Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Sunday, December 28, 2008

The gentle spirit of Renaissance

I have an orchid about to bloom.
A year ago I purchased it.
For it's gentle
beauty.
Watched it flower
and
pass.
And, now, as I say,
it is about
to bloom again.
I drove home on
an island
in between
sand
dunes
of
snow.
When I
drove
back
home
it was floating
on
fog.
Left with
thoughts.
My grandmother
yodeled
for
me.
Just opened
up her
throat
and
filled
the mini-van
with
shrill
noise.
She
yodeled
for
me,
upon
request,
when
I
was
a
kid.
I
guess
she
still does.
I caught
my sister,
Gay,
in mid-
sentence
saying,
"You
don't
know how many
times I say
I'm Gay and
people
just
stare."
I interrupted
my
absence
by saying,
"Tell me
about
it."
We
fell
into
each
other's
arms
laughing.
And
I
stared
into faces
so
much
like
my
own
that
it
is
no
wonder
we
know
each
other.
So,
with
all
of
that,
the
New
Year
dawns.
What
to
make
of
it?
One
step
forward.
That
will
do.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

To Wish you all Happiness

Never a Christmas morning,
Never the old year ends,
But somebody thinks of somebody,
Old days, old times, old friends.

Christmas 2008

To Wish you all Happiness

at Christmastide

and throughout the Coming Year.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

*The inexplicable presence of existing.

Bernard Madoff handled accounts for some Twin Cities investors who may have lost more than $100 million.

By BINYAMIN APPELBAUM, DAVID S. HILZENRATH and AMIT R. PALEY, Washington Post


Deborah Coltin learned Friday morning that the $8 million foundation she has led for a decade, which supported a wide range of Jewish programs on the north shore of Massachusetts, did not actually exist.

Coltin, executive director of the Robert I. Lappin Charitable Foundation, spent Friday in mourning, taking condolence calls and trying to understand what happened.

Let's
say
you
were
Deborah.

You
woke
up
one
day.
Got
ready
and
went
to
work.
Just
like
you
had
the
last
ten
years.
You
show
up.
Fed-
up
with
traffic.
"One
little
snow
and
they
all
act
like
they've
never
driven
before."
Pull
into
your
parking
spot.
Open
up
the
door.
And
you
don't
exist.
Wouldn't
you
be
pissed?


*inspired by Mary Margaret Leidle

Sunday, December 7, 2008

as time goes by

Lately,
people
have
been
re-entering
my
life.
Souls
that
have
drifted
away.
Or,
perhaps,
my
journey
took
me
away
from
these
beautiful
souls.
How
fortunate
it
is
when
we
get
to
reconnect.
Always,
as
if
time
hadn't
passed.
One of my sisters
used to have
a
poster
hanging
in her
room.
It said
something
along
the
lines
of
let
go
of
what you
love.
If
it
doesn't come
back
it
wasn't
meant
to
be.
If
it
does
it
always
loved
you.
Oh,
that
isn't
right.
But
you
get
the
jest.
I
remember
knowing,
truly
thinking
I
knew
what
that
meant.
I
know
now.
And
all
these
loved
ones
circling
their
spirits
about
and
landing.
Here.
(I'm
touching
my
heart
when
I
say
here)
You
know
that.
I
always
knew
it.
Here.
Right
here.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

1/One

I
was
walking
back
home
from
the
grocery
store
and
a
black
woman
waiting for
a
bus
looked
at me
and said,
"Ohhhhhhh,
you're
one
good
lookin'
white
boy."
It's
the
little
things
that
make
me
happy.
Really.

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Happy Thanksgiving

SOMETIMES
Sometimes things don't go, after all,
from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel
faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail.
Sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.

A people sometimes will step back from war,
elect an honest man, decide they care
enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.
Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best intentions do not go
amiss; sometimes we do as we meant to.
The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow
that seemed hard frozen; may it happen for you.

-- Sheenagh Pugh

Sunday, November 23, 2008

I am patient about a lot of things but not this

And
his
kiss
lingers.
How
funny
we
humans
are.
Me,
I
guess.
I
won't
speak
for
everyone.
Why
don't
I trust
in knowing?
But,
oh,
that
kiss.
And
him.
So
gentle.
So
quirky.
Letting
light
into
my
heart.
And,
oh,
that
kiss.
I
busy
myself.
Check
caller
I.D.
Look
to see
if
I've
received
any
new
emails.
Oh,
that,
kiss.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

Hang on to the pieces of the game

Lately,
I have
been
thinking
about
gifts.
My
neighbors,
friends
really,
Mary Margaret
and
Uncle Bobby,
lost
a
friend.
They
discovered
this
by
accident.
Driving
home
from
errands.
Squad
cars
and
ambulances
in
front
of
his
house.
Animal
control
searching
for
run-away
pets.
Him.
Having
died
days
ago
found
in
his
home.
And
a
call
from
Christi,
"I'm
in
the
neighborhood.
Can
I
come
over for
ten
minutes?"
And
there
at
my
front
door-
a
lost
soul.
I
roast
a
chicken.
Wonder
about
my
house.
Missing
Greta.
She
spent
the
weekend
with
Mathew.
In
this
silence
I
discover
all
these
angels
hovering
about.
Always.
It
makes
me
cry.
I
listen
to
Erik
Satie.
And
give
thanks.

To live happily ever after, even in California

To live happily ever after, even in California
By John Corvino
On election night, I was less anxious about whether Barack Obama would become president than about whether a certain little girl could marry her princess.
I’m talking about the girl in the "Yes on 8" commercial who came home from school after reading "King and King" and announced, "And I can marry a princess!"
Not in California, she can’t -- at least for the time being. Proposition 8 passed 52.5 percent to 47.5 percent, after a $74-million battle.
I say "for the time being" because nobody expects this to be the end of the story. Already, gay-rights lawyers have filed a challenge in the state Supreme Court, saying the measure is an illegal constitutional revision. The cities of San Francisco and Los Angeles did the same, as did the first couple wed in Los Angeles. It remains to be sorted out whether gays and lesbians married since June 17 will have their marriages annulled, converted to some other status or what.
Domestic partnerships will remain an option for same-sex couples in California. Other states, mainly along the coasts, will continue to recognize same-sex relationships: some with domestic partnerships, others with civil unions and a few with marriage.
Eventually, this hodgepodge will prove legally unwieldy, socially inconvenient or morally embarrassing -- probably all of the above -- and California will revisit the marriage question. If trends continue -- gay-marriage opponents drew 61 percent of the vote in 2000 but only 52 percent Tuesday -- marriage equality will prevail someday.
In the meantime, expect things to get messy. A same-sex couple married in Massachusetts (for example) will have absolutely no legal standing when traveling in California. A lesbian couple with a domestic partnership in Oregon might have to get married if they move to Connecticut. New Yorkers wed in California before the passage of Proposition 8 might have their marriage recognized by their home state but not by the state that married them. And so on.
Supporters and opponents alike will argue about whether the courts are the appropriate venue for resolving these issues. Traditionally, a key role for the courts has been to protect minority interests against the whims of the majority. One of the especially painful ironies of the Proposition 8 vote is the fact that historically oppressed minorities -- including blacks, Mormons and Catholics -- were among the measure’s strongest supporters.
It’s worth remembering, however, that the courts follow social trends more often than they set them. When the U.S. Supreme Court struck down laws against interracial marriage in Loving vs. Virginia, the majority of states already had repealed such laws. (Incidentally, California was the first.) As disappointing as the legal setbacks are, they pale in importance next to the cultural shift undeniably underway.
One thing is clear: That shift is on the side of gay and lesbian equality. More and more gay and lesbian couples are openly committing to each other, having weddings and even calling it marriage. The word is important. Princesses don’t dream about someday "domestically partnering with" the person they love. They dream about marrying him -- or, in a minority of cases, her.
To that minority, a bare majority of California voters sent a discriminatory message: You are not good enough for marriage. Your relationships -- no matter how loving, how committed, how exemplary -- are not "real" marriage.
But "real" marriage transcends state recognition of it. And that’s another reason why this debate will continue. Because it’s not just about what California should or should not legally recognize. It’s also about what sort of relationships are morally valuable, and why. And that’s a debate that, slowly but surely, gay-rights advocates are winning.
The path to inclusion is not always direct and the pace of change almost never steady. This setback is by no means a final verdict. In the coming years, gay and lesbian citizens will continue to tell our stories. We will demonstrate that, like everyone else, we are worthy of having someone to have and to hold, for better or for worse. More Americans will realize that such relationships are a good thing -- not just for us but for the community at large.
When the smoke from this battle clears, Americans will realize that gays are not interested in confusing children or in forcing princesses on little girls who don’t want them. But they also will realize that, when girls grow up to love princesses, they deserve to live happily ever after too.
John Corvino, a philosophy professor at Wayne State University, wrote this article for the Los Angeles Times.

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

and
the
wind
of
change
is
blowing.......

Sunday, November 2, 2008

Does everything remind you of an aorta now?

That's
what
changes-
isn't it?
Perspective.
It's
why
I
like
getting
older.
And
then
Michael-
or someone-
says,
"You
know
when you
were in
your
twenties
you
thought
you needed it."
Somone
else
that
is.
And
now-
becoming
so
comfortable
with
aloneness
that
when
that
somone
who
will
linger
with
me
comes
along,
well,
I
am
ready.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

untitled

the
light
above
the
kitchen
sink
is
going
out.
you
can
flick
the
switch
on
and
hear
the
hum
but
no
blue-
green
neon.
well,
not
immediately
anyway.
one
can
forget
sometimes
that
they
turned
it
on.
time
passes
a
flicker
of
surprise
never
disappoints.
so
i
had
just
flicked
it
on
and
went
about
other
tasks
and
was
thinking
i
could use
some
more
light
and
it
came
on.
funny
how
that
happens.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

10/19/08

It
was
the
kind
of
day
whose
warmness
embraced
you
and
never
let
up.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Happy Anniversary Mike and Linda!

I think you'll enjoy this:

http://www.sfgate.com/cityexposed/

My
friend
David http://daviddixondesign.com/home.html
sent
me
the
link
earlier
and
I
wanted
to
pass
it
along.

Mathew
and
I had
visited
San Francisco.
One of
our first
trips
together.
And
we
had
our
picture
taken
with
The
Brown
Twins.
We
ran
into
them
in
China
Town.
I
so
wanted
to
find
the
photo.
And
in
searching
for
it
stumbled
about other
memories.
When
I
finally
realized
where it
was;
It
struck
me
how
good
it
feels
to
be
in
the
right
place.
There
they are,
The
Brown
Twins.
Eyebrows
painted
on.
Dressed
as
if
they
were
just
coming
from
a
USO
show.
Perfectly
matched
wigs.
And
there
we
are.
So
young.
So
much
to
learn.

Saturday, October 4, 2008

The Fixer-Uppers

I spent
a lot
of
time
with
my
oldest
sister
Gay
last
weekend,
whom
I adore.
How
fortunate
for
me.
We
talked
of
each
other's
life
tribulations.
I
said,
"You know
I always
have
to make
everything
better."
And
she
said,
"That's
what
we
are,
Kevin.
The
Fixer-
Uppers.
Me.
You.
Mom.
All of us."
And
there
it
was.
And
there
was
Christi's
voice.
An
actor's
voice.
One
who
had
played
the
role
before.
And
was
playing
it
again.
And
she
was
in
trouble.
And
the
world
spins
round'.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Garrison Keillor: A shame to leave this world early

By Garrison Keillor


I was in Santa Monica for a day last week, sampling baked figs at the farmers’ market on the Third Street promenade, a sweet sunny day that makes an old Midwesterner like me a little nervous. We fear seduction. Some days in California are so tender and delicious that a person could abandon all commitments and wind up living in blissful stupor in some cult devoted to the worship of the sky.



I have work to do. I haul it around in a black case the size of an anvil and when an hour or two opens up, in an airport or hotel, I dig in. I don’t lie on beaches, looking up at the sky. It’s blue in Santa Monica. You don’t have to look at it for long to figure that out.

My hotel was on the beach, so I headed back that way, crossing the Pacific Coast Highway on a pedestrian bridge. And there, 50 yards south of me, police cars and flashing blue lights. The northbound lanes of the PCH had been closed. A car sat in the middle lane, its rear end smashed in brutally. And south of it, a yellow tarp spread on the pavement. A body lay beneath it.


Then eight cops and EMTs lined up on either side of it, like pallbearers, and then they spread out a long white sheet which they held as a screen while the yellow tarp was pulled away and a police photographer took pictures with an enormous camera. A man in a dark suit bent over the body, studying it closely. The eight men stood quietly, hardly moving, and they looked straight at each other. They did not look at the body. It was a still-life scene, except for the flashing lights and the southbound traffic passing: eight men standing at attention, guarding a body, and two men moving with great delicacy around it, gathering evidence.

A blue sky over Santa Monica and on the beach, people lay on towels, sunning themselves. A few swimmers in the surf. Roller bladers out on the sidewalk and joggers, grunting about the presidential campaign. A day in which you’ve witnessed death takes on an aura of fragile loveliness. You breathe the salt air and you savor this on behalf of the dead and note the pencil-line delicacy of the long cane poles of the Japanese fishermen on the pier, the two triangles of white sail taut with wind on the distant boat, the skinny boy in blue trunks swinging high on the flying rings on the beach and soaring to the next set of rings. You see the portly man wade into the water and shudder as the water touches his testes and you feel it, the shudder of mortality. And visions of the fallen one stay with you.

A few hours later, online, news that the victim was a woman, 44, whose car had been rear-ended, that she had gotten out of her car and stood waiting for help to arrive and was struck and killed by a third vehicle. Her name was Alma and she was from Los Angeles.

The day goes on and though you don’t keep in mind the sight of the pallbearers around the body, the death attends you wherever you go. You imagine the woman’s plan for her day, maybe lunch in Malibu and a meeting at her kids’ school and supper and a movie afterward, a simple day in sunny L.A., and you abandon your own plan to work and instead you walk around looking at the shining world on behalf of Alma who died on the highway.

You buy a mango/papaya smoothie and a cafe mocha and in the face of death they are spectacular. You sit at a table in the brilliant sunshine, the light splashing off the stone facades and aluminum moldings. She was standing by her car waiting for help to arrive when she was struck by another vehicle and killed, and 30 minutes later men were standing at attention around her. It would be intolerable not to know the name of the woman. Attention must be paid. She trails alongside you as you walk into a bookstore full of art books and you pick up one with pictures of California beach houses, all whites and yellows and pale blues, sun-drenched rooms, bowls of flowers, cotton curtains, and the sea beyond. A beautiful world, Alma, and every day is a gift. I’m sorry you had to leave early.

Sunday, September 28, 2008

On an Indian Summer's Evening

The
sun
was just
setting
as
I
drove
into
Iowa.
A
big
ball
of
crimson
orange.
Drying
fields
of
soybeans
glowed
yellow
against it.
And
with
the
land
stretching
towards
the
sky;
one
could
see
a
patchwork
of
greens
and
browns.
It's
the
picture
that
is
always
in
my
mind.
Home.
An
undercurrent
of
growth
always
surging.
Dust
blew
across
the
rode.
It
gave
the
scene
the
sense
that
someone
had
spread
Vaseline
on the
lens.
The
whole
of
it
saying
yes,
and
yes,
and
yes,
and
yes.

Sunday, September 14, 2008

My Mom called From Seattle

My Mom called
me from Seattle
Telling of journeys
on Amtrak to
Vancouver and
a
ship
to Alaska
A voice
that
spoke
with
eyes
that
had
seen
She
told
me
of
a
bus
ride
into
the
US
from
Canada
and,
"How we've
met
the
nicest
people.
We'll
meet
up
with
the
group
in
Seattle
again."
I
tell
her
I'm a little
jealous
and
she
asks me,
"Why?
You've
been
everywhere
and
we've
only
just
begun."
and
my
heart
is
warm.

Sunday, September 7, 2008

My Dearest Linda

You've been
spinning
around
my head today.
In
the
quote
I
read
on
the
fridge.
I can't
remember
it
exactly.
Something
like,
"You
have
to
take
care
of
yourself
because
you
never
know
when
the
world
will
need
you."
And
there
you
were.
The
world
needs
you
my
brilliant
friend.
Shine
on,
shine
on,
shine
on.
And
right now,
in
the background,
the
ice cream
truck
plays
and
a
pause,
and,
"Hello."
Oh,
we
need
to have
brunch
soon.
The
Shakey
Lou's.
Kelly
says,
"You're
in
his
thoughts."
It's my
grandma's
90th
birthday
in
two
weeks.
Oh,
there is
just
so much
to
tell
you.......

Saturday, August 30, 2008

My friend Tom is forever my normal:

my macbook is still partially charged with free solar electricity from da petes' farm in ulupalakua, upcountry maui. went for a long weekend retreat, extending the surfmonk metaphor to their remote mountainside enclave, for all practical purposes a monastery, as far as i was concerned ... sank gratefully into cool, almost chilly nights cozy in bed alone. communed with the fruit trees, flowers, pigs, the horse; but especially the dogs, some of whom came lovingly to me from my dreams: the big black dog and the big white dog, who in my dream turned from one to the other, appeared on maui side by side before me, begging their alms of affection, nurturing my spirit in return. came on the heels of a night pilgrimage a couple weeks before, up to the top of makapu'u to view the perseid meteor shower, the elusive pleasure of stars shooting across the heavens. now it is late august already and feels like it, even here in hawai'i. the angle of the sun is unmistakable. surfed with turtles today.

Love you, Tom.

Please join the normalcy:

scrungex.blogspot.com


And thanks, Linda, for inspiration.

Love you, Linda.

Please join the normalcy:

sinusrhythm.blogspot.com

Our State Fair is a Great State Fair

A transvestite
stumbled
down
the
dusty path
With
low-rise
acid
washed
jeans
on
a
fuschia
thong
peeking
out
and
a
face
that
looked
so
seperate
from
the
rest
that
I had to look.
Both
of
us
trying
to
discover
what
had
been
lost.

Thursday, August 21, 2008

"Happiness is wanting what you have."
Dalai Lama

Sunday, August 17, 2008

and here you are again

how
strange
and
welcoming
it
is
when
a
scent
or
a
certain
word
or
a
song
takes
you
to
another
time
and
there
you
are
maybe
ten
years
ago
now
and
it
is
summer
and
your
heart
is
full
and
to
hear
that
song
again
actually
makes
me
realize
how
freeing
it
was
to
let
go
of
my
hold
and
let
the
wind
carry
me
where
it will.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

real good

Conversations
in
Minnesota
always
lead
to
the
weather.
It's
important
to
the
culture.
Survivalist
mentality.
So,
with
80's,
and
sunshine,
and
low
humidity
the last
three
days
and
forecasted
more
of
the
same
into
the
weekend-
little
was
said.
I
rode
my
bike.
Discovering
that
newspapers
and
a
wet gym
towel
will
protect
eggs
in
a
back-pack.
And
hairy
legs
sticking
out
from shorts.
And
where
all
the
cracks
are.
And
brown
grass.
And
noticed
that
the
scent
of the
air
was changing.
The
intensity
of
the
sun.
Ripening
tomatoes.
Crickets.

Monday, August 4, 2008

Sunday, August 3, 2008

Sunday, July 27, 2008

My Dad Baptized Me

My Dad
baptized
me
The two
of
us
in
starched
white
cotton
tee shirts
and
boxers
white
pants
and
white
perma-iron
short-sleeved
shirts
It
was
one
of the
quietest
moments
I
remember
My
Father
took
my
hand
and
we
walked
Bare-
foot
up
cold
linoleum
steps
until
we
reached
the
alter
and
my
Father
placed
a
white
handkerchief
over
my
mouth.
"In
the
name
of
the Father,
the
Son,
and
the
Holy
Spirit."
And
the
weight
of
water
rushed
over
me
and
the
weight
of
light
rushed
over
me
and
that
is
all
I
need
to
know
As my
Father
brought me to the surface
and
water
rushed
from
my eyes
and my Father
held
me.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

summer 08'

Prince
sings
summer
in the background
coming
in from
sunbathing
drifting
off
to sleep
as clouds
strike
shadows through
your eye lids
and
you
sweat
from
tropic
humidity
the
air
conditioner
catches
your
heat
and
you
smile
pour
a
glass
of
lemonade
and
dance
around.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Prairie II

Cooling
Summer
Thunderstorm
as
pavement
breathes
rain
and
the
earth
rises
to
drink.

Sunday, July 6, 2008

Prairie

This place
called
home
will
always beckon
me.
That
is
for
certain.
An
open
road,
windows down,
hand
catching
breeze.
The
openess
of
it
all
is
what
always
strikes me first.
Sea
of
green
and
sky.
And
then
picking
up
as
if we had
just seen one another.
Games
of Rummy Royal.
Words
to humble
one
another.
And hearts
that had been
so
full of
one
another
before
we
made our presence,
that,
when we do,
they
spill
over.
Dad,
you
now
regail us in
your past.
Words
that strike
as bittersweet.
Why had
we not heard
of your trips
around
the country
before?
Glad to hear
them now
but are you
preparing?
And,
Mom,
my
champion.
Protector
as always
you now
jump in
to take care
of Dad's
lost
vibrance.
Just
a
light
that
when you
are told
you've become
bossy
you
shy away knowing
it
to
be
true
and then
after
comtemplation,
find
your
spirit
that
had been
placed in
the background.
And
sisters
Who
are so
different
from
me
or one
another
But,
in
the
oddity
of
one
another
we
shake
with
laughter.
And
our
tanned
bodies
leave
one another
again.
Our
thoughts
left
smiling.
And
the
road
takes me
to
the horizon.
And the
earth
rises
in
my nose,
the green
sea
rolls,
and
I
am
home.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

yes

Moments
have presented
themselves.
Little
reminders
of
how
wonderful it
is to
smell
sunshine
and
watch things
grow
and
laugh
and
sing
to
yourself
and
surge
forward.
Linda,
a
week
from now
it
will all
be over
and all will
be well.
And,
Joe,
I
know
you are
soaring.
And
birds
wake
you
up
singing
and
you
feel
your
heart
beat
and
wonder
where
the day
will
take
you.

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Tell those you love that you love them.

My friend's kid:

Joseph Sodd III lay bleeding and unconscious in a busy Minneapolis intersection early Wednesday. Just hours earlier, in front of his teen dance students, the college senior had previewed an original piece composed with rap music that "he hoped would make the audience remember me."

Presumably driving home on his moped from the University of Minnesota's West Bank area at about 2 a.m., Sodd may have been attacked during a robbery near 7th St. and 19th Avenue S.

A passerby saw him in the street and called police. Sodd had been stabbed once in the throat. The good Samaritan tried to render aid, but Sodd died later at a nearby hospital.

The 20-year-old had recently come home to Minneapolis after his junior year at the renowned Cornish College of the Arts in Seattle, where a school official said Sodd's passion for dance and living had made him a beacon of the department.

After watching the NBA championship game Tuesday with his dad, Sodd hooked up with friends on the University of Minnesota.

"I'm all about forgiveness at this point," his father, Joseph Sodd Jr., said Wednesday. "I can't be angry. Do you think my son would want that?"

At that moment, Ian Huddleston slowly walked up the sidewalk at the Sodds' house and fell into the arms of his best friend's father, sobbing uncontrollably. The boys had met at the Perpich Center for Arts Education, the state's arts high school in Golden Valley.

"First time I met him, he was dancing to the music of the Velvet Underground. I knew then I needed to be his friend," Huddleston said. "I feel cheated he won't even make it to his 21st birthday."

It's too early in the investigation to know if robbery definitely was the motive, said Lt. Amelia Huffman, head of the Minneapolis homicide unit. Sodd's moped was left behind at the intersection of 7th St. and 19th Avenue S. in the Cedar-Riverside neighborhood, she said. It's a high-traffic area, and police hope someone who saw or heard the attack will come forward.

Investigators are also trying to determine if several recent robberies and assaults near the crime scene are connected to Sodd's death, Huffman said. Sodd is the city's 18th homicide this year, compared to 25 at this time in 2007.

Sodd specialized in tap dancing, inspired by watching Gene Kelly as a child. At the Perpich Center, a large dance banner featuring Sodd could be seen hanging in front of the school, his father said.

"Joe came to us a proficient tap dancer, but at Cornish he really started to learn about ballet and modern dance," said Kittie Daniels, chair of the college's dance department. "But he distinguished himself by bridging outside his base of comfort."

Next year, Sodd would have become one of 25 seniors in the dance department. When Daniels learned about Sodd's death, she tried to call his closest friends in the program. But word had already spread like wildfire before she contacted the first person, she said.

"If the person who did this knew Joe, they would have never used violence against him," Huddleston said. "I have no idea what would have motivated this."

Sodd Jr. said his son was graceful and strong. To have such graceful leaping ability as a dancer, Joe "sprouted a pair of invisible wings during his performances," he said. Joe's brother Alden graduated from Perpich Center last week and plans to study dance in California.

Sodd is the grandson of well-known Minnesota golfer Joseph Sodd, who won the state's Open championship in 1963 and later became a pro at Golden Valley Country Club.

Sodd was the kind of person who could bring different groups of people together, said Jim Pfeffer, a friend who lived with him in Seattle. He never "got bummed out about anything" and believed he was on the verge of something great.

A lover of music, he might be listening to Frank Zappa one minute and Kanye West the next, friends said. In Minneapolis, he was a student in the adult dance program at Zenon Dance Company and performed and taught with Out on a Limb Dance Company in St. Paul for the past five years.

"Joe is pretty indescribable," said Amber Keeley, director of Out on a Limb and a former dance partner. "He's loving and funny and goofy. He's so fun to watch on stage."

Sodd became a role model for his students at Out on a Limb, because he never passed judgment. Keeley said her staff is struggling to explain why he died so violently.

"I've been crying all day, so it really hasn't hit me that he won't be with us to dance anymore," she said. "But our artistic director said he danced like a star and now he's dancing with the stars."

dchanen startribune 6/19/08

R.I.P. Joe.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

gentle

Summer's
little
laugh
has
started.

Monday, June 16, 2008

it only took three years

there
has always
been something about
water
for me
So-
to be so near it
to
feel
your
body
rhythm
start to
move
with
the
current
had
to be
fortuitous
That
upon
coming
home a
note,
"I needed
to be with
the dog
this weekend."
And i
knew he had
left
That
whatever
substance
had
been
hanging around
now vanished
I
remembered
pouring
Lake Superior's
cold
water
over
me
cooling
my hot skin
from the
sauna
And feeling
like this was
a baptismal
So
it was
no wonder
that i
found
myself
in the basement's
lonely
bathroom
taking
down the
last of
you
and
putting
it in a
box.
why
had i
needed you
to leave
him
for me to
truly
leave
you
i
may never know
but you have.
and
so
the
current
continues to
flow.
at
last.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

time

What does
One
do
when one
is given time?
Do they
close their
eyes
when
awake
at
6:30 am
and
know
that
they
can wait
until 9?
Do
they take
a cup
of coffee
and get lost
in watching
fish?
And
then
check
on
growing
vegetables?
Do they
make meals
from leftovers they
find in the refrigerator?
Do
they
wonder
how thier
friends
are?
And welcome
them
with open
arms when they ask,
"Can I stop
over?"
Do they not
prepare for
tomorrow but
exist in today?
Do
they
breathe?
Yes.

Sunday, June 1, 2008

june 01

Warmed
my
bones
today
Surrounded
by
green
Closed
my
eyes
and
saw
yellow.

Monday, May 26, 2008

memorial

Oh, grandpa
I miss you
You know
that
But
I
need to
say
it
I miss
newborn
colts
in
spring
chasing me through
rolling fields
and raising
runts
from a
litter
of pigs
that would
sneak
out
during
a
bridge
party
my
Mom
your
daughter
was
hosting
and feast on
finger
sandwiches
But
most of
all
I miss
your smell
and
seeing
myself
in you.

Sunday, May 25, 2008

"Sing your song. Don't let the bastards get you down."

Garrison Keillor

Saturday, May 24, 2008

ode to Linda

I've been thinking about
your heart
How full it
is
and open
to let me in
and
giggle with you
and
now
needing
care
A giver
sometimes
becomes so used
to that
they
forget the need
to receive
to
revive
and,
so,
my
Linda
We are
here
to give
For
you allowed us
to
hear
green.

Sunday, May 18, 2008

The Labyrinth of Solitude

There are specific moments in life when I feel that everything is just right. I suppose everyone does.

I was twenty-six years old. I had settled into a teaching position and was home for Christmas. My Mother and Father and I had Christmas Eve dinner together. My Mom has always been a fantastic cook. Her creativity is allowed to run rampant and she always fails to hold back. That year we had cornish game hen, with wild-rice and hazelnuts, and haricot vert.

Dinner had been cleared away and we were sipping on coffee and Bailey's and my Father said let's go for a ride. And we all agreed it was a terrific plan. So we set-off. Gently falling snow and all. And Johnny Mathis singing in the background. Which reminded me that when I came out to my parents that was my Father's only response. My Mother had three hours of prepared questions. My Father, in all of those three hours, just sat, staring, until he finally said, "You know Johnny Mathis was gay."

We drove north of the city. And came upon a nunnery on the top of a hill. The car climbed; following an ironic beacon of light. When we finally reached the top all we could do was stare, face pressed against frosted glass, steam from your breath adding a soft focus to these enormous plastic figures of Mary, and Joseph, and baby Jesus. All lit up. We sat there and felt small. Somehow it was all so beautiful.

My parents then took me on a tour of all the houses that they had lived in. And stories to go with. We had done this a million times. It always felt fresh.

There was the first house they owned. Where my father had gone away to play ball somewhere in the Midwest for the weekend. My Mother, pregnant, stayed home and chopped down a fifteen foot pine tree that was in front of the house because it was filled with box elder bugs. My Mother's theory was: Get rid of the tree get rid of the bugs. And Dad came home, and was extremely upset, but was so in love that the emotion became endearment.

There was the house where Eloise lived. She was the best gardener I have known. She always gave me a plant when I visited. I treasured these gifts. Once, she gave me a cactus. My grasp was so strong upon leaving that when I tripped getting into the car I didn't let go. We spent hours picking out thorns.

And then we drove by a house where my Mom said, "Do you remember this house where Grandma and Grandpa once lived, Kevin?"

I did not.

"Well, you don't probably remember it because we didn't visit here very often. This is where they lived when Grandma went through shock therapy."

"Um, what?"

"Oh, you remember. Uncle Gary got divorced and it devastated your Grandma. She cried for days. And that was the treatment then. Shock therapy."

And we wonder why she still has a distant look?

And we went to a midnight service. Holding white waxy candles to the sky as we sang Silent Night.

The snow crunched under our feet, I took my Mother's hand while she hummed, and my Dad put on Johnny Mathis, and we enjoyed each other.

Saturday, May 17, 2008

always look up

i had busied myself
cleaning out beds
of decaying leaves
head to ground
i turned the corner
carrying a bag of
last winter
and it caught
me
as i walked down
the alley
the smell
of lilacs
and i looked
up
and what greeted
me
was a lilac bush
whose upermost
being
was
violet bouncing
off of
warming sun
and
the scent
i pulled
down a branch
and
buried my
face in it.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

evolution

As a child; spring would present itself to me by way of my neighbor, Pauline Jorgensen's sheep, announcing that everything was new.

In between drinks, Pauline raised sheep, and chickens, and an occasional cow or two. She also taught writing at a local community college.

I would go through the whole process with Pauline. Birthing, castrating, loading them up for slaughter. Springs were especially busy. Except for when Pauline's son, Neil, would come over and explain that his Mom had bottle fever. And that day would be mine to go explore some ditches.

Castrating season involved taking each male lamb and placing a thick, blue rubber-band around their genitals. I quickly learned that it was much easier to do this if you held the lamb very tightly to your chest. Then the lamb would calm and the rubber-band would easily be placed. Thus, producing a lamb eunuch that would not consider sex and, instead, grow strong and fat for the sole purpose of becoming a meal.

These days enveloped me. Surrounded by the bellowing of youth, and a breeze that carried promise, and the unexplainable feeling of having a scared being soften to your touch.

I would leave these days. Skipping through flowering clover, lanolin gleaming off of my skin in shiny, silken brilliance, and me being too young to have experienced what dreams felt like. Knowing this felt right.

Sunday, May 4, 2008

forever their normal

I was outside
because it was 8:09 pm
and the sun was
still shining
and a mother
went by with
her four small children
and I overheard
her say,
"He is locked up
and won't be
comin' home.
Repeat after me:
he is locked up
and won't be comin'
home."
and the children
sang in unison,
"He is locked up
and won't ever be
comin' home."
and they skipped,
and jumped,
and twirled
about.

And this is forever
their normal.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

iowa

I never thought of my parents as hippies perse'. Despite my mother dressing us in traditional Native American garb the previous two years. It seemed normal enough.

It was the summer of 1978(maybe 77'). My parents decided to become self-sufficient. Anything we were to eat; we were to raise.

We had six acres of sweet corn. This eventually would lead to us spending weekend mornings and afternoons in the back of a pickup on some desperate corner.

We also had two acres of vegetables. My younger sister, Carla, was put in charge of weeding. She quickly ascertained that if she pulled the actual plants instead of the weeds the task would be taken away. I soon found myself in charge of weeding.

My father also decided to raise 50 roasting hens. I was to take care of the chicks. Feeding and watering them before and after school. I guess the chickens seemed a perfect fit for me. In kindergarten I had a pet black rooster named Calamari. I would take him for walks on a leash. A raccoon ate him.

The chicks arrived and found there place in the ramshackle barn they were going to grow up in until the inevitable. The first two weeks went by smoothly enough. The third week I noticed that when I came back in the afternoon the food hadn't been touched. This continued for a few more days. Chicks started dieing. 30 left. 22. And then finally 12. I was hand feeding them by now. Little eye droppers of food mixed into a paste with water. I became nervous that I was going to have to say something to my dad. I was responsible. I didn't want to let him down. The next three days wore me down to the point I knew I had to tell him. He came out to the barn with me and started picking up the chicks. He was startled, at first, noting that the chicks didn't even try to escape as he came near them. And then he turned a chick over and noticed it had no legs. And then another. I, of course, knew this already. And more until the number was 12 and the legs were zero.

My father pondered this for a few days. Talked to the neighbors. The final conclusion was that rats had crawled through the knots in the wood and snapped the legs off the chicks. So quickly the resting chicks wouldn't even know it. So cleanly that the leftover stumps would barely bleed. Then the chick would wake up hungry and find no momentum. And then starvation.

That was the end of my parent's experiment.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

and so it is

wild ginger
blooming
under
snow

Sunday, April 20, 2008

This is Just to Say

(The following poem is based on a segment from This American Life which aired 04/20/08. Listen to the podcast at minnesota.publicradio.org to learn more.)

This is to say I'm sorry
That while you
told me we would
watch each other grow
old together
and stole away
to find illicit pleasures
and we both believed what
we wanted to
That, ultimately, I am
better
without you
and-I am sure-
you like me better
now anyway

Now that I'm skinny.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

love

I am constantly amazed by the number of people I can say," I love you" to. This little journey has led me to these souls. And I am forever grateful.

People who when I say, "good bye" to; the good-bye lingers. That in that instance I don't want to leave. I want to be forever in their presence. Consumed by warmth.

I truly am surrounded by a world of love. And in this charmed life my insides giggle.

Saturday, April 12, 2008

my red rider

When I was a kid our whole family would go for bike rides on Sundays. My sisters whizzing by, on banana seats, summer breeze and all. I often rode on the handle bars of my Dad's bike. My Dad has never(still doesn't)had any reservations towards danger. It's part of what made my childhood exhilirating.

We would ride on the gravel road in front of our house and to the water tower that was about a mile away. My Dad liked to find pot holes. He would peddle the bike as fast as he could towards them. And we would sail for brief moments. Then we would come crashing down on the other side with dust announcing our victory.

One particular time things did not go as well. While we were in mid-air my foot somehow found the spokes in the tire. The bike landed and the tire continued to spin with my foot in it. The spokes chewed through my sneakers and through skin until they struck bone. My Dad carried me home. I remember very little except that my sister Debbie stayed behind and searched for skin.

That summer I was transported everywhere in a Red Rider wagon.

I felt like Caesar.

Saturday, April 5, 2008

on listening to Maria Callas and reading of Paul Klee

how many voices
have gone before
us
their sounds
resounding in the
voices of us today
but do we hear
do we know
do we chance
For on soft whispers
of wind
if one strains
their ear
with hand-cupped
they can hear
and become

Friday, April 4, 2008

Hot Tub and Stars

There is something
inescapeable about connection.
Something so beyond us
that as I searched for
pen-thoughts wondering
around my head-I wondered
if I would ever be
able to allow words to
express this
monumental treasure.
That-even now-having
found pen and time to
attempt this expression
that something will be lost.
How could I attempt
to bring forth the
gift of David and I-
sitting in hot tub and
telling tales of aureola
borealis and
the synergy that exists
still as time passes
We share. It is
beyond the scope of
the words I am
familiar with-and yet
It is something I know
like I have never known
like being with your body
as it carries one
through but
never fully realizing the mole
on my left
nostril is me
It is feeling whole
It is cherished
But it is taken for
granted. But such
a part of me that
I shall never neglect
it. For in knowing
and realizing and
cherishing I have
become
the descendant
of this
perpetual motion that
shall never cease.

Thursday, April 3, 2008

love

on my flight I sat next to
a lesbian couple. I noticed how
they both had the same
facial expressions in my
reaction to meeting a student
of mine sitting behind us.
One of them sneezed and the
other, unconsciously, full
of compassion, handed her
a tissue.
When one reached for
a magazine-
the other, knowingly,
handed her
her glasses
as to read
Which
reminded me that this
seemed
much more
aesthetically
pleasing
than witnessing
my father
reading the Sunday paper
in my Mother's glasses. His glasses
in hiding with the remote
control. And I thought how
could this be wrong? My
loving heart reared by a
loving God created this. Those
who think otherwise
Are.
Simply.
Wrong.

beat, beat, beat

I realized it again today.

In my Tuesday/Thursday cardio workout. I found myself sprinting after
running the first mile.

My heart racing,
breathing fast,
the swarm of feeling as if I
was lifting off,
as breeze
brushed
beside my sides.

I have always enjoyed running. I held the school record in junior high for the 400 hurdles for years.
Then, I always thought it must have been something
cliched in symbolism. My running away-
Escaping.

Now, I believe, it is
solely the mere sense of
flight. The constant thoughts
ceasing in my head. The
blood surging with oxygen through
my body. And, yes,
escape.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

Saturday, March 22, 2008

renaissance

it seemed
right
that I
talked
to
David
excitement
to share
each other
once
again
in
true
presence
and
later I
hear
Cocteau Twins'
Heaven or
Las Vegas
and
think
of
top
down
on
Bug
and
smelling
sun.

he has risen


photo by megan mayer

Saturday, March 8, 2008

Lost

In first grade we would march, single file, past the cooks, through linoleum cafeteria, past the table where I sat at and gave Jeff Holloway a quarter to see him spit milk out of his nose, and into the storage room that was transformed into our art classroom.

Miss A awaited our arrival. I don't know that I ever knew her full name. I was enamoured with the construction paper portrait she had made of herself, taped to the door, curled strips of brown construction paper for hair and all.

The room smelled of paste and newsprint. It was the first time I recall being given a big enough piece of paper, and crayons upon crayons, and the time to get lost. I relished Mrs. Lang announcing that we would have art that day. The time couldn't come fast enough and the time there sped away all too quickly.

This came to an end, however. As Miss A was attacked by a squirrel. Having not been able to catch the squirrel; she had to go through a series of rabies shots. I missed smelling the paste and newsprint.

The lightness of spring faded and trees spread themselves in full glory. We stole away spinning and spinning on the merry-go-round. And when the bell summoned us back in Mrs. Lang informed us that Miss A was back and looking forward to us discovering with her again. I liked that, "discovering." And we went. And I smiled at Miss A with her arm in a sling and healing scratch marks. I stole away to my seat and grabbed crayons and let ideas circle around my head and found time disappearing and I still can't imagine anything that I'm more thankful for.

Sunday, March 2, 2008

Sitting Backwards Holding Hands

Kelly Benson was my best friend in kindergarten. Mostly because we rode the same bus to school together. Those rides consisted of us opening windows and watching air hands catch the breeze. Until, finally, we were told to, "Get your hand inside." So we did. And went back to holding hands while we sat backwards in our seat.

We never talked to each other in school. Miss Chartier would have nothing of that. Thirty years of teaching and she knew it all. She had seen us before and we were nothing special. So we just caught each other's eyes when we could and held how special we were inside. At recess we would sneak into a window well and show each other our genitals.

Kelly often wet herself while at school. Miss Chartier would then dress her in a dress from a life-sized doll's wardrobe we had in the room. It actually would lead to her demise. But how were we to know.

Kelly and I had filled a box with dolls and we were going to go play house outside for recess. This was fine for awhile but I got bored and went to find some sticks. Kelly took her box of dolls with her to the top of the slide. A slide that was surely one hundred stories high. It was made out of steel and the trick, on sunny days, was to slide down as fast as you could, trying to keep an inch of air between you and the actual slide, as not to get burned. Kelly reached the peak and decided to let her dolls go down first. She had tugged the box behind her on the ascent. She needed to swing the box around, over her head, so the dolls could go first. As she was just getting the box over the railing one of the dolls slipped from the box and fell. Kelly leaned over to try and catch the doll. The momentum of her reach caused her to become unsteady and her feet lifted off of the step. Her doll dress snagged on a bolt and held her for a moment but the yellow, laced taffeta was not strong enough to sustain her in place. I saw the blur of yellow fall and fall. And then heard the pop. And it was just like that. Pop. A noise that held pain.

Kelly was never the same. Her eyes had lost their presence. She often sat, without talking, and simply rocked back and forth.

It was the first time I experienced loss. It still feels the same. And each time I rediscover it all I want is to be able to sit backwards holding hands.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

How easy it is to complain
to think that
if only
I wasn't
finishing up my
day at 5
and having to travel
the only
route
now
accessible
as bridge
collapsed
and my 25 minute
drive
is now
quadrupled
and in that
I discover
the beauty
of
being given a
gift
that in that
spoiled time
my soul is fulfilled
and yet I complain
with smile in
heart.

Hello Stranger

I'm writing a film noir. Well, actually, my idea is that I started with the following post on Craigslist. The responses, hopefully, will become the rest of the dialogue:

Hello Stranger 29-m4m (The Juke Joint)

Hey, stranger. Our eyes met once again. You: tall, dark, mysterious. Smoking a cigarette as the air shifted and one could almost smell spring. I walked over to see if I could buy you a drink. A noise distracted me from behind and when I turned back around to finally meet you-you were gone. If, by some chance, you come across these words- say hello.

Sunday, February 17, 2008

Ode To Linda

It's the
clearest thing I remember
Being near death
Fever of
108
for
a week
and my
Mom
and
Dad
there knowing
so very little
of death
and me
feeling
strangely
like I knew
everything
about it
and the
Elders came
and laid
hands on
fevered Scarlet
forehead
and
the
knowing
is what keeps
me
comfort
now
That I must
do good
for I have
no
other
choice.
Here I am
making kale
with bacon
and
Sweet Jane
comes
on the
radio
and I think
of the
school's custodian
sneaking in
picking up
guitar
and
strumming
Sweet Jane
in my
office
because
he knows
I
like
it
and it
is in
moments
like
this
that
I
smile.

Mrs. Lighthall would take us outside on whims brought on by endless days with 4th graders whose questions left her needing escape. We would sit around trees. Never any particular tree. Then she would ask us to, "Close your eyes and listen. Remember all the sounds that are here but you haven't heard because you weren't paying attention." And we would sit, eyes closed, listening, no questions. We would then be asked to hug the tree. And then back inside. I don't ever recall my classmates and I talking about this. It seemed normal enough. I still have to close my eyes sometimes in order to notice what I am missing.

Saturday, February 9, 2008

I thought
it was
the polaroid
faded into
colors
that transported
me back to you
curled
corners
and
all

I thought
it was
my whisker's
smell
as I
scratched
finger tips
into
them and
held them
to
my nose
and you
were
there
drifting
by

And then
talk of
spring and I am there
being
chased by
newborn colt
both of us glistening
black
in the promising
breeze
as
tiny
ice
cracked
under
your
presence

And
in
the smell
of a
pipe

And
the
smell
of
hay

And
in
a card
game

And
stories
of
living
next to
a
cave where
Jesse James
hid out

And
a trip
to
California
where you
put the
top down
the
whole way

And
the
smell
of hogs

And
how
you
never
seemed
satisfied

And a
trunk full
of medals
and stories of
you being a
paratrooper
and
falling
into crimson
German
skies

And this
feeling of
missing
you.

Friday, February 8, 2008

Another page turned.
What shall I gather?

What shall I get rid of?

On this step forward.......

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

"If you want your life to be a magnificent story,

then begin by realizing that you are the author and

everyday you have the opportunity to write a new page."

-Mark Houlahan

Sunday, February 3, 2008

I've always enjoyed landmarks. They enable us to set our sights on different courses.


Well, I just got back from Como. Smelled some dirt. My favorite part was a kid in front of me who tripped over the edging in the sunken garden, fell into an azalea bush, demolished it, and stood up covered in dirt and kept on walkin'.

Saturday, February 2, 2008

02/02/08

This time
this year

I am thinking
about my
grandfather

hearing my
laugh
just before he
passed

I was
not
there
in my carbon

but my
laughter
had
stayed

and
hung
around
in
spoiled air

and
drifted
by

Francis Bernard Beaubien

as
he decided
to
soar.

I love my friend Linda:

february
kevin and i finally admitted to one another something we had been feeling for a long time. after knowing each other all these years -- the truth finally came out. and we feel so relieved.

we hate february.

the truth is, that even though our birthdays are in february, it doesn't make it any more fun. at last! we feel the freedom of facing the shameful and buried revelation that, all our lives we have feigned a love for february. it is our birthmonth! presents! cake! stuff!

fuck that.

turns out we were the only two who loved february. or thought we did.

we finally realized that...

...january brings relief from the holidays, powerful resolutions, fires of birch and oak, pots of stew, and the super bowl.

...march brings temperatures above 40, sweet smelling mud, an occasional snowstorm that comes and goes quickly, and the anticipation of apil. APRIL!

...february brings...cold. cold. cold. darkness. impatience. stale air. tired sweaters. dirty snow. and valentine's day: a Hallmark holiday which presents to each of us either an obligation or an insult. and one more thing about february -- most people mispronouce it (feb-YOO-ary). hate that!


but kevin and i, we feel better. we plan to celebrate our birthdays together with a winter meal of coffee-rubbed bison short ribs, garlic mashed potatoes, smokey greens, and cake. lots and lots of cake.

happy birthday sweetheart! i hope you like your present. love you always.

Monday, January 28, 2008

I love my friend Jill:



I like Mark Trail because he loves nature and I am in nature. Also sometimes the use of foreground/background creates amusing juxtapositions. Like is this squirrel enormous or nearer the viewer?
And is the duck talking in panel 2?
We don't know.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

sweet


Remember
sitting in the
parking lot of
It's Greek to Me
and singing
Time After Time
at the top
of our
lungs
and feeling
free
and thinking
that,
"...if you fall
I will catch you
time after time."
would always
be
and knowing
that in that
triumph
some
day
there
would be
aftermath
and having
that light
in my heart
will always
be
cherished
Barb Zenor
and
George
and I
in a trailer
by the
river
watching
bags packed
and knowing
that as
MTV's
buzz
flickered
against
metal walls
that there
was something
more
we would always
be searching for
but
finding ourselves
would
always be realization
enough
and so I
stumble
into
bed
with boxers
and tee shirt
on
after endless
nights
of my own skin
and I
think
that there
was never
before
that
utterance
of sheer
joy.

Friday, January 25, 2008

How easy it is, each year, to forget how January looms
It's ever biting cold
Leaving one
unspirited
In it's
darkness.

Saturday, January 19, 2008

My current mantra:

"Is it bad? Is it wrong? Can I take it further?"

Saturday, January 12, 2008

My friend Kelly's current mantra:

"If it weren't for my HIV status there would be nothing positive about me."

Sunday, January 6, 2008

I saw a Cardinal

Crimson
against
blue-
white
melting snow
Sunning
Itself
in
January
thaw
It's
voice
made
piercing
in
this
celebration.

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

My Top Pick for 2007

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1oaxl3XTgDo