country_cinderella’s Neighborhood

Anna and Peter's Family

So, from left to right, front to back:

Claudia (just had baby Anthony a few days ago, Aldo holing Julianna and Matthew, Nicole holding Christopher and Fabio holding Steven.  Back row is Steve, older brother of Aldo and Fabio, his dad Peter and Mom Anna.  The only brother missing is Phil who is a trainer, off training a Russian kid hockey phenom.

Phil's Family

Again, from front to back:  Marco, his sister Bridget, Robert (he's getting married next year)  Back row is Carmela who is married to Marco, JoAnn and Phil, Phil's mom Maria and Phil's sister Joanne.  She and I have the same birthday.  Robert is her son  Marc and Bridget belong to Phil and JoAnn

Christina, Marcia, Constanza and Enrico

Anna and Angelo's Family

I miss you already.

It seems like we knew each other forever, but it's only been a few years. I was in awe of you from the moment we actually had a real conversation. You are the most ambitious, successful, self-confident, open, strong, outgoing, friendly, funny person I had ever met. You became my idol and my friend. I want to be you when I grow up, even though we are close to the same age.

We had some good laughs about how I was an accidental witness to your wedding. Well, the wedding party, that is, as you and Will and the group walked down the main drag in Telluride, where I was enjoying a beer festival after a hard day of skiing. I can still see you smiling bright in your beautiful dress.

Then came your pregnancy. Then your news about breast cancer. But you had a plan and we knew you would be okay. How could you not be?

Jack came out healthy and happy and you started your fight. We knew you would win. Nothing ever stood in your way and stayed standing.

When we met up for lunch a few times last summer after you started treatment, you were bald and bold. I don't even think your eyebrows had come back yet! But I didn't even notice after we started talking. There you were, loud and in charge just like always. And my admiration grew even more. I had no doubt you'd be fine. There was no question.

But that cancer was a sneaky thing. Your body was clean but the disease was hiding out in your brain. No problem! You went back in and had it taken out. We all celebrated Jack's first birthday.

When I returned from Europe in May I got the news that the cancer came back to your brain. This time the doctors couldn't get to it. Damn sneaky cancer.

This time, I got mad. It's not fair. I've only known you for a few years and that's not enough. It's not. Goddammit it's not.

If anyone had the connections, the resources, the money and the sheer will to fight this, you did. All that you accomplished in your lifetime came back to you in the form of help and support.

But our faith started to waver and in a rare moment of weakness, so did yours. But your wavering passed and you were going to make it - first to Jack entering Kindergarten, then to his high school graduation. We wanted to believe. We wanted you to believe.

So there we were last month, gathered for your 39th birthday party. You were amazing, loud and in charge as always, even though you looked, well, you looked like someone who was getting the snot beat out of you by this damn disease. I loved you even more.

Off you went to MD Anderson, then to Harvard, trying to find a treatment.

You came home. Stupid cancer decided to show up in your liver. What the fuck, Cancer?! Don't you know when to get out?

Today I got the news. You're gone. 

I take some comfort in the fact that you lived life to the fullest and you lived it hard. You never squandered a moment. Not one single moment. Did you ever actually sleep, my dear? You fought with every fiber of your being. A lesser person wouldn't have made it as long as you lasted in this fight. Your family will never want for love, support and help.

I've been reliving every precious minute I was lucky enough to spend in your glory. Your coming into my life was a wondrous gift.  

I'd say, 'may you rest in peace', but c'mon, rest and peacefulness aren't your style. I fully expect you to be causing a commotion somewhere out there. Someone bigger than life can never be really gone.

So I'll just say, thank you for letting this lowly soul into your circle of friends, if only for a brief moment of your time.  

               I wouldn't be a liar
                                No i wouldn't be a liar if i told you that
                       When things are all you think of
                                               And plans are all you make
                           and thoughts are all you dream of
                                                                  your falls are all you take
                                       look out the world's destroying you
                                                                              relax it isn't fair
                                                                           mother nature's disposition
                              she don't mind, she don't care
                                                                and I wouldn't be a liar
                                                                                       if I told you that
                                                                          Passing over, passions pour, passing everything
                                                                    I wouldn't be a liar
                                                                                   if I told you that
                                                                                It takes up all of your life
                                                                                    these decisions you make
                                                                                it takes up all of a day
                                                                                    making them all

                                          Well i sat on the patio
                    while the pianos were being tuned
                            forget about it all for a little while
she don't mind she dont care
                                    and I wouldn't be a liar       
                            if I told you that
You see, it seems minor to me
it seems minor

The Gift of Fear

I have been meaning to post something on my blog about a book that captured my attention.  My purchase of this book was inspired from some random searching on YouTube, when I saw video of the author, Gavin De Becker.  He was promoting his book "The Gift of Fear" and I was hooked.

I would have to say this is probably one of the most important books I have read, ever...I say this with complete certainty because it gave me insight into how to make fear your friend, to trust in my instincts about people and situations.

Everywhere you turn, we are exposed to horror stories of women/children being attacked & murdered.  But you don't hear too many stories about how people used their survival instinct to avoid bad situations, or how they escaped from a violent attack.  I understand that violence is a common thing across the globe, big cities & small towns, there is no completely safe place.  But living in fear is a real prison, sometimes worse than the potential attack we may face.

Here is a quick excerpt from the book - I do encourage you to go get a copy & learn more..

"Every day people engaged in the clever defiance of their own intuition become, in midthought, victims of violence and accidents.  So when we wonder why we are victims so often, the answer is clear: It is because we are so good at it.

A woman could offer no greater cooperation to her soon-to-be attacker than to spend time telling herself, "But he seems like such a nice man." Yet this is exactly what many people do.  A woman waiting for an elevator, and when the doors open she sees a man inside who causes her apprehension.  Since she is not usually afraid, it may be the late hour, his size, the way he looks at her, the rate of attacks in the neighborhood, an article she read a year ago - it doesn't matter why.  The point is, she gets a feeling of fear.  How does she respond to nature's strongest survival signal?  She suppresses it, telling herself: "I'm not going to live like that; I'm not going to insult this guy by letting the door close in his face."  When the fear doesn't go away, she tells herself not to be so silly, and she gets into the elevator.

Now, which is sillier: waiting a moment for the next elevator, or getting into a soundproofed steel chamber with a stranger she is afraid of?

1)  Lose pound #11.  If my Daily Plate/weight loss trend holds up, this will happen tomorrow morning.  (Or I guess technically at some point tonight, while I am sleeping.) 

2)  Read the new People, Us Weekly and Entertainment Weekly magazines.  I know People's cover story is Ellen and Portia's wedding.  I'm not a huge fan of Portia but I love Ellen.  (If you're gay, you have to.  It's one of the big gay rules, second only to `Don't sleep with the opposite sex.')

3)  Finish the new Faye Kellerman, The Mercedes Coffin.  It's really good so far.  (Incidentally, I had no idea Marge, one of the more major secondary characters, was a Republican.  I like her anyway, but wow--she blasted us liberals for blaming George Bush for the state of the country and I was a little taken aback because really, who else should we blame?  Regardless, this is a really good book and part of a fantastic series.  I love Peter and Rina.)

4)  Watch the remake of Prom Night, which Netflix sent me.

5)  Sleep.

6)  Do laundry.

7)  Quality time with Sam.

8)  Cook dinner at least one night--as part of my plan to realize that I cannot live on Lean Cuisines and cereal alone when I am at home.

This is a political one.

I read ths really good commentary on cnn.com comparing John McCain to George Bush.  I was talking to Jen about it and I mentioned that I had read somewhere that John McCain would be a fun guy to have a beer with.  I've heard the same said about George Bush, too, and I like fun people to drink with...but I wouldn't vote for one.

I want a smart president, one who won't spend a third of his tenure as president on vacation.  I want a president who can pronounce "nuclear."  (I'm petty that way.)

I want a president I can respect, not someone who just repeats the same speech over and over.  I don't want someone who resorts to dirty politics or name calling.  And I want someone who can speak without a speech writer nearby.

The commentary is really interesting.  I hope you read it.  It's not a love letter to John McCain but it's not a hatchet job, either.  And it raises some really important points, I think.

Beautiful.

So there I am, reading my Amazon suggestions (as I'm wont to do, like browsing at Macy's but for books) and I read a recommendation for a book that I read, and really didn't quite like. Title: Almost Stopped Before I Started: So Glad I Didn't!.

I thought about that, why a person would recommend a book they almost didn't read. I remembered then that I almost didn't read Moby Dick again and am thrilled I did (and a little too self-satisfied about it, but I digress). So, for that moment, I was with her on that.

And then came the most insipid statement I think I've heard in all my years:

"I almost ruled out reading this book when I read the author's (to me) bold statement on page 225: "Can you write a poem in 20 minutes? We seriously doubt it."

And she follows with:

"Being, at times, a very fast poet, I *gasped* when I read that assertion!"

Well, la-ti-fucking-da.

Then I thought about that statement for a moment. And my anger bore an increase that forced me to take this down so that no one else may suffer confusion:

You don't write a poem in 20 minutes. Not even a fucking haiku.

This is something about which I am intimately familiar, writing poetry and fiction as I do. I do this on a daily basis. I give these poems to other people so that they may find homes, and they do. So when I hear someone who writes WITHOUT intention (which is the only way a poem comes into being in under 20 minutes and will not bear revision), it first disorients me. I know many, many writers. I know fiction writers who take a week soothing the syntax of a single sentence. I have spent a day musing on the effects of a comma. I have spent days translating the diction of a piece from one speaker to another. I have beat myself up over word choice. Wept under the tree of sonic beauty.

But that ire bore fruit: 1) A poem is a sibling to all the other poems you have ever written. It can be the deadbeat brother who dropped out of school and hasn't called unless he needed money or a place to crash, but brother nonetheless. Sometimes you're a bad parent, refusing to set good limits, letting the line run all around town. Sometimes you're abusive and constrict the language to the point of breaking. (For the record, I do not have this sort of brother. But I hear that these sorts of brothers exist and that makes it a ripe and apt metaphor.) 

And now the corollary of this thought: you have been writing the poem you're writing all your life. Its appearance is no accident and is the result of every other linguistic complication and challenge you have tacked until this moment.

And then, a third rule: the trick of revision is not to find the answer to the issue you have begun to tackle in language. You must understand the question you are posing and let the poem phrase that question in the best way possible. I only say this because I lack faith in that we're ever going to get the answer, but at least to learn to ask better questions of language. 

So, I guess, I should thank this chick and her ignorant rantings about her 20 minute poems... I think the theorems of composition that came into the world at my moment of indignation means that she was put on earth for a reason. If only that she may run across this post and understand that she is neverevereverever to say that kind of shit in public again.

PS. My roommate pointed out that maybe a poem COULD be written in 20 minutes not accounting for quality. But the very notion that quality is not taken into account is so foreign, so strange, so terrifying to me that I will post this regardless and pretend that all people want to write quality work. I do not want to live in a word that crap is analogous to poem. That's another post altogether. Don't even get me started.  

Lookit meeeeee !!!

Zoom Zoom

I can fly !!!

There was a perfectly good reason for doing this, and yet it is utter silliness.  I had a lot of fun doing it, and only later realized that I'd left thousands of dollars worth of camera equipment hanging from my ceiling for several hours.