A Jacob’s Ladder

A week or so ago was Chandler’s reading at the Minnesota Center for Book Arts. Her father did most of the reading and embarrassing-video-of-Chandler-as-an-aw-shucks-youngster-playing, but it was Chandler’s book that was the star of the evening.

I was invited as part of the Sarah-and-Jesse unit, and after seeing the illustrations on the (presumably) hand-pressed invitations, I was eager. The book was The Faery Gardener, and the illustration that dragged me in was not the naked earth mother (with boobies!) but the toenails that were branching into twisting tendrils like roots straight into the soil. I know, I know, I play the character of a girl-crazy cad on television, but if you cut me you will find not blood running through my veins, but an ooze of black Iowa dirt. Yes, I am as undead as that implies. I died inside sometime in my twenties, and when I turned 30 I turned undead. This explains my insatiable hunger for booze brains.

The actual reading involved a performance of a pagan ceremony (complete with a sword and an authentic shillaleigh as a magic wand. I want a shillaleigh now — not to do any sort of magic, since I don’t believe in the supernatural at all, but just, you know, in case there is ever call for some “Gangs of New York” style brawling. Not that I brawl. Just, you know, if that would ever come up — which it won’t. I’m just saying.

Anyway, Chandler’s father was like an amplified version of Chandler, and her mother a dampened version. Obviously they averaged out — not really. If Chandler lost some of her hair and reddened up a bit she would immediately turn into her father. I swear.

But, I am taking you, my gentle readers, far afield from the matter at hand, which was the book, which you should buy in Deluxe Edition form to donate to your local library here in Minneapolis so that I can finish reading it and look at all of the included illustrations. I imagine that such an investment would not only be tax deductible for you, my fabulously wealthy readership, but would also provide you with the surety that your gift to and of the arts would establish your name in perpetuity — at least as long as your local library (in Minneapolis so that I can read the book) does not accidentally put the book in the children’s section where two year olds would pull it down from the shelf and vomit on it.

If that happens, I suggest that you have standing orders to return any undamaged pages to me you so that I you can frame them and hang them in my as yet imaginary new apartment your den. Right.

This is my blog, so I get to be completely self absorbed and clue you in to my thoughts during the reading and ceremony (aside from the appreciation of the book, reading, and ceremony, which, as I said, were all wonderful and much deserving of all sorts of appreciation and joy).

That day was the sort of day where idiots jammed up the roads with idiocy in solid, liquid, and gaseous forms. People cut me off, tailgated me, drove too slow, drove too fast, and generally acted like it was their first time in the snow. I think that I had one block of enjoyable driving on the way to work where my car bounded through snowdrifts like a bunny before I had to be the only responsible driver on the road. I dropped Sarah off in plenty of time to get to the parking lots at school and walk to work instead of hopping the campus bus. I even got to work fifteen minutes ahead of the staff-wide meeting — except that I was actually forty five minutes late.

I was in a funk all day long despite my best efforts to forget about it and just enjoy the $2 a bottle root beer that I had put into the mini fridge. (SO GOOD THE MAINE ROOT BEER! Get it at Rainbow!)

When I got home, I fell asleep on the couch next to Lisa reading. I thought that Sarah was going to call, but Sarah thought that I was just going to come over in time to pick her up and get to MCBA. It was my fault for not double checking the time (it wasn’t listed on the MCBA website) and setting an alarm. Sarah called five minutes before we were supposed to get there. I arose from my slumber and beat feet to the car, which I drove recklessly and mostly sideways to Sarah’s apartment, apologizing and swearing the whole way. With Sarah in car, I found even bigger slip angles through the six blocks to MCBA, engine roaring and wheels spinning.

Then, brie and Dubliner cheeses. Gulps of wine from plastic cups. I could not get into character, merely stumbling around zombie-like and groaning.

Anyway, this post sat around in on my web server for a couple of weeks already, so I’m just gonna finish by saying that the reading wrapped a lovely piece of art in a personal and familial presentation.

3 Responses to “A Jacob’s Ladder ”

  1. I don’t know if I would say Mom is me dampened…maybe me weirdened.

    I missed the Dubliner! Damnit!!

  2. So good the Dubliner!

    Your mom didn’t seem very weird to me.

    Wait, are you implying that you aren’t weird? As Lisa would say: “Lord in heaven!”

  3. Oh, I’m weird, alright. She’s weirder. More inexplicable. Ask Donald.

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