Matty walks in and in that throat voice of his barks whut up and who he is, blonde and suntouched and light but with that huge self fills the room and I am immediately so, so, soooo happy. Ahhhh whutup cuz is what he says when he rounds the corner in to the kitchen and sees me and he gives me that great wide open hug that he gives, like he's wrapping the world around you, then lets me go quickly too cuz that's part of it, how he do. We're here to watch the Ravens playa, he says, and gonna get pizza too if that's cool...
O god does this add to my happiness. His spontaneity, his freedom--it's part who he is, a 16-year-old-beach patrol go-with-the-flow surf's-up dude, the other part is allll youth. I saw earlier in the week on facebook that he'd be in town in hopes of Igor waves. I forgot tho, and I am making chicken soup, a harvest pot full of equinox blessings intentions and healing, for mom and I when he walks in.
They are low, fast slur-talkers, my cousin Matt and his boys and him. When they talk amongst themselves as we watch the game it is immediately this trait that makes me organically happy to be around them. It reminds me off watching Southpark with Sean, my brother, and his friends in the late nineties when it first came out. Sean was in highschool then and his friends were soccer players bursting with that fabulous big energy, on top the earth and against the sky, of male at the top of their game. They have always been good, clean, straight kids, and I was a potsmoker who thought Southpark was the most brilliant thing I'd ever seen, and I remember a whole afternoon of chililng with Seanie and them talking slur-talk amongst ourselves specifically because mom was in the room and she couldn't keep up with anything we had to say. It's a fast style of mouthmuck specific to fallout from Baltimore hon talk--you only hear it in kids from Anne Arundel or HoCo or Baltimore County and it's one of the reasons I love to be around Todd. Cuz we fastlowslur talk sometimes and don't even realize it when we do.
I've been thinking about this alot lately. About Sean, and his influence on me, and how becasue of us when we were little, how it was just me and him so much doing our thing together as kids, how much I look for that still when I crave comfort and security and to take care of myself and chill. Brian, my bro's bestie since kindergarten came to town a couple weeks ago, his mom raised us as much as my mom did when we were young, summer days every day in a row starting with breakfast than Team Bones in the driveway then swimming in the pool Back to the Future or Rad in the VCR every single afternoon. 'Intendo and the secret passageways in Castlevania and I was the first at SuperMario to save the Princess, too. This stuff's been on my mind since he came to town, what makes me feel most like me, most like who I truly am. In the spring I stayed a weekend with Brian and his bro, Little Sean, and all we did was chill. Lots of deep chill tv watching and laughing and busting on one another, exactly what is going on with my cousin and his friends right now, us laid out pizzabellys watching football on tv, exactly what Todd and I did and just the same as my brother when we are together always do.
Last night Chels, my nineteen-year-old cousin who just had a daughter in July, called to chat. It was the first adult convo we've ever had, discussing what her next move will be after she graduates with her two year next Monday. I love her so much, and my favorite part of being one of 20 some cousins who are every one like a bro or sis to me is that: moving into adulthood with them, but keeping that easy on the couch laid out chilling cuddle cool.
This is what to keep of youth. How to chill. The intimacy of being laid out, mellow, want of nothing. This is what to keep of youth: driving to the beach at random to catch waves and walking in to someone's house without a plan. Freshness of what could be. This is what to keep of youth: picking up the phone and not being afraid to talk about not knowing yet what comes next. This is what to keep of youth: openness of what's next to come...
And funny lowslurwords, our little ways of saying I get you and what's up right now. Our ways of saying there's so much right now that's still all good.
Showing posts with label cousins. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cousins. Show all posts
September 19, 2010
August 7, 2010
Island culture & the tribe of cool
Patrick my cousin was laughing this morning at breakfast. He's still a little drunk I think, and so it's that glowy slap happiness that is funniest of all.
When he laughs his voice distinctly reminds me of a ladder, this ascending quality that in my cousin Ryan sounds like ringing bells.
You know what Chris told me? Patrick laughs out, stepping up with each word and giggle breath.
Chris is Jackie's soon to be husband in the Carharts and rubber boots with the thick sandwich of New England mouthed around every word he says.
What?
That if you want to find someone here on the island the best thing to do is to just go sit in there house and wait for them to show up. Resounding steps of chortle and coffee gulps after this. It is true tho, Pat and Chris are right, and the B&B owner comes in and tells a story of coming home from errands this week to find the friend of her teenage son lounging around on the third floor of the house, waiting for her son to return. I didn't know this was island culture, she adds, til I got a teenage son.
Not being connected--no cell service and many without even a phone as over 70% of the residents here are just summer folk--is so, so nice. You forget what it means, how easy it is, to just be out and about. To not wait for life to happen, but to make for it yourself...
It reminds me of 1995, living at the beach, pre-cell phone and none of us had landlines. You went on a whim, and let shit happen. In The New York Years diPrima writes wistfully about this, about the tribe of cool to whom I've always sought after, the existence of which predates written history and is, indeed, the reason for expansion, poetry, artistry and all forms of adrenaline~those on the subversive edge of things~how in Manhattan in the 40's this tribe was so in tune with one another and the undercurrent of pure Life imbibing them each that they actually called it swinging, how they lived. Swinging meant get your work done: the clean white line of purity which so tapped in to this force, then allow for, submit to the natural movement of the day. Regular encounters with one another were natural and occurred by virtue of this discipline: wrestling the creative spirit to its hard line, then releasing its energy to throttle the crew back together somewhere on the lower streets say of the Bowery and beyond.
As if something magic, something big, something at times so shadowed and at others glowing in illustriousness so much so the whiteness may burn you apart, was webbing us all together no matter what. Wrestled in to its course, or hugely enormous and pushing us along...
What McClure meant by Writ in Eternity~and what I find most sacred among us mad genius'~the fine alchemy of grabbing for that eternity in a harnessed moment of transcendence and union, in which we get to write, at odds til it blends perfect in to the the mystery, fine, alluring, terrifying, of being written equally by the reverb of our own personal movement of the quill.... The conflicting dual, within the mass whole.
Island culture, no doubt, has been very very good for me....
When he laughs his voice distinctly reminds me of a ladder, this ascending quality that in my cousin Ryan sounds like ringing bells.
You know what Chris told me? Patrick laughs out, stepping up with each word and giggle breath.
Chris is Jackie's soon to be husband in the Carharts and rubber boots with the thick sandwich of New England mouthed around every word he says.
What?
That if you want to find someone here on the island the best thing to do is to just go sit in there house and wait for them to show up. Resounding steps of chortle and coffee gulps after this. It is true tho, Pat and Chris are right, and the B&B owner comes in and tells a story of coming home from errands this week to find the friend of her teenage son lounging around on the third floor of the house, waiting for her son to return. I didn't know this was island culture, she adds, til I got a teenage son.
Not being connected--no cell service and many without even a phone as over 70% of the residents here are just summer folk--is so, so nice. You forget what it means, how easy it is, to just be out and about. To not wait for life to happen, but to make for it yourself...
It reminds me of 1995, living at the beach, pre-cell phone and none of us had landlines. You went on a whim, and let shit happen. In The New York Years diPrima writes wistfully about this, about the tribe of cool to whom I've always sought after, the existence of which predates written history and is, indeed, the reason for expansion, poetry, artistry and all forms of adrenaline~those on the subversive edge of things~how in Manhattan in the 40's this tribe was so in tune with one another and the undercurrent of pure Life imbibing them each that they actually called it swinging, how they lived. Swinging meant get your work done: the clean white line of purity which so tapped in to this force, then allow for, submit to the natural movement of the day. Regular encounters with one another were natural and occurred by virtue of this discipline: wrestling the creative spirit to its hard line, then releasing its energy to throttle the crew back together somewhere on the lower streets say of the Bowery and beyond.
As if something magic, something big, something at times so shadowed and at others glowing in illustriousness so much so the whiteness may burn you apart, was webbing us all together no matter what. Wrestled in to its course, or hugely enormous and pushing us along...
What McClure meant by Writ in Eternity~and what I find most sacred among us mad genius'~the fine alchemy of grabbing for that eternity in a harnessed moment of transcendence and union, in which we get to write, at odds til it blends perfect in to the the mystery, fine, alluring, terrifying, of being written equally by the reverb of our own personal movement of the quill.... The conflicting dual, within the mass whole.
Island culture, no doubt, has been very very good for me....
August 5, 2010
Wowed, again. Postcard from Vinyl Haven
Maybe it's getting old, if so I apologize, but this whole being-at-ground-zero getting to re-invent myself experience is just such a constantly enjoyable pleasure...
Right when I get to the siege part of over-shooting my range, right when I get to that overconfidence place that crashes me in to feeling like I blew it and have landed blindly in the forest again, right when I get baffled and anxious, full of totally not-trusting in the wild instinct and new treasury of openness, Life kicks in and doses me with inscrutable evidence of self-love and newness, gentleness and aha serendipity grace.
I love travelling, even when at first it totally stresses me out. Monday night I was up until 6am. Which was hella fun... But then I got up three hours later to work a double, the night time part of which included god-awful taco tuesday. After that I had to pack and drive over two hours to outside Baltimore from the beach. I was so resistant to the trip that I actually had to stop at a gas station on Kent Island and nap for 45 minutes at 1:30 in the morning. I got 3 hours of sleep that night at my cousin's house. Then we caught a plane to Boston, then we caught a scary much littler plane to the coast of Maine, then we caught a ferry to the Island where I am now chilling, in a Bed and Breakfast, three doors down from my cousin Jackie who's marrying a local lobsterman on Sunday. A lot has happened in my life since I was last here at Jackie's in July 2008, and I am comfied in my room here with my sister-cousin Erin, with whom I share the gift of never-feeling-judged-by, which is perhaps the most tender and invaluable gift of all. We slept 10 hours last night, stumbled out of bed for french toast by our host, then returned to bed and snuggled and talked til noon today, the Vinyl Haven fog out the window foraging more air more air more air to overtake and decidedly against burning off. At some point we dressed, listened to hip-hop, and walked the island with no agenda but to let the day greet us as it wished, and later met one of Jackie's bridesmaids-who-happens-to-be-a-guy at the dock when the 3:30 ferry came in. And then, can you say Lobstahrolls!?
The serendipity since we've been here has been endless, right in line with how I started off my week, my Monday-mantra, : Look ahead, for the Greatest Adventures are yet to come...True that. I found two books in the used bookstore today for a dollar each, one of them I just told the World over the weekend that I wanted to acquire. Mark Twain is following us around. I found two more books right in line with two original theosophy/social therories I am trying to intertwine in to my novel. My book (started fresh, no more memoir, now a fiction novel) keeps getting more and more vivid in my head. I am in the den of our B&B about to start writing. Brooks and Kirsten and Mildred all got in Baldamore touch within 24 hours of each other... Out my window there is Atlantic chilled and salty wind.
Hey blogoworld, can you feel me, my contagious smile?
Just wondering.
July 21, 2010
What hungers you. In quiet.
I can not count the good people I know who to my mind would be even better if they bent their spirits to the study of their own hungers... (M.F.K. Fisher)
Dawes is up there singing.
Dawes is up there singing.The only thing scarier than dying is not dying at all.
There is wetness on my eyes, I have been in a place for the past two weeks of protection and keeping close ties on my heart, trying to be with it as it goes through its ups and downs, and now I am delivered. I am in my heart again, of it: the drum pounds the bass keep my beat and courses out in my blood all the way through to the nerve endings, the guitar's my spirit stretching out past my body. Taylor Goldsmith's totally American boy singing is finally giving me words.
It starts to go through my head, it's just a muscle. The heart. To this I can submit, I can revel in the beating wonder of getting to feel it. To just feel it, the greatest gift of all. This is wisdom: to know I'll look back on this time with gratitude and reverent longing.
My girlfriend whispers to me during set break. She tells me after her last relationship she'd completely lost all of her music interests but didn't even realize it. Her man criticized, or at least disapproved of the indy stuff that turned her on...so she let it go. Who knows how that happens? Silently, in little increments. That's how you give you up your soul. How you turn your self off. Piece by piece. Until you're so absent that you're used to feeling like your taking part but not really, only just a little. Dull, sort of looking in from the outside.
The band is less than five feet from us and I am relishing the show. I forgot how much this spot defined that time for me of naming, of recall. The time just behind me in Easton, in my first and only glorious space all of my own, when I called myself, bit by bit, detail by detail, hunger by blessed sacred hunger back to myself. The Nightcat, its black high ceiling with the exposed beams, the way the air runs in light circles back there, the red lighting. I was grinning all day in anticipation of seeing Sonia Leigh and Dawes, but I forgot how gratifying the venue is. How important place. The intimacy of the fifty or so of us having such visceral experience together. The catalogue of signed indy CD's, the pictures, I have to show for it. How much music is was and continues to be a map that's drawn me back to my own life.
In the parking lot I hugged my girlfriend goodbye and stayed extra long in my cousin Collin's arms. It was cool out but still so you could feel the weight of air. He is mind-blown, totally, by the show. Earlier, over dinner, he told me that he wants to move to Brooklyn Park where our Grammy lived, where his grandparents on his dad's side still live. He's been canvassing on a political campaign there all summer, dust and sweaty and I envision him, freckleface, blond and golden, is he in a button down? I am reminded of our hike in the fall, me and him, and talking so fervently about the GED and English students I served. About the unquestioned nature of class that so securely underpins racism. About my belief that many of our GED students I was certain had undiagnosed learning disorders, because the money for those resources just wasn't there in their neighborhoods when they were young. He said to me then that though his major was government he was thinking of focusing on education policy. Because when I talk about government I have to think about it, but when I talk about education it just comes right out of my heart. I remember my footing when he said that, stepping over the wet dark dirt, feeling my heart bottom out over the wisdom of this teenager who I've known since literally birth. Last night he talked about moving to Brooklyn, impoverished, crime-ridden Brooklyn. Brooklyn, because that's where the people connected with his heart when he bangs on their doors. They are the ones who made him feel equally fired-up.
When I left Collin and my girlfriend I met the girls from my old work for a late night catch-up. It was already 11, but the server at Applebees let us close the place down. We literally stayed til 1, cackly screaming laughter, the greasy food, couple of tears, the updates on Adult Ed and on my own life (I read a lot, I sit on the beach. Poetry--big self-conscious grin at this--I'm writing a lot of poetry. Tomorrow I will sleep late. My stresses include I wonder if my table needs more rolls...Coffee? Coffee here? And hmmm do I have another little black dress as sexy as the one I wore last week?) It was all put wholly, and gratefully in perspective for me. But I realized too how passionate I was for Adult Ed. It was a justice thing for me. Making opportunities available where they weren't before. It turned me, greatly, deeply, on.
In all things there are tides, and I for one am quiet and amidst a tide of great still. Life's cycle right now is on the long slow retreat and how I so love this time of year, the thick buoyancy, the savory greens, the dark yellow slanted light. The shadows in contrast. The feeling of heavy breathing that makes you so aware of the intermittent shafts of air to highlight the stillness. I have been submitting to it, which is not easy for me this Aries full of fire and passion and heat. Humbling myself again and again to the larger nature of things, allowing the silence, the stillness, trusting towards the inner-listing, the tiny hungers, to in stillness eventually speak their fisted minds. To become the palm, flat-opening. Allowing. It is hard. But that sweet unanticipated space, that wild curve within, fleshless and still, is there. And this is as beautiful as anything else: this does not mean what hungers one is missing. It means only that in full satiation there is quiet in the bliss. There is message in the silence, when one surrenders to wait and hear.
July 13, 2010
July 9, 2010
Sun in Cancer, for Beth, Paul, and Mom
The sun is in Cancer (this link makes me smile...)
Cancer to me has always been the sign of the mother, both personally and especially esoterically. I've had a lot of healing to do in the watery realm of cancer's energy, simply part of the mandala of my soul, what I came here with to loop through and through...My mom's birthday is this weekend, and also Cancer is the archetype of mom and all energies associated with this figure. Remember every archetype has a dark and light side~a side we revere, and a side we try to disassociate or keep in the dark. So when the sun is in Cancer we find ourselves re-visiting the primal ideas, personal or programmed, around the symbol of mom.
For me, two of my closest friends have birthdays right now. Beth is tomorrow, Paul is Sunday and mom is Monday. Wow, right? Especially if you knew the prototypes of these people~Beth is the quintessential momma figure in both the old world and new world form (imagine the tension and joy of constantly becoming that this woman whirls around and around in,) and Paul is the total embodiment of the new world man, with balanced female, or motherly, energy equal to his embodied male wholeness. It's pretty cool, especially in that I just got to deep chill with both of them and see how and where and what they each reflect back in me and make me aware of...
The best thing I've ever done is submit to the inner wild experience in order to heal my own distinct femininity. Paul and Beth, on my recent trip west, were direct parts of the apex of all that, too...
Life is a trip ya'll, and the inner mysteries have lots of keys and answers for us. I for one wouldn't trade the quality of richness and depth that I've gained by centering my life on the inner-informing-the outter for anything. Try it. Especially if you've been floundering lately.
July will do that to you (flounder flounder little fishy dont forget you can just go with the stream!) Trust me, it's part of the mystery of the ebb and flow.
In honor of my two Cancerians, and my mom, and my great deep gratitude and tender love for all of them, here is a poem. And in honor of the McMullen women, who I will celebrate and revere this weekend, and the Englar women, who continue on, and who I too will celebrate today with love~
Women's Work
Send the camaflouged men home
Ship the guns back
Let the metal rust
Defuse the bombs
Detonate the mines
Sands shifting with a new wind.
Gone! Gone! Gone are the ghosts.
Array the woman in silver
daughters of the world's Great Goddesses
bearing medicines and gruel
seeing their hidden sisters in the shadows
Hear them shout across the line
"Do you have enough to eat?"
~Lyrion Ap Tower
gratefully reprinted from We'Moon, 2010
June 21, 2010
June 20, 2010
"More caffeine, so I can use my device faster." And other moments along the way.
I used a map to drive around Southern Oregon for 8 days.
The big creased and soft along the fold-seems paper kind. My music was tunneled, country or rock and roll. I smiled alot, the whole time, whether sun and big grey clouds or blue skies or Januaryrain.
I'd get a big meal a day, eat off the leftovers, crackers, water and fruit.
And coffee.
I drank coffee with my favorite people for hours in the morning. I tripped live and large along with them through the ensuing big caffeinated conversations. Paul, Beth, Gretchen, Jill.
I made unwitting offering to the Breitenbush, she took offering from me, sitting under the diamondbacked sky tucked around Paul and I on the rickety wood bridge in the cold, black silhouette of Devils Peak measuring our breathing and blocking out the ahead of us view of the stars. The river took bittersweet chocolate from me it fell right out of my pocket and between the boards in to the hard rushing waters of the river below, and the next day on a long hike she gave back her bittersweet gifts. She hushed us to her side, she sat us down. Then unwitting again I cried in Paul's arms, I let the past go, I dunked my head in baptism in the South fork of her before she joined the North and ran hard and high down past the spiral pools and cabins of the resident side.
I wandered in the all green forest, I sung songs of thanks and then stumbled on the fairee vortex as gold and rainbos spiraled out and around us past the veil of my common eyes.
I walked in the rain. I walked in the rain and slept deep half dreams tucked in the woods under down covers and the breath of good friend.
I ran out of gas for the first time. I came off I-5 on to the exit ramp giving a blogofriend a lift to a stop midway to Portland. I came down off my otherworldmountainhigh to the soaked fumes of petro permanent on my hands.
I soaked in Beth's bath and luxuriated with her on her couch in our comfies, doing nothing but old 90's movies on Netflix on demand while the rain made songs and laughter and loong long stories on her roof sliding down.
I kissed endangered white wolves, I got kissed and shmooped by them. I listened to them howl. I melted in my heart a little to watch the wise woman most true to me in her element, dancing and happy in the almost wild with the wolves she so loves.
I looked at pictures of Gretchen from the 70's and 80's, listened to so many stories of youth and mess-ups, of passion and memories and friends, of family and lessons passed. I went to Mill Street where I used to always go, smelled the lowtide mudflats left behind while the Alsea River retreated out to the sea. I had breakfast with Mandy and Gretchen and Jeanette on the corner in Waldport of 101 and high green trees.
I packed my camelback with poetry I found in used bookstores along the road, I packed it with journals and my camera and fruit and went out on the 804 in Yachats and laid my body across hot rocks and drenched myself in sun. I listened to the ocean and laid in green grass, tucked flowers again and again in my hair. I wrote poems with rocks on rocks at the base of the sea, let the spirit of forlorn travellers and muscle gatherers and merwoman fierce goddesses speak through me.
I followed the Oregon Coast Trail with Beth through the trees, along the cliffs. I stood in tree pose with her the other tree, I screamed and laughed with her at the startled bike rider and the peculiar cries of Crow. I birthed myself naked and clean in the Cummins Creek deep in the forest at the bottom of my old secret trail while she sister soul she is was sacred witnesser for me.
I listened to music and let Nye Beach run its rivulets of weird passion love at Mundo all through me and warmed at the love between Beth and her husband Ben.
I drove to Florence because the ache was so strong.
I stopped passed the Oregon House to listen to the crashing and the wind and let my heart beat. I stopped at Heceta Head. I stopped at the top of a dune in Florence, I fell in love with the again present sun.
I giggled at the way the yellow turned white shine dipped again and again beneath the surface of the ocean in hydroreflectionrainbowshine tripping and spinning on itself in mindless perfect glee. I fell in love with me again, again, again, in Florence on my last solo date. Eating seafood enchiladas with dungeness, a new book, and sheer crazy deliriousness of melty chocolate cake.
I laughed my ass of with Jill Brewer Bard. I laughed my face off with Jill Brewer Bard and Gretchen. I laughed with those ladies till our faces were red and lined and scrunched like fists our stomachs contorted our eyes wet and mouths dry. I laughed and part of it at least was so I would not cry.
I drove the curvey Alsea Highway with Jill and we laughed again this time trying hard not to laugh so as to ward off the stomach curvy travel wurvy feeling of wanting to puke. I assured her how fabulous 30 is, I behaved with her as fabulous women ought to.
I fell in love, I fell in love, I ached and fell in love with her daughter Laurel and talked forever, like I did before, with her amazing husband John.
I took the train. I felt strong and raw with the holy train pain of goodbye.
And then, I rediscovered Seattle.
I remembered how easy it is to blend right in with family and stood back a minute to sweat how fucking cool cousin Kate really is. I laughed, and have not stopped, with her man Micah. I am touched and continue to be at how soft he is with her, how much his walking love and adoration is shown in the little things he does. I walked the high hills with them to look out on the sound and the city from upper Queen Anne's.
I walked forever on my own.
I met Larry at his favorite Turkish spot at Pike, met Katie and ate Piroshky's then shopped and stopped and talked and talked and had happy hour at Mia's at Cyclops on 1st and Wall in Belltown.
I experienced music, I experienced music on nonstop roll at Micah's techsavy hands. I experienced music at the Seatttle Music Project, I experienced music live and in the streets. I loved how friends love other friends on first meeting, I sung with Kate as she celebrated and surprised us all with celebration for Larry who turned 33. I smiled and couldnt stop at our Friday night dinner party with Annie and Larry and gin rummy and dancing and grilling and then, late night heart sobs and truth and hugs.
I caffeinated I caffeinated I caffeinated and all the important caffeinated talks. I am, I was, I continue to be floored at how magnificent Kate is, at how funny and smart and alive Micah, at how good us three flow together. Knowing that chossing something to do for the day happens way funner when you then just fold it in to how you're being. I love and love and love and miss already my amazing cousin and friend.
I celebrated Solstice in Freemont naked bike riders and festivals and music and carny light from inside dancing in the street DIY all over the place and food that drips down your arms and wildness and permission, cuz even tho it doesnt feel it, summer is here.
And I anticipate what's next now, after Ballard today and Larry taking me to SeaTac tomorrow. I love and have, in hitting fully and completely the Karmic Reset Button, wiped clean and found even deeper acceptance and love of myself. I look forward to floating in Mama Atlantic and smiling and not doing but wholly being in the East Coast OC sun.
Happy SUmmer.
Kate, to Micah:
-God, I can't believe it's June 20th it feels like November.
-I'm sorry I'm sorry I bring you all the way over here and it's fall. Altho fall is told to be your favorite season I guess it's not fun without a summer first...
(really, it's hella crazy good fun)
~~
What we are listening to, compliment of Garrison this morning:
Jessica Lea Mayfield
The big creased and soft along the fold-seems paper kind. My music was tunneled, country or rock and roll. I smiled alot, the whole time, whether sun and big grey clouds or blue skies or Januaryrain.
I'd get a big meal a day, eat off the leftovers, crackers, water and fruit.
And coffee.
I drank coffee with my favorite people for hours in the morning. I tripped live and large along with them through the ensuing big caffeinated conversations. Paul, Beth, Gretchen, Jill.
I made unwitting offering to the Breitenbush, she took offering from me, sitting under the diamondbacked sky tucked around Paul and I on the rickety wood bridge in the cold, black silhouette of Devils Peak measuring our breathing and blocking out the ahead of us view of the stars. The river took bittersweet chocolate from me it fell right out of my pocket and between the boards in to the hard rushing waters of the river below, and the next day on a long hike she gave back her bittersweet gifts. She hushed us to her side, she sat us down. Then unwitting again I cried in Paul's arms, I let the past go, I dunked my head in baptism in the South fork of her before she joined the North and ran hard and high down past the spiral pools and cabins of the resident side.
I wandered in the all green forest, I sung songs of thanks and then stumbled on the fairee vortex as gold and rainbos spiraled out and around us past the veil of my common eyes.
I walked in the rain. I walked in the rain and slept deep half dreams tucked in the woods under down covers and the breath of good friend.
I ran out of gas for the first time. I came off I-5 on to the exit ramp giving a blogofriend a lift to a stop midway to Portland. I came down off my otherworldmountainhigh to the soaked fumes of petro permanent on my hands.
I soaked in Beth's bath and luxuriated with her on her couch in our comfies, doing nothing but old 90's movies on Netflix on demand while the rain made songs and laughter and loong long stories on her roof sliding down.
I kissed endangered white wolves, I got kissed and shmooped by them. I listened to them howl. I melted in my heart a little to watch the wise woman most true to me in her element, dancing and happy in the almost wild with the wolves she so loves.
I looked at pictures of Gretchen from the 70's and 80's, listened to so many stories of youth and mess-ups, of passion and memories and friends, of family and lessons passed. I went to Mill Street where I used to always go, smelled the lowtide mudflats left behind while the Alsea River retreated out to the sea. I had breakfast with Mandy and Gretchen and Jeanette on the corner in Waldport of 101 and high green trees.
I packed my camelback with poetry I found in used bookstores along the road, I packed it with journals and my camera and fruit and went out on the 804 in Yachats and laid my body across hot rocks and drenched myself in sun. I listened to the ocean and laid in green grass, tucked flowers again and again in my hair. I wrote poems with rocks on rocks at the base of the sea, let the spirit of forlorn travellers and muscle gatherers and merwoman fierce goddesses speak through me.
I followed the Oregon Coast Trail with Beth through the trees, along the cliffs. I stood in tree pose with her the other tree, I screamed and laughed with her at the startled bike rider and the peculiar cries of Crow. I birthed myself naked and clean in the Cummins Creek deep in the forest at the bottom of my old secret trail while she sister soul she is was sacred witnesser for me.
I listened to music and let Nye Beach run its rivulets of weird passion love at Mundo all through me and warmed at the love between Beth and her husband Ben.
I drove to Florence because the ache was so strong.
I stopped passed the Oregon House to listen to the crashing and the wind and let my heart beat. I stopped at Heceta Head. I stopped at the top of a dune in Florence, I fell in love with the again present sun.
I giggled at the way the yellow turned white shine dipped again and again beneath the surface of the ocean in hydroreflectionrainbowshine tripping and spinning on itself in mindless perfect glee. I fell in love with me again, again, again, in Florence on my last solo date. Eating seafood enchiladas with dungeness, a new book, and sheer crazy deliriousness of melty chocolate cake.
I laughed my ass of with Jill Brewer Bard. I laughed my face off with Jill Brewer Bard and Gretchen. I laughed with those ladies till our faces were red and lined and scrunched like fists our stomachs contorted our eyes wet and mouths dry. I laughed and part of it at least was so I would not cry.
I drove the curvey Alsea Highway with Jill and we laughed again this time trying hard not to laugh so as to ward off the stomach curvy travel wurvy feeling of wanting to puke. I assured her how fabulous 30 is, I behaved with her as fabulous women ought to.
I fell in love, I fell in love, I ached and fell in love with her daughter Laurel and talked forever, like I did before, with her amazing husband John.
I took the train. I felt strong and raw with the holy train pain of goodbye.
And then, I rediscovered Seattle.
I remembered how easy it is to blend right in with family and stood back a minute to sweat how fucking cool cousin Kate really is. I laughed, and have not stopped, with her man Micah. I am touched and continue to be at how soft he is with her, how much his walking love and adoration is shown in the little things he does. I walked the high hills with them to look out on the sound and the city from upper Queen Anne's.
I walked forever on my own.
I met Larry at his favorite Turkish spot at Pike, met Katie and ate Piroshky's then shopped and stopped and talked and talked and had happy hour at Mia's at Cyclops on 1st and Wall in Belltown.
I experienced music, I experienced music on nonstop roll at Micah's techsavy hands. I experienced music at the Seatttle Music Project, I experienced music live and in the streets. I loved how friends love other friends on first meeting, I sung with Kate as she celebrated and surprised us all with celebration for Larry who turned 33. I smiled and couldnt stop at our Friday night dinner party with Annie and Larry and gin rummy and dancing and grilling and then, late night heart sobs and truth and hugs.
I caffeinated I caffeinated I caffeinated and all the important caffeinated talks. I am, I was, I continue to be floored at how magnificent Kate is, at how funny and smart and alive Micah, at how good us three flow together. Knowing that chossing something to do for the day happens way funner when you then just fold it in to how you're being. I love and love and love and miss already my amazing cousin and friend.
I celebrated Solstice in Freemont naked bike riders and festivals and music and carny light from inside dancing in the street DIY all over the place and food that drips down your arms and wildness and permission, cuz even tho it doesnt feel it, summer is here.
And I anticipate what's next now, after Ballard today and Larry taking me to SeaTac tomorrow. I love and have, in hitting fully and completely the Karmic Reset Button, wiped clean and found even deeper acceptance and love of myself. I look forward to floating in Mama Atlantic and smiling and not doing but wholly being in the East Coast OC sun.
Happy SUmmer.
Kate, to Micah:
-God, I can't believe it's June 20th it feels like November.
-I'm sorry I'm sorry I bring you all the way over here and it's fall. Altho fall is told to be your favorite season I guess it's not fun without a summer first...
(really, it's hella crazy good fun)
~~
What we are listening to, compliment of Garrison this morning:
Jessica Lea Mayfield
July 31, 2009
like little bells...
i laughed out loud at me and then came my cousin's laughter a sound that since we were kids reminds me of elflight and glistens my heart like little bells. i dont have words to describe that feeling, why i even said what i said, we were walking around Canton Square the light of the night was orange from the clock glow and the neon signed resteraunt glare and all the mist from the crazy summer thunderstorm made for a haze and proved first harvest in-between the worlds magic literally was on the air. we were supposed to go see the O's in the allyoucaneat section we were stoked but then it was so wet and hot and eery out so no. we drove around the city in the rain and laughed and ate then got to walking and talking and laughing some more and it'd been a long, long time since we'd hung cuzin Ry and i and it was gold, and good, and so pure...10 years is what I said followed by some self-deprecating remark and as always it was the self-judging that made us laugh so hard but it's not true i realized later, it's not 10 but 11 years since i've been on the shore. which is the same thing that i catch myself doing, saying i'm 31 when really i'm 32. 32!!! and how that feels not only to miss a year and then to puzzle for a sec and be like o yeah wait, that's not true, but to be an age that inside your head you have an idea about while at once living the fact that that idea isn't really exactly true. and it makes me think of martha, beautiful glamourous melancholy martha with the stories and the wistfulness that would make my heart ache when we would sit together back of the bead store nye beach, oregon, and bead and thread and talk and love. and the mirror she would use to look at the lipstick she wore and how much she still, at 60, loved pink floyd. and it made me also think
of being 19 and going to the community college my baggy shorts and hotgrl shirt and talking to the lady and saying a social worker, that's what i'm going to be. and realizing suddenly, again and again, suddenly each time, that that used to be my dream. and that that is it, that is what i now am....and how good, and hard, that's been....
and thank god for back porch of ocean pines and talking this morning with uncle tim and aunt mary the porch as always still enough, like a dream. and telling them for the first time of all those years ago when i a first year teacher with the beauracrats and how i got so screwed. and how that hurt but it was part of the job and so i learned...and now this year and how much i've learned from kim and also from my dad, but hearing the importance of what uncle tim said managers do it the right way while leaders do what's right. and it's a hard thing to learn, how to be, to really be, and at the end of the day to be at peace with yourself anyhow cuz you are you no matter what and that's what counts and too, where can you grow and where do you just rest, and back off, and accept and learn to love? and this is life yes and wow, how far i've come. and at all i've done and where i've been....and who i am.
and the city she is beckoning. four straight weeks i've run to her to feel the street at one with my flow and she is yearning and swift and i am yearning to go. and godalmighty first harvest is coming first harvest is almost here, it is the greatest, truest, fullest swell of peace i've felt all year... it started when i woke up wednesday sweetness in me a smile on my face cozy and content in bed just me....and the fabulous rustle non-stop in the trees. the whole earth alive with the buzz just like when taurus moon is above i recognized that movement come on deep inside of me: first harvest is here i thought, first harvest or lunar llamas is already here. and sure enough the moon had moved from waning to half-on/half-off and so with that i knew it was true and exalted in what one cant pretend but can only just kow and then could feel the tugging, the great turning of the wheel of the year. of course there was an ear of corn out front in the street when i went outside to take the recycling, go figure. and that night later, a black cat waited, then crossed directly in front of ryan and me. when i told him wasn't it great he got to expereince my little pagan walking dreams with me he said oh yea just great cuz then pannomined a gun to his head then quik with his other hand a splatter of explosion coming out his ear then we laughed again the tinkling bell kind cuz he's a poet and got the inner song like me and moves to the same ol tide....
and that's just it, all that ends begins again and the beginnings are just endings, in disguise.
so it goes, same ol song, silence and crashing, chaos and laughing, all life, sweetness and nothing, all life long....blessed, precious precious song
March 13, 2009
Thank god for the sisters
The other night cousin Erin, from Infinite and Endless, texted me was I going to the Pines this weekend? Her and her grls were going down to see their fave cover band. I was like noooooooooooooooo, I wish tho.
Bran and I have to have all of our stuff out of the Farm by next weekend and needless to say, that's a hellatona work. I went to bed that night after she asked me only to wake up next morning with a terrible longing for the sea. So I made some calls, and tugged some strings, and next thing you know here comes Erin, and my poppa, to help me get my stuff off Anngar and into the attic at the beach.
So that's how I ended up with her, in the bathroom tonight putting make-up on and being fine. Erin has one of these lip/eye color pallettes with every shade of every shade that ever existed, I'm saying that's like a hundredthousandy shades. It was fun. I complemented her on her artistic abilities with the eye make-up, and she complimented me back...
So here we are, a week before I turn 32 in the middle of me sorting through the last six years of my life and all the scraps of all the different aspects of who you become when you are in a couple and also of who you are when you are in your twenties--and in varying states between repose and sensate overload, between joy and grief so I dont breathe, in silence and the quiet states you dont realize are edged with gold in-between--here we are, me and this girl, me and my family, at the Pines again being glamorous stars.
My family: her parents Tim and Mary my godparents. Teachers by heart and trade, same as so many of my aunts and uncles so that even though I didn't ever want to go in to it or study it somehow teaching is how I process, how I learn, it's really that deep anyhow in my blood. And they are here too and so is my Aunt Sue also a teacher, and me widing the round in some far out isolated-feeling corner on the track of my life, making a turn. Slow as, gentle as, I can. Questioning how I got here, loving my self anyway, and also, where do I go from here?
I go to the Pines for a day. Get my beauty on with cousin Boo. Remember that that is an important part of loving my self too: Fabulousness!
My life gets more and more marvelous every day. My life now gets more marvelous everyday. My life increases in marvelousness everyday.
I love so much, and am so thankful for, my increasingly fabulous life!
Bran and I have to have all of our stuff out of the Farm by next weekend and needless to say, that's a hellatona work. I went to bed that night after she asked me only to wake up next morning with a terrible longing for the sea. So I made some calls, and tugged some strings, and next thing you know here comes Erin, and my poppa, to help me get my stuff off Anngar and into the attic at the beach.
So that's how I ended up with her, in the bathroom tonight putting make-up on and being fine. Erin has one of these lip/eye color pallettes with every shade of every shade that ever existed, I'm saying that's like a hundredthousandy shades. It was fun. I complemented her on her artistic abilities with the eye make-up, and she complimented me back...And then reminded me: when we were kids--or when she was a little little girl that I could dress up like my own personal barbie--I would play Madonna really loud and wear oversized bulky eighties shirts and put ponytails off to the side of the tops of both of our heads and teach her how to put make-up on as only a twelve-year-old to a four-year-old can do.
So here we are, a week before I turn 32 in the middle of me sorting through the last six years of my life and all the scraps of all the different aspects of who you become when you are in a couple and also of who you are when you are in your twenties--and in varying states between repose and sensate overload, between joy and grief so I dont breathe, in silence and the quiet states you dont realize are edged with gold in-between--here we are, me and this girl, me and my family, at the Pines again being glamorous stars.
My family: her parents Tim and Mary my godparents. Teachers by heart and trade, same as so many of my aunts and uncles so that even though I didn't ever want to go in to it or study it somehow teaching is how I process, how I learn, it's really that deep anyhow in my blood. And they are here too and so is my Aunt Sue also a teacher, and me widing the round in some far out isolated-feeling corner on the track of my life, making a turn. Slow as, gentle as, I can. Questioning how I got here, loving my self anyway, and also, where do I go from here?
I go to the Pines for a day. Get my beauty on with cousin Boo. Remember that that is an important part of loving my self too: Fabulousness!
My life gets more and more marvelous every day. My life now gets more marvelous everyday. My life increases in marvelousness everyday.
I love so much, and am so thankful for, my increasingly fabulous life! February 23, 2009
On Tribe, and Remembering
So my cousin Erin posted this really great piece last night over at Infinite and Endless. She is a dream. Here is a story:
It was end of June and I was eight-years-old an age still young enough to not really know time. Therefor June equaled one thing and that was Summertime which equaled one thing and that was Infinity. Long days of playing with the neighborhood kids and the hot melty tar of the driveway burning our feet.
Or, the beach. The beach the beach the beach, hot sand on my tender feet and the cold at night in my parents room under the window air-unit that made my sunburned aloe-face feel so smooth and cool. Satiation: when all is right with the world. How salt and sand for me have so much to do with this. We lived in the summer in a house crowded on the floors at night by the blow-up mattresses of all my aunts and uncles. My Pop, "The Colonel", was still alive then and these were the very ends of days that I did not know then were instructing me. Filling my life with my own inner quest for understanding of who I am. And how, for some very few of us, when we live the definition of something ambiguous as identity the knowledge of the details of this at once fulfill us, and challenge us. It's like the more I gain awareness of my outline the more I consistently find that the very next step, for a person like me, is to expand it. So I'm 8, it's summertime 1985. My grandparent's house at the shore is overloaded with family and we are loud, throat-pitched people and game-players and story-tellers every one. The nights are full with poker and smoke and though I am close at 8 to too old I still want to sit on dad or Uncle Kevin's lap if I'm allowed when it's late enough that they talk that funny low sidetalk out of their mouths and I get to laugh like I get it with my eyes on the ice melting in their glasses. In the daytime I have Barbies which I'm also near grown out of by now and also this glorious little baby cousin Esther she is fatcheeked and nubby with a scrunchy diaper and laughs when I retrieve her pacifier for her only to throw it across the room again and again. And also, there is electric in the air that reminds me of ice cream: the babies. The babies are coming, the babies are here.
Esther was first, in September, which made her near a year that June. And then Jackie, oh Jackie. My Grandmother's high-pitch panic sound when they brought her through the front door of the beach house in the car-seat Uncle Bill carried with both hands. That beam of his, definitive deliciousness of a face light-up specific to Uncle Bill: the light and flash around his broad teeth and Irish eyes. It was a surprise to Gram that they were even coming with the new baby so young, and like everything new Grammy took it loud and wrong at first. When I looked to the adults to understand what was wrong: in a hush from woman to woman, the secret. Jackie's only two weeks old. As if this should have explained everything. To this day this is the way of the McMullen. The unspoken drama that enwrapped certain things, the look in an eye over glasses or the intone of the fold of the words. The subtle emotional infliction that went with the late nights, the crowded kitchen mornings full of food, natural as all other parts of who we were: the seriousness of Life, edged as it could be with tragedy. That whole old-world post-immigrant thing, protective of the what-could-come and the unseen. That pigshit way some of us have that rebelled in the face of such unspokens. Existent today only in sighs or flickers in the eye, or if you're like me in a flash that reads Challenge.
So Esther and Jackie have arrived, not just to the Pop and Gram's beachhouse at The Pines but to the world! And too, the excitement of the Mary's: Uncle Tim's wife, pregnant-out-to-there, so you could see her belly-button buckled out from all the pressure through her shirt. In the kitchen, on the cool linoleum Tim's Mary stood back of Uncle Paul's Mary, redhead of curls down the shoulders of Paul's Mary and those big oversized rose glasses and that smoky husk of her laugh there even then. The power of her, that energy that used to surround her--and Katie, the baby inside who would come in October, already outsized like her mom.
It was barely a week or so later that Tim's Mary went. We were home now, respectively: all the Aunts and Uncles and kids tucked away in their plastic-sided houses in their burgeoning suburbs splayed out this way and that from Grammy and Pop's South Baltimore--Church Street--home. Making it. It was July, the first week, and hot so that my legs stuck to the grey leather of dad's caddie in the little bit of time it took to open the backseat door and get my seatbelt clicked. We were on our way to Tim and Mary's house ShadyHillLane. I remember even then the magic that surrounded the very words of that place. Maybe it was the pine trees that put a softened haze over the bricks of their house and muted out the rest of the world. Whatever it was,whatever it is, their house still has a magic effect on me, one of peace, to this day. And here is what I remember, walking in and the muffled sound of adult and adult talk, then dad saying to me you can't go up right now sis you're Aunt Mary's breastfeeding. And then the softness that for Uncle Tim has always passed as his way, uncharacteristic, of pride. No, it's ok, Kel can go up.
And walking in, and seeing Erin being drawn away from Aunt Mary's swollen chest, the baby so tiny and wrapped she was barely there, and then her being offered out into the air to me. Their big high bed so tall to me then, the nights and nights of giggles and laughter my brother and I had shared with Tim and Mary tucked in those sheets. How it all seemed so different in that moment as they settled me in against the pillows: the curtains pulled so that the room was with a subtle roseyellow glow. The warmth, the pure delicate coziness of the those sheets and that bed. Getting pulled in to that, encirlced by that wonder, that fine gentle bliss of moment to moment allure: awareness of fragility, ohh, of Life and tender birth. And holding her, my little cousin, for the first time. I was eight years old, wispy blond often red-faced bossy but so easy to be embarrassed and extra sensitive, and also a wee thing, bony and small. And the baby, Erin a little-bit of a thing, so small, so small! The perfect size for me, she melded right in to my arms and against my heart and close in to my chest. This was, for the first time, what it was to be inside of something so very big that even then I realized bigness has to do with being small.
Anyway, Erin, if you don't mind a public post rather than a comment in response to your blog: I feel you, sister. This call towards Life, this inherent sense that we should be enlarging the nest. And at once this conflicting perplexed sense, uncatagorized, a nameless feeling of unquenched calling. So potent it's as if it's of our blood. Yes, how it strangely seems to come from that very same nest. So it goes my sister, my friend. So it goes!!
Amen amen amen.
It was end of June and I was eight-years-old an age still young enough to not really know time. Therefor June equaled one thing and that was Summertime which equaled one thing and that was Infinity. Long days of playing with the neighborhood kids and the hot melty tar of the driveway burning our feet.
Or, the beach. The beach the beach the beach, hot sand on my tender feet and the cold at night in my parents room under the window air-unit that made my sunburned aloe-face feel so smooth and cool. Satiation: when all is right with the world. How salt and sand for me have so much to do with this. We lived in the summer in a house crowded on the floors at night by the blow-up mattresses of all my aunts and uncles. My Pop, "The Colonel", was still alive then and these were the very ends of days that I did not know then were instructing me. Filling my life with my own inner quest for understanding of who I am. And how, for some very few of us, when we live the definition of something ambiguous as identity the knowledge of the details of this at once fulfill us, and challenge us. It's like the more I gain awareness of my outline the more I consistently find that the very next step, for a person like me, is to expand it. So I'm 8, it's summertime 1985. My grandparent's house at the shore is overloaded with family and we are loud, throat-pitched people and game-players and story-tellers every one. The nights are full with poker and smoke and though I am close at 8 to too old I still want to sit on dad or Uncle Kevin's lap if I'm allowed when it's late enough that they talk that funny low sidetalk out of their mouths and I get to laugh like I get it with my eyes on the ice melting in their glasses. In the daytime I have Barbies which I'm also near grown out of by now and also this glorious little baby cousin Esther she is fatcheeked and nubby with a scrunchy diaper and laughs when I retrieve her pacifier for her only to throw it across the room again and again. And also, there is electric in the air that reminds me of ice cream: the babies. The babies are coming, the babies are here.
Esther was first, in September, which made her near a year that June. And then Jackie, oh Jackie. My Grandmother's high-pitch panic sound when they brought her through the front door of the beach house in the car-seat Uncle Bill carried with both hands. That beam of his, definitive deliciousness of a face light-up specific to Uncle Bill: the light and flash around his broad teeth and Irish eyes. It was a surprise to Gram that they were even coming with the new baby so young, and like everything new Grammy took it loud and wrong at first. When I looked to the adults to understand what was wrong: in a hush from woman to woman, the secret. Jackie's only two weeks old. As if this should have explained everything. To this day this is the way of the McMullen. The unspoken drama that enwrapped certain things, the look in an eye over glasses or the intone of the fold of the words. The subtle emotional infliction that went with the late nights, the crowded kitchen mornings full of food, natural as all other parts of who we were: the seriousness of Life, edged as it could be with tragedy. That whole old-world post-immigrant thing, protective of the what-could-come and the unseen. That pigshit way some of us have that rebelled in the face of such unspokens. Existent today only in sighs or flickers in the eye, or if you're like me in a flash that reads Challenge.
So Esther and Jackie have arrived, not just to the Pop and Gram's beachhouse at The Pines but to the world! And too, the excitement of the Mary's: Uncle Tim's wife, pregnant-out-to-there, so you could see her belly-button buckled out from all the pressure through her shirt. In the kitchen, on the cool linoleum Tim's Mary stood back of Uncle Paul's Mary, redhead of curls down the shoulders of Paul's Mary and those big oversized rose glasses and that smoky husk of her laugh there even then. The power of her, that energy that used to surround her--and Katie, the baby inside who would come in October, already outsized like her mom.
It was barely a week or so later that Tim's Mary went. We were home now, respectively: all the Aunts and Uncles and kids tucked away in their plastic-sided houses in their burgeoning suburbs splayed out this way and that from Grammy and Pop's South Baltimore--Church Street--home. Making it. It was July, the first week, and hot so that my legs stuck to the grey leather of dad's caddie in the little bit of time it took to open the backseat door and get my seatbelt clicked. We were on our way to Tim and Mary's house ShadyHillLane. I remember even then the magic that surrounded the very words of that place. Maybe it was the pine trees that put a softened haze over the bricks of their house and muted out the rest of the world. Whatever it was,whatever it is, their house still has a magic effect on me, one of peace, to this day. And here is what I remember, walking in and the muffled sound of adult and adult talk, then dad saying to me you can't go up right now sis you're Aunt Mary's breastfeeding. And then the softness that for Uncle Tim has always passed as his way, uncharacteristic, of pride. No, it's ok, Kel can go up.
And walking in, and seeing Erin being drawn away from Aunt Mary's swollen chest, the baby so tiny and wrapped she was barely there, and then her being offered out into the air to me. Their big high bed so tall to me then, the nights and nights of giggles and laughter my brother and I had shared with Tim and Mary tucked in those sheets. How it all seemed so different in that moment as they settled me in against the pillows: the curtains pulled so that the room was with a subtle roseyellow glow. The warmth, the pure delicate coziness of the those sheets and that bed. Getting pulled in to that, encirlced by that wonder, that fine gentle bliss of moment to moment allure: awareness of fragility, ohh, of Life and tender birth. And holding her, my little cousin, for the first time. I was eight years old, wispy blond often red-faced bossy but so easy to be embarrassed and extra sensitive, and also a wee thing, bony and small. And the baby, Erin a little-bit of a thing, so small, so small! The perfect size for me, she melded right in to my arms and against my heart and close in to my chest. This was, for the first time, what it was to be inside of something so very big that even then I realized bigness has to do with being small.
Anyway, Erin, if you don't mind a public post rather than a comment in response to your blog: I feel you, sister. This call towards Life, this inherent sense that we should be enlarging the nest. And at once this conflicting perplexed sense, uncatagorized, a nameless feeling of unquenched calling. So potent it's as if it's of our blood. Yes, how it strangely seems to come from that very same nest. So it goes my sister, my friend. So it goes!!
Amen amen amen.
Me and some of the cuz's, Nov 08, or as cuz Pat calls us: The McMafia
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