Stella Martinez

Haute Coiffure of the bush

2009-01-24T17:14:00.006-07:00

Tomas and I took a ride down the eastern side of the Rocky Mountain range to Santa Fe and treated ourselves to an afternoon at the spa, 10,000 Waves. A little retreat specializing in the Japanese experience complete with hot pools, messages, and tatami mats for relaxation. I opted to spend my time soaking in the womens' pool rather than the communal pool. Bathing suits are optional and viewing an assortment of wet penises strolling past was not on my afternoon agenda.

But then, neither did I think soaking in a hot tub with a bunch of women and observing the hair-dos of their bush would be on my list of afternoon activities. Now, I know young women are into shaving their snatches but what I didn't know was the variety of haute coiffure that is taking place down there. I glimpsed a lightning strike, one with concentric circles radiating out. It was a crop circle extravaganza. One sported goatee, another a fu-man-chu, and quite a few were actually bald. Granted, I am from the bra burning era as the expression of women empowering themselves so I have to ask who is benefiting from this bush reduction? Is it a personal choice or a preferred one from the significant other? Delilah cut off Samson’s hair leaving him powerless. Is it now payback time? I mean... girls....historically, this is how the pheromones got broadcasted, announcing to the caveman down the cliff you are available.

So, in times of quandary, I ask my daughter, Rosa, why women shave their snatches and she tells me because it is sexy. ???!!! Oh yea ... I forgot ... the marvels of one generation looking at another... different aesthetics and perspectives... All those red bumps and raw skin is sexy... should have known.

jeanie

2008-12-11T08:09:00.000-07:00

It is now the time for love

Stella Martinez and the sandwitch

2008-12-10T10:04:00.003-07:00

Contemporary sociologists speak about the phenomena of the baby boomers being sandwiched between the generations. On the top slice we find the parents shuffling into their senior years, oblivious if they are rye, sourdough, or whole wheat. The bottom slice is the children of the boomers, often accompanied with their own children. These genetic reenactments, who still expect to be served their sandwich, play with their food, rolling it into balls to fling at one another or choke on. As a baby boomer sandwich, I think it is important to identify what kind of sandwich we are being likened to.

I have friends who are definitely in the club sandwich genera. They have so many layers of life crammed between the slices that they have to dismantle whole portions to get a satisfying bite. Those little toothpicks with the colorful frilly tops....they play an important role in keeping everything together while they turn their back for a moment. Then there are those who are the Rubens. Hearty pastrami folk smothered in sauerkraut and dressing, their lives oozing out with every bite, forever wiping the chins of their parents, children and grandchildren. Some friends I notice are more fortunate, they live a petit-forte sandwich life.... tidy, the edges trimmed uniformly, the parents respectfully dead and buried, children and grandchildren well mannered, dressed in white spotless dresses and shirt fronts.

Me? I believe I am of the grilled cheese variety.... not the all American Cheese pasteurized ersatz kind...think Tillamook Cheddar.... My bread gets buttered on both sides, I melt easily but must be tended for fear of burning. The top side is my mother, heated to a toasty golden amber. Delightful and eye catching...savory. The bottom side is a different flavor. Depending on my resiliency at the moment, it can represent my frustration with children, Tomas, the upstairs toilet, the tire collection out back...then this side of my life sandwich smolders on the griddle to the point of near combustion and the smoke alarm screams. Regardless of the situation, though, presentation is key to being any sandwich... thus Teflon and parsley are staples. Scrape off the carbon, place it face down on the plate, add the parsley sprig and no will ever know the difference until the first bite. And by then, we're on to a new recipe.

stella Martinez contemplates

2006-09-18T14:45:00.000-06:00

Elizabetta tells Juanita that I haven't posted a blog in two months because there is no trauma in my life to relate. Disparaging thought to think that my writing is a vent ... a cathartic act that purges the hemorraged heart so I can live to weep and record another day.... she's probably right in her assessment....but what better place to process the upheavels of one's life ... preferable to taking up residency on the couch of some shrink spending countless hours unwinding the spool of my malcontented thoughts. So, in keeping with Elizabetta's theory the headwinds are slamming at my trap door once again and I huddle in the cellar, holding tight so as not to become a sail, flying helter skelter into the eye of the storm. But amidst all the banging and white knuckle grip I keep wondering that maybe it is time to let go ... let it all fly and see where my wind whipped ass lands. A kid gets dragged to jail, another carries so much self doubt to fill Noah's ark six times over, one
child finds solace in oblivion, I live on a diet of finger nails and coffee, and Tomas keeps looking older. Yea, I think it's time.

stella returns to the boarding school of her youth

2006-07-14T16:37:00.000-06:00

Took a road trip last week to the north woods of Wisconsin to drop Osa off at her summer camp job. On the return trip back to the suburbs of Chicago my mother and I make a side trip to the boarding school where I spent two of my highschool years, Wayland Academy. Finding our way to Beaver Dam was no issue but once we got into the town, locating the school proved to be the challenge. This, I realized, was because they seldom permitted us to leave the school grounds and the sanctioned bi-weekly trip into the town took place on a well established route. Any modification to this route meant town priviledges were revoked for the following week. Consequently, any side streets or outlaying areas were as totally foreign to me on this trip as they were the years I resided there.

Following the directions provided by a 'towny' we drove up to the school. With the exception of an extensive athletic field house and a new face on the gymnasium, the place had not changed in forty years. Glancing at the expansive football field, Coonie and I flashed a knowing look at one another, recalling the day Headmaster Patterson had not-so-tactfully suggested one way to keep me in the school would be a substantial contribution to this athletic dream they were spinning....thankfully, my parents didn't bite and true to their word, I was "not invited" back the following year. It spared me additional trauma.

There was the drab, looming boys dorm with the stoic pillars upholding the false facade of education. The three story dilapidated girls dorm with rusted fire escapes that scream rat hole fire trap to the weary students and oblivious parents. I noticed new trees, now twenty years old, in the quadrangle where we could go for ten minutes on Friday and Saturday nights to make out with the current boy of choice. Because our activities were strictly limited and the main ingredients in our diet consisted of potatoes and white bread, three meals a day, I weighed in at about 155 pounds. This could explain why I rarely dated. Once I hauled a guy out to the quadrangle on the pretense of showing him my bedroom window but really in the hopes that he would try and kiss me.

They insisted I take Latin. For a girl who could barely concentrate on the English language, Latin was as alien to me as Martian is to a Malaysian stowaway. Due to the weight problem I didn't make the cheerleading team... was the only girl cut... dispite a summer of practice where I demanded my brother assist me with the lifts... which really required a small hoist. "Up in the air (lift), over the rim (leg kick), come on Wayland sink it in" only succeeded in giving Dick a hernia.

I was doomed to fail... blond, straight hair was the vogue and I was possessed by an unruly curly mop that turned FedEx orange when the dye job, SunIn, went terribly awry. Forever attempting to straignten it, ironing was a morning ritual which turned my hair into the consistency of uncooked spaghetti. Not my best look. I was required to take a sport and the coach wanted to change the rules to allow me to be on the wrestling team. The only time I had the support of the other students was when I was the chief contender in the pie eating contest.... blueberry, no less. Alienation became the norm and as is typical in such scenarios, I became louder and uncontrollable. Packages of Jello poured down the hallways, in the toilets, even the swimming pool but I seriously lacked the amount needed to create the ultimate effect of frozen swimmers, stuck motionless during morning practice.

Compared to today's antics of girls snorting cocaine in the back stairwell, my pranks seem docile, almost funny, but they caged me as "a girl of trouble in serious need of psychiatric treatment who is definitely not suitable to the Wayland Academy standards". As I wandered through the dorm, seeing the rooms where I bounced off the walls and watched the old movie replay itself in my mind.... I whispered to the ghosts of Mr. Patterson and Mr. Kramer.... yooooohoooo warped bastards it's psycho girl morphed into hormonally deranged mad mama... therapy didn't work so well with me ....in fact ... it fueled a love of fire ... I have a new concept of the hot flash and you got all these mattresses here....then in the distance I hear Coonie calling, return the imaginary matches to my pocket and with a final fuck you, march out to the car and speed away from the hellhole memory knowing I never never never need to go back there, ever.

stella in the chicken coop

2006-06-26T16:29:00.000-06:00

As a girl, we would devote one Sunday a month driving down to the State Hospital to see my insane grandmother and my severely retarded sister. Neither knew we were there but that was irrelevant. These long treks took us through hours of rich Illinois farmland. My imagination was planted with the seeds that one day I would live in a white house with chickens in the yard, adjacent to a large red barn and drive a tractor across acres of bottomland. That was my going to be my life but like many roads that turn into cul-de-sacs, that one didn't exactly pan out as planned. And yet, I did manage to score a half acre in the middle of a city and set about making it a farm of sorts with gardens, a dog and... chickens.

Chickens... or the girls as I affectionate refer to them... are the perfect urban can't-be-in-the-country pet. They don't require much room, eat the garbage, give eggs of all colors and sizes, and produce this wonderful compost. I run a very humane operation and when their laying days are over, export them down to the country where they live out their final days unsuccessfully dodging coyotes and wild cats. Roosters are avoided because I can't tolerate the gang bang treatment they dish out to the hens... over and over and over. I feel like I'm running a whore house for those cocky son's of bitches.

Anway, last week I splurge and order the rare and unusual laying collection from McMurry Hatcheries. They guarantee a minimum of eight varieties, all girls, that include Cochins, Campines, Red Caps, Blue lace Wyandotte and other a few other exotic breeds. True exicitement. I have always raised chickens but they have always come to me as chickens, never chicks but I was ready to take the plunge and try my hand with little peepers. The weather is warm, the coop is secure, the starter feed is in the bin... what could go wrong? Everything.

The post office called at the crack of dawn informing me my chick order had arrived. Driving home I feel I am in a car with a hundred screen doors that desperately need their hinges oiled. I carefully unpack the box and pour them into the brooding house watching as they strut around, discovering their new home. They find the water bowls and being thirsty a number of the girls take the plunge. "How cute, they're swimming. They think they're ducks."

I return fifteen minutes later to find five of them dead and another six shaking uncontrollably and falling on their heads. Whaaaat is going on? Being an urban farmer, my first reaction is to send them back. I notice that the dead are thoroughly wet, as if they drowned so I grab their little carcasses, put them in a plastic bag to deposit in the trash and scoop the remaining chicks into their travel case. Running around like a chicken with it's head cut off I yell for Tomas, "They're all dead. We need a heat light... we need the extension cords.... we need helllllp."

Quickly assessing the situation he gets the hair dryer and one by one we start blow drying their little feathers. It's a slow process but the technique is proving successful. The circulation returns to their feet, they stand alone, no bobbing head routine. I suggest that perhaps we should get the ones out of the trash and see if we can have any luck with them. It's a 'what have we got to loose' scenario until we pull them from the plastic bag. Any coroner in the land would take one look at the closed eyes, the legs straight as a road heading east and sadly shake their head while pulling the sheet over the corpse. But not Tomas. His mother died when he was four and giving up on any life is not written into his script. He dries and prods them, interprets the drooping head as a sign of fatigue. He insists all they need is a round of physical therapy to be like new. I keep muttering 'give it up big boy...' Yet he perseveres and I realize this is one of his strongest attributes... he never gives up. It's one of the obvious secrets to our 32 years of marriage. The guy doesn't know when to throw in the towel.

Returning a half hour later I am witness to a miracle. All five corpses are strutting around the table, chirping, bumping into one another. We give them another hour in the rehab ward before returning them to the brooding house where they are happily greeted by the other girls. Huddled around the feeding tray I am curious if they relate their near death experience to the others.... Yes yes, definitely saw the light and there was this warm wind blowing....but it just wasn't my time....

McMurry Hatcheries has hundreds of breeds of poultry but they may want to consider the new Lazarus line. I envision the ad: Guaranteed to bring you pleasure and an abundance of eggs; will survive subzero temperatures, scorching heat and a short trip to the other side. Money back guarantee not necessary.

Stella and Nell on an overnight in Rye

2006-06-23T09:45:00.000-06:00

You will not believe where Nell and I have been invited for an overnight. A beautiful mountain home, nestled in the pines with a majestic view spanning the open prairie that rolls and dips nonstop to Kansas. I sit back kick back and listen to the Rufus sided hummingbirds play their bombardier game of tag with each other as they vie for position at the feeder. The house... and this is just no simple summer cabin... is decorated in a stunning scheme of French country .... but good French country... trust me, the word tacky stops at the front gate around here. The rough hewn cabinet with its battle rust finish rests gracefully next to the massive stone fireplace. Overstuffed couches covered in a pattern of giant blooming peonies are an open invitation to step into this garden of abundance, to sleep, to dream. Spotted throughout are dried rich flower assortments arranged in perfect harmony to compliment their basket or vase... a fete which never ceases to capture my appreciation ... even though I make vases for a living, coordinating
the right flower arrangement to dance in suspended air over its vase is a skill that avoids me like growing Impatiences in full sun. Similar to the bathroom soap basket that rests on the back of the toilet in a guest bathroom. Balls of French lavender soap surrounded with sprigs of lavender and dried summer thyme ... all nestled in a chenille towel and topped with a soft lavender bow. This also embues me with awe ... inspires me to try and recreate this token of stylishly greeting, positioned perfectly for me and my pee. But my arrangements fall flat....the towel is older, the soap is cheaper and the lavender sprigs wilt. My arrangements give the impression I waste large amounts of time roaming the isles at Hobby Lobby. I’ve decided that any Martha Stewart gene I may have received scrambled to another rung on my helix ladder. It’s usually a matter of days before these banal endeavors get flushed away and we can all breath a sigh of relief at the extinguishing of yet another myth.

This kind of setting, inside and out, requires lots of money and is reason enough to play the lottery faithfully. F.Scott Fitzgerald: “The rich are different from us.”
Hemmingway: “yea, they have more money.”

But dispite all this affluence, this is a house of sadness because Juanita is leaning how to live here alone. The walls reverberate with a hollow emptiness and the choice to end a marriage resonates within my own being. With the exception of the fine fabrics, setting,atmosphere, and wine this reality could be mine ... what a sobering thought. Kind of like driving the Queen Mary solo. Dispite all the overwhelming challenges that come with Tomas, living in this world would not be trading up. So, it is good Nell and I came up here... a sigh of relief for finding yet another reason to sustain the myth.

Stella Martinez catches the wave

2006-06-02T16:52:00.000-06:00

I feel like the day my mother yanked me out of school, tossed my bathing suit at me in the back seat of the car and announced to my brother and me, “ you guys are going body surfing.” It was a pre Hurricane Donna ocean and the south Ft. Lauderdale beaches were going to get slammed. People were shuttering their windows, the coast guard had issued high sea warnings, everyone was fleeing the storm. I kept wondering what is wrong with this picture as we made our way to the beach. I couldn’t have been more than 5’ tall, skinny with a mop of curly hair. I stood on the shore, assessing the force of my contender, the sand quickly eroding under my feet as the current attempted to drag me into the torrent. Storm clouds ominous gray and black stretch towards the horizon in an unbroken mass of threatening violence. What is she thinking?

Glancing at my brother, he grins before taking the plunge. I follow, swimming out into the turbulent water, quickly determining where I can stand... thigh deep for leverage to push into the wave but deep enough that I can find refuge by diving under.

Body surfing mimics life in that timing plays a major role. Looking up into the frenzied froth looming over me I wait wait for a sensible moment to take the wave but one never comes. This wave has murderous intentions so I dive into the seething crescendo.. holding my breath, feel the massive turbulence swell over me in a gently rocking motion. Such an oxymoron. Two feet above my head chaos reigns but down under it’s a baby’s cradle. Rising to the surface I spy another one more threatening than the first. I dive again and again ... shocked that I am out in this force of nature that is determined to do me death by smashing me into the sand and splintering me like a busted two by four. What is she thinking and where the hell is she? I have no sight of my brother. The undertow is pulling me out and the behemoth waves are getting larger and more frequent... I am going to have to grow gills if I am to survive this onslaught.

Then somehow the years of training, preparing me for this event bubble to the surface of my consciousness and I realize that there is no choice but to find the wave that’s going to deliver me home. Scrambling to where I can feel the bottom under my feet I wait for what seems like an eternity to a ten year old....and then I spy it... six out... the storm is taking a breather... it’s my ride...only as it draws closer it gains in size.... are you sure?... and I wait wait until the ‘now’ floods through my brain and I push off into the fury. Nono no... I pull my little body into a ball ...realizing I am in the grip of the beast and I have to get as small as possible... become a grain of sand....as I am being drawn out of the water and into the air.... I am on the crest, I am a dribble of spit.

My mother glances up from her book in time to see a pink dot explode pass her windshield. I had been thrown about forty feet... missed the concrete breakwater by inches. No broken bones, though... no cerebral hemorrhage. Fighting the pelting rain she gathers me up in her arms and inquires, “fun, huh? My deepest suspicions were confirmed: I was in the presence of an insane woman or a great teacher. Either way, I got the message first hand....sink or swim..... but all these years later I wonder, when do I get to float?

stella and nell at the ranch

2006-05-20T09:57:00.000-06:00

Took Nell out to Chico Basin Ranch last night for a barbeque and to give her a glimpse of expansiveness.... where the land and sky meet in one clear slice across the horizon. Chico Basin Ranch is a working ranch and everything about it is real. The cows I look at eat the grass and then we eat the cows. Cowboys wear boots that are the farthest thing from Santa Fe Tony Lama's strolling round the paseo... these boots are dusty, torn, buffed hard from riding in the stirrups all day. Some wear spurs while others prefer chaps to protect their legs from the miles of scrub oak. All the men wear white woven cowboy hats with an expansive brim to provide a sliver of shade, a foreign concept in this landscape. There are few distinguishing characteristics between the cowboys...kind of like the cows... as if the genetic roundup has found the perfect combination for life on the range: no extra fat, a hardy complexion, rope burn hands and gleaming white teeth.

Chico Basin ambles and lopes along the front range of the Eastern Colorado prairie, 85,000 acres that spans two counties before slamming into the Rocky Mountains. Criss-crossed throughout the property, like a tenderized flank steak, are arroyos that plunge, steep as the front side of a cows face, down into the earth. In the fall, the dried tumble weeds are blown into these crevices, filling them to the brim. One day a woman from the East coast was riding full throttle on her horse and hit that false bottom of weeds and plummeted, crashing. They had to air lift her to the nearest hospital. The horse was put down. That's real.

How many millions of us spend an entire day never touching the earth? It's a morning shuffle on carpet and tile that is exchanged for asphalt and concrete. And this little square dance of dirt-free living is our norm. Tomas, he gets whiney when too many cracker crumbs litter his sheets but out at Chico, the cowboys can go for weeks riding, sleeping and eating on the range. They snuggle up to grit and dirt, heat, wind and dust all punctuated by the pungent plume of cow manure happy as steers at a rodeo. I ask if anyone secretly tucks a cordless battery pack into their saddle bag for that electric toothbrushing experience or if they are ever tempted to sachete down the sleeping bag with lavender to counteract the cattle perfume. They laugh, like this is a funny idea or something.

Most of the conversation is dry.... talk of drought and the extreme fire danger. With so little grass I'd think a fire would be hard pressed to find fuel for its cause but apparently with the wind pushing it along, a fire can plough across a county in a matter of hours...even with little to no grass. Because the vegetation is extremely sparse this year they're bringing in the bulls early in order to get the mating, birthing and rearing over by July....called thinning the herd. In a normal year they thin by August or September. A victim of the Disney approach to animal husbandry, I do a small internal moan, thinking of mama being torn from her baby before ever seeing her go to the prom. That's hard but so is this existence. Yet another glimpse of how inept and desperately dependent I am upon all the comforts of my modern make believe world...I'd rather impale myself on my blow dryer than scour my scorched backyard searching for my last meal. That's pathetic.

Stella Martinez living large as the landlandy

2006-05-17T17:49:00.000-06:00

My friend wants to start a web service for landlords and call it deadbeatrenters.com.... or better yet, losers.com. This would be a national database listing all the of names of people who rent. And they are rated on a two star scale... 'real' and 'avoid'. Simple, no slander just a very valuable service for those who depend on losers for their income. No one gets an excellent because given the right set of circumstances, within every person resides some degree of loser and when this loserlife decides to show its face, it's generally the landlord who gets the first peek.

I have my own personal rating scale I use with prospective renters... they call, asking to look at an apartment. I simply say, "Are you real"? Now 'real' renters scoff, act a touch indignant and incredulous, snicker a few times and ba-babble.... "Well yea".. laugh laugh. The 'avoid' population that you want to escape at all costs...will mutter....sputter....like..uhhh... wha'd ya mean...huh..whaaat?" Trust me, this little test can key you into a Vegas vault so you know exactly where this person is coming from. It's the the 'huh?' that lets me know that my interest are not their number one priority. Don't ask... it's a second sense I have developed during this ordeal. And this is the person the website would let you know about....it's a briallant idea because loser renters are e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e and any full time landlord would gleefully pay a montly service fee to get information... yea/nea... on some prospect.

I used to be the landlady from heaven because I'd give everyone the break.... page three, fourth paragraph, number two .... no pets. If you decide to have a pet you must pay a $300 deposit.
And there she is, this slight build, full time student working three extra jobs.... all alone... father used to smack her around... yea... a cat... only friend... deposit?... ooooohhh...really? ... oh no..neutered...declawed...incisors extracted... perfect... well....oh thank you so so so so so so much.

.....Or how about .... the first months rent and deposit required at time of signing the lease. In the beginning I was so excited they could sign their name that I got caught up in the moment and ... yea... sure... pay me on the fifteenth... I would spend my time more wisely configuring my ascent route up Everest than the time I've given to separating a loser from their money.

The people I have met... in your wildest imagination you could not concieve the stories, the plights that are visited upon people. Inevitably I look around, wondering if I have morphed onto some movie set filming Desperate Renters and we're reading from a script. Abuse is big... all kinds of mind fucking going on out there... family, corporate, government, self inflicted... that's mainly what it always is.... and helpless... always helpless and oh so needy. Listening to their stories... even though I try not to.. but how can you not listen.... It's like Truman with Perry and trying to decipher what the gods were smoking that day to lead him out the front of the house and Perry out the back... what factors determine a life ... and besides...I'm going to see these people every month ... god willing... so I listen... Hearing them makes me ache.. I get hunched over, fight for air and give them any goddamn thing they want if it will just make some of that pain go away... pleeeeze... live there for free.

That was the old Stella Martinez. I think it was the schizophrenic that pused me over the edge. Knew him as a little boy... his mother was our piano teacher until she decided to check into a Days Inn and to drink herself to death... took three months... But he seeemed like a good kid... working.. college.. and the check his lawyer dad wrote covering all the expenses made me so happy inside. Then. .... within three days he starts dismanteling the electricity.... disconnects the plugs... can't figure out why the lamp won't go on... and then he starts ripping up the floor boards and dropping down into the basement because there were people arguing down there. He told them he was gonna have to call the cops. Did you? No... they split. But three months later, when he sliced open the drywall the size of a door.... I knew he had to go and with him my weepy pleasedeargodwhatcanido attitude was right behind.

This new, forceful, don't tell me your pathetic stories get off your ass and go to work, woman is not interested. Pay up.. oh you can't? ... get out loser boy.... you'll find some other neck to suck dry no doubt so beat it....so convincing don't you think? I've been working on the delivery for about two years and yesterday I got the chance to try it out. Marched right down the street, woke loser boy from his midmorning slumber and gave him the lowdown.... complaints... whad are you doing... selling drugs?.... other people living here?....neighbors don't like the company you keep..... and then I said it..... "You know, I don't really think this is working out too well... and well... I was just thinking that... you know... maybe you should think about getting another place.... that way... you know... the neighbors won't be wierded out... yea... so... uh.... you think you can do that? You have fifteen days... yea yea... I can give you today's paper... no problem...

He is so unreal....I'm praying he's gone by Christmas.

stella's garden

2006-05-08T17:13:00.000-06:00

Stella Martinez in the garden of dilemna and da limes

2006-05-07T18:00:00.000-06:00

It's garden time in Pueblo. The juices are flowing, trees have budded, the perennials have let it be known if they survived the winter or not and it is time to replant, fertilize, turn earth and prepare for the summer blaze. Pueblo is considered a prairie environ... meaning that we get about 8" of rainfall a season and our summer temperatures hover around 105.... but, as we keep reminding ourselves like a broken record... it's a dry heat. As if this someway assuages the challange of digging molten tar deposits from your shoe before getting into the car.

I love my garden and have created an oasis in the midst of miles of urban heat islands. A place of sanctuary where the sun ripped soul can reconsititute itself and live to face another unrelenting daze of beating heat. The challange, though, is that my garden takes water... lots and lots of water. And in the midst of an extended drought this is considered by many as extreme sacrilege, up there with child abuse.

I read somewhere that in fifty years having clean water readily available is going to make the current oil crisis look like an afternoon in an air-conditioned movie theatre. Our local paper, The Pueblo Chieftain, runs daily articles on the plight of diminishing water reserves. Farmers are forced to dry up more acreage to satisfy a contract with Kansas that went awry shortly after it was enacted back in 1912. Diversions upstream redirect the liquid gold to the megacities north of us and our reservoir shrinks yearly, uncovering arroyos and canyons that were submerged thirty years ago.

So, how does a gardener satisfy the joy of lush landscape while taking into consdieration a shrinking resource? Everytime the sprinklers do their wet dream dance this question opens before me like the giant peony. Attempting to be somewhat sensitive to the water issue, over the years I have modified my plant selection, choosing varieties that can survive on minimal moisture while enjoying the comfort of an oven. Yet inevitably these plants die, because like some codependent mother, I tiptoe out in the middle of the night, secretly administering additional drinks of water.

But the real root of the problem is my garden design. Water loving flowers are snuggled next to drought tolerant succulants, tall spiked liatris overshadow the dwarf cosmos. Species that grow on opposite sides of the planet suddenly find themselves in the same bed creating, what I am certain must be, a botanical nightmare.

There is an impressive xeric movement throughout the region but when I peruse through the booklet that lists all the options, my mouth gets parched, I start envisioning my yard as a back drop for Lawrence of Arabia and then I ask myself if those 600 square feet of Kentucky Blue .... that makes me oh-so happy....are going to make or break the alfalfa yield in Kansas? Besides, the Pueblo Water Board reassures me that there is plenty of water, no need for restrictions and I'm simply taking them at their word. It's just that this little cut worm keeps gnawing at inner stalk and I have to wonder how much longer can I keep harvesting the justifications of my rationalization.

stella martinez and the miracle of marriage

2006-05-05T19:51:00.000-06:00

Tomas and I have been married for thirtysomething years or...forever... On a recent anniversary we celebrated by attending the wedding reception of a friend's daughter. While dancing with a vague acquaintence I remarked that this day was my wedding anniversary.
"Oh wow, how long have you been married?" he queried.
"Thirty years by general consensus but really it's sixty. We live and work together so that qualifies as double time".
He gives me an incredulous look, like I possess the powers to levitate or walk on water. I rapidly discern that this guy has been married a minimum of two times, probably closer to four. Being in a relationship for more than seven years is not in his repertoir. Looking into my eyes he asks, "So what do you attribute to being married for thrity years?" Returning his stare I respond, "No handguns".

This answer intrigues him and he throws his head back laughing. "No, seriously, tell me your sercret", he smiles. "Seriously", I tell him.

Longetivity in a marriage is often misconstrued that the couple possesses a magic potion which has enabled them to maintain and survive all these decades. I comprehend the secret of marriage as well as I understand the function of my ileocecal valve but one intuitive lesson I have grasped in all these years is.... it is best not to murder your spouse. Besides the obvious prison sentence, such action eliminates any opportunity of reconcilation....

There are women who ignore this philosophy and though I don't agree with their crime, I can empathize. Take Mary Winkler for example. The preacher's wife who, for better or worse, decided it was time for Mr. Winkler to join his god and she took it upon herself to provide the one way express ticket north. The media responds, clamoring why'd she do it? What was she thinking? And I wonder, what is with these reporters? Hey, he breathed... isn't that reason enough? A towel tossed nonchantley on the floor... that's it, your time is over. I have witnessed the stretching of my own emotional chord, drawn so tight it becomes a filament.... and I could snap.... as easily as a pretzel stick...and this frightens me... this uncontrollable impulse. We were married less than a year when I knew that I could not be trusted to always act responsibly and then and there made the conscious decision to ban all weapons from the house.

The other day my girlfriend, Montalda, wants me to go to the shooting range with her. Learn how to defend myself. I explain to her that learning to shoot is not a good idea for me... I could easily morph into a female rendition of Charlie Whitman. Besides, the one I would defend against is the one who loves me the most. It's much healthier for our marriage if I stick with throwing VCRs.... and they're so cheap now with everyone switching over to DVDs.

mariachi macbeth

2006-05-05T08:04:00.000-06:00

Oh dear reader, the perils of bringing so great a play like Macbeth to so dusty a town like Pueblo must come with reservation... assuredly, had our acclaimed poet-playwrite been in the audience he would have either been embued with gleeful hilarity or crumbled like stale bread at the spectacle. While here, on our humble stage a nationally acclaimed, traveling Shakespearian troupe dares to perform their interpretation of this perennial masterpiece. Whilst, unbeknownst to them, in the same structure at tandem moments, there is unfolding a Mexican wedding reception of such enormous proportions that the mere building cannot successfully contain their exuberance. Clamoring, drumming, singing at top amplification the merry band only mirrors the pitched ferverance of the happy couple who demand "mas mas mas" until a frenzy reverberates from the rafters and crescendos in muffeled swells onto the thespian stage.

Here, our actors go through their motions. Picture this, kind reader, unfolding before our eyes is a surreal rendition never envisioned, I do most swear, by even the most contemporary and extemporaneous of directors... Mariachi Macbeth! You must cast thou imagination upon this scene like a fisherman trowling for his dinner: Macbeth ... conniving with his Lady to murder Duncan while strains of LaBamba echo through our ears like canyon walls; Lady Macbeth chides her spineless husband as he questions the rationale of killing their king and she tells him to 'Walk like a Man'; having done the dirty deed, Macbeth, his heart nauseaus with guilt, bemoaning his actions to his cold lady is magnified while Tammy Wynett's 'Stand By Your Man' plays backup to his grief. But the true icing that tops the cake of delicious mockery appears when our fallen lord presents that infamous siloquey, where the beautiful irony of our lives spills upon the stage like a gutted sow and we hear Macbeth lament, 'Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps into this petty pace to the last syllable of recorded time' ... this passage reaches new heights of profoundity when accompanied by the BeeGees begging 'Somebody Help Me, I'm going nowhere'.....

Such merging of disconsonance did only serve to heightened the amusement of my heart. Try tho I did to master the muster and feel the tragedy of the greedy, dreadful Macbeth, the musical accompaniements only catapulted me into new areas of mirth and vision. Finally, our fair city can be known as that place on the map that accomplished that which no other production hall hath attempted...with accident we married the tragic to the ridiculous and presented it upon the stage to an unsuspecting audience and an unaware cast. True, true spontaneous theatre and it happened here.... my chest doth swell with pride.

Nell goes to the mountains

2006-04-30T14:08:00.000-06:00

Here is Nell on her first vacation to the mountains... from her stoic expression it's difficult to get a true read on what she was thinking. I will have to find someway to convey her excitement. For now.... This is Stella Martinez

stella martinez gets a job

2006-04-29T15:58:00.000-06:00

God, I have been away for so long. Anyway... got the Grand Junction job which, of course, is great but winning any competition raises the question in my mind... why is our culture, our world structured on winning and losing? When did this paradigm come on the human scene? You think the first cave people, while out hunting for that wooly mammoth dinner special, made a distinction between the tracker and the shooter? No doubt. You can't survive on tracking dreams... you need the hard fact of calorie count to get a tribe through the winter .... so thus begins the paridigm ...then the Athenians, Spartans, Incas, Mayans polish the concept and Western civ securely embeds it onto the double helix of our genetic coding which eventually leads to millions of job opportunities for therapists who spend all day attempting to remedy the affliction of being a loser. As Casey Stengel puts it, "Without losers, where would the winners be"? See what I mean?

While I was relishing in our prospects of creating two murals I was also mourning for the other contender .... even though his proposal was tragic and would have done a huge disservice to the community to have installed it...I still felt sad for him... knowning oh too well that gut wrenching punch that comes from rejection. Rejection is to the human spirit what rain is to a down quilt.... smothering... and either you drown from the weight of it, move to another climate where you don't need it or get real comfortable snuggleing up with the dank.... which has its own set of limitations so you invest in anti-fungal creams, mold minimizers, plastic sheets, pray for a warm sunny day to air out.... it's exhausting.

stella takes Nell on her first vacation

2006-04-28T08:57:00.000-06:00

Winston Churchill said that "success is experiencing failure upon failure and maintaining your enthusiasm throughout." That dittie resonates throughout my career. When I heard it I could relate immediately which made me realize I was too familiar with the experience... My personal awareness leads me to the realization that there is a thin line between optimism and denial. It's preferable to believe that sanctity and understanding waits around the next corner but when do you tap yourself on the shoulder and say, which corner big girl? You've been turning left for a long time now. I must be wary of cynicism and sentimentality...it's too easy to morph into sancitimonious... all are enalving..trap doors that lead to spike ladened pits waiting to impale the unsuspecting and overly sensitive. So straddle that line while never ever ever ever give up and try real hard not to slit that wrist.

Took Nell over to Grand Junction for an art presentation.... Tomas and I were finalists for a series of murals to be made for two schools. Not a big job but a job neverthesless and... lordygordy knows...public art is such a crap shoot so just apply for everything. Besides, it has been ages since we did the vacation, get out of town, get out of your head kind of get away... it was time.

The presentation was held at the GJ convention center and the other finalist was the first to present. We were called in while he was answering individual questions and packing up his samples. Moving to the table with the powerpoint projector setup, I notice his drawings splayed everywhere... which was different since committees like to keep the other ideas secret.... and my mind starts rushing like grand rapids, sweeping over all that I am seeing and holy shit... it is fucking clip art of basketballs, softballs, footballs, a barbell... and I'm thinking good god he took the committee's concepts literally... yea they do sports here but.... so I'm riding high happy because our design is conceptually on the other end of the spectrum ....and yet... caution prevails because Tomas and I have also been doing this for far too long to forget the manymany times concepts I thought belonged in the trash became the winning entry.

I give my speel, we all talk... I remind them how this is the opportunity to select a piece that will reach beyond the boundary of signage ... live in the abstract.... their faces are like blank wallpaper... I wonder if I should have worn my push-up bra... should have bought a push-up bra... this public art world is a bitch... brokering real estate or selling cloned corn cobs ... anything but this impossible world where my fianacial wellbeing dangles in the balance of an art committee who thinks 'cute' constitutes an artistic statement.... sweet jesus...and you know those two jocks in the room want a mural they can relate to. We collect our materials in one sweep, leave the samples, and gracefully exit the room turning to give one more go-for-the-vision smile. I'll keep you posted.

stella martinez gets a line

2006-04-23T21:33:00.000-06:00

Ummm... here I am... middle age, middle class, and midway in my career, straddeling between a cathartic artistic blowout and the desire to take up residency in my bathtub. What does this mean? Uncertainty and confusion, elation and configuration. And now, for the first time in my life, I am in my possession of my own computer....a laptop, no less. This brings new meaning to that part of my lap that pooches up at the top of my thighs.

I can already tell that I am going to have a love affair with my laptop, whom I have affectionately named Nell, once I get over my initial disappointment. Which is, Nell is not going to have a designated access password. This depressing tidbit of information was dropped on me by my two techno gurus, Jacksonian and Tomas, who both claimed that a password would be superfulous, inconsequential and not necessary. My protest and surprise was met with an incredulous shrug of the shoulders and a smirk that implies, Why would you need one? Why bother? This is like telling Alibaba as he stands before the magic cave that he can bypass his famous Open Seasame line. Just bring in a crane and pry that sucker open...Or akin to driving up to NORAD and winking at the guard for admittance and he swings open the gate with a smile. This is the age of Terrorism and television... blind fear weds contrived imagination....passwords are as necessary as proteins... they are the building blocks of secrecy... a password means there is something to protect. .. something worthy enough to hide. But alas, I don't insist and watch passively as the vision of some determined detective, furtive husband or dejected lover clandestinely opening my computer, scouring the room, frantically looking for some clue to the hidden combination that will unlock my cyber identity.... trying three, four, ten times and then... ah ha... Abracadabra... the flicker and flare to my inner most mystery.....I watch as all this gets erased, pretending it's no big deal. But Nell ...I can only imagine what is racing between her electrons and vibrations... the disappointment of realizing she has been partnered to a woman who will never enter information worthy of protecting. Oh dear, less than one week into the relationship and already I've got to make it up to her....

this is a test

2006-04-23T10:55:00.000-06:00

this is a test.... warning this is a test only ..... do not run to your basement, do not slip into your bed.... stay conscious... this is only a test....