurturant attendant
to my children, who arranges for their schooling, makes sure that they
have an adequate social life with their peers, takes them to the park,
the zoo, etc. I want a wife who takes care of the children when they
are sick, a wife who arranges to be around when the children need
special care, because, of course, I cannot miss classes at school. My
wife must arrange to lose time at work and not lose the job. It may
mean a small cut in my wife's income from time to time, but I guess I
can tolerate that. Needless to say, my wife will arrange and pay for
the care of the children while my wife is working.

Once Gold

Like Midas in this world
far removed from myths and gods,
your touch consumed it all--
time, the past, then even vague dreams.
In their places
are thoughts like statuettes.
They stare, unnerve me, remind me
that value is often measured differently.

So, once reminded, I think
Perhaps I didn't understand you.
But of course, I did.
And perhaps I didn't love enough?
But of course I did.

It is reflected in the obscene glint of all that is left
unconsumed.
It is in the grime that settles after droughts and dusty summers;
a blanket on the golden of the decayed.

In Passing: For my complicated friends.

A repost from my other blog...

It's time now to admit that if I'm lucky
these are my middle years.
That while watching the obvious enormity
of each morning rise,
this other life I couldn't watch
became the one I'm living.

Before I thought to look, four decades passed,
while people wandered in and out of doubt
and of these years.
And while I thought I was moving
(or knew I was standing still)
I met the people who will become
my old, complicated friends in another cycle of time.

In our complications then
we'll play chess and talk of now with nostalgic fondness
while watching the imperceptible shadow of each day fall.
And if we're honest, we'll admit we're content
with enduring our passions
and with the passing decades.

It's then, I think, that time will stall.

~Mari Nichols-Haining

Is it a roar, or a meow?

I'm not going to lie. I get a thrill when I successfully fix something around the house, especially if it's something that seemed daunting to me when I considered trying. Being single has been educational: I've learned to use a propane torch, sweated pipes, fixed a dishwasher and a washer and dryer, wired lights and doorbells, and deconstructed (then reconstructed) a box spring that was too tall for a stairwell. I just purchased my own multimeter and electric receptacle tester; I purchased and own my own circular, jig, chain, miter, and hack saws; and I literally carry the scar of someone who has learned, through trial and huge error, how not to cut her finger off when the protective plate for the electric hedge trimmer is broken.


The cycle of concentration-frustration-elation (wash, rinse, repeat)

Travelers will understand...

One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things. -Henry Miller

At this very moment (who knows how I’ll feel tomorrow), I have a great need to get away. From what? I’m not sure. Actually, I think I have the need to wander; it’s a subtle difference, but the need to go is different than the need to get away. I call it my ‘gypsy blood,’ although there's no evidence that I actually have any real gypsy heritage.

Between the ages of 16 and 30, I moved around often. I don't think I spent more than two consecutive years in the same house or same town, and I convinced myself I needed to move. Now I think I get the same relief from traveling without a firm itinerary. What I didn't know back then was that I didn't need to physically relocate my household, I just needed whatever it is I get from interacting with other travelers, meeting people with different experiences, seeing things I’ve never seen, feeling life happening again after I've let it stagnant around me in my tiny hometown, watching the sunset from a different horizon (or from a horizon at all, considering I don't have one at home)....

It's time for a trip and I don't care where I go. My feet are getting twitchy and my lightest suitcase is beckoning from the back of my closet. The world is vast and I have an urgent need to see more of it.

“Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things – air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky – all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.” – Cesare Pavese

Morgantown, West Virginia--An economic Oasis

Mountaineers surviving the recession!

This is not supposed to happen.

 A friend wrote: 
I still can't believe it. Honestly. All day today I spent not believing any of it. Does that ever go away? I mean,I can't believe that he's really gone. That this has happened to me. This is not supposed to happen.  

Sometimes, I think it would be wise for me to remember my own response to hm:

--clipped--

 You know, I started a response a few days ago and fell asleep while writing it. I'm glad I did, because today seems more right. My answer today is No. It never seems exactly real...
I flipped on the news this morning and came across a story about a little girl who died. Her parents said that right before she died, she was  reaching and grabbing at the air from her bed. When they asked her what she was doing, she said she was trying to catch the butterflies she could see everywhere.
Ron died 15 years ago this December, yet hearing this made me wonder what he saw as he died. It left me crying. The kids are at a sleepover this weekend, so I did the 'talking out loud' to him thing I seem to do when I'm alone and get into moods like this. 
My secret craziness goes deeper. This is how sick I am: sometimes, I'm mad at the world that people can give birth to 8 preemies in a small hospital in PA and every one of them survives and are healthy. But my one preemie, who wasn't even THAT early, couldn't make it out of a top notch Children's Hospital in LA. WTF? I'm not saying I wish anything had happened to other babies, I'm just pissed about the randomness.
So my answer is that the bad days go on forever. But they become a comfort, because to hurt this long means I've loved intensely. To have loved and lost is better than having never loved at all is really true on a much deeper level than most people realize. To have known the kind of love that can touch you randomly on a Saturday morning 15 years later is astounding. It's weird to be so pained and so grateful at the same time.

So, I hope you're having better days. But I don't hope you're not sad anymore. And I hope that if you're dating again, you're having fun and enjoying the people you meet for who they are; but I don't hope it erases the joy of loving Antonio or the pain of losing him.

And I really hope I explained myself well enough that my last paragraph made sense and doesn't sound like I'm just cruelly wishing you endless pain.
 --------

Random Handy Homeowner Thoughts with Bonus Handy Woman Tips

I've necessarily become a DIY homeowner. Although I hate that things seem to be breaking in rapid succession, I love the feeling I get after successfully diagnosing and fixing the problem. Before this period in my life, I had never considered that a toilet would even need a wax ring, what the guts of my washer looked liked, how to discharge an appliance capacitor, or how to track down and fix an 'open ground' for three different outlets.

The truth is that although I theoretically knew how to use a soldering iron, I couldn't read a circuit board schematic to save my life, and although I could have figured out how to wire a light switch, I would have started an electrical fire if I had tried to wire a few 3-way switches for one socket.

Most of the time, I can do those things now and can proudly declare that I'm not afraid of my house anymore! I may be frustrated during the diagnosis process, but I feel like roaring out loud (ROL!) when I figure out the fix, turn on a previously-broken appliance, and find it works perfectly. I will never quit my day job, but I like that I don't need to see a repairman's buttcrack anymore when my garbage disposal dies.


In the interest of shared knowledge, I'm passing on just a few random tips I've picked up over time: 

•  No user serviceable parts" really means "Non-standard screwheads inside."

• A handy one learned today: when you caulk or grout around a toilet, leave an inch or two uncaulked around the back so you can see leakage and know if the wax ring failed before your subfloor is ruined. Finally, a cool, handy tip learned BEFORE I screwed it up! 

• If you go into your attic and notice daylight around the edges, do not fill the soffit vents with insulation thinking that is the source of your high winter heating bills. Or if you do, don't be surprised when deadly icicle daggers form from your gutters during  next winter's snowstorms.
   
• If you hear a dripping sound and your ceiling is wet every time it rains, but you can't find a roof leak to go along with the dripping, assume the obvious: there's a leak and you just haven't found it yet!  
  
  * NOTE: This is true even if all your male DIY-type friends say "it's probably just rain blowing through the vents during heavy storms and isn't a problem at all" when they look at it after the storm has ended and the wet spot has dried. Eventually, the telltale stain will appear, you'll still have to find the leak and repair part of your ceiling, and you'll kick yourself for not listening to your gut. The only good news will be that the leak will be probably much easier to find after it rots part of your roof and expands.

I've come to the realization that most anything can be a DIY job if you're determined enough. I realize determination isn't necessarily the best thing in all situations though--after spending too much money on microwave parts (it's part of my stove, so it's not cheaper to replace), I realize sometimes it is less expensive in the long run to just pay someone to fix something, especially if they do it for a living and can get it right the first time. But bonus for me if the repair person is a man, his pants fit nicely, he looks fabulous in a tool belt, and he doesn't mind showing me how to do it myself next time.

Go on now, fix something! And ROL!

WIN FREE STUFF and help me with a Social Networking/Blogging experiment

BP Oil Protest Song!


I'm interested in seeing if how long it takes a video to 'go viral.' I've seen some really stupid 'viral videos' aired on CNN, so at least this isn't another baby dancing.


So help me out and forward this, tweet it, like it on facebook and youtube, and then leave me a comment telling me what you did. Leave your comment here though--not on facebook or twitter.


If it's played on CNN's viral video segment, one lucky commenter will be chosen by random drawing to receive a copy of his next CD (which will be released in July).


A review of his last album, can be found here, at iberkshires.com,

Just a reminder that it's still happening: on June 7th, the war in Afghanistan became the longest war in US history.

The Grown-up Me

Feb. 2009

Growing up taught me there are no gallant steeds.
White horses, though they exist,
just aren't commonplace around here.
And though I could fill my rooms with round tables
the knights I hoped would visit
all died in the plague.

I understand that sleep can not be cast by spell;
a kiss can not restore the tragedy of death;
a frog is a frog, or more likely --
a mistaken toad. And warts are caused by virus.

I've learned
wicked witches aren't always ugly,
the bad guys don't always wear black,
and poisoned fruit is sold in darkened doorways
by scruffy fallen boys.

Growing up taught me that crystal slippers slice my heels;
ball gowns suffocate;
wolves don't take the time to huff and puff
(nor are they limited to forests);
and mirrors only talk in whispers
to those who listen.

I have learned there is a genetic law:
once born a duck you'll never be a swan.
And while the mallard is a fickle lover,
it is the swan that mates for life.

Growing up taught me, most importantly,
that fairy tales are absolutely never shelved
with non-fiction
between biographies and history.
Which is where you will someday find

the grown-up me.

~mnh

Censorship Advice to the Drunk

Censorship Advice to the Drunk

(Not taking my own advice about turning off the computer after Irish Coffee on a Friday night. Drunken poetry is especially bad. ~Mari)

When a writer has toasted with too many shots
and pounds out a rambling missive,
clicking 'send' isn't wise, but there aren't many sots
who can separate wise from derisive.

There's something about whiskey that forces the truth,
that makes one decide to tell all.
In the earliest hours it's gin and vermouth
I blame for the indiscreet calls.

To those women dialing three sheets to the wind
or sending tomes to long-gone suitors,
Take my advice before you hit send:
turn off your phones and computers!

~Mari Nichols-Haining  - 2006

In Time (revised)

There was a time 

...when I needed to name the moments
   so each could be filed in a memory
   that is too worn and weary to recall without cues--

...when my throat, inflamed and rough,
   couldn't hold my voice;
   when doubt strangled my thoughts before words formed--

       --Because minutes don't pause to be mourned

I keep postcards from the past in a worn leather briefcase.
They were ribboned and packed only after
I did my business with time.

Now, names I assigned to the moments then,
fall into my head
as dead as the browned autumn leaves.
And as easy to ignore,

         --in time.

~MNH

A Woman and her Tools

When I was 17 (that's not a typo), my husband taught me to change a tire. Necessity is the mother of invention, but Poverty is the Saint of  Do-it-Yourselfers. Poverty not only meant that we scavenged our tires from a recycling heap, but "changing a tire" meant we literally changed our tires: we took the exploded tire off the rim and put the new-to-us one on the  rims. In retrospect, this may be why we had so many exploded tires (you think?). I learned the difference between  wrench and pliers in those years, and we learned together how to change the car's struts without killing ourselves. Trust me on this kids: don't try that one at home.

We bought our tools and automobile parts from Pick-a-Part (although I don't even want to think about why people are junking cars with shovels and axes in the trunks). Years later, my uncle stopped by the family home to collect some of my grandpa's stuff and accidentally left with most of Ron's tools. I felt like I had betrayed us by letting it happen. Although I eventually boxed up and gave away his things after he died, I kept the tools that were left. The greasy hand prints were his, and attached to nearly every tool was a memory of working on a car together. Plus, I used them sort of regularly.

When I remarried, my new husband didn't understand  why  I was crushed when the marital-merging of tools made me feel like they were his tools. He used them more often and they went into his toolbox, which sometimes had a lock on it. I felt like I had to ask to use them, and  I lost a bit of independence when I couldn't leave my screwdriver in the kitchen drawer without irritating him when it didn't make it back in his box. Ron's beat-up old toolbox, scavenged from a well-used Chevy's truck bed, got thrown out along the way in favor of something newer. When I found out, I was unexpectedly taken by the feeling that something familiar and comforting had been lost. More than a decade later, it shocked me that the only physical belongings I was willing to fight for in the divorce were the tools I came into the marriage with. He could have the car, TV, bed, dressers, and house--everything but the tools.

My brother came to visit shortly after the divorce proceedings started. He's an insightful person: he brought me some of his spare tools and organized mine.  I was thrilled to have a collection started again, but after loaning them out and having  people 'borrow' them without telling me, I feel again like I have to ask to use my own tools and it's time to make a stand.  Often, I first have to make the uncomfortable call to ask if he (that's gender neutral 'he', of course) has the tool before I can ask for it to be returned. And just as often, whether the tool is sitting in my shed or he borrowed it without asking, the response is righteous indignation at the question and if he has it, at  my request for its return.

I'm considering getting a set of pink tools. Call me crazy, but I think they'd be borrowed less often. And if you're ever at the junk yard and see a woman peeking in the back of every  Chevy on the lot, it's me--looking for a weathered pink toolbox.

Yes, they make them!
Apollo Precision Tools DT9706P 39-piece Pink General Tool Set
Apollo Precision Tools DT0773N1 135-Piece Household Pink Tool Kit

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Does my Mother-in-Law know she's eating dung?

Okay, she's probably not actually eating dung. I assume, although I haven't looked into it, that cooking with human feces would violate some health department sanitation rules.

When she last visited me, she went on a city-side search for Ezekiel Bread. The full name is Ezekiel 4:9 Bread,   and it's made by Food For Life. She couldn't find it then, but I saw it in the store the other day so it much be catching on.

I can't bring myself to buy any though. You see, if you read past 4:9, the recipe continues. The key to the bread is in 4:12-13, which reads:

"And thou shalt eat it as barley cakes, and thou shalt bake it with dung that cometh out of man, in their sight. And the LORD said, Even thus shall the children of Israel eat their defiled bread among the Gentiles, whither I will drive them."

 I think I'll stick with Wonder.

Monster turds and Morgan Freeman? A real-time movie review.

I'm watching Dreamcatcher. I'm 13 minutes into it and I already hate it. My real-time, unedited reactions:

(started 15 minutes into the movie:)
General impression: horrible acting.
One of the stars, Professor Jones, has just been annihilated by a van.

Next scene: Wait a minute. Is this him? He's limping. But he's outside fetching firewood. No way. He's like Superman. I should tell you too that the main characters can read minds. I don't know why I should tell you this, except that it was revealed within the first five minutes of the movie and they've made it clear it's important.

A completely fake scene with these guys sitting around a table 'guy talking.' This is the most unbelievable crap I've ever seen. Horrible, horrible dialogue. We get some backstory and character development: they've been coming up to this cabin for 20 years. They're good guys who once saved an autistic little boy. They toast to a dreamcatcher. We get the impression someone has died.

Later:
A horrific car accident. Quadruple rollover down a snowy hill. I"m pretty sure it's not even a Toyota! I predict they'll survive.Maybe they'll have a limp.

Okay, these guys are superman.  No limps.

Back at the cabin: there's an exodus of animals. The two men there, Toothpick guy and Prof. Jones, just watch. I'd start running too.

The other two guys from accident are trekking up the hill to confront the woman they swerved to avoid, who is still standing in the middle of the road.
 
One of the guys (the witty one, I suppose) quips

"Hey, Miss Road Kill, you almost got us killed!"

Oh, she's sitting.  And not dead. 

Back at the cabin, the animals are still running. The men are standing outside watching them run. One comments on the red stuff they see on the animals and another wonders out loud about what they're running from. Finally. But do they run? No.

A helicopter appears. They're under quarantine. Morgan Freeman is in the helicopter. This gives me hope for the movie!

Hmm... that red stuff? Looked like blood to me and it's all over their cabin now. It came from the sick guy they took in earlier. Sorry, I forgot to mention that part.

Okay, the sick guy just laid a monster turd and died. Literally. This provides me with another great example of bad dialogue:

"He's dead, Beav."
"Bullshit he is, he just dropped a clinker, man, I heard it!"

They trap it (the monster turd) in the toilet with toothpick-guy sitting on the lid, but the turd keeps banging the toilet lid. Toothpick-guy's (hereafter called Stupidguy) toothpicks get knocked out of his pocket and falls into a puddle of the blood the sick guy pooped out. Stupidguy wants his toothpicks so badly that he's willing to die for them. Idiot. Looks like he may.

 Oh, whoa. This monster poop is has some crazy teeth!
(seconds later) Stupidguy is wrestling the turd. This is kind of like alligator wrestling, but with poop.

My excrement  is definitely not this smart. Smart logs know how to turn the door handle. I think I'm out of shit synonyms. Sorry.


An Alien poopmommy just appeared? WTF? Her head exploded.
NSA or something is moving in.

I swear this really needs to get better. Did I mention Morgan Freeman was piloting the helicopter? Jeez. I love Morgan Freeman. He saves any movie. This may be his FAIL.

I'm giving up on this movie. It's time to sleep anyway.

I turned it back on accidentally. I'm glad I gave up on it though. Apparently the mommy poop took over Prof Jone's body and gave him a silly English accident. He's going to Massachusetts. I should have known. Not only do they have funny accents there, but that state recently sent an alien-like being to run for president.

Pete, one of the guys in the accident, has been infested with a monster turd. Guess they eat some and crawl up the butts of others.


Seriously. I'm giving up on it now. Not. One. More. Second.