Addendum numero 1

So, last night, very late I remember the best Isabelism of all...

Mommy... what does "nocturnal" mean (brief explanation) VERY GOOD! you _do_ know about night creatures... We aren't nocturnal, though. (well, sometimes I am) Why? (very good question - it seems that insomnia is a useful creative tool).

And then again this morning, she blows my mind (it is amazing that some people actually listen and take note of other's utterances!) when we are discussing plovers and their predators, and I ask her if birds are nocturnal, just to test her and see if she has really retained her lesson from school. --Well some are... Owls for instance...

Ok, so she _is_ my child and I get to think she is amazing no matter what, but I am often floored by her insightful commentary. I am also amazed at how basically different she is from me.

Where at 5 I was fretting, panicking really, about the concept of an ever-expanding, never-ending universe, she wakes up happy, a wide smile and says, mommy, will we be together forever? She asks if I am immortal and I reply that no, indeed I will die someday, but not soon (I hope), and that I will always be with her (blah, blah, blah) and she replies: "So your not an elf? - because, you know elves never die..."

No I am not an elf... but on a totally different note, I have been revisiting music archives of my past, and bjørk jumped out at me. I don't know about you, but I think I prefer her singing to her acting, although, I am personally a fan of Lars von Trier's work, I think that the tongue in cheek, musical noir about the descent of darkness into the human soul, mixed with social commentary about the alienation of the industrialized world (for some reason, reminiscent of the images of factory work in "Stone Butch Blues") falls a bit short of its mark...

Of course, it is almost a year (or more?) since I watched that and this was not, in fact, where I was going at all. Today is about rambling on... (Zep?) no. I wanted to talk about the Police...

If there is one person, musically, that has accompanied me in the weirdest of ways and places it is Sting. And I only own two albums, and rarely, if ever, listen to him... But, I recall hours with my brother, sharing space on the couch (before we would grow annoyed and beat the crap out of one another for impinging on one another's delineated space)... watching classic MTV (back when music television _actually_ included music) before remote controls, in the reign of Beta-max (which we did not own, having technofobe or just really smart parents)... Roxanne... you don't have to put on the red llight... before video became mini movies, divorced from the meaning of the song... it was just a bunch of guys, playing music, with a red background. you can't get any cooler than that. His voice cracking, and me wondering (young child of the suburbs- self-admittedly) what on earth a red light could have to do with prostitution... but for some reason, I connected with this Roxanne. Why did he want to save her? or control her? Maybe she was happy walking the streets for money... Don't we all do that in one form or another?

Then... of course in my teeenage years (or still?) I longed to be the girl in the rain, waiting for the teacher, lolita in the car, escaping, controlling... but after having actually read the book (much, much later, Lolita just made me sad, another girl lacking talents or self-esteem, or a father figure that puts her above all else... a pathetic figure, and how does she end? pregnant and miserable... arghh. but it was writtne by a man).

There is a version of Fields of Gold on Eva Cassidy's "Live at Blues Alley" that recently reminded me how much I still like Sting... aging, deafening cry. I recall seeing a documentary in college where he was supporting grass roots efforts to stop the destruction of the rain-forest, fighting against the caucho (gum) companies... I wanted to be an activist. I would have liked to strap myself to milenary trees, but my nihilistic side asks, ultimately, what is the point of our existence? Is it just to feel pain and frustration at all the things we can't ever do or fix or give?

Then I listen to Isabella, singing a soundtrack to her morning, her songs a simple and winding melody that describe the thoughts passing through her mind. And I think, no it is just me...other people do _not_see the world this way. It makes me feel better that I did not pass this terrible disenchantment to my daughter, and I think that maybe she is here to guide me. She always says that she picked me... that god made her just for me... that god is everywhere, in the rays of light that shine down in shafts, highlighting the dust in a small chapel on Bear Island, in lake Winnepesaukee... Do children really have a main line to God? I know that I never, ever talk about the concepts that she has somehow gleaned from the world, and I am frozen in a moment of incredulous doubt? Could she, yes, she must, know more than me about these things. There is no demagoguery in her discourse, there are no expectations, confessions, repressions. God made her the way she is because she is good (god- ok I have worked on not gendering god... or at least putting the concept in gender-flux - that much is my intervention, I admit).

So God and music from my childhood, great topic for a Sunday morning... or perhaps this is my personal sermon for the day. Nah.

Doo doo doo, da da da... is all I have to say right now.
Brain fizzling after one more night of self-medication. I _am_ sorry, and I know you _are_ right, but I think that I am a hedonist at heart, or an escapist, or both. Forgive me father, for I have already forgiven myself...(sort of)