Important Work

 

 Capture the Moment

Johnny does the important work of closing the kitchen door.

When did we get so busy?  Nothing is more important than anything else.  Slow down you move too fast. . .

The first artist I ever met and who was an inspiration was Judith Koehne.  She said it takes a lot of time to be an artist.  I wanted to be a writer but I knew I didn’t have a lot of time so I set out to prove Judith wrong.  I decided I was going to write, even if I only had ten minutes, that I was going to capture short moments if that’s all there was time for.

On Johnny doing important work at eighteen months

What there is to do is to do nothing.  So I do nothing.  I walk around doing nothing and while I’m doing nothing I do whatever there is to do at the moment.

What is the need of the hour?

So I wash the kitchen floor.  I’m with Johnny and with Johnny is where I want to be and as I do nothing I want the nothing that I do to be something that Johnny can do with me.  So I wash the kitchen floor and get it clean and Johnny climbs up on a chair he has pushed up to the counter. He gets a dishrag and brings it to me. He wants to help. He has important work to do. He has his rag and he wants to do his important work of washing floors. I concentrate on washing the kitchen floor as he concentrates on washing the kitchen floor. Nothing is more important than anything else, and the floors are clean.

I begin to prepare the dinner. I take out the chicken, wash and dry it and Johnny pushes the chair up to the counter to do important work. He takes the dishes out of the dish drainer and I brown the chicken. He puts the dishes in the sink, and I brown the chicken. Johnny does the important work of putting clean dishes back into the sink.

I walk out the back door to put the dirty rags in the laundry and Johnny closes the dryer door for me. The towels are dry. I take them out of the dryer and Johnny closes the dryer door for me. I open the dryer door, put the wet towels in and Johnny closes the dryer door for me.

Johnny does the important work of closing the dryer door. I add spices to the chicken. Johnny sleeps as I write.

 (c)1986

Innocence

 Nightsnow and Johnny

 

Innocence

to gaze at the little boys

playing in the yard

peering through bushes

wandering in and out

finding tunnels

under branches

between fences

oh to be little again

the innocence of self discovery

in the forest of your own back yard

of throwing eggs

yellow oozing out

of simultaneous poops

out behind the shed

with the innocent declaration

“Don’t be mad a me”

as they stroll proudly in.

©1988

This picture breaks my heart, that smile on Danny John's face.  The puppy couldn't come with us when I married Larry.  Blending six kids had plenty of challenges.  We found her a good home.

Home at Last

Larry and Laverne's first performance piece at their wedding in1988

 

Eventually, regarding marriage and relationships, I had a major shift in my thinking.  While there was clearly much good in this second marriage, there was too much struggle.  It was on one of those beautiful summer sunset walks.   In that moment I got that I deserved to be loved by someone who truly appreciated who I was and what I could do.  In hindsight, I must say that getting a clear picture of what I wanted  was working in full force when Larry Vogt came into my life.  This is the piece I read at our wedding.  The third marriage for both of us :))

May 15, 1988

Home at Last

            I have crossed over to the other side.  I feel like the pioneer woman, from the east, come up upon the frontier man, alone with four children, waiting for the feminine energy to emerge.

            “They are attracting you,” he said, “with their smiles and their sweetness.  They want you here, to be part of their life, to be part of your life.”

            The vision gets clearer and clearer.

            “The backyard will be the deciding factor,” he said, as he took me there in the light of the near full moon.  Interesting, that something, seemingly so insignificant would be so decisive.

            “You know me well,” I said as he held me tight in the moonlight.  “You know me well,” I said over and over.

            I saw in the night, the winter, drizzly night the six raised garden beds he had mentioned earlier.  One for each child and I remembered the conversation I had had with my son that we would see who could grow the best tomatoes, and the best pumpkins and he had said,  “and the best flowers.”

Johnny's first pumpkins

            “Yes, yes,” I had answered, the best flowers.  You want to grow flowers?” I questioned him softly and nodded yes moving deep into thought.

            The picket fence around the year. the bushes cascading over the fence, the covered patio next to the garage, the porch swing waiting for lovers to swing.  “Yes, yes, dear Larry, the backyard was the deciding factor.  I can live here forever now.  I can see that I have, as you say, come home.  Come home at last.  Come home to the rich life.  

The Rich Life:  Larry, Laverne, Nightsnow and Johnny cooking and cleaning

 The children smiling, running, playing.  The once chaos of their activity has become symphonic, rising and ebbing, the softening and trickling, then purring.  I have come home to the cleaning and crying and laughing and gardening the sewing and reaping and painting and mellowing, the cooking and tasting, the feeling and touching. 

            I am home.

            ©1988

Johnny, porch swing and flowers

Anger Art

 

My first poem was on discovering the other woman.  Looking back I can see that it was also my first performance piece and my first installation.  I didn’t think of myself as a poet or an artist.  I was just writing.  And what happens when you write is you make discoveries.  One of the highlights of my writing, reading and performing was meeting Gloria Steinem at the UK Women’s Writers conference in about 1990.

Anger Art

He said, “She is just storing a few things here.”

Heart beating fast, I threw it all on the floor.

First, from the drawers, came the nightgown, panties and bra.

Next, from the closet, came the pants, shoes and shirts followed by birth control pills and make up from the bathroom.

Still angry!

I went to the kitchen and piled on the dishes she brought to cook for him in. Then emptied the fridge of her leftovers—salad, spaghetti, fruit, hamburger.

Still angry!

Needs more texture. How about pancake flour dusted everywhere. And the bubble bath she “stored” in the bathroom—poured it all over.

Finally, icing for the cake—maple syrup, drizzled every­where.

Even on top of the angry, goodbye note— “have fun you fuckers!”

On Being Silenced

When I was in my thirties I wanted to write the truth about everything, no matter how painful.  And it was important that I did write and share.   Now that I’m in my sixties, that is not so interesting to me.  I want to write more about the sound of the dry leaves falling from the trees on this warm early fall day, about being still and listening.

On Being Silenced

Am I the only one whose husband has had an affair?

or am I the only one talking about it?

my husband did have an affair

and while it was going on

I wrote about it

I wrote the truth

the whole truth

and then I shared it

shared it with everyone

every chance I got

and you know what happened?

I don’t think he liked it very much

that I did that

that I shared my poetry

how interesting, I thought

and I said,

but, darling, have you done something you’re ashamed of?

after all,

you expected me to handle it

certainly you can handle my

simply

writing poetry about it.

©1983

The night I was the woman in the red tights and black mini dress

 

This is the poem I’m reading in this photograph.  It was taken during the 1984 filming of “The Southern Sex, debunking the myth."  Unfortunately they only used the last two stanzas in the film.  I wrote it before I had grown sons and a wonderful husband.  And yet, I still do wonder. . .

This poem has to do with missed opportunity

and the labeling of women

who enjoy touch

just pure touch

as a whore and a slut

and I wonder

what do we call such men?

The night I was the woman in the red tights and black mini dress

“Good girls don’t”

so I did

I’m tired of being a “good girl” all the time

It was six years ago

he was the star

and he asked me

me? I had thought

not that I wasn’t trying to be attractive

even a little sexy

so I smiled

and he invited me to dinner

then I started thinking

you know how men are

they only want one “thing”

and “good girls” don’t give “it” to them

even if they wanted to

and boy did I want to

but I said no

can you believe it?

I said no

I couldn’t

I just couldn’t

I mean

after all

what would my mother say

and the priest

or my husband

heaven forbid

they would all call me a whore

or even worse

a prostitute

what’s the difference?

a whore does it for fun

and a prostitute does it for money

you know

sorta as in

being married

and he works hard for the money

and she gives him the “they only want one thing” thing

so anyway

I had to say no

and I’ve regretted it all these years

what would it have been like? I wondered

you know how it is

when there is something you really want

and you imagine it

and fantasize it

and then one day

the opportunity actually presents itself

and you turn it down!

the pits!

so last week-end

there I was

nearing the possibility

that the opportunity might present itself

one more time

I really doubted it

I was six years older now

he would certainly be more interested in the younger women

I wore my red tights and black mini dress, anyway

and then he did

he asked me

this is it

this is the “moment you’ve been waiting for” moment

so say it

say yes

you know you want to

“You asked me that same question six years ago”

I reminded him

“And what was your answer then?” he asked

“I’d like to think you’d have remembered

if my answer had been yes”

I told him and I knew then where I was headed

so say it

say yes

you know you want to

“I don’t have any birth control,” I said instead

and he did

“I didn’t shave my legs”

“No problem”

so say it

just go ahead and say it

say yes

you know you want to

so I did

I said yes

yes

I want to

I want to be a whore

and touch

just pure touch

no dinner

no drinks

just touch.

(c)1984

On Defining Rape to my Sixteen Year Old Daughter

My poetry is simply
one woman's story
There's no doubt
in my mind
when the soul enters
as Goddess of my Universe
I decide
whether by rape, incest
out of wedlock or within
troubled of happy
as Goddess of my Universe
I decide
a choice
I stand to lose
a prisoner of conscience
I may become.

and so I wrote
on defining rape to my 16 year old daughter
not the president
not the police
not the doctor
not the priest
as Goddess of my Univers
I decide.

On Defining Rape to my Sixteen Year Old Daughter

It was the fact that
she didn't spend the night with a girlfriend
as planned
she spent the night with a boyfriend
instead
that made me furious

"But mom, I didn't think anything would happen
or anyone would find our."

Of course not, darling
you were silence
you didn't tell a sour
and he did
first thing after he dropped you off
don't you know how boys talk?

It's not your virginity
it's your integrity
I feared lost
and baby
that's all we've got

You know what it is that mothers fear most?
it's not that you're made sweet love to
it's that he'll know all the right words
and make all the right moves
and that he'll want it
and you won't want to give it to him
and he'll take it anyway.

You know what that's called, darling?
Rape
and no one ever goes to jail for it
even though it's just as bad

and it's the fact that
it happens a lot
that makes me furious.
(c)1984