Sister Mary Catherine

Sister Mary Catherine from the local puppet nunnery speaks on prayer and meditation.

It's All Temporary

The Forsythe Saga

Every once in a while I watch a movie that, for lack of a better term, knocks my socks off.  Sometimes it is not so much the plot line, but a particular actor (usually a villain) who so consumes the part that he or she becomes that person.

It happened to me while I watched Christoph Waltz become the Nazi officer in Inglorious Bastards, and again recently watching Damian Lewis as Soames in The Forsythe Saga.  We do not like these men, they are cruel, heartless, unloveable. A good psychiatrist could explain their motivation, the reasons why their behavior is so abhorrent. Their childhood was harsh, never shown love, they became unlovable, society gave them a raw deal, they were born at the wrong time, they were born at the right time but the wrong side of the law.  Whatever the case may be, we do not like them.

It is for all these reasons that I became captivated by Soames in The Forsythe Saga.  Life should have unfolded seamlessly for Soames. Born into a good family, Oxford educated, he became a lawyer. Governed  by contracts, he saw the world in black and white but there was one big problem - his wife Irene hated him.  It is hard for us to understand the dictates of society in the late 1800's, but in this world both Irene and Soames found themselves lost in a no win situation in which they could not escape.

Soames believed that Irene belonged to him. She was his wife, and he would have her at any cost.  This belief turned him into a monster who would not be denied. We watched anger morph into despair, into hatred, into revenge.  It is a beautiful series, faultlessly done.  I felt sorry for many of the characters, but it was Soames that will remain seared in my mind.

It's All Temporary

Ben Heine: Pencil vs Camera

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Genealogy

Puppets discuss their genealogy and family trees.

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Teddy

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Leonard Cohen

"My song," because my name is Marianne - written and performed by the genius of Leonard Cohen:

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Parking Wars

The condo parking lot is a nightmare.

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Haunted by Naomi Shihab Nye

Haunted
by Naomi Shihab Nye 

We are looking for your laugh.
Trying to find the path back to it
between drooping trees.
Listening for your rustle
under bamboo,
brush of fig leaves,
feeling your step
on the porch,
natty lantana blossom
poked into your buttonhole.
We see your raised face
at both sides of a day.
How was it, you lived around
the edge of everything we did,
seasons of ailing & growing,
mountains of laundry & mail?
I am looking for you first & last
in the dark places,
when I turn my face away
from headlines at dawn,
dropping the rolled news to the floor.
Your rumble of calm
poured into me.
There was the saving grace
of care, from day one, the watching
and being watched
from every corner of the yard.

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Gossip

He said, she said, he said, she said . . .

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Danielle LaPorte

Easier said than done?  Nope, you'll figure it out.

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Street Art

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Debate - The Gender Gap

Is there a War on Women at Puddleduckpuppet Plaza?

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Frida Kahlo

It's obvious
by Greg Hewett
It’s obvious beauty is a postage stamp, a composed self-portrait of Frida Kahlo wearing a simple necklace, an image chosen by the USPS not because it was like one she painted for Trotsky. Of course beauty could not include imagery of hammer and sickle or black monkey leering over her shoulder or parrot twisted under her chin. And not the one with snakes. Not the one of her all butched-up, hair cropped short, wearing one of Diego’s suits after they split for the final time. Not one with wheelchair, spinal-brace, or scar down her long trunk. Forget the one of her cloven wide open, a jungle of history and myth, of poetry burgeoning forth from her innermost. Most definitely not the one of her wearing the collar of thorns in memory of Jesus and Trotsky and revolution lost.

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David Bowie

Ground Control to Major Tom

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Debate - Photo ID's

A photo ID required for voting????

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Clara the Clearest

A short piece of fiction by yours truly:

CLARA THE CLEAREST

Clara sat across from me at our small table by the window, her clear, slanted  cat-like eyes watched me relentlessly, unblinking.  Her clothes, muted creams, browns and grays blended into her essence, giving her a mercurial  persona. She reminded me of a Siamese cat, uncertain whether to pounce or purr.  She also gave me the odd feeling that she could vaporize at any moment, disappear into the woodwork.

     We met for lunch at Ryan’s, a popular eatery in town. As usual Ryan’s was hopping but I wondered if perhaps I had picked the wrong restaurant, the wrong day, the wrong lunch date. Was our “lets do lunch” date  doomed from the start? Her persistent stare was unsettling to say the least. The lunch was a favor for my husband, Jim, who worked with Clara’s husband.  They had recently relocated to our town and Jim thought she needed help meeting people.

     I learned quickly that she neither wanted nor needed help meeting people - or help with anything else for that matter. Our waiter took our order. Mine, the usual, a Ceasar Salad with the house dressing.

     “I’ll have a cup of clam chowder, a rare cheese burger, French fries, a coke, and chocolate mousse for dessert.”

     “Well I see you don’t worry about calories, cholesterol, or red meat,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound too envious.

     “No, I don’t worry about any of that. I don’t worry about anything.” There were those eyes again, looking at me with unfailing certitude. I began to wish that she actually would vaporize.  I felt awkward sitting opposite this strange woman who seemed oblivious to the fact that it was impolite to stare. She also had an uncanny ability to sit in silence. No idle chit chat with this one. Small talk was not in her repertoire. 

     I, who was there to help her, suddenly felt a strange role reversal. She would help me, but help me with what? Until that moment I didn’t realize I needed help, I was living my life just fine. 

     “I don’t worry about anything.”   I thought about what she said. Really? How could that be possible?  We lived in an era of violence, conflict: conflict in the Mid East, conflict in politics, conflict in the media, we can’t trust what we read or see on TV any more. I worry about everything. 

     “How do you do that, how do you keep from worrying?”

     “Because I know I am powerless over all of it. What goes on out there is beyond my control.” She gestured as she said, “out there.”

     “I know, but I can’t stop the constant chatter in my head, the voice that says I should be doing something.”

With that she smiled, and her smile made me slightly giddy. Her eyes became deep pools, almost luminous. Surrounded by the hustle and bustle of lunch hour, she  remained untouched by it all, and in a flash, I realized that I wanted what she had. 

Again I asked her how she did it. “How do you keep from worrying?” 

“I meditate, and as I meditate I picture myself as a vessel sailing along in a very stormy sea.  There are whirlwinds, there is turbulence, gales everywhere, but they are not my concern. My job is to stay afloat and to keep calm. That’s all.”

Our food arrived. She ate everything on her plate. I watched her eat, amazed that she could consume everything with such unadorned pleasure, but then I remembered that she didn’t worry about anything. After lunch she excused herself and went to the ladies room. I imagined her cleaning her hands methodically, as a cat would clean her paws. It was then that I understood what was unclear to me when our lunch began, why Clara reminded me of a cat.  Cats are unaware of death, wars, the horrendous violence man perpetrates on their fellow man, and it is that ignorance that sets them apart from us, freeing them from worry.  I waited about ten minutes, then signaled the waiter for the check.  I never saw her again, she had in fact vaporized.

It's All Temporary

Being Watched

Danger, danger!

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More Irving Berlin

Perfect song, perfect melody, perfect lyrics (and F. Scott Fitzgerald was no slouch as a writer, either.)

It's All Temporary

Flip Turn

I am happy to report that my swimming is progressing. Forty-five minutes, five days a week, back and forth I go, sometimes like a minnow, sometimes like a whale. One day there was a woman swimming in the next lane, an aggressive swimmer who swam with a rage the likes of which I had not seen. I was glad she wasn't mad at me. I became consumed with envy over her flip turns. She wore flippers and every time she hit the wall there was a "wham, slap" and then off she went again down the lane like a tormented walrus. 

 Flip turns have been my nemisis. I can't do them, but this woman stirred up my competitive juices and I became obsessed. If she can, I can. So I tucked my body into a somersault position, held my nose and went for it. It wasn't pretty. It still isn't, my flip turns are more like flop turns, but persistence is the key, and I shall triumph.

 That same day I showered and stood in front of my locker naked as a jay bird, working the combination on my pad lock. It would not open. I have used the same combination every day for six months and IT WOULD NOT OPEN! Feeling rather vulnerable, I realized that all my clothes and my car keys were in that locker. An angel in the locker room said "I will get help." Four magic words. She returned with another woman and some monster clippers. It didn't end there, we needed the muscles of a man (oh dear) so we cleared the locker of all females so that he could come in and get the job done.

 My little wet YMCA towel wrapped around my shivering body did not keep me warm, but I was warmed by  those angels in the locker room. Who knows, maybe one of them was that "Angry Goddess of the Flip Turn" coming to my rescue. We all look the same with bathing caps and goggles, without them, it's hard to tell.

It's All Temporary

Happy Easter! The Mormon Tabernacle Choir

Takes my breath away . . .

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Penny Puppet

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Laughing German Weather Girl

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Swimming Trials at The Puddleduckpuppet Plaza

It's All Temporary

Dolly Parton

Obsessions are strange things. I should know, I tend to have a bit of an obsessive personality myself. My obsessions are few and far between, I never know when they are going to strike, but when they do, that's it, game over. Whatever it may be, it has rented every room in my head, evicting all other tenants. This is by way of an introduction to a netflix documentary I watched recently, For the Love of Dolly.

I have to admit I watched this with the same sick fascination I watch those housewives on Bravo.  Once watching, I couldn't stop. I have liked Dolly Parton ever since my son and his family lived in Knoxville with their baby, Max. It seems Dolly Parton sends a book to every baby in East Tennessee every year until they are five. She does it without fanfare because she is concerned about the high rate of illiteracy in Tennessee.  (I am adding information at the end of this post about her program.)

Because I admire her dedication towards combatting illiteracy, I was curious to know if there are more good works from our little well endowed friend . Watching this documentary reveals none of that, as a matter of fact we see very little of Dolly at all. What we do see are five or six people so consumed with collecting Dolly Parton memorabilia they can hardly fit into their homes. Mannequins, posters, dolls, dresses, life-size cut outs. 

One young woman in California went to Tennessee and visited the log cabin where Dolly grew up, returned and built the exact replica, filling the yard with life-sized Dolly dolls. She prays to her every night, believing that Dolly is her mother. Another actually made his Dolly dolls. They were beautiful, I make dolls myself, and his are amazing. His entire home is full of Dolly dolls, he was quite serious when he said he would have to move into a bigger house because of his doll collection. 

The film disturbed me beyond belief. If these people put their time and energy into a worthy cause, any worthy cause, rather than obsessing about coming up with the money to go to the next Dolly Parton Day Parade, they could change the world. Instead they have turned a country singer into their goddess. Projection is a powerful thing, Carl Jung would have had a field day with this.

In 1996, Dolly Parton launched an exciting new effort, Dolly Parton's Imagination Library, to benefit the children of her home county in East Tennessee, USA. Dolly's vision was to foster a love of reading among her county’s preschool children and their families by providing them with the gift of a specially selected book each month. By mailing high quality, age-appropriate books directly to their homes, she wanted children to be excited about books and to feel the magic that books can create. Moreover, she could insure that every child would have books, regardless of their family’s income. Making A Difference: Dolly’s Imagination Library became so popular that in the year 2000 she announced that she would make the program available for replication to any community that was willing to partner with her to support it locally. 

Since the initial program launch in the United States, Dolly Parton's Imagination Library has gone from just a few dozen books to nearly 40,000,000 books mailed to children in the United States, into Canada and across the proverbial pond into the United Kingdom! Currently over 1600 local communities provide the Imagination Library to almost 700,000 children each and every month. Already statistics and independent reports have shown Dolly Parton's Imagination Library drastically improves early childhood literacy for children enrolled in the program. Further studies have shown improved scores during early literacy testing.

It's All Temporary