I Heart The Mudflats

A Guestpost from Mudpuppy 0whole1:

Why is the Mudflats important?

There are a lot of horrible things that have gone on the last eight years, and that even now are knocking on the door, trying to return. State-sponsored torture by our own government, for instance, or science subverted by religious literalism. But these are just symptoms of a larger problem, that of a government by immoral people cloaked in the cheesecloth of homespun morality.

It’s very unsettling to one’s worldview to have government leaders plead the case for so many things that are terribly wrong on their face, to be so hamhandedly duplicitous, to wrap themselves in the flag or the hymnbook when the Constitution or the Beatitudes lie in tatters at their feet. In a world where people, as Harry Truman said of Nixon, don’t know the difference between a lie and the truth, it’s nice to be able to come to a place where nobody’s trying to tell you that white is, in fact, black, that God is, in fact, foursquare behind proving our virility on the bodies of others, that there are, in fact, five lights.

The Mudflats provides a place where people are decent to each other because it’s right; it’s a place where things are said because they’re true. (Well, ok; schadenfreude has a role to play, also, too. Human’s human, and hot air makes such a funny sound escaping the balloon.)

PS I got the “tatters” line from — guess? — Forty Watt, on the ‘flats who provided this HuffPo quote: “Speaking on MSNBC, former CIA special agent Jack Rice described the vice president has having “wrap[ped] himself in the flag with the Constitution in tatters at his feet.”"

Written by Mudpuppy Bodie P on July 5th:

Well dang. Here I just spent a good solid ten hours on this, only to wake up this morning (I was both sick and traveling yesterday) to the news that Governor Palin’s days as the governor of Alaska are numbered, and in double digits, at that. Speculation is rife about the reasons why.

This is nothing new. Though Governor Palin has been in the public eye for months now, she has managed, against all odds, to maintain her air of mystery. The day after she was unveiled as John McCain’s pick for VP, I read about librarians and possible firings, and police chiefs and definite firings and then librarian rehirings and it all seemed very murky and mysterious. And then I read about her habit of appointing buddies to public positions, and how sometimes it seemed like being a buddy was more important than actual, well, skill, and she still seemed murky and mysterious. Then I read about how she had, while leaking amniotic fluid, climbed onto a plane with what she knew to be a Down syndrome baby, flew for house, changed planes, flew some more, then drove not to the Anchorage Hospital but on to a small local hospital to deliver her baby. I thought back on my own experience in labor and, for what turned out to be the first of several times, thought, “What was the woman thinking?”

And then of course there was the question of just who actually gave birth to Trig Palin–a question that persisted largely because, like a great many other questions regarding the Palins, there was a lot of indignation, but not much in the way of objective evidence forthcoming. When moral outrage collides with a large dose of “that’s just plain nuts”–well, you get the idea.

The fact is, for somebody who’s long on moral outrage, Sarah Palin proved over time to be remarkably flexible in defining “the truth.” If listening to her respond to the Branchflower Report by saying she was so happy it had proven that there had been no wrongdoing on her part was an education, hearing her over-the-top, seemingly willful distortions of Letterman’s jokes was graduate school.

And the bloggers…well, but then I AM one, and as luck would have it, I’m writing this blog in my pajamas. It’s Fourth of July, and the fireworks in our neighborhood have died down, and even those the city sets off across town in the park are only showing up sporadically now. Pajamas are the proper attire. Though my blog started during the election as a way of tracking politics in my own small town, the governor has made frequent appearances–largely because she has declared herself the champion of people like me. I have often been critical because that declaration is no more true than her description of the Branchflower Report findings. Over time, I have come to believe that she represents the interests of a constituency of one, and I find her claim to be the spokesperson for people like me presumptuous, overweening, and vainglorious.When I listened to her proclamations I found myself saying not, “Yes!”, but, “But…” in the beginning.

Time has passed, and the impulse to protest has faded, not because I have come to agree with her, but because I have pretty much stopped listening. The reality of the times has consumed my life. The fulminations of talking heads has less meaning than the ebb and flow of projects across my desk. The reality of the anti-depressants and what I must do to address the pain that has made them necessary makes the issue of photochopping a talk show host’s head onto a baby’s body seem pretty minor. I listened to the fulminations and realized at last that I simply no longer have time for all the needless drama generated by what is, in the end, a political cartoon. And I really, really didn’t have time to waste on a woman who described the creation of such a piece as “desecration” of an “iconic” image. Sarah Palin, her purported victimhood, and her faux moral outrage no longer have the power to stir me to either support or response. She has become irrelevant.

All that remained was closure. I found as I often do–creatively. Sometimes it’s a story or poem. This time it was a picture. “You want to present yourself as a holy figure?” I thought way back a couple weeks ago. “Fine–let’s talk holy figures–you and your pals who have set yourselves up as the standard by which all the rest of us should be judged.”

I knew this must be divinely ordained, because I found some lovely creches online (and my apologies in advance to the unknown artist who created the one that served as the basis for this piece). I also found high-resolution photos for just about everybody; I took that as a definite opening of a door through which (insert the divinity of your choice) clearly wished me to barge. There was no paucity of contenders for the various roles; if anything, my dilemma was whom to choose.

And then I photoshopped, modified, tweaked, combined, painted, and filtered. I even got the Naughty Monkeys in there (something that I am convinced will become an Iconic Representation of Republican Christmases based on this piece alone).

I worked on this. I really did. Even though I was holed up a hotel to which it turned out I was severely allergic, I worked on this, eyes streaming, sinuses aching, head spinning. I finished it this morning. I looked at it, forced everyone in the house to also look at it, and then, at long last, I was ready to put it up for sale on my website. And then I opened my internet browser in preparation for the Big Launch and read, “Sarah Palin to Step Down.”

Well.

I looked at my picture, my beautiful, probably microbe-infested picture. I looked at the news. I read that, true to form, Governor Palin had failed to provide a clear, rational explanation for her decision. But I knew.

She had done it to spite me. I worked and worked–and now, the very day I am ready to launch, she yanks the rug right out from under my size ten wide Payless Shoe Source slippers. It’s just not right. I’ve been pre-empted, made obsolete on the very eve of what I am convinced would have been the financial turning point for me. In retrospect, I can see that, without doubt, my future would have been secure–nay, affluent!–on the sales of this piece alone. And now, premature obsolescence. The central character in the Holy Republican Family has just served papers on the remainder–at least for the moment.

So what do I do now? Well, for the moment, this. I post it on my blog. And then I just sit tight. I have a feeling that this isn’t really a divorce, but only a trial separation–possibly only a quick weekend at Mother’s before she’s back, and all is forgiven. I wouldn’t say I’m exactly hoping for that. That would be just plain mean. Besides, the thought of soon-to-be-ex-Governor Palin anywhere near a political office gives me a cauld grue. But I worked damned hard on this picture. It’s too beautiful to just pass gently into that good night. It’s the age-old dilemma–art for art’s sake, or art for the sake of money. For the moment, the question has been answered for me–for right now, this picture will have to be art for art’s sake, a snapshot of a moment in time when the Republican Party as they saw themselves and the Republican Party as the rest of us saw them were so very removed from each other as to provoke not outrage, not fear, not even pity, but laughter.

But that won’t last forever–I have a feeling the GOP will be back, either chastened and purged, or hoping to convince us they are. And when that day comes, this baby’ll go up for sale before the last “also” has been spoken.

Mudpuppy LettersFromEurope sent this guest post in for Father’s Day, but it’s still a wonderful piece to read. Enjoy!

I met my Dad coming out of a lift. I didn´t give him a chance of nervously pacing around a waiting room, sitting down and jumping up again. I was there when he arrived at the hospital, being carried around on the arm of a nurse. I don´t remember this momentous meeting, but my father does. What I remember are the times he took me to the printshops. I felt privileged to sneak a look at the enormous machines, smell the ink and see the huge paper rolls that were used to create the newspaper, which my father worked on. It was also very noisy, but I didn´t mind because that was part of the magic.

My Dad the journalist and I took it for granted that we lived in Europe, my father came from the States and had married an Italian lady. Until recently I did not appreciate where he came from. In the course of this year we have spent many hours chatting about his childhood in a cozy midwestern town called Oak Harbor. We talked about the accident, which nearly killed him when he was seven and left him with one eye. We talked about him leaving his town and beginning life on his own at the University of Notre Dame (while still sending home all his wash ) and how he tried to get a foothold as cartoonist and journalist in the States after graduation. He went to Europe as a tourist and decided to look for a job while there. He got lucky in Rome, where the “Daily American” was being published. A paper where, while it still existed, I also was able to visit the printshop.

This is where he met a girl called Maria. He went off to Paris to work for the Herald Tribune, but found that he really missed the lady that became my Mother - Mummy - Mum. She joined him, while mastering climbing mountains of bureaucracy that were not used to dealing with an American and an Italian that wanted to get married in Paris in the year of 1957. I discovered in our chats that he had saved every letter my mother and he wrote in this time of their long distance courtship. He saved every letter his mother sent him. He saved his lists of wash sent home from University. He saved every cartoon and copies of many of the articles he wrote. We decided to go through all his material to organize it.

For me it was like walking through time, discovering what was on my father´s mind and happening in his life at the time and with him there to explain and elaborate on pictures, drawings, stories and letters it all became real. Sometimes things happen for a reason. I had just finished compiling an anthology for an adult learning course. It was a lot of work and of course I was doing it for free (which is something I cannot really afford, but who can nowadays). While we sorted through my Dad´s work I came upon familiar drawings of a pirate. He was called Captain Bucky and the drawings showed him golfing or skiing, things we normally don´t associate with pirates. But to my great surprise there were a lot more drawings of Bucky, which I had never seen and a story my father had written about the pirate. That´s when the pieces of the puzzle fell in place. I had drawings. I had a story. I had an author and I had just learned how to create books. The idea was born and my father liked it. What a way to celebrate being over 80. Pirate Bucky knows what to do with Cannon Balls @John C. Krueger.

Soon the first print of “The Jolly Roger Twins - Pirates who fly Kites” will be produced. Little did I know there was a lot more learning to do, but throughout it all my Dad and I had a wonderful time creating his first book. And being 80 and suffering from macular degeneration, doesn´t stop him from making plans for the next one. It will be called Roma Oma and Europa Opa.

@Francesca http://lettersfromgermany.wordpress.com/2009/05/09/father-daddy-dad/

Here is a sample of my Dad´s professional writing from the sixties: http://www.stripes.com/article.asp?section=140&article=13333

I’m sitting outside in the white garden enjoying our first beautiful day in weeks. The sun is shining, the humidity is low, and it’s warm without being too hot. All of this is a complete violation of the weather report that predicted hazy, hot and humid with severe thunderstorms.

The past 24 hours have been drama-filled and I’m stressed.

So. Here I sit. I have water with orange slices in a large, cobalt blue glass. The wind is rippling. The dachshund is snoring. The light is coming through the mature oaks from the west and, with the wind, the effect is rippling light and shadow. Butterflies, hummingbirds, and the occasional dragonfly are visiting. It’s beautiful and serene.

Tonight when I sit here after dinner, the fading sun and then the moon will capture the white and it will all glow. If the wind is still with us, that glow will undulate. The fireflies will come out and add their own light. I will settle deeply into this chair and enjoy a glass of merlot.

I’ve been writing about this garden on my blog, but since I have this opportunity to bore a new audience, let me tell you about it.

The concept of a white garden is to provide an outdoor living space where the predominant color is green. White blossoms attract light; and between the peacefulness of the green, the shadows of mature plants, and the lack of real color to grab the eye, such a garden provokes tranquility and ease. The effect is Western Zen.

And is my favorite word and I couldn’t resist adding some blues to the mix. Since blue is a cool color, it recedes and while the color attracts attention, the distance effect works to promote harmony with the whites, rather than contrast.

This garden has been years in the making - mostly in my head and heart. This year I found the gumption to make a dream a reality. There are years to go before it will be all that I imagine, but it’s a journey - not a destination.

In just a few minutes sprawled in this lawn chair with my feet resting near a patch of white petunias, I’m calmer and at peace with the chaos of my life. Let it swirl around me like the wind in the trees. I’m grounded and rooted.

The view from my garden is not magnificent or awe-provoking. It is not dramatic. It’s a cool drink of water on a hot day, a comfortable chair after a hard day, and deep sighs of contentment.

Normally, when I blog I include several photos to illustrate my words. This time, I prefer that you imagine your own spot of peace, tranquility and ease. Close your eyes and breathe deeply, let the sun dance on your eyelids, feel the cold glass in your hand and the cool earth on your feet.

Luxuriate in your body, meld with the earth, and rise with the moon.

This is my view from my garden.

TRConnie is a Mudflats Forum and I Heart Mudflats Administrator. She blogs at http://www.wvfurandroot.wordpress.com where she currently is whining about the dearth of comments (among other things.)