Memoirous

There is nothing like tent camping to make a person hate storms. From the comfort of a home or even a trailer, storms can look like a lot of fun. The sudden fireworks-burst of lightning and the concussive boom of thunder. A powerful display of God, nature, the helplessness of mankind. There are three instances that come to mind when I think of storms at Cornerstone Festival. One was just after midnight. We were just settling down to go to sleep when Sally Watkins came by. Her meager flashlight bounced off the sides of the tent like a meandering firefly. From inside I heard her going from tent to tent warning occupants that the police had informed them that a powerful storm was coming. I didn’t know whether to be thankful or freak out. There was actually nowhere to take cover. So all I could do to prepare was stay awake and listen for distant thunder moving closer. I’d seam-sealed and laid down a ground cloth. I’d even taken the pre-caution of setting up beneath the wide cano...

For 28 years summer meant Cornerstone Festival. Beginning in 1984, I and my family would make the familiar odyssey out to the festival grounds. This year would have been our 32 nd festival. More than half my life was Cornerstone Festival. My engagement picture was taken at the fairgrounds in Lake County following Cornerstone ’86. I was EXTREMELY pregnant while at Cornerstone ’89, aptly named Family Reunion. https://vimeo.com/43124052 By the time my daughter was a year old we had moved the festival to Bushnell, Illinois where we had purchased some property for the express purpose of holding the festival there. It seemed like we might be able to stay forever. 2012 was the end of the run. Chalk it up to a downturn in the economy, an aging Jesus population, other concert options—but we had seen a significant decrease in attendance after our peak years of 2000 and 2001 where the festival drew close to 20,000. Cars lined up days in advance of opening day. There evolved a whole ...

Souvenirs. Postcards. Today these words almost seem quaint. My husband and I once when traveling told our host in Slovenia that we would send him a postcard from our next destination. He seemed puzzled. You mean like an auntie or my grandmother? I guess it did seem rather old-fashioned—especially since we could easily send an email or upload a picture from our phone. Or any number of things. And easier too. Our next destination was Montenegro then Albania. How does one even ask for a stamp in Albanian? How reliable is postal service? Postcards in the US have been known to take decades. Mail sent from the front during World War II is still getting delivered . I LOVE postcards. I buy them and send them and appreciate getting them in the mail. I save them and tape them to the walls of my office or upon the door to the room we have reserved for couchsurfers . Going through my parents old photos I stumbled upon old postcards. It seems postcard writing runs in the ...

For 28 years summer meant Cornerstone Festival. Beginning in 1984, I and my family would make the familiar odyssey out to the festival grounds. This year would have been our 32 nd festival. More than half my life was Cornerstone Festival. My engagement picture was taken at the fairgrounds in Lake County following Cornerstone ’86. I was EXTREMELY pregnant while at Cornerstone ’89, aptly named Family Reunion. https://vimeo.com/43124052 By the time my daughter was a year old we had moved the festival to Bushnell, Illinois where we had purchased some property for the express purpose of holding the festival there. It seemed like we might be able to stay forever. 2012 was the end of the run. Chalk it up to a downturn in the economy, an aging Jesus population, other concert options—but we had seen a significant decrease in attendance after our peak years of 2000 and 2001 where the festival drew close to 20,000. Cars lined up days in advance of opening day. There evolved a whol...

I wrote this because, well, summer feels like it is finally here. And, part of our summer ritual was going to a trailer downstate so far out in the country that starlight was as bright as street lamps. We really enjoyed this time away. But, now it is a memory because the property was sold and the contents of our little trailer scattered. There are others, I'm sure, that also have memories, recent or from childhood, of a summer home, camp cabin, or favorite get-away place. Enjoy. Arriving at Night It was always a lot of work just for a weekend and a long drive down, sometimes hitting traffic. Arriving in a vacuum of darkness, you fumble for keys, hidden, uncovering leaf debris, shaking off cobwebs, using the headlights of the car to see. You pause, apprehensive— What has happened to the contents since last there? Has the fridge gone out? Did a storm drive in rain? A musty odor arises from dank carpet, stale, unstirred air smelling slightly of desi...

One Last Time One last summer to smell the green, Water the roses, sit out on the deck drinking coffee. One last sweeping of lady bug carcasses And snaking the toilet with its quirky septic. No more raking leaves, winterizing, Or emptying the water tank before a freeze. No more no more. We are told to hold things lightly In order to let them go. We held on too tight And now it’s time to say good bye. Good bye kissing tree, Good bye bass pond, Good bye blue heron and rope swing. Good bye good bye memories. One last time I want to soak it all in. The bird calls, the low hum of insects, The open sky and mosaic of sunlight beneath the trees. A day can’t be 24 hours—why not forever? Forever golden morning, forever long afternoon. Forever lavender lingering twilight, forever moonlight. Forever the magic of the hour which isn’t an hour, But only lasts a moment. Last walk to the lake to see the wind ripple the surface. We jump ...

I wrote this poem last year, late spring, before the last Cornerstone Festival. This week I would have been there at the fest grounds, in Bushnell, possibly at the Wal-Mart in Macomb. This is for all of you--writing your memories at Cornerstone Memories , because now is what we have left. Now is all there is Now is all there is. We never once thought it would change. There would always be dusty roads and distances to cover And egg water and mildewed hay bales and volleyballs hitting us in the head. There would always be long lines, too many people, and heat That descended like a sweat fog covering the land like a pestilence, Or like a brick of congealed gummi bears left out too long. Every year there was summer and there was Cornerstone, We lived all year planning, scheduling, debating, Coming up with a theme, making T-shirts, producing press kits, ordering doughnuts, And yet we were never ready. Never prepared with enough golf pencils at registration, ...

The best things, the most memorable moments always seem to be spontaneous. They sneak up and surprise us. If planned for, then the magic is diminished. Not sure if this is true about everything. A kiss is nice no matter what—but typically overthinking it robs it of its impact. I’ve blogged about this earlier ( link ) that sometimes crazy chaos sparks, igniting a movement, the heat forging something new. Chaos created the Cornerstone Festival Ghost Ship. Artrageous has been part of the festival for years. Some of the art is planned, prepared, and brought to the festival. See Art Walk/Pilgrimage. But this year we also had different artists building and sculpting on the grounds. Dave Coleman, using (I think) plaster of paris, toilet paper, and ripped up sheets made a ghost ship. It stood out in the hot sun like a bleached boat, dry docked on stilts. It was a thing of beauty. Dave loved it. That’s why it hurt so bad when Karl Sullivan, the director of Artrageous suggested t...

I live in the Midwest, in Chicago where this year we have been experiencing a drought. Not sure, but it seems like we haven’t had significant rain since the beginning of May. After the record-setting heat wave last week the grass in the park is like straw. The trees look like October, turning brown and losing their leaves. The peach farmer I work for at the Green City Market (link) is beside herself. There is real fear about losing the crop entirely. This fear is compounded by the fact that they are already down in their harvest by over 40% because of the early warm spring and then late frosts.  Lately I’ve also been in a drought. Burned out. Maybe it was the two-week artist residency where I pushed out a revision on a 45,000-word YA novel. The intricacy of re-visioning, going over and over again the same material, sometimes rearranging, sharpening scenes, writing new material, and, at the same time, asking myself questions, pretending I was a reader approaching the boo...

July 6, 2012 (inspired by James Schuyler’s June 30, 1974 ) The hottest day on record and I have melted into the center of the earth And fallen into a molten core of— Love, there is so much love Around me that it hurts. I sweat—it’s not tears, and I’ll fake that it’s the sun The reason I feel so bad, But actually I’m afraid to say Goodbye and leave all of this . . . And all of you. Next year in this hot hell there will be Only the grass blowing in the wind. This was composed on a very hot day at Cornerstone Festival in my class on micro-memoir where a dozen of us bonded over words and memories. One of my participants—I’ll call him Dan. Actually his name was Dan. He is a fellow blogger who approaches his work from a very interesting angle. I’ve heard of people who adopt a persona when blogging. With Memoirous I experiment with tone and voice. For instance I’m not normally sarcastic. People sometimes get the impression I’m outgoing when in actuality...

A shot from the viking funeral. So epic. Photo by Laura Roberts May the community you shared continue, for now and always. That feeling of being with friends, I pray it will nourish you. Remember: you are never alone. Realize this—that your best-ever time at Cornerstone is only a mirror of what we can expect when we travel to that forever festival. Bands may crash and burn, reunite only to eventually split apart, but we know the music will go on.   If you have learned one thing from all of this, let it be to stay open. So many of us shared stories of coming with preconceptions and leaving with a much BIGGER picture of the kingdom of God. Yay! Christian Feminist Tent! Take with you the love of thousands of other like-minded people, the embers of 29 years of sunsets, and a million tiny moments of joy. Go in peace.

Law of what needs to happen first --before the next thing --before the miracle --before more pain --or more joy Where is God in this sequence, at each juncture? Lately I’ve been mulling over an existential story I’m working on writing. And in the midst of existentialism I came up with my own Einstein theory=the Law of What Needs to Happen First. We all have at one time or another questioned God, gods, or the universe. When confronted with evil, injustice, the ugliness of humanity. There are never any easy answers. Even the questions are difficult. So hard in fact we begin to wonder if there is a God, gods, or comic book heroes that control/avenge the universe. I mean if there were such mythic being(s) then WHY? Why do certain things happen? Of course we never seem to ask why good stuff happens. Maybe because we’re too busy being happy. Anyway holding the baby of a friend who had joined the community, left, divorced (like a double divorce analysts would ...

What happens when developers set out to create hip, urban art districts? No there there. The kind of clunky, over-hyped monstrosities that artists usually RUN from. Just as real art is often the result of serendipity and chance, art districts emerge from an organic center rather than from city managers or top-down planning. An art district is not created from slapping up banners proclaiming “ART DISTRICT”. In an article at Salon.com by Will Doig Salon article several factors have been identified that go into artist initiated art districts: cheap rent=usually odd, old buildings/space. The coolest bars/cafes/boutiques/galleries have architectural nooks and crannies that lend mystique, or at least create cozy sitting areas. flexibility=to adapt said space w/out rigmarole or inane restrictions—usually imposed by the city to create a “district”. Hip cannot be legislated. Once left alone, Detroit has re-invented itself. Yes, it has a LONG...

Our Lady of the Last Festival Bless us Lady. Be with us one more time. Come to us in your pink-pearl sunrise With your yellow smile And blue-sky eyes. We are grateful for all that you are. May your gentle spirit Ripple over the surface of the lake. Shine down upon us, Your billowing robes Shielding us from the blistering sun. Lead us through fields of Encore, Past the Underground stage and skateboard ramp, Into the Imaginarium of Artrageous Weaving labyrinths of prayer Out into Flickerings of Creation Station. We look for you In shaved ice and that black bean veggie burrito. Beneath the garish glow of the Pasta Palace With the buskers and smokers, You can be found. Each a part of each other. Body surfing at Five Iron Frenzy And head-banging to P.O.D. When the Crossing finishes with a jig, Circle dance with us. Your heart is a flaming sunset, Streaking gold and red, Bursts of fireworks above Main Stage, Showering us...

Now is all there is. We never once thought it would change. There would always be dusty roads and distances to cover And egg water and mildewed hay bales and volleyballs hitting us in the head. There would always be long lines, too many people, and heat That descended like a sweat fog covering the land like a pestilence, Or like a brick of congealed gummi bears left out too long. Every year there was summer and there was Cornerstone, We lived all year planning, scheduling, debating, Coming up with a theme, making T-shirts, producing press kits, ordering doughnuts, And yet we were never ready. Never prepared with enough golf pencils at registration, never enough volunteers, never enough This and that and so we made Wally-runs. Back and forth, there and back. And always we added on, just one more thing to the list Or stopped for a DeeQue, or brought back coffee or a water gun Because there was always so much cash floating around; we could never run out. ...

Hi! just back from www.cornerstonefestival.com where I attended a seminar on blogging led by Andrew Jones who writes for a variety of blogs. Here is a couple of things gleaned from the three sessions I sat in on: 1. short posts vs long ones considering that many people now read from hand-held devices, posts ahould be on the shorter side, or if you have a lengthy topic break it into 2 or 3 posts 2. titles and I'm still working on this ARE IMPORTANT, that's why I titled this one Tall Skinny Kiwi because that tag alone will direct traffic to my blog. I really am looking for ways to drive traffic here. I've joined Jacketflap to see if my blog will come up and looking into TUMBLR to see if my stuff can also be included in a larger blogging community 3. tags, for the above reason, linkable, so maybe I should randomly tag something PORNO and see how many hits I get 4. also images, and giving them captions, so if I took a picture at the festival and posted it here, I shou...