My plans of a "Apocalyptic Prophet Musical in the CTA" is brilliant! Just not very concrete yet...
-an email from german lisa
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
the point in winter
It was the coldest day of winter so far, clocking in at -2 f/-19 c. Being the hardcore of haymarket, we elected to trek to the Point at night to burn our Christmas tree.
Do we need lighter fluid? someone asked, and was reassured multiple times that the tree would combust almost immediately and without struggle. No one, however, took into account the task of massaging a flame out of a lighter while standing on windy lake shores.
After 10 minutes of bumbling with flameless results, Glenn caught a single sheet of twisted newspaper which sparked the tree at last. (He and Ben kept jumping around somewhat IN the firepit, to the distress of Lauren. She calmly requested Ben stop picking up the burning tree.) We stood circled around ignoring our toe-cicles and sipping spiked hot chocolate (soy milk, mexican hot chocolate, kahlua, & peppermint schnapps).
The tree was quickly naked of needles, but we couldn't feel our fingers much less stand to stick around for the grand finale of total disintegration. Ben volunteered to stomp out the tree and the rest of us returned to the car, marvelling at our original plan to WALK to the Point and saying grace that our idiocy had not reigned.
Do we need lighter fluid? someone asked, and was reassured multiple times that the tree would combust almost immediately and without struggle. No one, however, took into account the task of massaging a flame out of a lighter while standing on windy lake shores.
After 10 minutes of bumbling with flameless results, Glenn caught a single sheet of twisted newspaper which sparked the tree at last. (He and Ben kept jumping around somewhat IN the firepit, to the distress of Lauren. She calmly requested Ben stop picking up the burning tree.) We stood circled around ignoring our toe-cicles and sipping spiked hot chocolate (soy milk, mexican hot chocolate, kahlua, & peppermint schnapps).
The tree was quickly naked of needles, but we couldn't feel our fingers much less stand to stick around for the grand finale of total disintegration. Ben volunteered to stomp out the tree and the rest of us returned to the car, marvelling at our original plan to WALK to the Point and saying grace that our idiocy had not reigned.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
moving the monkey
In Haymarket lingo, "moving the monkey" refers to spilling something juicy. Moving the monkey can be both euphemistic and literal. If he's hugging a new kitchen pipe then you know to perk up your ears around the cutting board for co-op news of a scandalous variety.
After 18 months performing such sacred symbolic duty, this monkey knows our secrets. And if you ply him with enough banana tea & peanut crumpets, he talks.
After 18 months performing such sacred symbolic duty, this monkey knows our secrets. And if you ply him with enough banana tea & peanut crumpets, he talks.
externalized memory
I am actually stealing my piece today, an extract from an email written by a friend of Lydia's who visited a co-op in Boulder one spring evening. Lydia forwarded his email to us not long after I moved into Haymarket. The author marvels at the warmth and welcome of folks who seem so relaxed and informal, yet quietly depend on a firmly structured community manifesto & rules.
I thought of this passage when I saw the plantains Rachael labeled with directions.
When I was there, I noticed that the collective had a tendency to externalize its memory. There were labels on everything about where things go, and whose chores were to be done when and peg-boards and notes on a white-board. There were notes in the bathroom requesting that the yellow not be mellowed...
After describing a sumptious community dinner, a jam session and meeting new friends, the author concludes with a wish to join a co-op. I have so many questions, but they all boil down to this one, primary question: How much of what I saw is real, and how much is illusion? Certainly this is not what life is like every day for you?
I feel lucky to say the vibrancy of his visit was no exception. And Corrigan's right, there is something incredibly affirming to hear that other houses like ours exist and bring happiness too.
I thought of this passage when I saw the plantains Rachael labeled with directions.
When I was there, I noticed that the collective had a tendency to externalize its memory. There were labels on everything about where things go, and whose chores were to be done when and peg-boards and notes on a white-board. There were notes in the bathroom requesting that the yellow not be mellowed...
After describing a sumptious community dinner, a jam session and meeting new friends, the author concludes with a wish to join a co-op. I have so many questions, but they all boil down to this one, primary question: How much of what I saw is real, and how much is illusion? Certainly this is not what life is like every day for you?
I feel lucky to say the vibrancy of his visit was no exception. And Corrigan's right, there is something incredibly affirming to hear that other houses like ours exist and bring happiness too.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
scenes from the season
Dec 9 - Rachael seranades BJ with a melody she wrote in ode to his awesomeness.
New Years Eve - Parisian Keith tends to the ice bar on our snowy front porch.
New Years Day - parade for brunch at Valois.
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