literellie

Merry Crismukkah!

2010-12-26T23:37:00.001-08:00

Hello Extended Wedge Familia!

I wanted to share these random Hanukkah/Christmas images with you and wish you a very merry (and very belated) holiday season. Sorry we're late on the holiday greetings. Dan had very little time off so we ended up driving back to Portland on Christmas day in monsoon-ish rain so that Dan could get to work at 5am. So our holiday was a little hectic. Wanted to let you all know that of course we missed all of you, and you were all in our holiday thoughts. I will be so glad when a) we are all together again! whenever that might be, and b) when Dan and Jay have better work schedules.

Nana and Grandpa Wedge, we can't wait for your visit, I can't believe we get to see you so soon! We are so excited. Teddy has been doing lots of talking lately (Banana, up, cat, hot.) Banana was his first "real" word (other than names of people), I think partly because he said "Nana" so much when you guys were here, on skype, and when we show him pictures!

Jayleys, we need to make something happen, its been way too long. Jay is busy, Dan is busy, this is true - but somehow hopefully we can make it work.

We miss and love you all!

Merry Crismukkah,

Ellie, Dan, and Mister T

Ligers Are Real

2007-03-06T17:34:00.000-08:00

A liger is the offspring of a male lion and a tigress, and has a tiger-like striping pattern on a lion-like tawny background. When zookeepers keep lions and tigers in a shared cage, ligers are often the result.

If you don't believe it--I didn't either at first, I bet Dan dinner--in order of ascending trust-worthiness: Snopes, Wikipedia, Encyclopedia Britannica, and YouTube all confirmed it.

They are the largest animal of the cat family, roughly twice the size of either parent: 10-12 feet when standing on hind legs, weighing up to 1200lbs (and eating up to 100lbs per sitting!) Primary theories to account for the crazy size: imprinted genes (inherited only maternally/paternally) or growth dysplasia (womb environment effect).

Male ligers are sterile but female ligers can reproduce. A lion x liger --> Li-liger, or Li-li (this is for reals, folks.) I was so impressed that female ligers can be fertile, I started to question the speciation distinctions. I ended up discovering a (somewhat sketchy-looking) website claiming some female mules are fertile, not sure if that is true or not but its pretty cool. Apparently, for species' hybrids, generally females may be fertile but males are not.

Similar craziness:

Tigon = offspring of male tiger and female lion (not as common as the liger, smaller than either lions or tigers)

Ti-Ti = offspring of tigon and tiger
Jaglion = offspring of male jaguar and female lioness
Jagulep = offspring of jaguar and leopardess
Leopon = male leopard with lioness
Leotig = male leopard with tigress
Lepjag or Leguar = male leopard with jaguar
Liard or Lipard or Reverse Leopon = male lion with leopardess
Tigard = male tiger with leopardess
Liguar = offspring of a lion and a jaguaress
Tiguar = tiger/jaguar hybrid (to date, no known successful attempts at creating a tiguar)
Jaguatiger or Jagtiger or Jagger or Jagutiger = hypothetical offspring of jaguar and tigress

What a wonderful world.

Serenade

2006-09-10T15:34:00.000-07:00

I'm often tempted to be melodramatic. Even though that makes for some humorously shitty stuff - its more fun to write.

This is the age of anti-poetry. It's sad, people dont write poetry or songs for one another as much as they used to, just for the heck of it - unless you're a professional writer or poet with an official artistic license. Even then, the purpose seems to be critique rather than bald enjoyment. And god forbid the cheese - anything cheesy is automatically stupid.

After re-reading old poetry, I'm always half embarrassed by it and half disappointed with myself for being embarrassed. Granted, its melodramatic crap, but its MY melodramatic crap. And I'd rather serenade life, off-key, warbling, heart-felt, and hilariously dumb, than not at all. So here goes - the serenade.

High School Stuff:

Jagged trees eat the sky,

hungry for its breath.

Round jaws of soil curve

in a valley throat

to swallow captured clouds

and unwary birds.

The sun drips from the east to the west

as silent as a cat.

I mimic her soft walk

push my heels into the ground

with hunter's step, and the rocks are silent

beneath my callused feet.

I own the world

even the sun is mine

My blood is hot

with the pleasure of it.

At the edge of a cliff

quiet to the edge

my eagle toes stab the earth

and my arms stretch up.

I call out wild

and it reverberates

against miles of canyon walls.

I am not afraid

and lean forward

in a dive.

Brown skin past red rock

like a snake tongue flicking

the surface far below

comes close

rushes fast to be near me.

I am accepted

sinking deep, the water

presses cold kisses against my warm skin.

I love the world and the world loves me.

Sunlight expertly plays a sonata on the lake.

On the surface, each ripple holds a separate sun.

The sand below wears a gown of shifting animal print,

ringlets of light waltzing in time.

The crunch and squeak of sand below my boot is muffled by the clear-cold shallows as they rise. Wading through the yawning morning, boat in tow, salty cold spills against my feet. I convince the painted planks to save me from the ocean, and float past seaweed-drenched rocks on a gentle tide. In the morning silence, I hear each oar stroke so easily. Back in the city, is anyone mourning silence?

The old oak table has a faded patch where the sunlight tends to land. Three flowers lean against the glass, pale shadows, fading as they stand. They sit in a quiet vase, lonely green-gold stemmed - once bending in the breeze, and blue - now still, dusty, trimmed. The limp petals brush along the sill, and three bright heads grow brown. Dying in an empty room, in silence, the flowers gently droop down.

The sunset was filling. I swallowed it whole. My mouth opened wide, and the sea rushed into my heart.

Moonlight is gathered and stored in jars.

Hungry and melting it leaks from the stars,

running down the round curves of glass

honey and streaming, a cool swollen mass.

Dog-tired

I trot into the little house

the one without a door.

Turn around twice to settle down

and plop my nose on the floor.

My attention goes up to the night

to search it with my eyes,

and hover by each distant light.

Swoop to the moon - a dog that flies.

More Recent:

Poem Created From Other Poets' Haikus

dedicated to Mom-Annie

Shadows from a lingering sun

blur into dusk.

Falling cherry petals

leave behind

the memory of scent

and the snow of yesterday

that fell like cherry petals

will be water once again.

Life is but melting snow

and tender winds above

melt many kinds

of suffering.

You pass as all things do

dew on the grass.

Night grows short:

a dream of many years

breaks off before it ends.

When autumn winds blow

not one leaf remains

the way it was.

The year is ending

and I have left

my heart behind.

You are leaving

in rainless skies

with a cool moon.

You have cleansed the mirror

of my heart

and now it reflects the moon

and though the autumn moon

has set, its light

lingers on your face.

I just woke up from a dream about Annie. She was teaching me about death.

In the dream, for some reason I knew I was going to die very soon, probably that night. I was outside, alone but with a bunch of people laughing and talking together nearby. There was a stone turtle sculpture on the lawn, with an inverted shell meant to carry flowers in the summer. It was snowing, and I kept scooping the snow out of the shell, making it the one spot on the lawn barren of snow. I knew it was a meaningless gesture, and I was crying.

Then Annie came, and asked what I was doing. I said, "I just want to make one difference. I want something to remind them that I was here."

She took my hand, and showed me how to pack snow in a light layer all along the inside of the shell. We companionably packed snow together for a while, making an even layer along the smooth dome with our fingertips.

Even after we were done covering the turtle shell with snow, we kept smoothing it. Looking with me into the gleaming white bowl, Annie said, "That is one of life's greatest lessons, you know. You have to be the canyon. Over and over in life, you have to be the canyon."

She glanced over at the people laughing together. They probably thought we were being silly. Annie's voice was gentle and sad. "Not everyone wants to hear it, but you have to be the canyon. You have to be the empty space."

fishing in the dark

trolling unfocused fingers
through the internet surf
computer keys
tapping on shoulders
political disagreements
degenerate into Caps Lock
sending ripples through the blogs.
a fish flirts with the wood, mouthing blindly.
I stop to watch a dragonfly nightlight
on ebay
against a background of bottle green blue.

bad poetry

love has been over-written
there is not much left for me.
even so, as I fall asleep
I try to write a romance
on your back, in circles.
my feet between your sleeping legs,
I keep quiet to keep you near.
I want to super glue your lips to mine,
to be held until we are faultless,
seamless, tucked in each another's skin,
like the chinese dumplings we botched
together.
I am tired of loving vulgarly
More, Most, Insatiable;
common notions in my head.
I am tired of the bad poetry
that is loving you.

Silly Atheist

I am an Atheist!

But. With you

I am the weird one,

Believing with Herculean strength

In love, in fairy tales,

In the ridiculous.

I must be crazy.

(Crazy about you.)

Why else am I now

Faithful, praying,

Trying to pummel the world

Into the shape I need?

When I think about you,

I think how much I love you,

and I am convex.

Then I remember,

I cannot lose you.

And I am concave.

Love careens wildly

In strange new contours.

Our promises are terrifying.

Or rather, our demands:

Be careful.

Love me always.

Don’t die first.

Be happy.

Oh, it’s terrible.

An Atheist

Who believes

In the Apocalypse,

Who does not believe

In an Afterlife.

I can only hope,

(God I wish I could pray)--

Please let me be this scared

In fifty years.

Silly atheist,

Clasping hands together,

Battening the hatches

Out of instinct,

Trying to hold both of us,

Just as it is, just as we are.

Please (God, please)

Let this be how we always are.

Amen.

knot: pronounced \ˈnät\

first was a contract,

second was a charm, and

third was to tie the knot,

to make two into one.

seven times the iranian bride wraps the yarn,

an african couple braids the grass.

the hands are bound in handfast,

the shoulders by the lazo cord.

some buddhists tie the fifth finger

with golden thread, and water is poured

together over both hands.

i was bound to you by the knotted fringe

of the chuppah tallit (home of all lands,

the no-walls house of our love.)

tying the knot: worldwide when

two ends become one

knot, one knot ends the why nots? and after begins

the not evers and the ever afters.

On overcast days

when each twig is distinct

against an underbelly sky,

when a tree is a weed

crowding out the others,

thirstily sucking minerals

up and away,

to feed stone cold life,

to crowd the others out

on another day,

and cars throw up mud

and two people are fighting

at a bus stop –

I know

in the lonely twists

of my gut,

the world I thought I knew,

where I could touch

something

where we knew

one another

and where anyone could love

anything,

is a mirage fading

past the rain.

Then some metaphysical speck

of my mechanical mind

resists:

some strange neurons

stop and listen

against all odds,

small heads tilted to the left

as the sound of protest

works up through the blood

in hot turbulence traveling,

sparking them to flame and fire,

so that I know better:

Thanks to that part of me

I remember a dream:

Two alien purple plants

half anemone, half tree

each alone

on two towering sand-tops facing –

somehow facing without faces –

one another,

long branch arms waving,

greeting, longing to touch.

Unable to touch (of course)

but listing inward,

they create in the space between

a something real

even before the violet

sprouts in the valley.

I believe

anything human, perhaps even

anything animal

or plant, or even

the water, which is moving,

and the always precious stones –

for who is to say

the mountains lean not

away from the wind

but into one another,

great and lumbering shoulders

closer in companionship –

we share this dream.

The wild faith

is manifest

in the ranges,

in the flocks,

in the herds,

in the churches,

in the nations,

in the families we make.

We hold one another,

and we hold this up

as evidence.

But the tangible

is not what matters.

Or rather it is unnecessary

to prove it. The shared dream

is at the root of it all,

the thought is between us,

and, though unfathomable,

it is also

a something real.

What I Learned From My Father

I admit it.

I was a petulant and greedy child,

wanting more attention and

also wanting more things,

in particular wanting

more than my sister had.

I always wanted more

of my father’s praise,

which is not to say there was not enough.

I always had a sense of worth.

My father taught me the words

“dingleberry” and “flatus,”

and how to be silly.

He named for me

many things: lightning bugs,

wiffle balls, vanilla cones,

and pointed out the names of sailboats.

Ours was Pegasus.

I think of him when I see

handmade playhouses, or hear

the sound of windchimes, or

a southern accent, or

the phrase “run aground.”

He explained what it means

to be an atheist.

He taught me to feel peaceful

when I look at a tree, and that

helped me feel the prayer

of leafy limbs stretched upward.

My father taught me

to “pick a little, eat a little”

of vine-warm blackberries,

and of cobbler’s bursting tang.

That a day is not wasted,

wandering and meandering

through the woods.

He taught me that imagination could create

Herman the Ant at bedtime.

He taught me the casual joy of art, that

it is allowed

to bring out the rarely used and imperfect

talent. Once a year, maybe,

he would bring out his “real” art supplies.

He made us Mickey Mouse pancakes,

snowmen and fir trees painted

on the windows at Christmas.

We spent hours on his father’s lawn,

banging croquet balls through wickets.

I learned the wicked glee

of shooting an opponent’s ball off-course.

My father taught me how to compete,

and how to play.

How to be a bear

for your children to ride on, and

how to give good bear hugs

when the growls get too scary.

He taught me to have high standards.

To do extra homework.

My father learned from his father

what it means to be honest,

when it is the right thing to do,

why to do it.

My father taught me,

with his stable of bikes

with studded tires and pogies, to

be prepared to be adventurous.

I learned that pride is

what I feel when

I think about him.

He taught me what is valuable.

He always wanted

handmade gifts (or none at all).

He taught me patience and true love –

loving when you don’t want to,

when they might not deserve it,

when she’s pulling her sister’s hair.

He gave me the gift of pessimism,

and a sense of futility.

I remember I was frightened at first

when I saw the familiar face crack, eyes wet,

reading a poem about the passage of time.

Pondering what may come, and

what is certain to come,

he taught me to share his awareness

of what we once had –

when we were little,

before Aunt Betty died –

and what we have now

to lose.

I picture his shoulders bowing with weight

I wish I could carry for him,

but his thoughts are still

heavy and mysterious,

I still feel a sapling to his oak.

I have added to that weight

in the past, I have disappointed him.

I have complained

that we are not close,

that our relationship feels fragile, sometimes,

that we are not who I want us to be.

It is a nameless frustration,

a nameless need unmet.

I still can’t find the words

to strengthen us or even

to acknowledge it or even

to tell him how I love him,

that I admire him,

how much I miss him even

though I never say it.

But this, I know:

when I look at my son and

I see my father,

it is my turn

for wet eyes and pondering, and

I want it to be true.

Collecting children’s books,

I try to find every one

he ever read to me, and

I try to remember

every story he ever told

so I can retell it all

to my son.

Most Recent (Dittys)

Yo Dat Baby Tight

(work in progress)

Yo, dat baby tight

Yo, he’s out of sight

So fly, he might take flight

Oh my, might take a bite

Lookin so good in his froggie hat

Strollin on by with cheeks so fat

Fontanelle is soft and flat

Lil diaper booty, askin for a pat

- Ellie and Dan, inspired by two scary teenage colfax boys

Mine All Mine

Whose that baby?

He look goooood.

Give him to me

Yes you should.

You want this baby?

I know he look fiiiine,

But you can’t have him

He’s mine, alllllll mine.

- Ellie and Leslie

Little one, you will be safe

in the burrow of your bed,

the covers warm around you,

love a halo round your head.

Your body curls gently,

tucked into a quiet sigh,

the world fades around you

as I sing a lullaby.

The soft light from the hallway,

golden path of sleepy fleece,

these walls will watch over you

in the gentle down of peace.

I sing of pretty planets,

sleeping creatures large and small,

of oh-so-silent snowflakes

that make blankets for us all.

Sky and stars hang patiently

and the moon beams in your hair,

dreams yawn and wait for you,

so goodnight, my Teddy Bear.

a love you

cant practice,

there is no dating

first, and

before he arrived

i was afraid

my life would end.

little

did I know,

before his

little life

began,

before his

sweet halting

breath,

what it means

to be

gloriously

perfectly

happy.

Sloshball: Kickball with Kegs

2006-08-26T17:06:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I played an interesting game called "Sloshball." There was a keg for the outfield and also one at home for the kicking team. Oh, and a slip n' slide between third base and home with beer instead of water, a belly-first slide/head butt into the keg counted as two runs.

Some of my crazy new guy friends convinced me to dress 80s for the event (okay, so I didn't take much convincing...), and the whole thing would have been perfect if not for the torrential rain and lightning storm. Plus the burning pain of shoe polish as the eye stripe, even after we removed it. I had to go home early because my fishnet stockings simply weren't providing the necessary warmth...

My Little Brother's Band....

2006-07-07T13:27:00.000-07:00

The Joy Of Buck Hunting

2006-06-16T00:28:00.000-07:00

Might I recommend video arcade game "Buck Hunter," gentle reader? The large, plastic red rifle... the challenge of shooting buck without nabbing any doe... its a classic. As a pacifist, especially, I got a lot of pleasure aiming for the soft white deer fur, firing away, and seeing the nimble legs crumple at the impact of my bullets. Nothing quite like a guilt-free release of aggression. For those of you in Seattle, this temple of cyber death may be found downtown at Gameworks, which serves alcohol in the 21-and-over zone and is open until 11pm. Furthermore, the air hockey table at this location is quite high tech and unique; I'd tell you more, but I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise.

Hurricane Name Drama

2006-06-11T11:04:00.000-07:00

I stumbled across this interesting website. The 2006 hurricanes are already named. Hitting the Atlantic coast this year will be Alberto, Beryl, Chris, Debbie, Ernesto, Florence, and so on. Experts predict 2006 to be another active year.

Naturally, I was a little annoyed. I know from experience, it isn't very fun to cheat at Clue. Here we have the hurricane equivalent of, "its Col. Mustard in the Library with the Candlesticks," and the season hasn't even started yet. Come on, weather guys. Don't ruin it for the rest of us.

Also, I was concerned about the overall naming process. This far in advance, can hurricane "personalities" really shine through? Did the weather peeps have a chance to carefully evaluate each one for tip-offs as to gender, emotional state, quirks, etc.? In my mind, a hurricane with a breeding ground near Haiti, spiral rain bands extending 350 miles in diameter, a level 4 rating, and a long, lopsided tail extending longingly towards Brazil is OBVIOUSLY a Dogbert. Strong hurricanes should not have weak names. Hurricane Fran (1996), in the pic above, was the strongest hurricane to hit North Carolina since 1954. Fran!? Bad name choice, buds. Fran is weak, weak, weak. Fiona, Federico, or Freida would have been far more acceptable. In this day and age, with extensive lists of baby names easily accessible on the internet, there is simply no excuse.

But get this. Prepare to be really and truly shocked. The name line-up for 2006 is exactly the same as in 1982. EXACTLY THE SAME! Lazy, incompetent assholes. What, you thought we wouldn't notice? You thought the poor guy in his mid-40s, whose mom died in Hurricane Beryl, is not going to feel a little shitty when his little brother dies 24 years later by the windy, ironic hand of another Hurricane Beryl? Granted, he'd probably feel a little crummy anyway. The explanation he'll be giving people for the rest of his life will get old real fast though, and the guilt from that will be squarely on your shoulders, weather guy. Seriously, I'm a little shocked here. Even if you had gone through every name on babynameworld.com (which I doubt as I googled "Hurricane Ibeamaka" without result --"Ibeamaka" being a perfectly lovely name from Africa meaning "the agnates are splendid"), did you really have to have an identical line-up? Shame on you. Shame.

Redhead's 24th

2006-06-11T10:59:00.000-07:00

PLEASE NOTE: The picture shown was ripped illegally off the internet; the brown-streaked rear end does not belong to anyone I know.

No party is complete without a sunset barbeque, a little laser frisbee, a little salsa dancing, some leather-clad bikers, a coed strip show, a large broken window, and some girl-on-girl action. Apples-to-apples was hilarious (I won "boring" with "Hiroshima"). The beer was Good. Granted, we did NOT play strip Twister, and thus missed out on a chance to see, live, a luscious, enticing view like the one above. Still, I can't wait to see the pics I took of Redhead's lapdance.

For the record: I bore witness to the dick slapping of Redhead's friend's back, as she sat twisted away from the stripper's dangling, swirling penis, shuddering with pure terror and disgust. We made a new rule--"No touching with the penis!" It was like reverse stripper rules--the extent to which the lapdancer is allowed to touch the lapdancees.

I AM hung over today, my goodness. Let no one say Redhead turned 24 without a Bang!!

Edit: Let me clarify, yet again, that the pic was NOT taken at any of Redhead's party events. It is strictly for your viewing pleasure. There has been some confusion.