Feathered Mafia

Winter, at least how it parades itself throughout the Midwest, is not my favorite way to experience nature's majesty. However, its exposure revealing the lives normally hidden to us all other times of the year is such a gift. The trees bearing their bony souls share their harmonious parasites, (well, not always harmonious) at least those that remain here to tough it out through the cold spells and grayness of the winter skies, believing in the future of better weather.  

I recognize, against the tempting sun, it is cold and make sure to bundle myself, steel myself against winter’s blustery winds and various forms of chilling precipitation.  The birds, on the other hand, have no such comfort. They can only rely upon the fluff of their feathery undercoat and slick rain coat like layer of beautiful plume to protect them from the same weather I disdain venturing out in. They go about their lives in balanced harmony with nature, something most of us could never and would never attempt to do.

Today, from the comfort of my drafty apartment, I sit and watch a beautiful woodpecker. It, likely unaware of my voyeurism, diligently pecks away at the dormant maple sitting idly across the street awaiting spring.  

A couple days before, while walking the neighborhood, I listened to an encoded communication between several feathered secret agents, chattering along from tree to tree, telephonically. Maybe they were diplomats in conference to determine to whom this territory belongs. From the look of things, I, the outsider, would probably assert with certainty this territory belonged to the pigeons. They seem to lay claim to the local food source guarding it with their sentries against most, although the starlings still receive some rations, be it through trickery or truce.  

The lives of our feathered brethren, their communications, habits and wars usually pass unnoticed beneath the cover of foliage, be it green, yellow, orange or fiery red. Winter, exposes us to the aviary underworld and its glorious complexities. I am looking forward to the time when the sun isn’t lying and it is again pleasant enough to roam comfortably uncovered, but while it lasts I will continue to eavesdrop upon my feathered neighbors listening for the coming of spring.   

The Glass Messenger (A poem)

Your words drop heavily to the floor,
without hope of recovery
Sealing the coffin on my dying will
And silencing the remaining light in my eyes

Drunk on the vibration of your voice,
I slip quietly into panic
Seeing through you, around you
Without you, before and after you

There is no reflection,
yet the sharpness cuts and brings forth blood
red, coming fast, draining from my face
Covering your words thickly
cloaking them, protecting them
Forcing them into the crevices of the wooden floor
Adding character to the room
Stealing character- mine, yours, ours

Shattering the broken harmony,
You too fall to pieces,
mixing into the split red, the words
spinning apologies into liars webs
catching flies and dead dreams
and forgotten memories and finished futures

Mixing them, breaking their boundaries
adding a pinch of salt
To the wound
For good measure, for the good of us all

(J. Smith, copyright 2011)

Just Before Morning

When I sleep I am sometimes the wilting stalk surrounded by pillow petals and when I awake my pillow creases match those of linen. With hair well coiffed due to a night of kneading by a cat named Mo, I stumble around in the dark because, once again, the internal clock refused to sync with the external.

Before sunrise I sit with the joyous ones following their schedule more than my own. Could that be due to the constant dancing being choreographed and performed all night long? Those midnight dancers sleek and limber! At times I am just an inattentive observer picking up pieces of the more daring moves, usually the ones accompanied by song. Other times, I am an unwilling participant dragged from the audience or, better yet, a stage prop here to assist in the most final stages of the fight or flight steps.

The dance I love most is the “are you awake yet” dance. Sitting/standing between my shoulder blades, while performing in time to Fuz’ throaty bass tones, Dell smoothly taps his toes and fingers into my upper back all to the missing beat- he is a cool cat! Even when I shoot him looks of displeasure he is always mildly surprised that I might find the performance uncouth.

If after his display I make the slightest gesture that it is possible I will awaken from my shallow slumber, he is satisfied and joyous to the point of joining his brother in song. Once they succeed and I rise up with the congregation to congratulate them with a victory meal. They then settle down for a long day’s nap content to know the bed is unoccupied. I free Mia from her bedroom suite where only she seems to have acquired the beauty sleep I so longed for when I laid my heavy head on the pillow petals the night before.

And, just before there is any chance of being fully awake, I snake off hoping to catch a quick cat nap before the intruding alarm sounds again.

Taking It Slow

Slow moving is not something synonymous with my normal state of being. I tend to move at a pretty good clip, weaving in and out of other slower pedestrians, rushing to the next thing on my ever mounting list of to-dos.


So much is missed in the rush of things. I am sure I will be surprised at how quickly death arrived when I reach it, regardless of whether it is tomorrow or 50 years from now. And my break neck speed is not helping. It is the journey we are supposed to savor, not just the destination.  A mantra.

Now, having just completed my stint on crutches, a good six week endeavor, I am required to walk slowly. My knee will not allow what the rest of me would like to do. Annoying? Yep! But, it has also given me time to enjoy the falling of dusk on my walk home from the train. I have a chance to actually enjoy the birds chirping as night falls upon the neighborhood. I get my daily update on a two story full gut-rehab along my path home- watching the beginning demolition through the installation of new windows. Each day something new. In my normal “bat out of hell” rush to and from the train I would miss all of these changes. Instead of noticing the changes as they occur, I would be surprised at the completed project.

Oddly enough, I am enjoying the slowness- watching the ants journeying to their destinations- on their own missions. I have met neighbors I have never spoken to, let alone seen. Taking time to notice the wild nature that grows so well within its urban habitat, I smile at its ingenuity. Watching my transitioning neighborhood lurch slowly forward, with new shops filling abandoned spaces, I am again excited at the reinventing of the old. New lights illuminating the anonymity of the darkness.

I stroll passed, sharing in the smells of another’s dinner hanging on the evening breeze- it warms me and reminds me that life exists behind the closed doors - each weaving their own stories and histories, which remain secret to outsiders. Maybe I am sharing in their secrets, just a little.

Neighborhood Politics

Have you ever had a neighbor that you appreciate, but, when you see him or her, she/he will take up more time than you have available? Always wanting to linger just a few more minutes discussing the weather or the gardening on the street? Do you find yourself hiding or waiting until you are certain he or she is in their car or has passed along far enough not to see you and stop? I have this type of relationship with a neighborhood cat.


The little girl is a lovely sleek black cat that lives with my neighbors across the alley. The little cat disappears for the winter, but come the nicer weather she is out in force soaking up sun and tormenting the squirrels of the neighborhood. She has the kindest disposition and is always ready to greet passersby.

A couple nights ago, I was coming home from dinner with a friend of mine walking down this little cat’s street. I noticed from afar her shadowed black shape perched on the curb and, as we approached, I acknowledged her as I would with any of my neighbors (at least the one’s I like). She, as is her way, ran over to greet us, rolling this way and that, content to make the acquaintance. The problem always comes when I go to take my leave. She is willing to forget her sentry position on the corner and follow me. I say my goodbyes and try to slip away. The little black cat, on the other hand, is not yet finished with the exchange. She happily trots off after us.

My friend, who cannot stand being followed by the furry friend, keeps turning around to peek at the little cat, I reprimand. “Please don’t even glance at her. She will get sidetracked and stop following us soon enough, but each time you look at her she takes it as a cue that maybe she isn’t keeping up and will quicken her pace to meet up with us.” My friend, a caring sort, begins to feel bad about the situation and gets slightly upset with me for saying hello to the little cat in the first place. I will have none of it. The little cat is like any other neighbor and should be treated as such. With that, lost in our debate, we turn the corner, reach the gate and the little cat is gone.

Here for the Time Being and Other Thoughts



Here For The Time Being

 Often I want to disappear, evaporate into the masses and be consumed in the cloak of anonymity within the chorus, but then, I also want to be remembered. There would be no other reason to even place these words upon the proverbial (or literal) paper, if that were not the case.


If only remembered as part of the chorus, it wouldn’t or couldn’t be “part” of the chorus at all, but instead the chorus is actually a whole, even if it is a collective of parts. It is as if one can remember a lone note within an entire musical movement on its own, singularly. That is not the norm and would not be likely but the case in anyone's memory of a chorus. It is the background. White noise.

Recently, I went to the opera. Not just any opera, the robot opera. Yes, an opera that included robots. There should be no judgment here. Be it novelty, or curiosity, I went. It was created by someone at MIT, someone that clearly enjoys opera and robots and I am willing to support those that have passions, even when they are a bit out of the ordinary. Fringe opera. Anyway (or bref as my French tutor often reminds me), I went. The robots were the chorus of this Greek-esque opera- a tragedy of sorts. The tragedy being men attempting to live forever within the machine without realizing or recognizing what is lost in the changeover. Not a new concept, but entertaining as it offered movable, lighted robots that looked a tad like Mac computer aliens- the stereotypical alien of triangular heads too large for their small bodies.

I am not an opera critic. Actually, I have only been to a few in my lifetime, but I would say this opera could have been better if it had kept the concept of the robot chorus, but moved away from the clichéd man vs machine. And, why is it always men (not women) who want to become part of the machine and live forever? Rarely is the female character depicted as the one that wants immorality in this manner. She can be reasoned into it or pulled into the scheme for the love of the man who wants to live forever, but I cannot say it is a common theme, woman as the seeker of the mechanical ever after. I would have to look more thoroughly into this if I was actually making a thesis out of this, which I am not. It is just my take. I am curious, but not curious enough to run more than a quick search and be done (in which I found nothing that exactly matches this idea). If you have examples of women vs machine in this manner, please share. Otherwise, enjoy the weekend!

Lessons of Love

Recently on a flight home, I was seated next to a couple. Their interactions spoke of what love is, or should be. They were older, each seeming to know the other quite well. They shared their meals, quietly exchanging sweetnesses. She thoughtfully stored his newspaper after he had finished patiently explaining the art of Sudoku to her; he readjusted her blanket making sure she was comfortable as the plane was chilly.


Each touch, word to the other, seemed so tender. There didn’t seem to be any indifference in their exchange, only kindness and consideration for the other. In a word, respect- something that many relationships lack. Respect is lost in the shuffle of everyday life along with the necessity of intimacy and small niceties that can make all the difference.

I found their exchange very refreshing. I am so often exposed to love gone wrong rather than love in good form. By sitting next to me, they gave me a gift, reminding me that love in its true form does exist. I do not know their past and the struggles they've encountered to arrive at this place, but still, they arrived. They seemed to exude a love that isn’t loud and flashy, but instead patient and simple. May we all have that kind of love and share it the best we can.

With the holidays Comes Delay, Procrastination and Family Drama

It has been a while since my last post and I am going to blame life getting in the way. I am sure everyone knows what that is like, especially around the holidays.


Recently, I have been asked to pack someone else's stuff- my husband's stuff to be exact, while he enjoys the comfort of his new apartment, new girlfriend and her two small children. This amazingly enough is not something I would consider able to put me in the holiday spirit, but that being said, it does add a perspective on “gift giving” and the new year.

The end of a year, the end of a friendship and the beginning of the end of a marriage; this, like the holidays, includes wrapping things, placing things in boxes and sending them off to an expectant and, possibly, cautiously appreciative recipient. Some things given may be a surprise, some expected and some a disappointment, but all received with a similar anticipation of a small child holding his/her breath waiting for Santa’s presents under the tree.

Separating households is very similar to joining them. It includes looking at things each of you (or both of you together) own and possibly cherish, then determining what to keep and what to give away. It also gives way to these items bringing forth their own memories which drown the diligent worker bee in thoughts of the past, reminders of what could have been and anticipation (and some fear) of the future. It also causes a delay in the task at hand, which can be a welcomed form of serial procrastination.

Pictures come down off the walls, photo albums lose some of their resident photos, books and trinkets of a previous life are removed from shelves leaving only their shadows behind. Each item finds its way into boxes headed to a never-never world that matters not to you, as long as you do not think of it too much. Items that you knew the other regarded with disdain are carefully included amongst some of the most cherished- for balance, of course. Some slight satisfaction is gained, but only slight. There is no need to damage anything, the damage to the nested life and household is more than enough; and, even though everything is in its place, neat and tidy, the storms that raged can still be felt as if the fires have yet to be snuffed.

This “gift-giving” or relocating of "stuff" that is from a different life with two different people includes, on the brighter side, the gift of a new life, new friends and new beginnings. I hope each brings its own surprises, more pleasant than not, much laughter, only tears of joy and the ability to breathe deeply in my newly opened spaces. I hope in the future when I review this holiday season it will be seen as a liberating, strengthening experience. Even if it is not, at least I have got a jump on my spring cleaning.

Golden Handcuffs of Comfort and Wanderlust

The lust for comfort murders the passions of the soul.

-Khalil  Gibran

Comfort is nice, but the draw to do exciting new things has always pulled me in directions unknown. Whether this is good or bad matters not. What matters is living as much as possible. Putting too much off for a rainy day creates a habit stunting the adventurous life. Habits are easily formed and difficult to break- I try to avoid accidentally falling into habit of inactivity for comfort's sake. Safety and comfort, in moderation, are good, but without excitement and adventure, what is life but waiting for death?

Getting lost. Taking chances. These are the things that make my day worth the energy of getting out of bed. I try to fulfill my hopes and desires because I am only here once. This does not mean disregarding relationships, but what it does mean is making sure not to spend my time just watching others live. I want to feel the wind in my hair and the ground under my feet; to be passionate about things, to have opinions.

As a child, days lasted forever, but time is a fickle creature, it has the habit of passing faster than one realizes.I try not to wish my days away. They all pass so quickly. 

I find the word ‘expire’ very interesting; it is a word that relates to both breath (that which provides life) and death (the ceasing of life)- different sides of the same coin. No one knows when they will expire. My hope is that I expire without regret.

Storytime at the Whistler

On Sunday, after a trying morning, I coaxed myself to attend a poetry/short story reading at the Whistler. The bar was warm and friendly, small enough to feel cozy, but large enough to move around. And, as an added bonus, it also has a patio! There are so many hidden gems within my neighborhood, and after Sunday evening, I must add this place to the list.

I have always enjoyed being read to and this was no different. Storytelling is a lost art, a sad relic of a time before television. When stories are read to me I become entranced; the child all comfy in my footed pyjamas waiting breathless for what will happen next resurfaces. I believe the crowd felt something similar...

There is something special about hearing people's work, something they are clearly proud of, being read by them. They know where they wanted certain intonation and tone. They know the color of the story. Without having to question the author, the listener shares in the secrets of the author's thoughts. Some funny, some absurd, some melancholy, but all wholly the author's.

One of the authors reading that night was Davis Schneiderman. He provided us with a taste of his book Drain, a futuristic story about the drying up of Lake Michigan and the colony of peoples that moves in. Sounded to be an interesting read.

Davis Schneiderman



The next reading is scheduled for the 3rd Sunday of October (actually the 3rd Sunday of every month). If you are free and want to hear some interesting new material, you should stop by... oh, and the drinks are pretty good too. Go for the violet concoction... very nice... Maybe I will see you there...

Fantasical Loves and other myths...

What makes love real? Do you have to see the person? touch the person?

Is it possible to be in love with the idea of love rather than the person? I believe this is possible. I would call the love with the idea of love (of the person) "fantasy love." I believe we see a lot of that these days. People falling in love with thoughts of another person rather than the person him/herself. I would say Internet relationships fall into this category. Without knowing the real person, the everyday person, how do you know who it is that you love? It is similar to "falling in love" with an actor or musician. The person provided in the glitz and glamour of the big screen can be wonderful, but that does not convey the real person. I am not saying that the person may not have a beautiful soul, body and mind, but I am saying that it is impossible to know if you are not around that person. If you cannot and do not experience their physical presence. The intimate quirkiness that each of us has.

If I had to choose between the two, I would want real love. The solid concrete love, the kind that binds you to another. It may not be flashy, but it is real and good. Fantasy love is great for the highs it can provide, but it seems to be empty and shallow. It lacks the depth that real love can produce. I want someone to love me, my faults and all. I do not ever want to be placed on a pedestal, the fall is much to great.  The fantasy love can burn big and bright, but dies.

For me, I want the "love me even in my old ratty sweatpants" love. I find that to be romantic. I also find that to be the love that lasts.

A Bird in the Hand...

Quick quote for the day:

"We tend to forget that happiness doesn’t come as a result of getting something we don’t have, but rather of recognizing and appreciating what we do have."
(F. Keonig)


Instead of running away from what you have, focus more fully and search for the beauty within. It may be a long road, but recovering what is hidden can be more gratifying than finding something new because it is already yours.

This is true when looking at oneself. We all have special gifts and talents. We all have unique lives. No one can determine that one life is better than another because an outsider is never privy to all the aspects of another's life or another's relationships. We can only see what is shared in the open. What is shared is usually only a faded glimpse of what lies beneath the surface. In practice, I try to appreciate my own talents, my own gifts, my own relationships and my own life with all its strengths, weaknesses and idiosyncrasies. The combination of these specific elements make for a unique experience, all my own.

I think this is true with love as well. You may be surprised at the endless layers each person has within. Rediscover each other again and again.  Since we can never know any one person completely, doesn't it make sense to try and learn the person we love most as fully and completely as we can?  Does it not lead us to a more meaningful life with that person? We celebrate long lives and long relationships because we understand how precious they are.

One of the songs that I believe reflects this idea in relation to relationships is Somebody (Depeche Mode).

I recall my father-in-law recounting how pleased he was to see an elderly couple holding hands and nuzzling on the metro one afternoon. It is this road of happy discovery that I choose for me and my life. I hope you do the same.

Have a joyful journey.

Get Back In Touch

Recently, I was discussing the importance of touch- both being touched and touching another. I find touch to be one of our greatest senses. Don't get me wrong, all our senses play an important part in our everyday being, but touch literally and figuratively links us to the world around us. Research has determined that touch is so important that children who have been neglected and have not received enough touching from another develop more slowly and are more likely to have emotional disconnection than children that experience touch on a regular basis.

Moreover, per some studies, societies that have more touching such as France have lower rates of violence. That correlation makes sense to me. If we are touching we are experiencing each other and our world in a more interactive way. I have always found touch to be necessary and healthy in both love and friend relationships. It is a form of grounding, the other person is physically present. The connection created reduces the chance of seeing the person as other, unrelated and easy to discard and harm. It also can reduce the need to be violent because it provides an outlet to anger and aggression by giving emotional support, a shoulder to cry on shall we say.

In our society today, I believe we move further and further away from each other. Between text messaging and e-mailing, phone calling and Skyping, many of us have forgotten the importance and the art of touching. I do not want to down play the importance of those other forms of communication in our daily lives and the opportunities they have given us to be in contact when we are across the world and unable to be in each other's presence, but we need to touch more.  Many in the U.S. shy away from placing a hand on another for fear of being seen inappropriate. Appropriate touching can make us feel less alone, can comfort us in times of sorrow, can show love and affection for another, can show concern and relieve stress.

On a personal level, I know I need to be touched and touch. The surprise hug while washing dishes, the hand on the shoulder when passing by, a stroke of one's hair while watching a movie, the resting of hands on the small of one's back or waist- these all remind me that I am here in the present. That I am loved and protected. That I protect and show love to another. They tend to be the thing most missed when someone dies or leaves- the feeling of them being there, in the present. And you know they are there, because you can feel them.

The Journey to Yourself

As I have mentioned before, I am doing some mental (and physical) house cleaning. Working through my own little crisis has opened me up to taking inventory of me and then reflecting on it. I think I am on to something. Regardless of what happens, at the end of this crisis I am sure I will be in a new place mentally (and definitely physically).

So here are my thoughts for the day:

Start becoming who you want to be. It may surprise you how long or short the journey will be. Restrictions are often self imposed due to fear of the unknown, fear of the possibility of other. Be prepared to proceed further than expected, be prepared to have set backs- both are helpful and teach patience, gratefulness and humility. I have come to understand how fleeting life, love, youth and friendship are, but that may be what makes them precious to us. Without the possibility of losing/gaining any of these, do they have value on their own? I am not so sure. I do not believe we savor moments as much as we do when we realize all can be lost. For example, once you decide to move to a new place, a new city, do you start to see the home you live, the city in which you reside in a different light? Do you start to appreciate the little quirks of the places, the specialness of every building, every encounter? I think the answer to this is a resounding yes.

I further believe that nothing we do matters and yet, all that we do matters- it just depends on the scope, the context, in which we are analyzing the action or thought. This is not a bad thing. In fact, I think it is good. It gives us a more balanced perspective on life and our role in it. It is all a journey. Sometimes we go it with someone, sometimes alone, but always with our past, present and future selves.

random thoughts

There comes a time in everyone's life where one wonders what is it all about. I think this can be an exciting and scary time. When it occurs it reveals the person you are at that moment. Sometimes that person can surprise you. I have been reviewing my own life recently and much of it through the lens of a camera. I find that I am noticing more detail and looking for the small things, the simple things. I notice the richness of a single leaf or the way rust can be beautiful. I am glad to appreciate these small things. They bring me solace, they bring me peace. When everything else in life is chaotic, it is nice to focus on the small things for once and revel in their innocent simplicity.

Wishing you all happy revelations.