Between Yesterday and Tomorrow

Suddenly it's another Monday, and it occurs to me that next Monday, October 2, is Poets Monday at Linneman's Riverwest Inn, and I'm the featured poet. If I don't let people know, no one will know!

When I perform with other poets and musicians, I have between ten and twenty minutes. On the 2nd, however, I have all the time I care to use between 9 PM and 10 PM. I have to figure this out. I'd rather leave the audience wanting more than leave them wanting less.

The feature is always preceded by an open mic. If you want to try out a new poem or an old one, your first poem or your last one, here's your chance. Sign up at 7:30, open mic at 7:45, I'm at 9, and Linneman's is at 1001 E. Locust, one block west of Humboldt. Tim Kloss is emcee. Cover charge is $3. Here are some poems I might perform, and here's one I'll definitely perform:

SATSUNMON

I wake up and it's the next day
Then I wake up and it's the next day
Then the NEXT day
No day Will stay
I wake up
Sun day Sun down
Monday Mon done
Tuesday Has to go No two Tues in a row
No two Tues No tutu,
I dance through Time
And it's Wednesday Wed once
Then Thursday Thirsts away
Into Friday No more fried eggs
Sat day No more sat fat
Saturday Sun
Mon, one more Mon Day
One more Mon Th,
Jan Feb Mar Ape May Ju Ju
Aug Sep Oc Nov Dec, gone, too
One more MON TH
One more MON Day
One more MOM ENT, one more MOM ENT
Million moments marched away
Million moment march
Sun mon tuesday wednesday thurs
Friday saturday sun
I wake up
And I've lived too long
To die young.
Suzanne Rosenblatt © 2003

I hear that hordes swarmed to Whole Foods on opening day, and I'm glad that Columbia-St. Mary's is connected with a store that sells organic products. I hope that means the hospital itself will go organic and stop spraying every inch of green exposed to human view. When I see their little white signs, I joke that they're looking for more customers. But really, a hospital should know better. And they do, or they wouldn't be touting Whole Foods.

Many of us are wondering how the presence of this organic giant will affect Beans and Barley, Riverwest Co-op, and the Outpost. So I thought I'd help out one smaller (by comparison) store. After years of trying to decide which was more dangerous, biking in the road or on the sidewalk along Capitol Drive, I was determined to find an alternate route to the Outpost. The result of my research was two scenic bike routes from Shorewood, no dodging drivers on cell phones nor cars that dart in and out of parking lots along Capitol, no viewing Walmarts, Office Depot, and Jewel-Osco! Instead take the Oak Leaf Trail to Estabrook Park, and go north through the park, on the road if you're alone, on the fresh-paved bike path if you have company. Then take Hampton west to Port Washington Road, turn south (if you stay on the sidewalk, you don't even cross Port Washington Rd). Then turn left on Estabrook Boulevard, and it's a coast. The Boulevard curves into Lydell which will take you right to Capitol, and there's the Outpost on your left. This will add two miles to your trip, so you'll get exercise as well as organic food, and much less carbon monoxide.

Take the southern route home with your groceries. It's just a few blocks longer than a straight line along Capitol. Cross Capitol and take First St two short blocks to Abert, turn left, take Abert till you have to turn. Go right, that's Richards, go one block to Vienna which takes you to Humboldt, left on Humboldt till you're back on Capital. Here you take the bridge over the Milwaukee River that swirls around fallen trees and blue herons (that's the scenic part of this route).

9/16 There's a part of me that won't go into our living room, and that part is my feet. Which is hard, for we read, watch TV, eat, and generally hang out in there.

It started a few nights ago when I walked in and thought I saw a mouse scamper under a couch, in fact, right under my usual seat. I tried to convince myself it was the permanent floater in my left eye, which sometimes feels like a mosquito flitting by. I jerked my eyes to the left to see if the floater could look like a dashing mouse. No dice. At least I was wearing shoes, not the sandals I had on when a chipmunk ran over my foot at the duck lagoon. So I went in and sat down, proud that I'm not as squeamish as I used to be.

Then came tonight. I walked into the living room, and whoosh, a mouse actually rushed across a couch, again headed towards my usual seat! Unless I have a mouse-shaped floater, there could be no doubt. I was thankful for the chair and reading light in our bedroom, and the book in my hand went upstairs with me.

I've had several other warnings recently. Adolph saw a mouse near the refrigerator last month, but we haven't seen anything since then in the kitchen. And a few days ago I noticed a large and furry creature in the garden as I was about to stick my key into the front door keyhole. A lovely black cat, though engrossed, took the time to glance at me, and there was a mouse in its mouth! I quietly unlocked the door, didn't want to scare the cat away without its prey, ran inside, and watched through a window as it played. Then it left, empty-mouthed. I haven't picked a string bean since then.

Before that two of my grandsons and I saw a mouse scurry up the foundation, run between brick and shingles, turn around, run back down, and disappear into the great outdoors.

Oh, well. I know old houses are porous, with no end to entries. I could get a life-time supply of copper mesh, fill every visible dime-sized hole, and there'd be hundreds more invisible ones. My quandary is, do I dare go barefoot in the dark, barefoot to the bathroom in the middle of the night? Or should I slip into my cozy slippers in which, who knows, a mouse might be lodged, and unable to dodge, my toes?

I see. I must put this in perspective, think of bombed, bulldozed, and flooded homes, think of the homeless, think of tents in Darfur with militia rampaging through, and what then is a paltry mouse in a house?

When I'm not traipsing through the outside world, I spend a big chunk of my life right here in Shorewood. I don't drive, but that's not the reason. Shorewood's a bikable, walkable (for the most part), health-oriented (I'll skip the pesticides for now), shop-worthy, restaurant- and cafe-filled, active village, with more groups and organizations than I could list or even know about. So I'll stick to my personal orbit.

Writers from all over the country give readings at Schwartz on Oakland, just four blocks from my house, and if I'm in town and free, I'm always there. I also show up regularly at Schwartz for French Table the first and third Wednesday (8 PM) of every month, an informal gathering of those, like me, who need practice with their French and those who speak fluently. Even the book club I've been in for the past fifteen years meets mainly in the Shorewood area.

I founded a group, Grass Roots, to educate residents about lawn pesticide risks; Keith Schmitz created Grassroots North Shore to promote progressive causes. I swam at the Shorewood Pool until, after 24 years, I got tired of cold water at 6:30 every morning. I now go to the Community Fitness Center instead.

Then there's the Second Sunday Salon, which Adolph and I have been a part of for the past two years. We meet to discuss moral, ethical, political, and practical issues, issues that make a difference in all our lives, and I think there should be intimate groups like this meeting all over, not just in one particular Shorewood home. After each salon I find myself thinking about whatever we discussed in a slightly different way. Last Sunday the topic was humanitarian aid. The facilitator emailed us some questions to consider beforehand: How does your spiritual practice shape your work in the world? How do you define "service"? Does humanitarian work enable poverty? What's the difference between overseas humanitarian work and national welfare programs? How are we connected to the poor of other nations?

I'll come back to this and other salon topics in future blogs, in the hope that some of you will want to start up similar groups. In a society of mindless media and entertainment news, we're losing our population of questioners.

After a full day of full sun on July 29, I thought Adolph and I would never again show our art in a tent. But on Saturday, September 16, figuring on a more benign sun, we're doing just that. Since we've lived in Shorewood 37 years, I thought we should be part of Showcase Shorewood, which will include a fine art and fine craft fair on the lawn of Shorewood High School, 1701 E. Capitol Dr., from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. So stop by and say hello. At least it won't be 100 degrees.

I'm a performance poet, so perhaps it's not surprising that last night I dreamt I was about to perform, reached into my bag, and saw I hadn't brought my text. I hope I won't do that on Saturday.

The Coffee House is celebrating its 40th season, and we Earth Poets will have our 20th annual performance there in 2007. We're growing old together. Since we're not yet too old, Harvey Taylor and I will perform on Saturday, September 9, at 8 PM, as part of a 40th Season Sampler Concert also featuring Mud River Lee, Jenna Lynne, and Theiss and O'Connor. The Coffee House is located at 631 N 19th Street (19th just south of Wisconsin). Free Admission

To a certain extent it's the Earth readings that keep me writing eco-poetry. I know at least I'll have a venue! But it's the East Side that usually triggers the poems. And as I bike around Shorewood and Whitefish Bay at this time of year, when summer fades to fall, I have to wonder about this obsession with perfection.

WHAT'S WRONG WITH IMPERFECT?

Color the lips, slim down the hips, get rid of the double chin
Realign teeth, cover crows' feet, powder each pimple
That breaks through the skin
Pluck out the brows, then draw them in
As if imperfect outside
Means imperfect within

Mascara the lashes, pierce the ears
Shave the armpits, hide all tears
Spray sweat away, shadow the eyes
Get rid of grey hairs, with chemical dyes
Powder each pimple
That breaks through the skin
Pluck out the brows, then draw them in
As if imperfect outside
Means imperfect within

Cut the grass short, spray weeds away
Make sure the lawn, shows no sign of decay
Let nothing grow wild, control all that's seen
Keep the grass a flawless green
Shape all hedges
Manicure edges
Don't let nature
Intrude on the eye
Of any casual passerby

Kill each dandelion
That pops through earth's skin
As if imperfect outside
Means imperfect within.

We face the world with our face
We face the world with our lawn
Based on the premise
That absence of blemish
Means perfect or lovely or strong
There's no contemplation as we smear, spray, or place
Cockeyed concoctions on our lawn or our face
And yet they may do much more than we think.
For whatever we use to cover our stink
Alter asymmetry, or make Snow White's apple red,
May kill off what we don't wish
Dead.

We ignore the damage that might arise
Creating faces and lawns that are
Lies.

Water has always run through my life, the Hackensack River, an unnamed stream in Bogota, NJ, the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, the Long Island Sound, Flat Rock Brook, the South China Sea,
Lake Michigan , so it's not surprising that Atwater's park, bluff, and beach often pop into my blogs. If I take a walk or bike ride, the lake usually is a magnet.

Someone recently asked me if I'd ever seen the tram at Atwater Beach. In fact I often overhear it mentioned as a presence in the distant past, not so distant to me. When my kids were young, we'd even occasionally use it. The tram carried non-walkers between bluff-top and beach. Once it no longer functioned, it remained in a limbo of disrepair before the construction of the scenic overlook and wooden stairs, and the deconstruction of the bath house and concession stand.

During one period of my life I'd load my bike with paints and pieces of plywood (the grain reminded me of water), and trek down to the beach to paint. Blistering Augusts and ozone alerts never stopped me, though they probably should have. I've done hundreds of drawings looking down from bluff-top; and the startling view triggers many of my poems. It seems natural that my blogs hover over the lake with me. In fact I wrote one last July that I never got a chance to post, so I thought I'd do it now.

THE COAST GUARD TO THE RESCUE:
7/24/06 A couple of years ago a cardiologist told me to wear a pedometer, make sure it was accurate, and do the equivalent of 8000 steps a day. Perhaps that was counterproductive, since I was already aiming for 10,000. Since lifting weights and doing tai chi barely register, and biking is under-reported in the foot count, I do more than 8000 most days. But sometimes at the end of the day I'll glance at the pedometer and realize I haven't exercised enough. That's why I'm at Atwater Beach, looking down from the top, and the low tide is amazingly low, clouds reflected in the wet sand. I was exhausted till I got here and saw the lake; now I'm inspired to do the steps. One round trip.

Later. "Ciao, Suzanne, come vai?" called Ricardo, as I was about to descend. We always start our conversations in Italian, thanks to a shared love of opera. Then, after an aria or two, we retreat to English.
"Are you willing to take the steps with me?" I asked, and we walked down, watched waders wallow in the low low tide. A white yacht was bobbing unusually close to shore. Several people in orange life jackets stood on board. What in the world were they doing, not fishing, not moving, as the sky darkened? The deteriorating piers that jut into the lake were crowded with people who had climbed around the fences and ignored the keep off signs.

The tide was so low, we decided the boat must be grounded. Just then a boy and a girl climbed out of the boat and waded towards shore. "Are you stuck," I called.
"Yes, we've been here since 4 o'clock. It's some friends' boat. They're German. They don't know the boating rules." They'd come in too close, hit a rock, damaged the boat, and were waiting for the Coast Guard. And so did we, waited, and waited, for the Coast Guard rescue as the sun set. Finally a boat with flashing lights came from the north, then another from the south, then a third. When we left at 9 PM, it seemed the rescue was underway.

7/26/06 Wow, that's all I can think, as I watch sunset reflected, pink-tinged clouds and water, gulls appearing dark as they glide past brightness, horizon a hazy deep blue, lake a streaked mirror, red-winged black birds noisy yet invisible to me, sounds muted as night falls. Parents try to move their kids upwards. "These steps aren't so bad if you take your time," says the father. "Oh, my legs are already burning," says the mother, while a wired man dashes up and down steps, monitoring his heart rate and blood pressure. A screaming 3-year-old is carried up by his father. Now the mother takes over. Someone's using two folding chairs as walking sticks; he bumps his way upward.

The silhouetted figures in the water are framed by mauves and blues, voices from the crowded pier carry upwards, lake grows pinker and pinker, streakier, someone snaps a photo with his phone. Time, time, time to go, but how can I when the change is so constant, the colors more and more intense? May I never get used to having this a half mile from my front door.