Will the REAL Shannon Kennedy please stand UP!

Because the idea of a book still feels so overwhelming to me, I decided to try and focus on getting my  short story, Green Monkey, tweaked and published.

My morning goal was to forward it to my editor but when I realized I didn't have the original version on my macbook, I did a google search for it.  I knew it was out there somewhere so I entered "green monkey, burning man, shannon kennedy" into the search and pressed enter.

The first result was my Burning Man version of Green Monkey but this version does not include any background history on the event itself.  The second result was my  Green Monkey Tales version, titled "Why Green Monkey" but this is also not the complete story.

I revised my search by simply entering "shannon kennedy" and quickly realized there are SEVERAL of us.

The first Shannon Kennedy listed was the Jazz musician, Shannon Kennedy - "a multi-faceted artist, composer, producer, performer, recording artist and music instructor."  I knew about her.  She's attractive and talented but I don't like the way she holds her saxophone.  

The second search result showed Shannon Kennedy the visual artist.   I've heard about her too.  

Hey, its shades of blue streaked across a canvas, how hard can it be? 

The third search result was ME!

ME, in all my glory. 

ME, a self proclaimed "bossy, complicated, bla, bla, bla,... free spirited adventurist." 

Me, according to my google profile.  It sounds/reads ridiculous.  A rewrite is way over due.

Oh how I wish I stopped here but being sightly OCD, I revised my search yet again.  This time entering "shannon kennedy writer"

I was not prepared for what I found.

First I, Shannon Kennedy the Writer, am nowhere to be found!

Worse, I've been overshadowed by Shannon Kennedy Writers.  These Shannon Kennedy's are not procrastinating, easily distracted, overwhelmed, want-to-be writers.  These Shannon Kennedy's are published authors.  These Shannon Kennedy's are putting it out there, living their dreams.  These Shannon Kennedy's aren't just talking about it - they're doing it!

The first Shannon Kennedy writes realistic and paranormal young adult fiction.  (why didn't I think of that!)  She's published two books titled Daddy, Please Tell Me Whats Wrong and There's No Cure.

You can read more about this Shannon Kennedy here:

Shannon Kennedy the talented, young adult fiction writer

The second "Shannon Kennedy writer" is a romance novelist.

WHAT.....?!?!?

I love romance!  Besides, I once pretended to be a romance novelist (yet another twisted tale that I have yet to write about).

This Shannon Kennedy lives with her mother, Colleen Kennedy.


WHAT....?!?!?

My sisters name is Colleen Kennedy.  She's my (much) older sister and I guess you can say that once upon a time she was motherly but no way in HELL would I ever live with my sister or my mother.


And... (how BIZARRE is this)... every story this Shannon Kennedy writes about has one common element...


A horse.


She loves horses.


WHAT...!?!?!


Well, I've loved horses ever since I was a little girl.  I wrote about it once.  Perhaps you read about my love of pony on my blog.  It's included in a post I call "The Animals"

How is it that these Shannon Kennedy's are doing it and I'm only talking about doing it?  What is my problem?  Why can't I get out of my own way.  Why can't I stop over thinking it and just do it.

It's true... I have self doubt.  I struggle with insecurity and I am a perpetual procrastinator.  BUT... I have a secret weapon.  One slightly off kilter quality that will motivate me.

I'M A FIERCE COMPETITOR! 

I will write and submit, and write and submit, until I turn up in a "Shannon Kennedy writer" google search.  

Look out Shannon Kennedy's, here I come! 

OOPS 

After I calmed myself down, I read the article below and realized that the two Shannon Kennedy's are one and the same. 

The good news is... less competition.  

The bad news is... her first book was published 20 years ago!  

I've got a lot of catching up to do. 

***

Granite Falls woman has stable career in writing romance novels

By Kristi O’Harran, Herald Columnist

Author Shannon Kennedy doesn’t need to do much research to sweeten her western-set romance novels with ponies.

Torrid love may come and go in her books, but one thing is constant: Every novel she’s written features a horse.

That makes sense as Kennedy owns Horse Country in Granite Falls with her mother, Colleen Kennedy, where they offer riding and day camps.

She publishes under the name Josie Malone and sold two young adult novels some 20 years ago.

“They are still very topical,” Kennedy said. “They may be reprinted.”

In the romance department, she said, her bedroom scenes could be rated PG-13 to R. Her books are about adventure and love, the more detail the better.

“Man’s World” came out in paperback in time for Christmas.

“It’s a positive story about a woman struggling hard in the late 1800s,” said Lori Lyn, who’s president of the Evergreen Chapter of Romance Writers of America and lives in Shoreline. “She is trying to make it in a man’s world.”

Lyn said sales for romance novels are very strong. Folks read the genre as an inexpensive way to escape personal drudgery.

“It’s a format you know will have a happy ending,” Lyn said. “You aren’t going to turn the final page and the main character dies on you or anything.”

Kennedy’s new novel, “The Daddy Spell,” is an e-book published at www.bookstrand.com.

Here’s a preview: “Divorced mom Elinor Talbot isn’t looking for romance, but love finds a way when her mischievous kids summon a replacement dad with a spell. Wickedly handsome, smooth-talking horseshoer Sean Killian comes with a painful past, but he’s determined to win her independent heart. Will the magic between them last?”

As a child, Kennedy, 53, said she loved to dream away the days in an old cherry tree on her family’s pony farm at Silver Lake in Everett called The Funny Farm.

“I know that’s a rather strange name for a pony farm, but it came from my grandmother who said that our stories about life on the farm could make anyone laugh until they cried,” Kennedy said.

In her imagination, a tree became an Arabian stallion, a medieval castle and even a pirate ship.

“I got in trouble for making my little sisters walk the plank, but hey, they never broke any bones. On rainy days, I headed for my fort in the hayloft.”

The former Army reservist has 37 horses on the family ranch where she lives with her mother.

Her favorite pony was named Luck of the Irish, or Lucky for short.

“Lucky and I were together until he died of old age, at 40-plus years,” she said. “Lucky would do anything for a peanut butter sandwich and soda pop, but he wouldn’t pass up dog food, cat food, chicken scratch or the rabbit’s alfalfa pellets either. Lucky ate carrots and apples, but only when he couldn’t find more exciting fare.”

She rode her pony on trail rides with her 4-H Club, the original Everett Silver Flying A’s, led by Herb and Virginia Weinz. In the late 1960s to the early 1970s, they rode from Silver Lake in south Everett, to May’s Pond and Edmonds. Summer trail rides lasted all day. There were trees and wildlife where houses now stand, and young riders didn’t know that tuna sandwiches and mayonnaise might not be the wisest choice for lunches on hot days, she said.

“Crushed potato chips and warm Coca-Cola weren’t all that bad,” she said. “Lucky got more than his share.”

There were the overnights, riding to Snohomish from south Everett across the flats and camping out, all in preparation for trips to the Big Four Ice Caves outside of Granite Falls.

Kennedy works her Granite Falls ranch by day and does substitute teaching in several districts. She writes by night.

“I don’t have time for a husband,” she said. “I’m teaching the kids and grandkids of the ones I taught way back when we started.”

Kennedy and I have something in common as we both report to editors.

In her line of romance novels, she said she might get a call from a boss in Texas suggesting her cowboy story line would improve if she would kill off somebody in Chapter Two.

Don’t worry. The horse never dies.


"The Animals"

Write More - Play Less

My intentions were good.
Take a break from blogging, hire an editor, and focus on completing my book.

Instead I:
- Went to the Jazz Festival in New Orleans
- Had corrective eye surgery
- Served on a jury
- Went topless fishing in Canada

Inbetween all that, I encountered several blogworthy moments:
- I had a gun pointed at me
- I had a $12.00 beer tossed at me
- I celebrated my 52 birthday and the week before that, my son's 9th death anniversary
- I put a tent up in a parking lot during a high school reunion
- I pretended to be married to a man I met at an airport bar
- I photographed my real husband at race car driving school

Bridgestone Racing Academy - Mosport, Canada
(damn, he's good looking!)

I started making merkins

And...  dressed the dog up in one of them

As you can see, I have plenty to write about.  I'm trying to get back into the swing of it, but I keep getting distracted.

For example, yesterday I photoshopped cans of "spotted dick" onto my 2010 Burning Man Cock Shots. (Congressman Wiener competition)

And today, I'm heavily into Mashup music and video's.  (what is she talking about?)

Check out this "Bouncy Lovehop":

Blind Melon - No Rain (Pumpkin Remix) 

and this mashup video

A big part of my distraction is Facebook. Its soaking up my mornings and winding down my evenings. Rumor has it that an intervention is underway.  Even my cat is pissed.

I'm under strict instructions from Boris (my muse) to create SOMETHING each day or else he'll.... (I'm not sure what my consequences are).

Even WORSE, it appears as though NOT writing is weight gaining.  Since my last post I've gained 5 pounds.  I'm now at my pregnancy weight.  I'm getting so top-heavy that sometimes I tip over.  (stolen from 30 Rock)

But, my main motivation is YOU.  I miss the blogging community.  I miss reading your posts and relishing in your comments.  I feel less interesting when I'm not blogging.  And if I don't write it, it just circulates inside my head... over, and over, again.  I can't even tell if I'm funny any more.

Time for me to focus!

Monkey's BACK!!!

Weighing In

BIG NEWS, I am now the proud owner of a "sleek & smart" Bioelectrical Impedance Analysis scale.

It teased me on "sleek," had me on "smart," and confused me on "Bioelectrical." In celebration of this purchase I'm eating leftover Easter Ham, in bed, with a smattering heaping of pale ale/horseradish cheese spread.  Zero carbs, unless you count the wine, which I've put on my off limits list on Mondays and Tuesdays, unless it's the day after Easter, or the first Monday after Reindeer Friday (hard to explain) or, if it happens to fall on a Whee Day (regular blog readers... you know what I mean).

Isn't it pretty!  Seriously streamline and ... dare I say, SEXY!!!

According to the directions, (not that I read directions and besides, who doesn't know how to step on a scale?) it says it sends "harmless, unnoticeable electrical current through your body to measure body fat percentage and body water percentage in addition to body weight."

Really?  no, seriously, REALLY???  How does it do this and how is that NOT harmful to, if nothing else, your aura?

If thats not enough, it claims to have a sturdy base, and to display its findings in a kind format.  WHAT do you think THAT means?  Is it some sort of digitized fantasy, "Good news... none of those Oreo cookies count, you look fabulous!  Have a nice day"

It also promises to remember and track the progress of 10 users!  Imagine THAT party!  Invite 10 of your closest friends over to weight themselves, before and then after indulging in a barrel of fun, food and spirits.

In reality, this is a classic example of lack of communication between Mr. and Mrs Cooked (aka husband and monkey me).  I recently vowed (out loud in shower, after husband left for work) that I am done weighing in.  That I would exercise regularly and measure my progress only by how good I feel about myself.

And DAMN IT, I feel good about me!  Now that spring has sprung, I'm running/walking regularly at the track behind the old high school - 5 days a week, after dropping husband off at the train.

It's a bitter sweet place.  It encases the old high school football field, the same field my father spent his glory days on and has requested his ashes be spread on.  It envelopes the Junior Babe Ruth baseball field, the same field my son Kerry played his best baseball days on.  Its lush greens were host to the pea wee soccer games that my daughter Lindsay and my grandson Jackson took part in.

It's also where I met Jay, aka Boris.  Our paths crossed while walking our dogs early one morning.  Jay was new to the neighborhood and I was enthusiastic about socializing my shitzu.

It wasn't an immediate click.  For one, Phoebe (Jay's super sweet golden retriever) was disinterested in my 5 pound pup and I didn't know what to make of this gregarious, much younger, stately man.

Our friendship is unlikely, depending on how you look at it. Yes, big age and height difference, but everything else is clearly, copacetic.

My joy quota is magnified by the friendships I attract.  Loving, nurturing, honest, uplifting, invigorating, relationships that surround, support and uplift me - bloggers, burners, soul sisters, former classmates, coworkers and my number one fan, Mr. Cooked.

In the fall of 2011, I attended a writing workshop with Jay and listened to him proclaim his souls desire ... to complete his first, best selling, novel.  He gave it a date, May 17th 2011.  His target is in clear view and I am in awe of his tenacity and perseverance.

Jay has inspired me to do the same.

I have hired an editor, recommended by writer, humorist & bliss follower Becky.  I need assignments, deadlines, outlines and direction.  I am dedicating my mornings to writing my best selling memoir.  I'm working this in, after dropping husband at train, running at track, and before heading into the office.

Something has to give.  It might very well be my blogging - unless I adapt to blogging (instead of facebooking and drinking) at night.

I promise not to waste any time on the high tech scale.

To those of you I hold close, requited supporter of my souls desire, thank you for heightening the joy quotient in my life.

Namaste 

The Music is my Medicine

"There's music all around here since I can remember.  In some cities you go to there is no music.  I don't see how people can live there."  Legendary Jazz Pianist, Lawrence Cotton. 


I am home, decompressing after five fabulous days submerged in the wicked good sights, sounds and tastes of New Orleans.

We've been coming to New Orleans long enough to see all facets of the city - from its rich Cajan French culture steeped in pride and bursting with the brilliant, flamboyant flair of its chef's, musicians, and artists; to the gritty cry of displaced victims of poverty, mental illness, addiction and an unprecedented cataclysmic storm; to the crime, corruption, and escalating suicide rate that stains its unsteady streets.

But for now, we focus on the music.  It is everywhere.

A free concert series, runs every Wednesday night in historic Lafayette Square Park. This week it features New Orleans MVP Trombone Shorty along with Soul Rebels Brass Band. The park is packed with music lovers including celebrities Kid Rock, Grammy's Best New Artist Esmerelda Spaulding, and Lenny Kravitz.

Shorty talks about his roots, what drives him, and how much he appreciates being able to do what he loves

. 

My cousin, Jane Harvey Brown, followed her true path and is a spirited, New Orleans jazz singer and voice teacher. Her husband, Kerry Brown is a festival producer, pianist and drummer who has performed with David Allan Coe, Allman Brothers, and Treme Brass Band to name a few.

(photo courtesy of OffBeat Magazine)

Kerry and Jane are performing with the Traditional Jazz Stars at the French Quarter Festival - the largest free music event in the South. Four full days of funk, reggae, zydeco, cajun, rock, african, and jazz music performed on 19 stages throughout the French Quarter.

Accompanying them on the piano is a living legend of jazz, Lawrence Cotton. Mr. Cotton has backed up a number of stars, including Joe Turner, T-Bone Walker and Guitar Slim, and performed with legendary musician, band leader, composer, Dave Bartholomew. He toured Europe for four years with trumpeter, Wallace Davenport before returning back to his roots in New Orleans. At the age of 84, Mr. Cotton continues to plays Maison Bourbon Jazz Club every Saturday night.

I am especially moved by the street performers that mesmerize the crowds. We were fortunate enough to catch the last 10 minutes of this drum roll. As they pass the bucket by me, a penny rolled out and lands at my feet - tail side up (a sign from my son, Kerry).

Hands down, two of my absolute favorites, Tanya and Dorise, perform on Royal Street, in front of Cafe Du Monde, and throughout the French Market District.  They were among the first street musicians to return after hurricane Katrina. They play at their own pace.  They are not focused on fame or wealth.  They answer only to themselves.

If you find yourself in New Orleans on a Thursday night, head straight to Vaughns, where you'll catch Kermit Ruffins' playing with the BBQ Swingers.  Vaughn's is tucked away in a residential neighborhood. It feels more like a house then a bar. Go early and get some barbecue with a side of red beans and rice.  Kermit likes to cook almost as much as he likes to play.  

In addition to Kermit, Shorty, Mr. Cotton, and Kerry & Jane Harvey Brown, some of my must see's include: Buckwheat Zydeco, Bonerama, Galactic, Amanda Shaw, Dr. John, Jon Cleary, Big Sam's Funky Nation, and anyone who's last name is Neville - or simply walk on down to Frenchman Street for a two block long, compact music conclave.

On our last night in New Orleans we stopped at an upscale bar where the house chardonnay is one of our favorites. With over-sized TV screens mounted above the bar, the crowd tends to be more sports fans then music fans and tonight is true to form. 

A couple from Baton Rouge boasts about their loyalty to LSU - how its purple and gold NOT purple and yellow, and how you can't judge an LSU fan by what you see at a sugar bowl game.  

The conversation shifts when they ask us why we are in town.  "French Quarter Festival? You go to that? Why, we would never...too many people...we don't like crowds."  

But you go to football games - bowl games, home games, any game that involves a Tiger?  What, no crowds at LSU games? The truth is, you aren't a fan of music unless LSU's band is playing it.

And that is fine. Not everyone gets it.  Not everyone feels it.  Not everyone is moved by it.

Music fans will go anywhere the music takes them - festivals, concerts, cruises, clubs, street corners, churches. There is no divide. What I see every time I look into a crowd of music lovers is bliss and harmony.

Jack and his Queen 

For me, the music is my medicine. It feeds me, heals me, and reaffirms my commitment to nurture and honor my creativity.  

Highlights from Jane Harvey Brown and the Traditional Jazz Stars 

performing on the French Market Stage.

Next stop...

New Orleans Jazz Festival - April 29th to May 8th.
All aboard!

GRACE

When my father first arrived at the nursing home, I was overwhelmed by the dismantled state of its residents.  Life and limbs coiled. Minds, hearts, spirits, confused and broken.

Suffering is widespread.  Pain is prevalent.  Time, whether too short or too long, is against them.

Those determined to practice standing, or walking, are stupefied with medication to treat their symptoms of "agitation." With one aid per 7 residents, its too much of a liability to allow them to roam on their own.  They are easy to spot - strapped into chairs armed with motion alarms - slumped over, despondent, drooling.

I focus on my father and ignore their moaning, and pleading..."Help me, somebody please help me."  "Where's my MaMa?" "PLEASE take me to the bathroom!"

I arrive at the same time each day, 6: 20 pm.  I go straight to the dinning-room and retrieve my father.  Typically he's sleeping, draped in a soiled bib.  His aid tells me "he did good" by finishing his bland, pureed, food.

Today Dad is awake, alert and happy.
"Oh here she is," he tells his dinner companion.
"This is my daughter Shannon.  Shannon, say hello to Nick.  Nick and I went to college together. We played football together..."

In reality "Nick" is a petite, 98 year old woman, named Grace, with snow white hair and deep, blue eyes.

"Nice to meet you Nick," I say
"Likewise," says Grace

This is how Dad copes.  His mind "plays tricks on him" - blanketing the reality of his disintegration with memories from his good old days.

Grace, delighted by the attention, is a devoted listener and I am humbled by her.

I will follow Graces lead.

.  

Beside my father, in his semi private room, is Mr. Kravitz - his mute roommate. He is paralyzed from the waist down. His legs limp, his hands clutch his bedrail. Mr. Kravitz never leaves the confines of his room.

Today, I realized that Mr. Kravits communicates with his eyes. His language coded in intense stares and blinks.

"Hello Mr. Kravitz"

Mr. Kravitz opens his eyes - wide


"How are you today Mr. Kravitz?"

Mr. Kravitz closes his eyes - hard 


"It's still pretty cold outside but the crocus's are beginning to bloom. The snow has melted and there is no more morning frost."

Mr. Kravitz opens his eyes - wide. 

"Spring is my favorite season"


Mr. Kravitz blinks - several times. 


"Awh, you too.  We have that in common"

Mr. Kravitz blinks - again and again.   


Confined to a wheelchair, Ann is in constant motion - stopping (on the nurses insistence) only to eat.  The outer ring of her wheels covered in sheepskin, her hands covered in calluses. Inflamed joints grip hard. With each push, she releases a deep, determined "OHHH" - as though it fuels her fire.

Lou is clearly a pervert.  From the confines of his wheelchair, he chases anything under 70 down the hallway.  He asks inappropriate questions.  "So, are you married? Are you happily married? Do you like your husband? Do you like sex?" Lou is 92. I have no patience for Lou.

Beatrice is 103. She wants to go home. She wants her MaMa and she will not rest until she finds her. "Are you my MaMa?" she asks.

Katherine won't be here long. She broke her hip and is slow to heal. Katherine has maintained her sense of humor. Her eyes are bright. She never complains. Katherine understands that if she doesn't follow orders, she will be treated for "agitation."

Because this is a pet friendly nursing home, with a magnificent blue Macaw as its mascot, I brought Mylo, a rescue dog, with me on one of my visits. Part of an unruly pack of terriers, he was picked up on a highway in Georgia - malnourished and suffering from obvious signs of abused. He's been part of our pack for a bit more than a year. He's grateful for everything we give him, every morsel of food, and especially, of our love.

An avid hunter, I wasn't certain how Mylo's visit would go.

I enter the building with caution, sign in at the front desk, and proceed to the mid point of the circular hallway, where Calipso the Macaws is perched in the confines of a colossal cage.

The hair on Mylo's back raised and his mouth opened.
Calipso extended his wings and his eyes grew RED.
My heart raced, and my stance braced.

From down the hallway I could hear Ann's "OHHH" only this time, it was heightened with delight.

Ann stopped and starred at the sight of these unlikely friends.
And then, she laughed.
I had no idea Ann could laugh.
"Thank you," said Ann.
I had no idea Ann could talk.

Ann loves dogs. Ann remembers her german shepherd, Prince. Prince walked her to school in the mornings and would be there when she got out. Prince was her best friend.

Everyday, I make a point of looking for Katherine. If she's not in the TV room she's typically with Calipso. When I found her yesterday, she had both hands in his cage.

What are you doing Katherine" I ask.
"I want to touch him," she explains.
"Aren't you afraid he's going to bite you?" I ask
 "Oh, he wouldn't dare" she assures me.

After 3 weeks of visiting, I am preparing to bring my father home and I wanted to explain our impending absence to Katherine.

"I'm taking him home on Thursday," I tell her.
"Really?" questions Katherine.
"Yes"
"Why?"
"Well, its time for him to come home.  He's done all the healing he's going to do here."
"I'm going to miss him," confesses Katherine.
"Thats very sweet Katherine, I'm sure he'll miss you too."
"He never talks to me"
"He's been very shy here.  He seldom talks to me either."
"I hope you have a big enough cage for him,"
"A cage - Katherine I won't put him in a cage"
"You'll let him fly around your house?" she asks.

Katherine was happy to hear that I would be bringing my father back home, and relieved to know that Calipso would be staying.

The people I've meet here have enriched my life in many ways. It has been an honor to get to know them. I also realize that my time spent with them - sitting beside them, listening, talking, following Graces lead - has benefited their emotional wellbeing.

I have been given the green light to visit my new friends on a regular basis. And I'm thinking about making a documentary about them (not that I have any idea how to go about doing that) - interviewing people 100 + years older. I find them fascinating. Imagine living in the 1920's?  Imagine what it was like to experience the great depression, to have immigrated here, to be entertained by radio, heat your home with coal, refrigerate your food with blocks of ice.

Today, I remember them, fondly....

"In Dad's Mind" photo by Jim Quinn

MEMORY #108

When I feel regret, I think about the deliberate moments we shared since my fathers Parkinson's diagnosis in 2003.

After my son's death.
After his divorce - when his much younger wife decided she didn't want to care for an old man.
After he shed his armor and opened his arms - wide.

For the first time in his life he needed me.  And I have always needed him.

Thankfully, I wrote about many of our experiences.  The big ones - like when we flew to South Bend, Indiana to watch the Fighting Irish.

And the simple ones - a trip to the doctor, a visit with a friend, a warm spring day on the front porch.

This is one of my favorites.  It took place in December of 2009.

We share the far left corner of the back row, tucked behind a succession of synchronized seventy-something seniors - a line of ladies with tightly teased hair, forgiving waist bands, and festive holiday attire. 

Each takes a turn - twisting to catch a glimpse, then signals the next in line with a quick elbow jab to the gut, “Look at him go, he’s really something.”

I am to his right, just within reach.  His cane rests twelve paces back - in the lap of a plastic cushioned arm chair, under a pile of down jackets, crocheted scarfs and warm winter mittens.

“Zumba!” shouts the instructor as she whips her hair counter clockwise, shimmies her shoulders and lunges left. 

Her passion is contagious and we do our best to keep up.

“Stretch your hands high, and move your hips, now shake, shake, shake to the right!”

He’s famous for having 2 left feet.  This coupled with his Parkinson's paralysis - a stooped posture, quick-step shuffle, and rocking horse tremors - fuse with the strong Latin beat.  He's a dancing machine!

Everything about this is new to us; the music, the movement, but mostly, the shared experience.

I don’t have many memories of us doing things together, unless you count being in a car.  As a kid, he took me skiing but I don’t remember actually skiing with him. He’d leave me at the top of a mountain and wait for me at the bottom. If I couldn’t find him I’d know to look in the bar.

“You did great Dad,” I assure him.

“I farted,” he admits.

“I thought you crapped your pants?"

“No, just farted,” he assures me.

“Good for you, way to hold back.”

This is NOT my favorite topic of conversation but discussing his bodily functions has become the norm.

I don’t expect him to master zumba, rumba, salsa or samba, but I am catching as many memories as I can.

Every hardship holds a lesson - a cryptic message.  My father’s Parkinson’s has slowed him down enough for us to get to know each other.

Dad's dancing partners

one of his admirers 

Dad - before he dropped his armor  

My daughter Lindsay at my side


***

The Dance (viewer discretion advised)

Unscripted, unrehearsed, soul stimulating... 

DANCE

Hands shaking, I pass my camera to a stranger - ask her to shoot the Monkey as best as she can.

  

Damn that felt good.  I will remember that leap forever...  

Eyes focused on the MC,  

Stomach sucked in - tight,  

Leg kicked back, 

Toe pointed - hard,  

Arms stretched, gallantly in flight.  

This was the year I twirled fire, topless.

WARNING
blurred out breast

This was the year I shot cocks - dusty, sun drenched, cocks. 

WARNING 

exposed genitalia 

This was the year I captured emotions - photographed an eclectic array of eager participants, portraying their answer to the question WHY DO YOU DO WHAT YOU DO?

This was the year I pushed myself, hard.  I gave in, gave up.  I cried.

But mostly, I danced.

The RED dance was challenging.  I arrived expecting to evaporate into a large crowd and instead, found a small troupe of beautiful, young, succulent women.

I thought about hiding behind my lens. I thought about peddling my bike in the opposite direction, as fast as I could. I thought about my age, my body image issues, my stiff knees and lack of limberness.

Hands shaking, I passed my camera to a stranger - asked him to shoot the Monkey as best as he could.

A crowd started to develop even before the dance began.  They were THAT beautiful.

My inhibitions meshed with their resistance to incorporate me, a middle aged grandmother, into each abstract, emotion inspired, self interpreted, pose.

The proof is in the snap... frames do not lie.

Monkey Me, fought hard from the outside.  My bad ass, black hat as low as it could go.  Chin, neck, shoulders, tight.

Eventually, I let go and... the blend began to show.

Damn, that felt good.

Later, back at camp, we eat and laugh and drink it all in.

As the sun begins to set, we leap into the street.  And together, we dance.

WARNING 

fishnet clad bottom

This is where I've been for the past 6 months.  When I'm not writing, or working, I'm tweaking photo's taken at Burning Man 2010.

Over 500 pictures paint a 10 minute dance in the street.  This is my first attempt at turning photo's into a movie.

I hope you enjoy this jamboree of DANCE performed on the dusty streets of Black Rock City - to the thump and constant, churning, beat of Burning Man...

Green Monkey ME tagged with a red heart.  

Ignited at the Temple of Honor - Burning Man 2003

In celebration of the true, joyous spirit of my beautiful son, Kerry Ryan Magann.  

And we should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once.  Fredrich Nietzsche