Waxed Poetic

I want to make a hair-waxing joke but I feel as though that is unnecessary, given the actual subject matter of this post. Instead, I'll take pure joy that I managed to conquer the grammar of where to put the hyphen in the phrase "hair-waxing joke." It's called creating a compound modifier for a noun. Things you learn on a Thursday.

And I just realized, there is something similar in theme with hair waxing and this post's subject here: I like to keep my art tidy.

I Write Short Poems. (And That Wasn't a Poem Just Now.)

I can't abide long poems--and I always am fooled into thinking I have enjoyed a short one when I find out later it was an excerpt. And then I go to read the thing in full and yet again feel validated in my distaste for long poems. If you ask me what a long poem is, I wouldn't know what to tell you, by the way. I will say this: Wordsworth can suck it. And fun fact of the day:  Wordsworth was born in Cockermouth, England. Hey-yo!

 

William Wordsworth (b. 1770- d. 1850)

I know, I know--disliking something for it's size is so arbitrary and silly. I just don't like long-winded things is all. I get antsy and I feel as though the author is asking a lot of their readers if there isn't some sort of point to each and every word on the page outside of getting to the next phrase. I have yet to write a poem longer than a few stanzas because it's exhausting finding the words that really are just as important as all others. Maybe that's called laziness but I think it's also sparing the reader of wasteful reading. 

I'm sounding more and more like a pissy English major who got a bad grade on her poetry submissions. I mean, I did start off with a grammar citation and then moved on to explaining why my way of writing is better than a man who is considered the founding father of an entire art movement.

But, I'll let you be the judge of that. I will say this in defense of my offense towards Mr. Wordymouth (as a friend of mine had recently reminded me of an intriguing story on this topic):  not all of the "Greats" are as great to those of us Non-Greats. And not all the Great Works are perceptively Different from the rest of the submissions in the world. That may be because the way human societies work is that there is usually a hierarchy in everything, which in turn means that Great Art becomes an incredibly unreachable gated community--and those who have access to the keys are deluged beyond their ability to cope with all of the Not Great Art that comes through. But, I think it's also just taste and luck in who you're connected to. And God help you if you manage to be roommates with a future editor at the New Yorker during undergrad and it really would be a shame if those co-op party pictures got into the wrong hands. 

Anyway. Poems. I write short ones. And since I don't foresee myself making a stellar living off of getting them published anytime soon, I figure I'll share a few of them--free for all eyes. Just, please, if you actually are one of the few people that like this poetry, it'd be nice if you gave me credit. Or didn't steal it, make it better, and then make lots of money off of it. (Or, if you do end up doing that, just don't tell me or publish it in a language I understand--my pride has already taken enough hits this lifetime, I don't need any more that I am aware of, thank you.)

Some Poems

To confirm, you can share these if you actually do like them. Just put my name on it and you're good to go. In fact, I've gone ahead and done that for you with these images. 

More soon,

Beryl (Copyright 1986)








Parent Trap

I was listening to This American Life for the umpteenth time today (it's telling when halfway through Ira's opening lines you're aware that you've already listened to that particular episode and have become way too dependent on it for entertainment). And as I've been whittling down the list of episodes I haven't heard I finally listened to one I'd been avoiding--and if you're curious what episodes I've gobbled up the fastest, it'd be anything surrounding the wars in Iraq, past presidential elections and religion. I like hearing how people were so convinced of a belief, a candidate or cause ten years ago. It soothes me to know other people are waaaaay off in their perceptions of the future.

However, I avoided listening to a particular topic. And after getting tired of replaying my favorite episode "Heretic" (Evangelical man goes from Pop-star-dom to being broke and getting his feet washed by LGBT-accepting parishioners), I finally shrugged and I remembered the Golden Rule:

Ira won't know either way.

You wish.

The episode was entitled "How to Talk to Kids" and for some reason I was shying away from it--I don't want to know how to talk to kids. I'm still reeling from the fact that I am steadily no longer being viewed as a kid--nothing makes you feel like a grownup faster than having interns look to you for advice. I feel pride and happiness at having achieved that new step in life, but I also feel in those moments that I'm slowly, starting to say goodbye to an old friend (my youth).

Mortality, fear of age, and the standard "I didn't realize this was going to happen to ME?" waxing aside, I did give in, I did listen to the episode--I mean it was either that or their Thanksgiving themed episode "Poultry Slam," which, the title alone causes one to cringe internally. (Sorry, Ira--wait, wait, I forgot. Golden Rule. Golden. Rule.)

The majority of it was as I thought it would be--a world removed from my current life, yet uncomfortably familiar in the way that makes me want to get some more years under my belt before returning to it. There were, as you might guess, stories from the perspectives of kids trying to be listened to, stories of grownups failing miserably at talking to kids, and the in-between stories of grownups and kids learning less-than-savory tactics to communicate.

There was, however, one story that struck a cord inside of my nervous system. One story that truly, utterly broke my heart. And I realized right then and there, at age 26, filing away the umpteenth photocopy I had made that day (the printers had a cruel sense of humor at work that day) I had a sudden premonition--a surge of emotion, fear, anger and insecurity well up inside of me:

I will hate whoever my kid has sex with for the first time.

I will hate them.

With every inch of my being I will hate them.

I Don't Think I Can Explain Away This Unprecedented Level of Hypothetical Hatred, So I'm Moving On. 

What was the story that sparked this outcome? A mother who knew her daughter was having sex with her boyfriend goes as far as to allow her daughter to have him come over for sex and then at one point even buys them a hotel room.

I can't quite explain it.

In fact, I don't know if one can explain passion of any kind. But, the rage. The rage I felt at the idea that some dirt-bad teenage boy with probably gross acne and a terrible sense of hygiene would actually attempt to use my fear of my hypothetical daughter sleeping around in less savory conditions so that he can get offAND WHY WOULD SHE WANT TO SLEEP WITH SAID DIRTBAG ANYWAY? DID I NOT MENTION THE ACNE? THE SMELL? WHY? WHY?!

This is when my hypothetical daughter suddenly became a nun in a convent far away in the middle of a desert.*

And this is also when hypothetical teenage beau was mysteriously kicked into the pit of death.

First of all, I'd like to say a couple things on parenthood:

1. While I don't know what it's like intimately, I'm pretty sure a lot of it is being tired from the emotional/physical drain that is making sure someone more helpless than you doesn't die for eighteen years. Let alone the fact that you have a hard enough time on your own not dying, but when you finally get good at not dropping them onto hard surfaces or stabbing them with a diaper pin they're pushing you away and saying you're embarrassing them and stop calling them Boo in front of their CEO.

And

2. If you're a sensitive human being, and you have kids, you will fall in love with them.

And therefore, you can't be trusted.

Being infatuated with anyone, as I've learned over the years, leads one to do stupid things. Say stupid things. Believe stupid things. Like how I believed Alyson Hannigan would in fact ditch that Wesley guy when I was in high school if she just knew how much I had memorized her lines in Buffy. Because that's not creepy.

I'm just saying--more or less, I'd like to put this worry out there now. I've got around ten years or so before I should be seriously considering having an infant on my hands. If I just get this one big I WILL KILL urge out onto the internet now, I figure by the time we get the iChip implants and my future offspring read this I will have calmed down somewhat. Or perhaps I won't have calmed down but I will pretend as if I have and in secret stab a voodoo doll of my hypothetical son's future girlfriend.

Because if she hurts him she will pay.

Ah, I feel better already.

-Beryl

p.s. If you listen to (and like) This American Life I urge you to donate $20 right now. It's two burritos at Gordo's or three beers (plus tip) you don't need to consume this week and it doubles in its value to promote good, heart-filled work.

p.p.s. I may have just put that urge to give above so as to balance out the negative karma of describing hurting future hypothetical lovers of my future hypothetical kids. Whatever. You should still give.



*I know. I know already all of my smart, find-the-weakpoint-in-your-argument friends are going to internally debate me, probably along the lines of, "What? Just because she wants to sleep with a guy? Are you afraid of men?" Or, even better, "So, you're a prude and don't want to admit your kids will have sex..."

FIRST of all, let's say that daughter of mine brought home a woman. Yea. It would be dyke-shish-kabob on the menu that night. I was just going with what statistically is her more likely sexual preference. And remember, this girl is non-existant. I'm allowed some leeway with hypotheticals. And secondly, I think I'm going to want to actually talk to my kids about sex, go through the motions of them hating me for it just to make it clear there is nothing to be ashamed about sexuality or sex--it is what it is, and you can't change how you feel. But, you can choose when and where to act--no matter HOW tempting it is to ignore that you usually have a choice. And that I don't mind beating into their heads whatsoever, whether they like it or not. 








The Don

This post is in part due to Amy Wang, who specifically requested I post about something happy this week. Something other than Mormons. And given the fact that more than one person I know has suffered a loss in pups, I can't agree more.

Also, I don't know WHY she would think all I write about is Mormons...

Just ignore those links. 

Anyway, two posts ago I had promised a discussion on the incredibly important news. Amy had noted I was supposed to talk about it. So, here it is:

We got a new pug.

For those of you who don't know, I have had a pug in my life that I've written obsessively about for the last year or so.

Her name is Woo.

She has no nose.

She moves about as much as arctic glaciers.

Actually, I take that back. With climate change happening the way it is, the glaciers are moving at a faster rate (and more often) than her.

Suffice it to say, Woo is kind of zen. She likes to just be.

Even if I'm having a bad day...

She really doesn't let it get to her.

If I had to pick something as her one weakness, I would say it's her bed.

Sometimes her bed has been known to transform into alternative locations.

Her favorite hobby is sleep. Without fail. And she's protective of her bed.

This is Woo being not-happy with the stuffed animal pug that (mistakenly) thought it was ok to go into Woo's bed.

Anyway, aside from the obvious, Woo has been my source for the ridiculous (and thus my muse) for quite some time. She is my squishy reminder of the silly joys of life. And recently, my parents acquired another slightly-less squishy joy.

Meet Diego:

He's...odd.

He's active....

He's... social...

He is not named after Diego Rivera, as much as I am convinced of the resemblance...

Instead, he is named after Don Diego, as in, the Clark-Kent identity of Zorro.

Yea.

Zorro.

...

I mean, aside from the black mask around the eyes...I'm not seeing the resemblance.

But, whatever.

He is a happy addition to my parents' home.

Even Woo seems okay with him. I mean, she lets him into her bed.

Which may or may not be physically comfortable... but, it's sweet nonetheless.

So, that's the news from lake woebegone. We got a new pug. But, it doesn't make the old pug any less sweet or adorable. When I go to visit now I have two sets of paws coming at me, which is making it hard to say no to invitations to visit.

More soon I hope. For now, I hope this suffices, Amy. And for anyone else that's in need of happy-pup stories, feel free to email me and I'll send you one of the many mini videos I've already taken of Diego running back and forth as Woo sleeps on in her bed.


-Beryl








Mitt Like Me

I think we all know by now Mitt Romney is a Mormon. And if you didn't know it, I have a strange obsession with the LDS Church. It's partly due to the fact that I am a history, linguistics and genealogical geek. Also, it helps that I have Mormons on both sides of my family.

Read here to get the full background story on my maternal side. I've got Scottish mormons on my father's side too and you can read more about their history in this book, written by the historian, and I'm happy to say my distant relative, Polly Aird. Check it out. Only $39.95 on amazon.

Thank You, Ancestry Dot Com

Anyway, for those that don't like reading (and yet you're reading this sentence) here is a photo-journey to summarize my Swiss mormon side:

Zoom out to view grandparent generation

(Catholics on the left, Mormons on the right, Atheists at the bottom).

 

Zoom out some more (and fyi: we're just showing the Maternal side now)

Zoom a bit more....

Everybody got that?

Great.

Back to November, 2012.

Mitt Romney is the Republican candidate up against our current incumbent Democrat, Barack Obama. I am only stating the obvious due to the fact that there may be someone in 2127 reading this and thinking, "Who? What? When? Zoid?"

And we count down to Election Day, I've noticed that more and more people--crucial, moderate voters-that don't really like Obama but don't want the guilt complex of voting for a man less in favor of civil rights-have said in some form or another that Mitt Romney, due to his Mormonism, would understand the "gay" plight.

Wait.

What?

Now, I'm not going to stand up on a liberal soap box and say that all mormons are bad. Nor am I about to say that Mitt Romney is the devil incarnate--that would be rather ironic, considering he is a Christian. But, as a history geek, as someone obsessed with the LDS Church, and yes, as a gay woman I'd like to set a couple important historical things straight:

What Is Mormonism? Where Does It Come From? And How Do I Get Tickets?

Beginning in the late 1700s America was going through a Second Great Awakening--an incredible Protestant revivalist movement. 

Just imagine it:  everyone--and I mean everyone--in your family is jumping in on the action to join this new, hot, sexy, young Church that literally just started down the street from you--isn't that just so lucky? You have a prophet that goes to the same blacksmith as you!--and this new wave of Protestant revivalism is going to reform the heck out of you. Everyone who is cool is doing it. And if you don't, it probably means you're secretly a loyalist. Or going to hell. I mean, your first three children died before the age of five and your crops are failing--maybe if you convert and repent that won't happen anymore?

Meanwhile, high off of winning independence from the Old World in 1783, started by a minority of Enlightenment intellectuals, America is going through its first massive immigration surge. The push to move West, find and claim a piece of land is immense because there is no regulation--or if there was, it's still literally being put into the constitution--and you are "free"...so long as you can survive.

And this is the world in which Joseph Smith, Jr., Founder of the Mormon Faith, was born into in 1805.

I won't go through the entire history of Joseph Smith's revelations, and his family's background history with religious magic (although--interestingly enough, Joseph was a self-proclaimed Seer of gold--as in, he would "see" where gold was buried by looking through a hole in a hat...). You can wikipedia that.

Just know that 25 years later Joseph has his series of visions, is visited by the Angel Moroni, digs up the (in)famous Golden Plates and translates them from the "reformed egyptian" into what is now known as The Book of Mormon. $14.99 on amazon. Gift-wrap is available.

Boy Has Got Polygame

Joseph Smith, by Sutcliffe Maudsley,  profile drawn from life 

Joseph Smith, any historian (and high ranking members of the LDS) will agree, must have been a charismatic and attractive man (and I don't mean physically--if the paintings done by Maudsley during Smith's lifetime are any indication, Vincent van Gogh got off better). Smith could get the confidence of many people to believe him to be a modern prophet of God. Now that takes chutzpah. 

He was no different in his married life. When he married his first wife, Emma Hale, it was actually against her father's will--he told him to buzz off two years prior. But, Joseph kept pushing for it and one night in 1827, he stole Emma away. Emma recalled, “I had no intention of marrying when I left home...[but] Preferring to marry him to any other man I knew, I consented.”*  Months later they returned to the Hale home to retrieve Emma’s belongings.  Mr. Hale, as you can imagine, was more than tee'd off: “You have stolen my daughter and married her. I had much rather have followed her to the grave.”*

Not exactly... the best Father-of-the-Bride speech I've ever heard. Also, for being a prophet of the Christian God whatever happened to the honor thy father bit? Do father-in-laws not count? 

Chutzpah. 

Anyway, Joseph Smith had supposedly made revelations about Polygamy beginning as early as 1831, but the Revelation of 1843 is the one that historically, socially and when-talking-about-societal-stigmas has politically bound the Mormon Church forever to the taboo of polygamy.

99 Problems But A Bitch Ain't One: Try 56.

Joseph Smith, and some of his direct followers, were attacked, tarred and feathered, mobbed, and more than once made to leave a city they had tried to make home. Smith had worked his way across the land from New York, to Missouri, to Ohio and then to Illinois. Each new venture would fail at being Zion.

Now, you might have noticed, for being an American-born religion, Mormonism certainly wasn't welcome at home. And with this kind of vehement oppression and continued banishment, I've noticed that groups of people tend to self-segregate even further, become even more entrenched in their beliefs and self-righteousness.

Don't worry, I'm not saying Mormons "got what they deserved." It's more that they're part of a trend in this country; most American minorities are persecuted or ostracized at one point in this country. It's the reaction to this societal "hazing" that gets my goat, when it does happen: sometimes a minority group will turn into its own fierce oppressor, as a sort of last resort for self-protection, and cut itself off from anything that might make it more vulnerable than it already feels. Kind of like an animal cornered in a cage, when you think about it. 

Joseph Smith went on to "seal" himself to supposedly 56 women, whom at the time of marriage ranged from 14 years old to 58. There is no firm documentation of all the marriages or the amount of sex Smith was actually having with these women. And the LDS Church continues to debate whether Smith was the main proponent of Polygamy or if it was Brigham Young (one of his earliest converts).

However it started, the urge to practice polygamy as part of being a practicing mormon took a strong hold on its followers. These women (and men) truly believed that it was God's will--and if they didn't, they'd be "destroyed" by Christ if they did not consent. It feels weird stating the obvious, but it's kind of...not really...consent...if you're forced to do something.

Joseph, Interrupted

If Joseph Smith was a sex addict, then today he would be considered a sex offender and a pedophile for acting on that disorder. If Joseph Smith was a disillusioned sociopath with schizophrenic tendencies, believing himself wrongly to be doing God's will according to the Church's current stance, then he'd again be labeled as an outsider and possibly excommunicated.

Don't believe me?

By the end of the 19th century LDS was under severe pressure by US Congress. After Joseph Smith had been killed by yet another angry mob, Brigham Young uprooted the Saints and lead them to Salt Lake City, Utah. The American Government still wanted to stop polygamy and took some pretty drastic measures to do so:  in 1862 Lincoln signed the Morrill Anti-Bigamy Act, Congress escheated all of the Church's assets to the Federal Government and would not ratify Utah as a state so long as they were practicing plural marriage. This meant they were under siege, disenfranchised and pretty much hated by everyone else in the country.

So, in 1890, the then-President of the Church, Wilford Woodruff made a dramatic decision. He sent a message to the US Government that the LDS would not acknowledge polygamy and that any followers planning on getting multiply-hitched should "refrain" from doing so.

The result: Utah got ratified, Church-approved polygamy died out, and since then the Church of Latter Day Saints has continued to try--fiercely--to disassociate itself from Joseph Smith's revelation. When on Larry King, Live, current President of the Church of Latter Day Saints Gordon B. Hinckley stated the Church's official position quite clearly:

"I wish to state categorically that this Church has nothing whatever to do with those practicing polygamy. They are not members of this Church...If any of our members are found to be practicing plural marriage, they are excommunicated, the most serious penalty the Church can impose. Not only are those so involved in direct violation of the civil law, they are in violation of the law of this Church. 

...More than a century ago God clearly revealed unto His prophet Wilford Woodruff that the practice of plural marriage should be discontinued, which means that it is now against the law of God."

So, the 1890 Manifesto killed off the 1843 Revelation, and it has been since canonized (Woodruff would begin to call it a "revelation" about a year later). That does beg the question, though: which revelation is more of a revelation?

It Sucks Being The Group That's Hated. 

In that same interview, Gordon Hinckley called me a "so-called" lesbian.

And according to him, I have a "problem." 

In turn, I stick out my tongue and say I think he is a supposed Mormon who has a major problem with his prophets and his Church's history. But, let's face facts: there is a pretty good shot we're going to have Mormon President, if not tomorrow, then possibly one day. And right now, that means getting a President with spiritual issues based in fear and oppression. The Church has a history (ask any defector) of saying to not fall in line, to not uphold what the group tells you to do, is cause for excommunication. It makes sense: for a Mormon, the worst punishment would be banishment. But, when it comes to me getting my marriage rights, I don't like my odds. 

Maybe Mitt would give up on fighting Gay Marriage. Maybe he wouldn't do much at all given the fact there is much more going on in the world than homos being happy. Even I'll admit Syria is more of a civil crisis than my lack of tax exemptions. 

But, he is certainly not sympathetic to us. He wouldn't fight for us. And it's ironic, really. Because Mitt's Mormon ancestors?

Polygamists. 

All over the family tree.

Just like me.

-Beryl

*http://wivesofjosephsmith.org/01-EmmaHale.htm








Staying Alive: It's My Birthday and I'll Talk About Dying Poets If I Want To.

Well, it's happened. I've turned 26. I'm in that foggy part of the 20s where all of your peers say, "It's all downhill from here" and the people older than you look at you with that sort of sad, poignant look of, "It really is all downhill from there..." and then you start to fantasize about going the Chatterton route, who died at age 17 of arsenic poisoning. But, at least he did become one of the first teen heart throbs to reach Bieber Status.

Suicide from feeling unappreciated as an artist? Or accidental poisoning from venereal disease medication?
Either way, this was The Sex in the 1850s.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

So, in order to veer away from superficial suicide, I thought I'd talk about change instead.

It occurred to me that great moments of change are the railroad switches of life. If the change is smooth enough you don't even realize half the time how much your exterior environment has been altered. And sometimes, it can be a bumpy, bumpy ride.

For example, I tripped across this lovely little gem:

Now, you may not recognize these boys. Why would you? I mean, they look like any other generic 50s boy band, sweater-vests in all (and isn't it ironic that while they look so outdated here, if a boy or girl walked around dressed like this today, they'd be waaaay chic?). But, you know them very well.

You've heard them sing probably over a hundred times--every New Years Eve Party, every wedding you've been to, the night you went clubbing and ended up being accosted by an older man by the name of "Gecko" who solicited you for your "beautiful, crisp hair" at the muni stop.

...

This is them on their first TV appearance. But, since the early sixties you've heard these boys a million times. To this day they're one of the top tracks on any DJ's playlist.  I just heard a mashup of one of their biggest hits with Pink Floyd's "The Wall" while out at a Bachelorette's party at the "Booty Lounge" in San Francisco.

Considering they look more like Leave it to Bieber (Copyright Beryl) rather than any teen heart throbs you would know of, I'll let you in on a little secret.

These boys?

Are these boys:

Robin, Barry & Maurice Gibb, aka The Bee Gees

Hot.

-Beryl

p.s. Speaking of changes, there is a new addition to the parent's home.

His name is Don Diego. More on him next week, but I thought I'd leave you with this:








Houston, we have funding!

Holy crap!  We got funded! 

Kickstarter: http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1154736644/the-my-heart-music-video-project
Music page: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Beryl-Baker/61456887159
A picture of a happy pug.


-Beryl






The My Heart Project

Update to the original blog post below:

We have a Kickstarter up and running for the "My Heart" Music Video Project and have gotten fantastic support from people all over the country! We've already reach goal for the budget of the production and shooting has come and gone. Now comes the hard part of editing, working on the matting, animation and promotion! Website of music is almost up and running...stay tuned and feel free to reread below!


Begin previous posting:

Don't worry--I wasn't eaten by ravenous wolves.  Or pugs for that matter.  Nor was I chucked down some horrible spiral of doom as of last Fall.

But, I'm still figuring out the new job, still trying to grapple with changing cities/living situations, I got into a car accident, and my pug barked at me when I came home to visit the other night.

She didn't recognize me.

After a year of living together.

I get the feeling, though, that feeling routine disappointment over stressful things that happen in life isn't quite the point of life.

So, onward and upward to new and better things.  That's where *this* comes in...

The Music Video Project

I'm in the process of pulling together a crack! team (mostly because I like saying crack! team) to help me build stuff for a very cool project.

Remember the song My Heart?

No?

It's ok. It hasn't gone viral.... yet.

I posted a live performance of it on Facebook a while ago right after I had written it--back when I had more leisure time and a lot more pug loving--and it seemed to catch peoples' attention. A lot of friends said they got it stuck in their head, which both annoyed them and buoyed me. Anyway, things got busy, I got overwhelmed, the pug forgot me, and I forgot about this song.

But, then I played it for some new friends for the first time.  And they reminded me that there is a potential here for something that could be entertaining for a lot, lot more people, thanks to the handy-dandy Internet.

It's always been in the back of my mind that I would love to do a music video with an actual group of other artisans. Working at a theatre, I'm surrounded by talented artists, but so rarely do I get to work on a creative project with them.

That's when I gave my friend Jonathan Potter a call asking if he'd be interested in doing a film together.

It Begins

So, here's a taste of where I'm going.  Below is the storyboard I've been working on edited by Jonathan with one of the recordings I have of the song.  Be warned:  it's not the final draft of the storyboard, nor is it the final draft of my singing the song (I know there are a couple wonky notes in there) but overall, it's a great beginning.

Bye!

-Beryl