play me like a jukebox

I was raised Catholic, Catholic school, choir, all that jazz. Church songs (and girl scout songs, and the theme song to The Greatest American Hero) are programmed into me, in a disturbing way. I walk around humming them a lot.

When I played a board game in high school with my friends involving song lyrics, they came up with lyrics from pop songs, or classic rock. I consistently came up with church songs. I desperately wanted to come up with a Joy Division line or something, to restore my coolness. No can do.

Imagine my pleasure when I've been walking around for two days singing a church song that is apparently pro S/M, and pro role swapping: "Oh Master grant that I may never seek so much to be controlled as to control - ol - ol. To be understood as to understand. To be loved as to love with all my soul -ol -ol."

Only this morning did I realize it's probably "consoled" rather than "controlled." I guess my head is combining cultures, much like how Catholicism is combined with indigenous beliefs in Mexico, giving it some aesthetics it lacked otherwise!

gentle men: how the alphabet is used

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood! Yes, I'm singing that old Mr. Rogers tune today, because the temperature is delicious, spring flowers and leaves and buds are appearing an an amazing pace, the sun is bright, and Beacon's little community food project is finding its feet.

I'm singing loudly, and then find myself thinking about people like Fred Rogers. Obsessed with community, how things are made and by whom, make-believe, swimming laps, and vegetarianism—like me! Fred was probably a lot more gentle to my aggro, but he was a big deal to me (kill your television and all). I was profoundly sad when he died, even though there's that weirdness over feeling you've lost someone who was actually unknown to you.

I had that same feeling of loss when River Phoenix died. To me, he was such a lesbian, a lesbian icon, even. Everything about him, aside from the silly fact that he was a straight man, was as dyke culture as can be. (Is it Kaia or River, River or Kaia?) It was the same year that Kurt Cobain died, the year I lived in the Pacific Northwest. Cobain's death was one I was on the outside of, looking in and seeing what looked like absurd public grief. He wanted to die. I thought people should be happy the poor man finally had some relief. But then, there was how I felt about River and Fred, so I get it, I guess.

Cheers to two gentle men in my life who were never actually in my life. And to those people who actually are my neighbors. It was a stunning sunrise, and it is a beautiful day.

where does the time go?

There's no time for pondering this question while listening to Nina Simone, it's time to get seedlings started indoors or in cold frames!

If you live in the Hudson Valley, please consider getting local seeds from the new Hudson Valley Seed Library, making yourself familiar with the important work they're doing, and enjoying the artist designed seed packs they've created.For extra credit, actually organize your garden plans.

tiny tool

On the Norwegian side of my family, I had some gay uncles, brothers, Teddy and Jolmer. They lived by a lake in Minnesota, down the road from their sister Ruth. Teddy played rousing, dramatic songs on the organ and cooked, and Jolmer carved and fixed things. All three of them fished. They are who I think of when I hear Le Tigre's Les and Ray, even though they lived in the country and didn't share walls with anyone.

I guess it's only speculation that they were gay, but they lived together, both single, for their entire lives, two gentle men. I think Ruth had a husband and children at one point, but would have to ask my mom to be sure. She lived alone when I knew her, and mainly just spent time with her brothers.

I only have two tidbits of Jolmer's carving remaining: a tiny basket and a tiny monkey, both carved out of nut shells. For many years, my favorite piece, now lost, was a pair of tiny working pliers. It may be the OCD inside of me that loves so much care put into a tiny nut shell, but I like to think it's just appreciation.

Jolmer's pliers plus my love of hand tools were the reasons I had a little bit of weakness for "tool" jewelry when it became popular. But when I saw these tiny tool carvings by jeweler Laurie Brown, I was way more excited & sentimental.

I'm obsessed with craft that is useful, but apparently I can be excited by fragile work that only hints at usefulness!tools from aesthetic outburst.
sporks from andothersuchthings.

churchgoer

OH YEEAH! Big Saturday Night: I went to church. Well, a concert in a church.

I can't really explain what possessed me, except that I liked this sign, and I'd been curious about the church architecturally. It was built in 1725, was used as a prison during the revolutionary war, has a really old cemetery in the yard, and has a little preaching perch out front, on the street, with stairs to climb up to it.

The bells were amusing enough. I thought they'd be played by seniors, but it was a whole group (what do you call them, a band?) of teens. I got to sit in the balcony, on the organ bench, under all the big organ pipes, and check out the building relatively undisturbed. But then, there was a trick. The bells ended, and a teen choir started singed "God is in control." I got out quick.

There is one thing I miss about church, and that is that even the people with the bad voices get to sing. But clearly there's a lot I don't miss. Glad to have made it out unscathed.

use what you've got

There's a guy in Poughkeepsie composing music, amazing music, by hitting the bridge with various tools. This idea isn't so new...people who haven't had much have created musical instruments out of whatever they could find for eons. Those of us who ride the NYC subways are intimately familiar with the bucket drummers who keep us dancing on our commutes.

It does still seem novel to be playing the Mid-Hudson bridge. The compositions will be complete and made public this summer, celebrating the 400th anniversary of Henry Hudson's voyage up the Hudson River. You can listen to a clip here.

And, I don't know if there will be drummers there, but this summer will also see the opening of the Walkway over the Hudson. This railroad bridge, just north of (and visible from) the Mid-Hudson Bridge, was the longest bridge in the world when it opened in 1889. In the 1970s a fire damaged the bridge, and it's been out of use since. It's being re-engineered as a park and walkway over the river, connecting rail trails on either side, and promises to be a stunning public space. Parks and paths and views and drum music make for happy living.

pedestrian

Yesterday, in Newburgh, NY, I saw a man get stopped by the police for walking down the street. Sirens, lights, the works. He was walking on the shoulder of a road at an intersection where 5 years ago there was farmland, and now there are strip malls: "essential" things like B&Ns, Lowe's, Mobil stations, Chili's. It was illegal for him to be walking down this road because there is no sidewalk (like most roads these days), and, I'm guessing here, because it is considered a highway by the town of Newburgh. On an already hot and sweaty afternoon, in a landscape covered with black asphalt, this man wasn't allowed to walk home from work. (The Talking Heads song Nothing But Flowers comes to mind here.)

I was flabbergasted, and feel that, for me, this felt like the beginning of the end. I saw all this happen from a car, no surprise, but was so horrified, it makes me want to want to walk and ride my bike exclusively. I'm so repulsed by a culture that makes it illegal to walk in this place that has so recently been taken away from people, and handed to corporations. Sickened by this class crap, that tries to require people to have cars by not funding public transportation.

I'm inspired to give my friend John Francis, of the organization Planetwalk and the book Planetwalker, another read. John didn't ride in cars for twenty-two years to protest oil industry abuses, and has many an interesting story to tell from his journeys. And, bonus, he's another banjo player!

bang bang

Closing arguments were given yesterday in the Sean Bell case: "The three police officers on trial for killing a 23-year-old man on his wedding day behaved appropriately." It is looking like police officers who poured 50 bullets into Sean Bell and his friends, all unarmed black men, are going to be found not guilty, just like the officers in the murders of unarmed black men Patrick Dorismond and Amadou Diallo.

The NYPD and the NYC "justice" system should continue to be challenged. Consider listening to Le Tigre's Bang Bang during your action planning meeting....

Or support:

• October 22nd Coalition
  
• Human Rights Watch
  
• Cop Watch

power of song

This weekend I watched a documentary on Pete Seeger called The Power of Song. I'm interested in Pete for a few reasons:

• He is my town's local celebrity and performs at important town events, like the Strawberry Festival, the Corn Festival, and the Pumpkin Festival;
• He's participated in peace movements for many of his 88 years;
• He's had a big role in the fight to clean up the Hudson River, and I've enjoyed going sailing on Beacon Sloop Club's sailboat, the Woody Guthrie;
• I'm way into banjos (and harmonicas, which are less relevant here); and
• My mother has been belting out the song "Good Night, Irene" for as long as I can remember.

I learned of Pete a couple of decades ago when he performed at an Angela Davis talk. There weren't a lot of factoids in the film that I hadn't learned since that event, but it was interesting to see footage of Pete's testimony in front the House Un-American Activities Committee, as well as lots of banjo strumming. Funny enough, what the film did give me was permission to make artwork.

I do believe that art, music, dance, and poetry are necessary. But for some reason, I've always felt guilty about wanting to spend time making objects meant just for looking. It seems like wasted time. I feel I should be growing food, making tools, something functional, necessary to every day. I have dreams where my trade is fashioning hinges and latches. Then I read Muriel Rukeyser's writing about the role of poetry in getting to the essence of one's life, in remembering. Or Richard Shelton's writing about the psychologically freeing impact of creative writing programs in prisons. These accounts, like the story of Pete Seeger's life, make me know that the value of art is true.

So here's another reason to be interested in Pete Seeger: He reminds me of the power of song, of dance, of beauty. It always has a function.