O SYRIA...

I speak only for myself. However, I speak as an educated, middle-aged poet who happens to live in America. I try to speak for people who have lost their voices; their hearts; sometimes their minds. For people who speak only in signs or whispers or hooded looks. For people beaten down; uncounted; uncared for. For people disrespected; with no sense of self-importance; with no clout in the world. Mostly, though, I speak for myself, as an American who is concerned about the World.

Syria, we are trying to find the truth.
We are terrified for your gassed and gagging people--and we are terrified for your neighbors.
(We still have survivors of chemical warfare--from all the other wars we entered, believing they, too, were "the right thing to do".)We have lived through those nightmares. You call them to the surface of our dreams. We awake, choking and confused; trying to believe SOMETHING has to be done to stop yet, another genocide. But what to do?

 American people are NOT their government, though our government would have you believe this were true. Often, it is the wealthiest and most influential, who "own" our government,who "will" our government to do what it does. Sometimes, our people are given the wrong information. Sometimes, our people are mislead and manipulated with statistics that have been fabricated...or worse.

Sometimes our people choose to allow this deceit. (Sometimes, it is just easier.) Most times, we get pissed off.

We vote new politicians in. We school our children; gather information; try to assimilate the many changing truths of the World.

Syria, the American people are so damned tired of war. We are suffering in what our government has refused to call "a depression". (Many people forget that even in the Great Depression, when their grandparents were kids, there were rich folks who grew wealthier, still.) Not everyone was on a bread- line, or selling pencils on a street corner, nor riding the rails. The same upper caste exists, today. The same "other classes" still suffer in these new economics.

 Our government continues to fight itself; to issue half-truths; to rally us to sacrifice--even as it votes itself higher pay and longer vacations...Even this "new hope" president is now dancing to the war-drums. Even he might leave his aggressive mark upon the World. Our citizens are losing homes; jobs; savings; hope. Yes, the complexion of our government is changing, but its actions remain tantalizingly familiar. Better speech-makers don't save anyone. We are all so tired of war...

O Syria, call your people to your bosom and save yourself! Stop murdering your children. Stop trying to silence those whose voices are just now beginning to be heard. The American people would like to help you reconstruct yourself, even as we continue to reconstruct ourselves. We are global citizens on a teetering planet and we all need to hold on...to each other.

No more war. Anywhere. Please. This is one American sending her words into the World.

SILENCED.

The 1980s, in California, will always remain in my memory backed by a soundtrack (heavily) featuring Linda Ronstadt. Yeah, there were other groups and other soloists riding the air-waves, but as I rode the real waves, a wailing Ronstadt fed my imagination.

Perhaps it was because she also played "the beard" for hip (then) governor, Jerry Brown; even flying with him to Africa? Perhaps it was her raggedy edge denim hot-pants and roller skates? Maybe it was the enormous doe eyes and that mop of dark hair? Perhaps...Yet, most of all, it was her luscious vocals,wailing love songs from two different cultures. She entered more than my reality: she entered my heart.

As we both aged, I lost sight of her. It was less a matter of "growing up" than a matter of too many choices; too many emerging musical interests. Always eclectic in my tastes, I was moving past "punk" and into "classical" music, with a minor in opera. Environmental and spiritual sounds could be heard ringing from my Silverlake apartment at all hours of the day or night. (Ronstadt would make her way into private reveries--or when romance went south--but she wasn't on the daily rotation.)

As I moved out of the city for a while, down to the beaches of Orange County, mainstream top forty, dance mixes, industrial and electronic beats prevailed. Then, back to reggae, hard rock and old blues.  Chorale groups took over for a time, leading to Gospel and on to World Music. Percussion experiments, (including Pygmy rainforest sounds) rained on my head at The Farm School. So too, did Tibetan mountain songs, Indian Chants (Buddhist and Hindu), Chinese healing music, then back to the Americas for a panoply of Native American shamanistic music.  (Somewhere along these stellar lines, I lost connections to Linda--unless someone nearby hit "Blue Bayou" on their oldies list. Is there anyone around who can't stop for a moment, when Ronstadt hits that final note?)

Earlier, this week, I was informed that there will be no more glorious sounds emanating from the woman's throat. Parkinson's has invaded her body, making it impossible to ever sing, again.  (How is that possible? There's got to be a mistake!) The news hit me as I just finished picking up my fallen father, covered in oatmeal and coffee, after he dropped his breakfast tray in front of the morning news report. Dad down, but not out.(Linda out, but not "down".) Both trying to re-boot themselves. (Less re-invention and more "how can I survive this body betrayal"?)

How, indeed?

When one is given enormous gifts, there comes enormous responsibilities.
(Enormous.)
Ronstadt never seemed to allow her rocketing fame to burn her out, as so many of the stars from my youth did. She always was so normal, so approachable, so "cute"-- in the best way. When she reclaimed the Mexican love songs from her own youth, the heartbreak and purity gave one chills, even if the culture was not one's own. She allowed a sharing of "art"--perhaps the purest art--from her own cells--her throat and lungs-- into the Universe. The very body now breaking itself down made us "understand" something we might have missed, on our own.

Yes, there have been "other voices" down through the ages, from all cultures and times. Each is precious; revelatory. Perhaps making celestial music earthly, at least for a while. Hers could be numbered in their midst. It was more than a simple rock and roll character, created for mass appeal. Ronstadt was "the real deal".

So, do we toil under a capricious God? Is there cruelty when such gifts (presents that reveal the Creator...which is the biggest conundrum of all...) are ripped away?  Linda Ronstadt didn't make mockery of her stardom. She didn't take her voice for granted. She wasn't creepy nor mean nor even selfish. Her politics were never screaming at us--though they were present. She didn't rile us up with promises she would never keep, nor pretend she was something she wasn't. (She was  an anti-Diva; but with a voice that rivaled anyone belting out a number, today.) So, why would her voice be taken? It seemed a gift for us all--the working people, everywhere...

 I am also left wondering about this cost to her psyche--her Spirit. To be silenced, forever. (With Parkinson's, the voice, the singing voice, doesn't come back...)
Silenced.

I think of what it would mean to me if I were suddenly blind. If I could not paint nor draw nor even see a keyboard. (Yes, there are other ways to write, so maybe painting is a better analogy. Either way, to be suddenly deprived of  my truest "voice" in the world...) Could I bear it?  Day to day, after defining myself as an artist and a writer, for my entire life? After sacrificing many other paths--including relationships--to just "keep on" doing that which I felt I have been created to do? Would I bear it? (Could I bear it?)

I think of the millions of people, through time, who, themselves, have been "silenced": bad laws; corrupt governments; wars; natural disasters wiping out entire civilizations; always sickness; always, finally: death.

 How do we recover from these setbacks? Not abstractly nor historically, but individually. (Personally...?)

I can go "meta" and outward and deal with abstract numbers--or I can come back in, close, and think of Linda Ronstadt: forever quiet.

She remains alive; remains fighting her own body's changes. She must find new ways to communicate with the world. My prayers are that she is surrounded by family and friends who love her beyond the golden voice that thrilled us. My wishes are that she feel the gratitude I have for her music, in the past, and for her honesty, in the present. (And that she know by sharing what has happened to her, she once, again, touches us all.)

SEARCHING FOR LOVE IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES

Always afraid to make that first "connection"; always missing that tremulous "hand offered" at a big party or social event; believing that "blind dates" should be restricted to those without sight--truly; I know that my checkered romantic past should be a huge cautionary tale--especially to myself.

Did I take my own karmic advice?  Of course  not! "The heart wants what the heart wants".
However, now I am truly convinced that Facebook DOES aid in our chronic planetary depression...when scrolling through tons of fabulous familial portraits (however real or photo-shopped) or hearing of an old friend's newest success (however real or imagined), one cannot help, if one is predisposed to such things, to feel badly about one's present travails.

Even as the world continues to bleed, one's personal life does take a looming stand. The reason I don't read those holiday tomes (single spaced, two plus pages) is for the same reason: my life just doesn't compute when I measure it against...well...anyone's!  I mean, clearly, I am the blackened sheep among my siblings. (However they protest and try to "include" me.) Clearly I am the ugly duckling looking over two generations, at least. (Do you know how disheartening this is?  I mean, we have the film-at-eleven footage to prove this! My sister Ann even gave me an ugly-duckling jewelry box last Christmas! As if I needed a reminder...) While I am happy for my sibs and joyous about my beautiful nieces, my own body-electric cannot help but wince.

Beyond the physical, there is the mental and emotional feeling of being "alien"...I mean, really alien...like off the planet or another dimension. I don't care for the same things as most adults in this century care for...and yet, when confronted by this fact, I realize how having a trustworthy car; a safe abode; life insurance/health insurance/ a vision and dental plan; homeowners/renters insurance; a will; a safe to put the will into; expensive jewelry of any kind; a boat bigger than a coffin; recent electronics; an IRA; or wealthy old relatives who adore me (on any side) are all comforting "tools" and add immeasurably to one's attractiveness. Yet, try as I have, for almost six decades, I just can't seem to accumulate these things--not for any length of time.  It isn't that I hold them in disdain. I just don't seem to have whatever is necessary in this life to gather them in one place for longer than a few years. Then, something huge and horrendous takes place around me and BOOM!!!! I find myself having to begin, yet again; reconstructing a new life, almost from scratch.

Now, since I don't have children of my own and my nieces are well covered on all sides, the only person I need to worry about is myself. Most of the time, I don't worry. I understand, through sobriety and two different psychotherapy stints (as well as many hundreds of therapist and psychologist and successful in a worldly way friends all willing to give advice), that I am not crazy. I don't have a death wish. I am employable and enjoyable and valuable as a friend. But, even the most hard-hearted and headed among them has been made to admit: Minns, you have terrible karma!

When I write my adventures of the heart out, nobody believes them. When I live them out, again, nobody wants to stay...I have tried the mixers, the dances, the hook-ups and set-ups and phone calls and texting and snail-mail ads and dating services. I have had a few long term relationships where I felt deep connections were made and something true was growing...but then...but then...but then...from natural disasters to unnatural ones; from religious conversions (and re-conversions and de-conversions); from divorces to marriages to re-marriages to re-commitments to run-away answers; deaths, departures, despair of an emotional or psychological or societal kind; war; visa problems; accidents; break-ups and break-downs; drugs; sobriety; booze; sobriety; twelve steps; no steps; side steps; loss of family; of property; of jobs; of clout; of savings; of pets; loss of weight; of hair; of hope; of political standing--these (and more) have conspired to change my life (romantic and otherwise) for five decades, without let up. I understand the roller coaster of Life, however, even roller coasters have some slow times.


Now, with Facebook and LinkedIn and other "new roads to connection" that are not necessarily "love connections", I find a whole new slew of folks who are "interested" in "getting together" and possibly "re-connecting"--but, with my karma, what does this mean?
 
They have seen my true photos and paintings and descriptions and blogs of what is happening to me, right now, even as we type. This has not dissuaded them. However, I remain like a cat on a thin wire: shaky, nervous, wondering which life I am about to cash in. (Can I handle yet another complication?)

So, I take myself out of the circle, again. Remove myself from the usual "lists". I press the assorted "unsubscribe" buttons and retract my "dues". I'm trying to clean up the karma and re-focus. Be the writer and painter I most am. Continue to seek out the elusive teaching job that I know I am best suited for (but seems that no one else is convinced--much like my social prospects).

I eat right; I swim and paddle; I hike around the woods, meditate and pray; keep up with world issues; speak out against horror and mean-ness and small mindedness when I find it; work on my mind (expanding my outlooks) and my Soul (never endingly). Try to understand why I'm here, now, in this place, running up against brick walls on all sides, and on all fronts--including the social--knowing I'm somewhere I've never fit--yet wondering: Have I ever fit?  (Anywhere?)  Did I sign a contract that I cannot remember and little-comprehended, before entering the third dimension of planet Earth? Is this just a cruel joke? A bad movie? A cosmic play? (Am I sleep-walking through someone else's dream?)

I thought I'd grown past being a teen...had survived my twenties and thirties...was building a "grown up real professional life" in my forties and fifties...only to have it deconstructed, pulled apart, and dissolved...fading me back to where I've never thrived...Karma. Perhaps. Or a Bigger Plan that I am simply too dense to be aware of...

No pity. I'll "man-up" (woman-up) and take my lumps. Face my punishment. Learn my lessons. Trust my Spirit. (But I wish I knew what I'm doing wrong.) Or, if, by doing what has elicited so little in the material world, I am actually doing "What Is Right"...

The search continues, even in America.
 

POOLS

It's four in the morning and I'm thinking of September.
Of all the Septembers I've begun new chapters in new places, often alone.
Is it the "forever a student" consciousness that teachers carry with them their whole lives?
Or is it a New England trait? (The leaves about to turn colors of fire.) The wind, smoky and chilled, hinting at what's to come? What IS to come?

I'm praying someone will win the lottery and leave their job in the English department and the newly appointed Principal will "get" that I'm more than just "a substitute teacher" and I will be given a full-time position in my old school--finally getting my parents off my back as their "failure child"--finally giving something back to this ghost-town that is concrete and markedly from me. (I will never be their most famous inhabitant--nor their most touted citizen--but I may be remembered for something other than slinking back with my tail between my legs and eyes downcast and beaten. ) Meantime, I've been swimming in my successful sister's pool.  Like a chlorinated otter far from the sea; swimming blue laps on my back; able to float for hours--could even devour a clam or two; my furry places slick and wet, in their own element; it's a kind of moving meditation. Clouds above me; gentle woodsy sounds from the forest behind the house; the scent of mown lawns and crab apple trees just dropping their fruit.

Only the occasional gunshots from down the road mar these hours.

(This like every neighborhood I've lived in all my adult life...on either coast...now it's the "gun club", in town, a mile or so through the woods; behind the house. Target shooting. Testosterone hobby. Pop pop pop. Even the birds are used to it, though. Just like in L.A....)

My siblings are in Maine, at the family summer rental, right on the coast. I'm with the dog, who is not fond of the pool. Instead, she watches me from the safety of the deck, sunning herself and wanting her "mother" to come home from Maine.  I'm all she's got, for now. So, she "guards" me, half-asleep, minding more the grasshoppers flitting by her head than the distant gunfire.

I think of Egypt, erupting, as I do my laps.
I think of the land of swimming pools I left, out West. Of friends from the desert to the valley, immersed in aquamarine: some swimming like Greg Louganis (and hitting on their swim teachers); others barely adding chemicals to their own pools in this time of mass recession...How many midnight trysts bouncing from hot tub to cool pools, over the years?  How many summer evenings looking up at the flashing stars, floating on my back in the night, amazed that I was somewhere this  miracle could occur?

Now, my successful sisters have a house and a large garden and lawns to trim and a koi pond and each a two car garage. (One also has moved her boyfriend inside.) The other has the dog. They share the pool. With all of us.
I am the only one who floats like a sea otter far from her kelp.
Listening to gunshots in the woods.
Praying for Egypt.
Missing my friends
at the end
of
summer. 

AMERICAN MEAN

As I flip through my "guilty pleasures" of American Reality T.V., I am struck by the mean-spiritedness evident in all of the shows. From the "Real Housewives", to all of MTV's "teen reality dramas", there is this sense of privileged back-stabbing.(As if this is THE WAY to behave--regardless of one's age. ) Being "popular" is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Gaining popularity through bitchiness (and wealth) is the only road to success.

Whether it be gay, straight, transgender or bi-sexual individuals, there is so much jealousy, name-calling and materialism, rampant in these  productions, I wonder if the rest of the world "gets" that much of the footage is NOT spontaneous(or real). Many scenes are "recreated" for dramatic effect--or  just outright scripted.  (I know because I have met producers, writers and crew members of these shows, over the years in Los Angeles...) The demand for these seedy tales is only exceeded by the poor table manners and lack of conscience most of these shows portray. How did this happen?

If you listen to the arguments between "stars" on these programs, you can't help but notice the paucity of vocabulary employed by the characters. Whether it be "teens", or aging California housewives (from Bev Hills to Orange County), the verbiage is shockingly limited (and unusually mundane). No wonder it is so easy to pick up English. Perhaps the exception is the "countrified" (redneck) reality series, which follows its own set of rules: colorful,ignorant slang, which often becomes the running joke of the series... Makes me wonder if the world sees us as either a.) absolutely selfish or, b.)  completely ignorant. (Whereas our "leaders" are sex-crazed and world-domineering, our "people" are just crazed...hmmm.)

We know we are not at the top of the heap when it comes to education. Perhaps we never really were and were just led to believe we ranked highest...statistics are so easily manipulated by those creating the studies. (Or by those PAYING for the studies...) If you watch American "reality" t.v., you can  witness the dumbing of America and its resultant mean-ness.What bothers me most is the passive acceptance of this trend. Whereas once I worried about my nieces growing up in the shadow of white, coiffed Barbie dolls (as role models), I now worry that they are in a world of Heathers and Tamaras and sculpted, plastic- fleshed Vickis. Screaming fights between aging women in high-heels and bustiers, with tanned, pinch- faced "professional men" ogling them on. The shriller the voices, the more prosperous the life-style...sigh.

At middle-school and high school levels, across all socio-economic and racial/cultural boundaries, American kids are conditioned to believe that designer clothes (even if they are rip-offs), cars,  and plastic surgery are necessary accoutrements to growing up. Forget the older days of shopping for pens, or notebooks. Now, the first day of class may include one's new nose-job...Friendships are based on what kicks one wears to school; the newest electronics; what kind of car one rides in. Forget kindness. Forget true loyalty (except to "the hood"--even if "the hood" is a gated community in "the OC"...)Forget shared experience or bravery.

Even kindergarten kids are begging for "mani-pedis". (If one can't afford a new "tablet" or smart phone, one can at least afford a tiny tattoo...or a tinier weave...) Girls mentioning "Brazilians" aren't discussing exchange students, either...While physical adornment (bling) has been with us throughout civilization, it seems to me a great irony that obesity rates, heart disease and childhood diabetes continue to plague us.(Sucking back "champs" instead of soda, and hoping for a rich spouse to pay for the liposuction, are touted as "miracle cures".) Stress relief comes in the form of behind the scenes nannies or thirty-five dollar designer cocktails after breakfast. This "will come" in adulthood--ask any fifth grader what's in store down the road. Expectations abound when it comes to the material gains in one's future. Spirituality, finesse, culture--those are never listed. (Why should one strive to paint an original piece when one can hire a decorator to procure one to match the settee in the great room?)

In the so-called "redneck America", there is a cartooned life that is held up as "authentic", but is equally charade. "Road-kill" cuisine; moon-shine; farting as family bonding; "skin crust" and "forklift-feet"; or being as loud as possible whenever one is in public: all touted as "more real" than what passes as culture in Beverly Hills. Poverty is simplified; white-washed as Tom Sawyer's fence. (Every redneck comes on t.v.  with their own houses, farms, four-wheel vehicles, recreational weapons, and Wi-Fi connectivity. The kids may be unwashed, uncouth and/or uneducated, but Hell, they all have smart phones and get their nails down in a salon.)

In my growing-up period, I remember laughing at the t.v. shows, "The Beverly Hillbillies" and "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air". (Poor people suddenly given the spotlight in situations they were unprepared for...hilarious.) However, these "poor folk" were not real and not really destitute. The humor came from their elaborate solutions to upscale encounters--absurd. (For example: the Three Stooges crashing a black-tie ball.) Nobody confused the escapades with reality. No one wanted to grow up and have a "Stooges lifestyle".

Today's reality shows warp America's truth: the hidden poor; the truly homeless: shoeless and hungry. (I suppose they also warp the super-rich: bound with sleepless nights worrying about Obamacare; estate management; tax loop-holes and their nannies.) In any sense, these shows are filled with a meanness that the t.v. shows of my youth (however inane) didn't push.  Nose-jobs were sometimes discussed but rarely seen as "necessary" (or "a rite of passage").  If hissy fits and calling one's best- friend- of- the- month a "bay-itch" happened in those adult realms, it was rarely a story-line.

Passing dysfunctional people off as "the new stars" of America, makes me terribly upset. It robs our kids of the world-wide role models who are changing the planet for the better. (Who are working for the advancement of all people, not just to be "rich and famous".) Outward beauty is to be appreciated. It will always have its place. But standards of beauty should be expanded, not set in silicon. Cultural beauty should be relished--and shared. Not homogenized.

 Nature abhors sameness. (If we get addicted to only the "sugar", it will kill us.) Differences are  valuable. When was the last time you heard that? (Score: "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo!"--I gotta give props when props are due...)  Let's not just mouth the platitudes about "inner beauty", though. Let's show inner-beauty as glorious; worth cultivating. Something as valuable as cut abs or a Beamer.

 Let's celebrate friendships that last more than one episode; don't change season- to- season, or get shifted over someone's blog-fight. Let's not ridicule a family's ignorance while turning around and lauding their loyalty--as if giving back-handed compliments are true rewards. Let's teach through our own reactions and become better friends, ourselves.

 More than anything else, let's stop calling these scripted shows "real"--confusing our kids AND the rest of the world. Americans aren't any "meaner" than people in other countries. We have just as many real-life problems behind the materialism you see portrayed on our television shows. Our poverty remains(mostly) shoved out of sight.  It is grindingly real to the folks trying to survive.

Let's stop stereo-typing cartoons in place of true cultural identity. (We don't all eat "sketti" made from margarine and ketchup, even if we live in the South. Not everyone in OC --or even Beverly Hills, for that matter-- is white. Nor a millionaire --even if they'd like to be). Every girl isn't given a nose-job for her sixth birthday, nor breast implants when she hits puberty. Loyalty isn't limited to the backwoods--nor is wrestling and mud-driving.

While coming to these frightening realizations, I must admit: I'm hooked too.

Just as we all slow down for car wrecks on the freeway, "to see"; watching these shows becomes a compulsion.

No one is immune--which is most insidious of all..

So, be careful, Honey Boo-Boo! The zombies are coming to get ya'll...
   

WALK A MILE IN MY FETISH

Perhaps it was because I was born with weak ankles and tiny feet. Perhaps it was because, on some deep level, I knew that life was going to be a tough adventure and I should be prepared to run. Perhaps it was because I loved women but always cringed at their high heels and flimsy fashions. Perhaps it was because I was destined to "walk a mile" in the shoes of many, different people from all over the world. Perhaps it was because I have never loved being barefoot--except in bed--and in bed, always insist on having clean feet...

Perhaps it was when I realized: so many people in the world have no shoes. Nor sneakers. No boots of any kind...and the ground they walk upon is not safe...

My remaining "addiction" is to shoes that get me someplace. Shoes that protect and comfort me and make me feel like moving. Shoes that carry me over miles of glass or rock or burning macadam but also leave my toes and heels unblistered. Shoes that are a wee bit distressed--they show the miles they have earned. They boast "dangerous roads crossed" or "we've experienced something remarkable". Shoes that are at home in the pine-needle carpeted forests of New England or the rocky coast of both shores. Shoes that cradle me and make me want to attempt the next mile.

I am in a constant search for "the perfect adventure shoe"--even as I am in a constant reverie about the perfect adventure. I don't know if it will be a short hiking boot or a tall cowgirl fancy-stitched wonder. Maybe a hand-sewn chukka will enter my field of vision. A double-sewn Indian-made moccasin, deer-tanned and fitting like newskin across the face of my sole? Fur-lined or sheep-lined or gum-soled and supple; ready to be pulled on after the beach or before the blizzard. Brilliantly hued and high-tech or canvas based and low; made for people who really don't want to have to wear ordinary shoes but need the support (in more ways than one).

Never sandals--not even Birkenstocks! Nor flip-flops...too many twisted ankles and blistered between-toe injuries--even sun-burned foot-tops! Give me sneakers or give me death. Like the young boy in the Bradbury novel, DANDELION WINE, I want spongey new spring-colored lightning on my feet for the beginning of summer--even if I'm fifty-seven and more sedentary than my youth. My spirit sings with sneakers.

Some fetish moments: The first time I finagled boys' high-top basketball sneakers--almost. White and really tennis "shoes", Mom let me get them by accident. The local shoe store was out of "Keds"...I wore them to a Catholic Girls' Retreat Weekend, secretly stashing them in my luggage and only taking them out when we arrived. Yes, I wore the requisite linen, flowered dress, but my sneakers snuck me through, intact.

My first really amazing hiking boots: Montaine's. Thick, black, oiled leather. Women's size 8--to allow for the best hiking socks I could find. Worn on most backpacks during my years at The UCI Farm School, and packed to make the move to L.A., when Farm School went "kaput". (Sadly left in L.A., as I was called East.) Never replaced...at least not yet. Now, I have some fabric and suede light boots to tramp the woods, but nothing like those well-worn war horses, my Montaine's.

My first pair of classic oxford Earth Shoes: orange leather, hard-soled, as uncomfortable as they were interesting. I wore them until my blisters turned to callouses, but never got used to them. The 70's, Wells College and those Earth Shoes will always blend together in my memory- closet dreams.


Cowgirl boots that are always beautiful art but never seem to fit; square-toed, round-toed, high or walking heel; ropers or fancy-worked leather...my best memory is "scoring" a distressed suede walking-heel pair in Pasadena, at a thrift store, for two bucks. I wore them to the pool hall that night, drunkenly tottering around the table, accepting bets (unwisely) from the "sharks" who inhabited the club...then shocking everyone as I won game after game...(Wonder where those boots disappeared to?)
    

Rainbow sponge sneakers and one particular love, who gave me my most (at the time) pricey pair, for Valentine's Day. (As the relationship fell to pieces, so did the sneakers.)

The weirdly wonderful non-shoes, made for surfers and hippies and rebels of all ages; usually organic and looking hand-made; often using materials like hemp and gum-rubber and sustainable fabrics...Sanuks got me through my last year on the side-streets of metro L.A.; Toms' shoes offer a simple solution that is great for the conscience and planet's kids...Simple was a wonderful outfit with amazing comics included in the box, until it sold out and began to make shoes that were just not as comfortable or...dare I write: simple.

I'll still check out Earth Shoes and Birkenstocks, hoping to find a pair that is as comfy as they look (at a price that doesn't burn my wallet)...I'll always be looking for another seventies fashion fad (to complement our white carpenter's pants): shit kickers--that orangey leather lace up waffle-soled workboot that even the famous pianist, Mona Golabek, wore, the first night I met her in upstate New York (along with tight bell bottom jeans and a real fur, full-length coat...) I swear I can die a satisfied woman if I can find another pair of those funky work boots that I ripped off from my younger brother, just before heading to Wells.

And, of course, I must mention, my sister's favorite "clogs"; my best-friend Marcia's ubiquitous (and now making a comeback--which gives me hope about the search for excellent shitkickers...) Dr. Scholl's exercise sandals, with the wooden sole. (I never understood these one-strap platform sandals, but then again, I've never been a professional dancer!) These are my private, fetish-fueled dreams, in a rainy August.

Thirty-five years ago, I made a prediction, to the same lover who bought me the Valentine New Balance classics: if the world wore sneakers, everyone would feel better.
I'd like to expand that: if every person in the world bought a pair of sneakers for someone who didn't have any, the world would feel much better.

I truly believe.