By Bill Hicok
two women in three days
cried on the green bench in the park
where i found a dollar
folded into a boat.
i thought it was the crying bench and cried
on the crying bench
when it became available.
i cried
by thinking of all the people
who've never broken a shop window, not the baker's
window, the bead-seller's,
who sells beads for purposes
i find hard to list: necklaces,
the hanging of strings of beads
in doorways, the owning of beads
just in case.
breaking a shop window with a piece of shale
the size of my heart, a piece of shale
on which i've drawn my heart, not my actual heart
but my feelings of my heart,
since i've never seen my heart,
would set something free.
i don't know what that something is
but it would be free.
and my heart would have survived its travels
through glass, its jagged voyage
through my reflection.
you see now why i cried: none of this is real.
until i can answer yes to the cop who asks, is this your heart
among the ruins of your reflection?
i won't be a man, despite what my anatomy
insists.
it insists
that i overcome a sense of resistance when i move,
that i move
as long as i am able to move, and when i am unable
to move, that i stop.
it would be free and look like a bird, an actual bird
or a dollar folded into a bird, a dollar bird
in a dollar boat.
which is to say
i believe origami arrives
when we need it most.
i can't prove this but i can't prove
you're a good person though i suspect
you're a good person.
you who opened the door.
you who tipped your hat.
you who ran into the fire and carried
the fire safely out.
--------
Another from this week's New Yorker.
My day involved rearranging Barbie dolls; folding laundry; taking a long trip to the grocery store where I read literally a hundred labels; doing a lot of research online about ingredients and concluding that, while I can easily live without cheap Chinese food for the rest of my life, I am facing a tragic separation from every kind of cheese I love; trading in SPP to get Adam an animated chimney sweep penguin; and watching Doubt. The latter has terrific performances, as I expected, but it felt overdramatized and talky -- it was very obvious that it had been a play -- and I thought it completely chickened out on addressing the central question, which may be cute for theatregoers who get to go have chi-chi intellectual discussions about did-he-or-didn't-he, but lets the church hierarchy and potential child abusers completely off the hook in a way that really pisses me off. Oh yes, we're all guilty of something, so we're really in no position to judge a man who molests a child! In fact, mean teachers are the equivalent of child abusers! Roman Polanski is no worse than a terrifying middle school principal, let the poor man go! Maybe I had the wrong upbringing -- I didn't know any adorable Amy Adamsesque nuns -- but it felt very contrived and I either disliked or didn't believe in all the characters.
An alpaca at A Paca Fun Farm on the Countryside Artisans Fall Tour.
A leaf platter with caterpillar at Something Earthy Pottery Studio.
One of the resident cats at Art of Fire under a display of glass ornaments.
A beautiful metal vent cover from Iron Antler Forge.
Some of Dusty Road Pottery's studio work.
Some of the yarn for sale at Dancing Leaf Farm...
...and one of the sheep from whose wool it is spun.
Glee...all right, I know it's the most popular thing on the internet right now, but I must admit that I'm thisclose to not watching, and it's really only the music keeping me around. Spoilers: When every single character is written as a caricature, I suppose it keeps a show safe from people objecting to potentially harmful stereotypes -- you can actually write The Gay Boy, the Black Diva, the Pushy Jewish Girl, the Total Nerd, and no one can complain because everyone else is such a joke as well. But it makes it really hard to feel anything about them and their problems. I've never been less moved by a coming-out scene than I was by Kurt's a few weeks back (the sensible heels line killed it for me), and I can't take Quinn seriously enough to feel anything about her situation. Terri is beyond pathetic, her obstetrician is appalling -- and since when can you tell the sex of a fetus from an ultrasound at ten weeks? And I find it a bit hilarious that, in an episode addressing the marginalization of minorities, the legendary Supremes song gets sung by the whitest girl on the show. At least we get Sue, whose comment on Will's job as a Spanish teacher, "We all know about your devotion to that dying language," is practically worth the price of admission. At least maybe they won't bring her down, because they want the laughs more than character development. And I enjoyed the drippy Avril Lavigne song from Eragon.
As for Eastwick, I am doing my best not to get attached because I know it's on the fence and last week it was even beaten by Leno. I readily admit that it's uneven...as far as I'm concerned, there is still not nearly enough Darryl Van Horne, and I'm not just saying that because I want to see Paul Gross. In fact, I adore that this is a show about three women and their friendship and how it empowers them -- which is why I think the show needs to be addressing more directly how devilish Darryl fits into that in this version of the scenario. Does he empower them or do they empower him, does he need them or is he toying with the whole town through them? I vastly prefer his relationship with Roxie because she won't let him not treat her as an equal even when she needs his help, but Kat is growing a spine and hopefully Joanna will stop simpering eventually. I don't think the mystery of Darryl can be dragged out too long; what is important here is what the women will do when they realize they're not just unconventional but potentially facing something very sinister, and ultimately, if the writers are smart, controlling it.
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