Home, Sweet Home

It was the kind of lightning that made Ben Franklin giggle with girlish excitement.
It was the kind of lightning that reveals the murderer, and he is right behind you.
It was the kind of lightning from which sirens spring.
The atmosphere this evening on our way home had the manic quality of an unstable dinner guest with a drug therapy problem. We drove home on a rain black street into a panoramic screen torn by flashing blue-white crags that lit the sky purple and gave the neighborhood an ominous feeling of twitchy, untrustworthy daylight. The lightning was so continuous that the thunder was an afterthought—a low, monotonous grumble, unnoticeable in its repetition. Even the rain was secondary, not pouring down in torrents that pounded the pavement but a steady shower that would have been pleasant for gutter splashing were it not for the threat of electrocution.

Eventually, the rain overtook the lightning or at least matched it, and streets began to flood, traffic began to stall. We passed safely through on our way to meet friends at a tapas bar in Minneapolis. Minneapolis. My old neighborhood. I felt like I was spectating, a tourist… all the pretty lights, all the traffic. All the night-life, at 9:30 in the evening. I felt like I was in an entirely different city because, well… I was. Minneapolis and Saint Paul, though they rub lasciviously against one another at certain junctions in their municipal plottings, are separated by the Mississippi River in other places. That river intervenes for a reason. Aside from the mundane facts of modern boundaries and governmental organization, they were founded years ago, many miles apart at the time, and thought of themselves as different entities, if they thought of each other at all. They still do.

I used to get lost in St. Paul, until I bought a house there and left my young, irresponsible, Minneapolis days behind. It was time to bring a little life to the capital city. Or at least a few tax dollars. From 1841, when its name was changed from Pig´s Eye Landing to Saint Paul, right up until this morning when I walked the half a block to the bus stop, St. Paul has been thought of as sedate, responsible, reliable if a little boring. This was, no doubt, why it was chosen to be the state capital.

On the east side of the river, the village of St. Anthony was settled around1839. Presently, it is represented only by a struggling shopping plaza named “St. Anthony Main” as the city of Minneapolis, which originated on the river's west side in 1847, annexed St. Anthony in 1872. The resulting city was a lumber and flour milling center, bustling with merchants and manufacturing, clearly too unstable to represent the state and host the government.

After all, St. Paul gets Garrison Keillor, and Minneapolis gets Prince. St. Paul has the Winter Carnival, and Minneapolis has Holidazzle! St. Paul had F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Minneapolis had Husker Du, the Replacements, and the Suburbs. (Actually, these things are not so far apart. F. Scott was a wild man.) St. Paul has the hockey team, Minneapolis has the basketball team. Chamber Orchestra? St. Paul. Symphony? Minneapolis. Science Museum, History Center, State Capital Building... St. Paul. Art Institute, First Avenue, Dream Girls... Minneapolis. You see my point.

A few years ago, our wrestler governor made headlines when he announced on a late night talk show that St. Paul’s streets were designed by a bunch of drunken Irishmen. People got upset. Whether or not it was true that inebriated former island-dwellers from across the pond had laid out St. Paul, it is true that the streets are often convoluted and many people from Minneapolis fear to go there. But give the guys a break; they had a river, bluffs, and interesting glacial topography to contend with. Apparently, “people” say that St. Paul is the last eastern city, and Minneapolis is the first western city. I had never heard this before last weekend, so who these “people” are is as yet unknown. It is amusing to me that there are not numbered streets in St. Paul, most everything seems to be an avenue, and the numbers on houses correspond to precisely nothing. You have to rely on your sense of direction to find places and not on an organized system. Luckily, I have that sense of direction to fall back on because I really do tend to appreciate an organized system here and there.

When I started looking for houses in 2001, I was initially hoping to own in Minneapolis, in the same neighborhoods I was accustomed to living. Uptown. Uptown was definitely where I wanted to be. After all, I had lived in the general vicinity since 1992. However, this desire proved impossible, due to my measly income, and I was nudged into either North Minneapolis or St. Paul. North Minneapolis seemed farther away from Minneapolis than St. Paul, and the quality of the neighborhoods varied block by block.

I drove by many places and marked certain ones for entry. First there was the house that was near one of the lakes and within my price range, but was so thickly painted as to hint at concealment of a crime that involved bodily fluids. Then the house that my realtor basically said I would never be able to afford once the bidding war was over. Then the house that already had an offer. Then the house for sale by owner that was priced way above its worth. And then the house that was passable.

My little house was the seventh house I walked into, and I knew right when I entered its dark, paneled kitchen that it was my house. I saw what it was right away, underneath the carpeting and paneling and boxed in bathroom appliances. St. Paul became my home because it was where my house had been living, all this time, without me.

I guess,
If this plane were to shudder
into violent orange bits
in the presure of this cold front
and we had a weightless moment
together
before the end
it would not matter so much
because after it was all over
I would not be frustrated
by my inability to explain death to you
because there you would be
and we could spend eternity
talking about what it was like
when our breath left our body
and how weird it was
that the stewardess was stuck
pushing bags of salted nuts
on weary passengers
forever

And Your Little Dog, too.

“Fuuuuuuck.”

That’s what she said when she realized who I was under all the green paint and witchyness.

“Demon wenches,” she slurred out as she looked beyond me to Kira and Greta.

You can’t go home again. That’s what they say. It’s one of those clichés, supposedly wrought from the experience of wise philosophers. And in some sense, it’s true. Things change, people grow older, they have kids, they get fat, sometimes they turn crazy. They even die. Buildings are taken down, new music wings pop up on the rear end of the high school, and your band conductor retires. Football players who used to throw things at you in the halls hit on you in the bar. You can’t go back in time, and thank goodness for that, I say. I don’t know about you, but you could not give me a million dollars to go back and redo seventh grade. Even if I did get to take everything I know now with me, and I could use the money to redo the bathroom. Everything I gained since then would be dismantled within days by the humiliation, bad hair, and orthodontic appliances. Because I bet I wouldn’t get to go back Hot.

But actually, you can go home again. And when you get there, your seventh grade health class tablemate will call you a demon wench. It’s refreshing; because if you return home expecting things to be the same or expecting some great sense of personal fulfillment or even that you will find that missing piece, and it will make your life entirely complete—something that your mom has been keeping for you in a box in the basement, perhaps—then you will be disappointed and sad. Home is what it is now, not what it was then, and it either needs to be rejected or appreciated on those grounds.

17 years or more after we graduated from high school, I am really only different in things I have and perhaps the way I look. Even green, I look much better now than I did then. It’s not that I arrive in Winona and immediately transform back into that insecure high school girl looking for approval from the alternative kids, but I remember that girl, and I appreciate her, too, for what she was and her part in getting me to where I am now: in charge of a whole fleet of flying monkeys.

The party that we attended was thrown by an ex-boyfriend of mine and Greta’s, sometimes at the same time, sometimes not. Were our lives back then to be made into a movie, it would probably be much more salacious than it actually was. Back then, it was downright painful. Now, it makes for a good story, and we are still friends. He now has two kids who he is raising by himself and runs a coffee shop. He has become the doyen of the Winona alt-creative scene, and he’s the crazy old uncle who has the place where the cool kids go. Everyone knows him, and he seems to have found his niche. He holds puppet shows and hosts musicians; he throws Halloween parties and Funky Formals. He really has not changed, not in essentials, just as we have not. We’ve added layers, for better or for worse, and we choose which layers we show depending upon our surroundings. I can truly say that I am happier, so it does not matter, most of the time, where I am. My life comes with me, and it’s a good life.

Usually, Halloween costume discussions begin in August or September, and we start getting things together soon after. Two years ago, the four girls, Greta, Kira, Liza, and myself were the four seasons, and it went over very well, I must say. Last year, we planned on being Dolls of the World, which was a much more fluid and unrecognizable theme by the time we were done with it. We were international, but we really weren’t dolls. Except for Liza, who went with the doll make up and the doll poses and is still pissed about it. The whole “doll thing” fell apart when Kira and I decided that we could somehow include our boyfriends in the theme. She was going to be the Spanish doll, and she decided to go with the grieving Spanish widow whose husband was gored in a bullfight. That would have made her boyfriend a dead matador. Once she said that, the Irish Doll (me) came up with the brilliant idea that my short boyfriend could be a leprechaun. When I asked him if he had ever done that, he said no in a surprised tone. Like he could not believe he had not thought of it before. Done. We became members of the Irish Faerie Court. Of course, by the time Halloween rolled around, Kira and her boyfriend had broken up, and though they were friendly and he seemed uncertain of his decision, she decided to turn him into the Portrait of Dorian Gray by the time the party rolled around. If he was not going to be her boyfriend, “I’m going to make him ugly,” she said.

Last Halloween, it occurred to me that for this year, I should be Dorothy and Pete should be a Flying Monkey. When I woke up, and Halloween was a week away, I switched to the witch. I have things at home that could make that costume. Dorothy, I would have to make. And Dorothy is stupid. Kira and her new boyfriend decided to be Perseus and Medusa. Greta chose Captain Hooker. Liza was going to be in Bemidji with the baby. We decided to go to Winona. Pete’s band had a gig in Rochester, which is only 40 minutes away from there, so we figured we would just go to the gig and then drive to my parents’ house afterwards. Get ready Saturday, go to the party together, come home Sunday. Perfect. It was all set, all planned.

Then Kira’s boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend’s mother died in Texas, so he took off at the last minute to attend the funeral, taking him away for the weekend. Kira decided to accompany us anyway, which made us happy, but she was of course sad that he would not be with her. Not to mention wondering why the gods just would not let her couples’ costume ideas work out.

Pete’s band played a great show, and everything came off just fine, even though we were running late from The Cities and then took a wrong turn, causing just a bit of tension in the car. I think that my heart actually stopped when Pete cut across a couple of lanes into en exit lane to turn around, coming up quite fast and quite close to a minivan that was also exiting in a more temperate manner. On Saturday, we took over the house. Luckily, my parents were out of town because we made a mess. By the time we were done, the family room looked like it had hosted a monkey fight. There were makeup tubes and bobby pins, feathers and bits of felt and fur everywhere. We just left it. Tomorrow is another day.

The party was populated by many people we did not know, some we knew by sight, at least one who should not be having a baby (I’m so judgmental), and a few of our high school compatriots. Some welcome, some not as welcome.

While it is disconcerting to see someone for the first time after what is probably a decade and have them be fat and clearly crazy, there is definitely a sense of self appreciation that comes from it. I really don’t care if this person thinks that I am a demon wench. It’s quite funny, actually. “FUUUCK you,” was the first response Kira got from her when she went to say hi. She was swaying and slurring by the time she got to me, and Mattress was complimenting her “bath towel attire” and saying things like “I love what you’ve done with yourself.” She didn’t notice. She was too far gone. Sure, it’s mean and done only for one’s own amusement at the expense of another person, but somewhere inside of all of us is a person who wishes we could just spend one day being Karen Walker. And besides, she was not exactly being complimentary toward us, and this is the same woman who gave Kira a second hand sheet wrapped in a second hand belt as a wedding present. The gift was prefaced with a “I looked really hard to find something that I really though was YOU.” Pete asked us in the morning what she was dressed as, because he was hoping that would identify her in his mind. “A fat crazy lady” was what we said. He didn’t remember her.

Crazy people or not, I’ll go home again. I have family there, and it really is a beautiful town. Winona is part of who I am; it molded me for 8 years and continues to reside in my psyche. It’s an identity, a cachet even in some remote circles, and I am just fine with saying I am from there. It’s full of memories and associations, not all of which are necessarily good, but which stir up the heart and the head and get the cells working, the synapses firing. Besides that, the beer is really cheap.

But what are we going to wear?

I had left work early because there was nothing happening. I had a few errands to run, and then I thought I would stop by Headquarters and see if there was anything to do. Input data, stuff envelopes, box up a computer or two. I would be useful there. I was driving up Snelling Avenue to return some videos. Listening to public radio, looking at the campaign signs. Snelling Avenue North near the state fair in Saint Paul, Minnesota is Vegas for campaign signs because of its high traffic. I watched them flash past as I drove through the cold rain thinking, for certain, for the first time “We’re gonna win. We are going to win.” The numbers were looking good. The “no” vote, against the impending war, timed to hurt those running for office, had defied the pervasive political sensibilities and given him the lead. People trusted him and understood him, whether they agreed with him or not, and that respect led to a jump in the polls. “We are going to win.”

P.J O’ Rourke was speaking on the National Press Club, and his words about “pork” in recent federal government bills were ringing in my ears as I dropped off the videos and browsed for a few minutes. When I got back into the car, Gary Eichten, our Midday host on public radio, was speaking. “…no confirmed reports, but it appears that a small plane that was registered to the Wellstone campaign has crashed in northern Minnesota near Eveleth… it is not known at this time whether Senator Wellstone was aboard….”

No no no no no… please say no.

I headed down Larpenteur back to Snelling and back down the road. No. What are we supposed to do now? What am I supposed to do now? My cell phone rang, and it was my mother. She was crying; she was wondering what I was doing. Crying and driving and listening to the radio. She asked what I was going to do, and I said that I had been intending to go to Headquarters, but now I did not know what to do. She said I should go. So I did. I drove past a small crowd of reporters gathered around the doors to the building, parked, and walked over. The press manager was talking to the reporters, and he went to stop me, took one look, and waved me in. Inside Wellstone Campaign Headquarters was a feeling that had never been there. It was quiet; it was somber. People whispered and moved about as if in a trance. Some were crying, and no one really seemed to know what was going on. They were waiting; we were waiting. Hoping against hope, when we all knew the truth.

But I did not believe it until I looked up and saw Senator Ted Kennedy entering the room, followed by Walter Mondale and another man who, if he was not George McGovern, should play him in the film. They were all crying. They walked through the group of volunteers and staff, offering their condolences and hugging us in turn. This was real. But I felt like I was floating, dreaming a bad dream, and I would wake up.

No. No no no.
What are we supposed to do now?

Zen Moment

Who's taking care of the millionaires?
The federal government? The IRS?

Yes.
And Powerball.

(Lucky Guy)

I love it when "strict fiscal conservatives" are also filthy rich. Because they can afford it.

The church that put up the "Children know what god wants" sign (*shiver*) changed over a few days ago to:
"Violence is a lack of imagination."

Um, I think it's a little more than that.

Chartered Accountancy is a lack of imagination.

Plenty of uncreative people don't kill...
or maim, break, destroy, ignite, run for office.

I am going to be keeping an eye on this church.

H. Sapiens 101

Mary Shelley was 20 when she wrote “Frankenstein.” She was expressing fundamental issues swirling about in society in the first part of the 19th century. Science was literally exposing layers of previously unimaginable prehistory, and humankind was grappling with the concept of its primacy—with its very nature. In the book, Dr. Frankenstein sets out to find the source of life, literally, the spark. He succeeds in creating life from inanimate material, but fears and loathes his creation, abandoning it entirely. The creature eventually acts out against the creator in horrific ways. The creator does not take responsibility for the creature until it is too late, and the damage has been done. It’s a quest that will take his life and eventually take the life of the creature.

The crux of this biscuit is; if you create a monster, you are then responsible for understanding, caring for, and controlling that monster. It is unkind to do anything else. It is disrespectful and dangerous to set that monster loose and then abdicate the Creator Throne.

In this life I have met fellow beings who consider themselves creators: teachers of humanity. There is that old adage “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.” I don’t agree with that statement: it only applies to bad teachers. I have had many teachers who were brilliant, accomplished, and able, but they enjoyed being around people and imparting their knowledge, so they chose to stay in school. And thank goodness they did. The bad teachers are another story. Unfortunately, they are often very good at cloaking themselves in respectability and projecting themselves as someone to be reckoned with. Because they occupy a position of power, because they are magnetic personalities, they wield influence over younger, less experienced individuals. Because they have become so adept at subverting their own neurosis, they often walk among us unexposed. They think that they are qualified to impart their wisdom of humanity to willing subjects, and they intend to do it.

Thing is: in order to be a teacher in H. Sapiens 101, you have to have first TAKEN the class and received a passing grade. You must then complete the coursework that comprises the entire curriculum and obtain your degree and then your teaching certificate. As your career progresses, you must engage in continuing education activities that will be monitored by the licensing body. There is a minimum of credits that must be completed per year to maintain your good standing.

What I am really trying to say here is:
Don’t get up on that dais, put your notes on the podium, write on that white board, or pick up that chalk until you have dealt with your own shit. Otherwise, the monsters you create might be your own.