Rain

Rain.

Choral, genial, tap you on the shoulder, kind of rain

lightheartedly patting the sand paper roof slates.

Giving a pulse to the soil again.

Playing timpani on the side view mirrors of each elephantine vehicle out front.

Rain.

That puts you to bed.

Its darling rhythm a tonic to your sleepy heart.

Taco flavored wallet.

Doesn’t actually taste like a taco, but it sure as hell looks like one! Its going to be a great conversation starter at the register. Cash, credit, or carne asada?

Preserving your grandmother’s folk-art, one cross-stitch at a time.

I have now rescued three hand-cross-stitched wall hangings from area thrift stores and they are now my new favorite treasure to discover. These painstakingly stitched works of art, probably made by the fireside hearth of the most soft-spoken dear-hearted grandmother, are often haphazardly stashed cheek by jowl with chintzy frosted mirrors and rookie-of-year posters in the neglected corners of the Goodwill .

This jubilantly filled vase of vernal foliage set me back a whopping $3. I centered it into a blue frame that used to have a mirror in it and it hangs right above my desk in my room. I will always have spring on my wall! I love the Gerber daisies and the grey shadow at the base of the vase. Can you imagine all of the hours of needle in and needle out action? With so many different colors of threads! It totally deserves the prominent station my wall.

This is exoctic looking arrangement is made with much thicker thread, some if it looks like actual scarf yarn, and it set upon a piece of heavy duty burlap. Its got such great upward movement and groovy color palate. I found it at a thrift store called ‘UNIQUE’ outside of Minneapolis and I paid $6 for it.

This one is a bit more rudimentary looking but flowers must be easier to stitch than fowl. My friend Tara could probably tell me what kind of the bird this is supposed to be. My favorite aspect of this sweet little scene is the fuzzy clumps of um, fuzz, that the birdie perches near. It reminds me of those children’s books that have tactile fragments built into them, like pieces of felt or fur.

My room, now that it is adorned with stitched flora & fauna.

Looking around my room I realize how much I am attracted to vibrant colors, not just one or two, but lots of vibrant colors right next to each other.

And here are some of my favorite things that made the migration north with me from Austin: my breadbox and Lady Barbara the fruity cookie-jar. P.S. I love pictures of fruit.

Three syllables

‘Speak of the devil’ coincidences spook me.

Who or what is it that is out there eavesdropping on my confidences? What supernatural seismic force is sensing my conversations?

I think and think and think about circumstances that I wish were different. And then one random day, in a dazedly frank way, I finally  let the god damn thing off my chest. Its the day when I truly believe that an apology is perfectly adequate, that I can let bygones by bygones, if only an apologetic sentiment (coincidentally of three syllables) was extended.

I’m sorry.

Whew.

Its quite a shock to see handwriting you never expected to see again on an envelope you never expected to arrive. I let out  trepid little cry and dropped the surprise piece of mail onto the floor as if it was a ticking bomb.

“Please, please. Let it be good. Let it be kind. Please. Please.” I thought frantically.

And it was. An unsolicited simple apology.

Along with a book, two pairs of socks, and precious back-up CD of  my poems and essays dating back to high school.

I’m left with mixed feelings of relief. Relief in the fact that I can, at last, let go of the lingering resentment that I was never big enough to release without hearing those three little syllables.

Here are three more:

I forgive.

Touring the tundra

We’re three quarters done with our Mid-west tour of ‘Hedda Gabler’ and I’ve been frightfully remiss in the upkeep of my blog. Its hard to find the right kind of time to sit down in front of my computer and write, but I have been keeping a little mental list of tour related anecdotes and reveries.

The ‘Hedda Gabler’ crew. Jerome, Kimberly, Stef, Hal, Adrienne, Jason, Scott, & Nancy.

After an overnight pitstop in Lanesboro, we will continue tomorrow on our tour of 9 shows in 8 cities in 12 days. Already we’ve conquered Eua Claire, WI, Fairibault MN, Fergus Falls MN, Red Wing MN, Grand Rapids MN, Brainerd MN. Next we’re on to Stoughton WI (just outside of Madison) and then our final stop at the Playwrights Center in Minneapolis.

Touring is a lot of work and a tremendous amount of effort. The unloading and loading of the truck is, in and of itself, a twice daily hefty chore (remember, we’re essentially hauling a 19th century living room everywhere we go).  However, my onstage responsibilities are scant (Berta, the Tesman maid? Nothing less than a classic heroine who has some of the juiciest Ibsen dialogue such as “Yes Mame”) and I spend much of the show in the varying spaces allotted as green rooms with my reading spectacles perched on my nose and a book or crossword puzzle balanced on my lap.

Colorful commemoratively decorated greenroom in Fairibault MN. The venue was in a private boarding school. Marlon Brando was expelled from it back when it was military school. But not before performing in a few drama association productions. Thus, I have tread the same boards as the quintessential method actor.

For some reason,  I anticipated meeting spring along the way of the tour. It is April isn’t it? Its is Easter and Passover and daylight savings time, isn’t it? Shouldn’t there be buds and bulbs and shoots and sprouts? Nope. Just dingy dirty piles of snow, starkly bare branches, naked knotted bushes, highways of tan and brown and grey and garbage. I remember the vardency of Texas this time of year. The trumpeting April daffodils of California. They tell me its coming. They tell me its been a long cold one this year. Meanwhile, I’m finding the bright where I can.