tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-207757132011-11-20T03:27:47.583-05:00the necessary work of artSusan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.comBlogger1981100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-6496239130508248482011-10-28T20:53:00.000-04:002011-10-28T20:53:34.294-04:00

When I was raising kids, the lovelies, I had very little time to write songs, play guitar, send little postcards and play out. But I did both, kids and art, because of my inner drive. I’ll never know whether my children or I or both would be better off now had I never followed that drive. These compulsions don’t ask our approval and I, for one, seldom question their motives. But I’m doing it

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-35237145805069201532011-08-09T12:33:00.001-04:002011-08-09T12:33:36.463-04:00

‘In recent memory the round table had seated such royalty as Bob Dylan, Bob Neuwirth, Nico, Tim Buckley, Janis Joplin, Viva, and the Velvet underground.' -- Patti Smith, Just Kids His subjects rise en masse, wave wildly, dance and cheer as he steps onto the raised platform. His voice is punctuated by thunderous applause; feet pound the metal bleachers in rumbling salute to the master of

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-51281401862609190042011-08-01T11:18:00.004-04:002011-08-01T11:21:31.705-04:00

We’d booked ourselves into a cheap hotel after a lavish country club wedding reception. Our newish honda stood out in a lot full of dented cars, rusted vans, worn trucks and trailers. From a crowded parking space near the inn’s rear door, we skittered inside, avoiding the gaze of two young guys in a parked car as we clasped our possessions to our bosoms. Three doors down the unwashed hallway

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-30220560066023097032011-07-20T18:55:00.004-04:002011-07-21T13:02:07.142-04:00

That’s me. My name, spelled out by the reservations clerk over the phone last week. It could also be the Julie Roberts character line in Larry Crowne. Campus lush to Juliette luscious in two easy hours of movie magic. Or, make it a writing challenge: use whisky-echo-bravo-echo-romeo in a song set in Dodge City 1848, sans cliché. Good luck. I just got home from a short stay with kin who live in

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-29780996936051952112011-06-30T12:05:00.003-04:002011-07-01T16:53:39.363-04:00

Dylan’s songs let us in. They are his butler, impeccably dressed, astute, well versed in the bard’s wishes. Oddly, this butler lets anyone enter who rings the bell. Please come in. Wipe your feet if you don’t mind; you may leave your coat and hat on the hook, madame, for you have no need of them here. We have a hearth, you understand. Do sit down. Oh, no, the master is not presently meeting with

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-20011911706312594942011-06-07T11:12:00.003-04:002011-06-07T20:50:39.506-04:00

Worn wood bleachers, shade and sun. Camp kids, kickball, home run. One girl slides in the dust and jumps up announcing through gap tooth grin, It didn't hurt. I'm OK! Annie Oakley squint, outlaw braids are OK too. They dance, with her, back into the game. Painting by Sophie Gengembre Anderson, Take the Fair Face of Woman, and Gently Suspending, With Butterflies, Flowers, and Jewels

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-65708085953787742112011-06-01T15:50:00.003-04:002011-06-01T15:57:20.892-04:00

It's a pretty day. Sun dry and not hot either. After swim workout, Micky decided, 'we should all go have a picnic lunch.' After which we all sped off to our non-picnic obligations. I just got back from Europe. My sister, Pam, thought it would be great to spread the riches of those weeks over a year instead of spending our 'wow' time all in a heap. Pam's idea and Mickey's echo the

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-33088452093148998932011-04-07T08:57:00.001-04:002011-04-07T08:59:22.239-04:00

"Creativity is neither a rational deductive process nor the irrational wandering of the undisciplined mind but the emergence of beauty as mysterious as the blossoming of a field of daisies out of the dark Earth." Thomas Berry, The Great Work As I study lyrics of Bob Dylan, I often wonder how he experiences beauty’s mysterious emergence. I’d like to know how it feels to write a song like

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-7890125215039715792011-02-25T11:17:00.002-05:002011-02-25T11:45:59.322-05:00

Julie’s mother Glenna, my mom Jane, tucked into folds of heaven, released from pain, the paradise we dream for them both weightless and respectful of their souls, those independent motherly conditions of perpetual forgiveness in the face of kids who disappoint but never disapprove of how their mothers stubbornly refuse impressions of perfection in the fabric of the heart, where only art, the

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-63597113665335441112011-02-18T09:09:00.006-05:002011-02-19T18:54:07.697-05:00

A little kid at my school assembly grinned up at me after the show. ‘You remind me of somebody I know!’ he chirped. ‘Who?’ asked I. ‘My Gramma!’ It wasn’t the first time my internal chronometer got a jolt of sudden aging. My dad’s friend told me one day I looked more and more like Frieda, my paternal grandmother he’d known as a child. All this grandma talk can get a girl cranky in the

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-35019750546708455842011-01-24T10:28:00.000-05:002011-01-24T10:28:20.277-05:00

What do a Chicago dog school, a Pakistani murder and a Tiger Mom have in common, and why do I write this out in cursive? The cursive is to stimulate my brain around the other three. According to experts, when I use longhand, my brain’s neural pathways can be “stimulated, changed and reorganized, even to the point of developing new brain cells.” (American Association of Handwriting Analysts)

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-56979262585365329302011-01-19T09:10:00.000-05:002011-01-19T09:10:26.690-05:00

My dear father knows a great deal about frugality, magnanimity, cheese and bees. He can distinguish himself in a card game, tossing out helpful tips and random quips, all the while creaming his opponents. He’s aggregated funny and wise, humble and proud, stoic and wry into his crossword puzzler’s brain over ninety plus fruitful years. But there’s one thing he’s wrong about, and I’m about to

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-46201618554283001142010-12-22T11:27:00.001-05:002010-12-22T16:28:02.065-05:00

The challenge and lament of kindergarten teachers the week before Christmas strikes a winsome chord in me as I wind down from a spate of arts residencies in far flung public schools. Ponder days disappeared from my date book mid Fall. Early excursions o’er gray interstates to small Ohio towns took my imagination elsewhere. As small fingers smush graham crackers and gum drops onto frosting

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-30172809219959992462010-12-15T17:34:00.002-05:002010-12-16T07:52:09.705-05:00

I’m at Target with Tom in search of Merona boxers, Andrew’s brand. A shopper scrutinizing Fruit of the Loom points us to the next isle and joins us as we ponder. Her son is keen on Meronas too. Here we crouch and murmur, two grown women, conversational in the nostalgia of picking out underwear for our grown sons. What size, really? Medium looks too small, doesn’t it? She says her son’s an

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-61207703480494038602010-11-27T10:20:00.002-05:002010-11-27T10:42:25.444-05:00

About to descend to the kitchen world I remember slipping into another state of grace, words kept in a tiny tin of alabaster sheaths held by invisible selves, mustachioed and grave, who steady their taut arms against willow bark to snip the bronze tips of Madame Godiva's mane. John Collier painting of Lady Godiva

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-59166877701074314282010-11-26T12:03:00.005-05:002010-11-26T12:15:02.096-05:00

"Situations have ended sad Relationships have all been bad Mine’ve been like Verlaine’s and Rimbaud But there’s no way I can compare All those scenes to this affair Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go" Bob Dylan, You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go I’ve been reading Verlaine and Rimbaud who, by the way, did scarcely censure underbelly fare. Here's some morning verse de moi à toi.

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-35244038609311211162010-11-25T10:16:00.003-05:002010-11-25T10:27:32.839-05:00

A 34 year old Yale paleontologist appreciates good music as he scrutinizes origins: For inspiration I listen to Dylan while reconstructing fossils. Nick Longrich, Discover December 2010Playwright Sam Shepard has pondered Dylan’s original gifts from time to time: Watch the transformational energy which he carries... the kind that brings courage and hope and above all brings life pounding to the

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-68398743680125968382010-11-04T15:38:00.003-04:002010-11-04T15:41:57.867-04:00

When I was a kid, my dad had a standard question when he handed out my 10 cent allowance. ‘Are you going to spend it or save it?’ he asked. If I said, ‘spend it,’ that was that. But ‘save it’ produced another dime from his pocket. I used to think my depression-era parents had ruined me for life with thrift. But today I’m grateful for the capacity to relish life in slow motion. I don’t know

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-81497165716653952892010-10-12T11:32:00.005-04:002010-10-12T11:38:58.003-04:00

Lillian Paula Sandburg was a prize winning dairy goat breeder married to poet Carl Sandburg. Carl spent most of his time with words, 'Paula' most of hers with her goats. This video celebrates the accomplishments of the lesser known Sandburg and features the progeny of Paula's goats, filmed at Connemara Farm in North Carolina. 'Paula Sandburg was a brilliant woman, a school teacher, a Phi

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-82900441397845723262010-10-02T14:48:00.001-04:002010-10-02T15:00:04.084-04:00

In times past, members of the masses, those with very little clout to start with, were neatly packed in God and Country. These two cellophanes remain, reminding us to be humble, idealistic and resigned. We work, we pray, we soldier on. Then came the mad men who injected commercials into the matrix of mass consumption. Brash celebrities took their extra money for the important job of

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-4613850412548543932010-09-26T17:15:00.003-04:002010-09-26T17:22:08.145-04:00

This never made it to the blog this summer. Life intervened. But here it is. You might say it doesn’t take much to make me flee the pungent porch on a late summer night for the sanctuary of bright lights, notebook and lanolin. But here I am, resigned to write, and itch and wish I were sleeping. Lately I’ve felt too shy to pick up the pen. With an author like Laurie R. King churning out

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-82005870794785023482010-09-18T10:14:00.002-04:002010-09-18T10:17:36.300-04:00

Certain sons and daughters asked to stow their overflow with us so they might follow their dream to far off places. Since I’d begun to clear out the glacial accumulation of stuff from our attic and basement awhile back, inspired by the dismantling of my dad’s place, I was less than aligned to the prospect of yet more stuff. But family can hardly be denied when room can be made. I proceeded

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-46304809396038378352010-08-22T11:07:00.001-04:002010-08-22T11:19:04.263-04:00

In Folly, protagonist Rae Newborn works her way out of debilitating depression by building a house. Artisan of wood in her former life, she pieces together her redemption on a solitary island in the Pacific northwest. Rae is not only the scarred creation of her writer. She is the writer’s scars, revealed as socially useful things. Another contemporary novelist, Jonathan Franzen, sees

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-67057553872878019852010-08-20T10:11:00.002-04:002010-08-20T16:32:39.979-04:00

'I understand your trepidation; you have been let down before, but getting your feelings hurt is part of the game.
' Corey Barnes, The Cleveland Plain DealerBarnes is talking to Browns fans about football. But the point could be made about anything you care about, and some things you don’t. Today my friend’s daughter is getting married in Detroit. I’m not invited, and I understand why. I was

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-72627123647468829152010-08-07T19:03:00.007-04:002010-08-09T08:15:24.823-04:00

Mama hadn’t been gone too long when my Dad ended up in rehab. I was in rehab too at the time, where an equanimity of spirit and growing roundness to my form could only mean on thing: I was pregnant. It happens sometimes, you know, when life’s unredeemed losses pull you down into paths of least resistance? Humans cope by the means available. So there I was, impregnated by a familiar friend I’d

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-73898867026043073432010-08-01T10:51:00.003-04:002010-08-02T09:36:05.258-04:00

Asleep in the trees, I feel my fingers itch from palm to tip, but dream swelled eyes resist the open air. I hold the netherworlds and blindly smile and scratch, until I stop: the itch remains. Sleep undone, I spring the lids and there she is, madonna moon, a silver shimmering sheen. Hanging baskets join the boughs to rock this pearl, this tiny apparition. I the witness scan my expectations,

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-25898024074788969902010-07-16T17:57:00.003-04:002010-07-16T19:05:26.389-04:00

Summertime in Cleveland has me sprawled on the back porch like a flayed goose, awaiting the nightly visitation. Mini-gangsters breach the imperfections of my nylon mesh. Careening buzz saws trumpet their arrival, merciless high frequency their taunt. I am the oversized sixth grader on a playground of bullies. Or, is this a single Lilliputian who dives at my sweat sodden skin from here to

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-92162034703542806712010-07-06T08:20:00.003-04:002010-07-06T08:27:13.574-04:00

The shaman has been revered by purveyors of culture who link our storied past with a starker spiritual present. Shamans of tribal lore dreamed in technicolor so that humbler sorts might have a taste of raw wonder. Are the artists of today our shamans then? Surely not all artists. Some sell out. Some mistake celebrity for art or feast on tawdry expectations. What separates the shaman from

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-17806812189234164492010-06-27T09:38:00.002-04:002010-06-27T09:51:42.545-04:00

If there’s one place on earth where joy eclipses toil and grief, it’s music. But there’s an endangered tribe running through the bliss fields, prone to miss the magic. You guessed it - musicians. Recently I heard Judy Collins describe her struggle with depression, alcohol and drugs from early on. If a singing angel yearns for joy in the midst of plenty, what’s to become of the rest of us?

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-80401293198620796362010-06-20T13:34:00.002-04:002010-06-25T21:38:41.622-04:00

My sister Mariah’s got a phenomenal cache of recipes. A large bunch of fresh dill from a Chicago farmer’s market needed one. ‘Do you have Mrs. Waltz’s dill bread recipe?’ I asked her. She clicked back immediately, ‘It’s in Mom's recipe booklet I gave you, Montana Dilly Casserole Loaf - and I love the attached potato salad recipe - it's the first thing I thought if when I heard fresh dill.'

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-1136400816559286372010-06-16T20:44:00.005-04:002010-07-25T18:08:20.370-04:00

I like cleanliness. When our boys were young, their two little hot wheel runaround pals named Ian and Evan moved away. A few months later, we visited their upstairs apartment in a large brick house painted gray. Wading through the rooms knee deep in randomness, I wondered if I dare leave my boys to play and possibly be swallowed whole by swamps of stuff. As I recall

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-70611408374047616082010-06-05T10:21:00.002-04:002010-06-27T09:52:25.558-04:00

'All the world is somewhere else... I am the mask. I am the bird. I am the animal. I am the spirit... I transcend with the being of the mask.' Chief Robert Joseph, Kwakwaki'wakw (Kwakiutl), recalling his youthful experience as a ceremonial dancer, 1998'There are three things that maintain a culture - language, religion and art. You lose these three and you lose the culture completely.'

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-12832898929919112452010-05-11T09:06:00.004-04:002010-05-11T10:07:49.706-04:00

What would make this a perfect day? Accomplishing tasks... creative work... friendship... earnings... life changing event... humor... acclaim? Why did I once seek a stage - draw attention to myself? Could be something musicians do; we love to love and that’s how we know to do it. Maybe the culture makes us all into publicity hounds. Mom wanted to be published. She loved the story of Grandma

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-2146116370715890032010-04-25T10:46:00.003-04:002010-04-28T07:37:51.023-04:00

Artists are the ones we get to gawk at. While pundits rant, journalists drone, politicians hedge and various experts wow us with the jargon, artists try to connect, and ask us to think for ourselves. My recent brushes with art bear this out. I didn’t expect to like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Sadist murder is not my cup of tea. But friends were keen to see it, so I went. To my

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-48870009071700661002010-04-09T17:37:00.002-04:002010-04-09T17:39:40.037-04:00

There was once a wee child whose parents, in a pique of sound reflection (let us hope) said ‘no’ to his request for a snack. Half an hour later, he presented them with a 3-D peanut butter and jelly sandwich of paper, crayon and hot tears. His defiance, of course, broke his parents’ hearts. Fast forward two decades and find the young man, hungry for the magical (so we hear) iPad. He

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-90145919862884055552010-04-03T09:29:00.006-04:002010-04-03T09:41:43.108-04:00

I was born in Cincinnati. My father sang Barbershop and made sure the local pool got built. Mom taught me to paint and read and how to make puppet plays and beautiful cakes. Mrs. Wynn showed me how to make mistakes. I taught myself to dream. Gramma carried Europe on her tongue and pitted cherries for Swiss pies. Grampa built his stone house under white pines and taught his sons

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-65849272406580752282010-03-28T12:02:00.000-04:002010-03-28T12:02:20.962-04:00

Why do recognized leaders of the GOP use gun and violence metaphors in reference to political opponents in their tweets and bites? ‘Let’s start getting Nancy [Pelosi] ready for the firing line this November.’ Michael Steele, Republican National Committee‘He [Ohio Democrat Steve Driehaus] may be a dead man. He can't go home to the west side of Cincinnati. The Catholics will run him out of

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-29367640488678968252010-03-25T10:42:00.002-04:002010-03-25T15:34:49.361-04:00

Or rather, what’s your big idea? Not trusting great ideas to conscious memory, I dutifully transcribe them. Some capture the wild beast in few words: ‘You cannot see the red-hot knitting needles spirted [sic] out by that red-faced trumpeter... which needles aforesaid penetrating the tympanum, pierce through and through your brain without remorse.’ Subversive Sounds, Race and the Birth of

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-77073087707588260792010-03-22T09:26:00.001-04:002010-03-22T09:27:18.320-04:00

I once found an early morning perch on a wood bench surrounded by lemon trees and vineyards sloping towards the Mediterranean. Diffused light entered open windows and doorways of homes nested in grapevines and cobbled streets. Caffeine at my elbow, pen and notebook peaceably open, my gaze bending toward sound, I listened to the newness of the day. Muffled voices, cook pots, barking dogs

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-24067461600958721222010-03-06T11:10:00.002-05:002010-03-06T11:22:26.737-05:00

‘When you see a Gauguin,’ writes Adam Gopnik in The New Yorker, ‘you think, This man is living in a dream world. When you see a van Gogh, you think, This dream world is living in a man.’ Artists are supposed to be our designated crazies. ‘We gawk and stare as the painters slice off their ears and down the booze and act like clowns. But we rely on them to make up for our own timidity, on

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-91844772114733826672010-02-20T10:07:00.002-05:002010-02-20T10:17:18.930-05:00

They lived oceans apart in the later days of the 19th century, Earp the gunslinger, Van Gogh the psychedelic sower. From a distance, they could be brothers. At the moment I'm feeling a bit too boringly sane to editorialize further, but we can track their smokey trails in these two eloquent documents. Notes from American Experience - Wyatt Earp on PBS: Wyatt is accused of stealing a horse

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-47391537325885685182010-02-14T11:44:00.003-05:002010-02-15T13:59:43.579-05:00

In a world where Mars, Inc. spends tens of millions on cocoa research for the commercially coddled (i.e. those of us who can afford both health and sweet indulgence), let us pause to consider the lives and loves of two Emmas. I have to confess my heart skipped a beat to think the venerable Cleveland Playhouse was bringing Howard Zinn’s play about the revolutionary anarchist Emma Goldman to the

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-57082695311798904312010-01-31T11:11:00.005-05:002010-01-31T11:17:36.490-05:00

‘What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.’ J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye, Holden Caulfield Having just finished The Observations, an absorbing read, tea time with the author isn’t on my wish

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-88052038522544559272010-01-22T09:32:00.008-05:002010-01-22T10:07:12.281-05:00

Sometimes an image calls out for words. For a sculptor, a painter, a photographer, it could be the other way around. Following the filigree of Facebook, fingers on keys like soles on a gallery floor, I come to this photo and catch myself longing. The caption offers no clues about sculptor or setting, only this: WELCOME TO 2010 THE BEST AWAITS YOU In caps, a declaration, mirroring the

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-11559220056553672482010-01-20T11:30:00.001-05:002010-01-20T11:33:47.164-05:00

Before I hit delete concerning yet another email from my dad to us, his ever loving kids, I wonder this. Why did pater send it? We’ve seen, we’ve heard the trickle down nostalgia for the good ol’ days with Reagan at the wheel. Dad knows how I feel. His ruly children nod and smile -- the rest of us have turned our nodding sideways, our smiles turned upside down by homeless millions leaving

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-6037405740991254142010-01-17T10:03:00.008-05:002010-01-17T10:21:30.573-05:00

Profound ideas arise out of chaos. Madness. Risk. Although - the mad madame makes no choice, does she - to be mad, or sane?  If she’s sane enough to choose, she’s not mad enough to fly.  Sanity will lead her to lists, and lists to obscurity. Vincent Van Gogh had brother Theo in Paris to send him money and promote his art.  We revere the tormented painter and mention his brother

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-62747822249476045382010-01-08T14:17:00.004-05:002010-01-17T21:05:37.995-05:00

‘The sower broadcasting his seed was an image that had been with him almost since he had become an artist. It stood for a painter - or an evangelist - sowing the seed of beauty and truth.’ Matin Gayford, The Yellow House: Nine Turbulent Weeks in Arles If I were a sower who saw her art as evangelism, her seeds indispensable to the good earth’s survival, my priorities would change.

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-77364499226389744362010-01-04T13:32:00.006-05:002010-01-05T08:05:04.950-05:00

Our culture is about success, ‘Rich & Famous’ our mantra. No matter how badly we screw up, a strong tenet of Western Civilization assures us ‘they’ will suddenly adore us (and regret ignoring our fledgling efforts) once they see we’ve succeeded (ie. we are rich & famous, yes!). Counter culture rejects all that, celebrating communal values and humble anonymity.  We’re not supposed to hear of

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-58171162975101441222009-12-31T15:50:00.006-05:002009-12-31T16:06:58.735-05:00

My mother’s standard answer when complimented on her cooking was, ‘I just use good recipes.’ As though, with the right recipe, tasty food just makes itself. I though it was her English reserve talking, the ‘don’t blow your own horn’ approach I tried to overcome as performing songwriter, where self-promotion is part of the game. But from here, staring down a new year, I’m rethinking my mama’s

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-49407011394357089852009-12-26T20:14:00.002-05:002009-12-27T20:28:52.264-05:00

Tis the day after Christmas and all through this place not a feature is stirring. I’ve botoxed my face. I’ve Stepford perfected my vacuous stare. I’m grimacing blandly my inner despair. My wrinkles are smuggled all suave in my head. They carved out a living but now they’re quite dead. Come anger, come jealousy, plunder, conniption. Come playfulness, happiness, wonder,

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-13775829441774853172009-12-21T09:01:00.002-05:002009-12-21T09:43:42.311-05:00

My nephew drives his invention, pictured here, around southern California, for no apparent reason.  Were he selling busses, boats or amusement, he’d have the perfect schtick.  Crazy contradiction gets our attention. His cousin, new college grad, went from cap and gown to shirt and shoes in a day, writing code for a midwest start-up.  He loves his job but sometimes wishes he’d majored in design,

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-90023937410668776172009-12-14T16:59:00.006-05:002009-12-14T17:03:17.929-05:00

Words can be toys. Children’s books bank on the likes of those who thrive on words like mugwump and quoz. ‘The idea that language is beautiful and strange and that you can play with it is very appealing for children, and also very important. Catherine Bohne Words can be tools. Educators serve the tool-like qualities of words. They give us lawyer, doctor, scientist enthusiasts of orderly

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-22107706356571040282009-12-07T10:03:00.005-05:002009-12-07T10:13:58.926-05:00

‘You don’t start at the top if you want to find the story. You start in the middle, because it’s the people in the middle who do the actual work in the world.'  Malcolm Gladwell, What the Dog Saw A painter friend asks, ‘why paint?’  I answer, ‘because you must - and it brings you comfort.’ Now, Freud and I slipped ‘why pain?’ into the equation first time around. Why indeed. Peter the Great, my

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-64296647068059628442009-12-04T09:58:00.002-05:002009-12-07T10:11:38.281-05:00

A younger man approved my then long hair, telling me he wished women wouldn’t cut their hair the minute they reached a certain age.  Approving his approval, I kept it long awhile, perishing the thought of looking middle-aged.  I decided to cut and run from the vanities one fine August day among the gnarled stumps of an abandoned cherry orchard.  Thrusting shears into the hands

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-63362161569333792052009-12-01T09:52:00.015-05:002009-12-07T10:10:27.251-05:00

Here’s the church.  Here’s the steeple.  Open the doors and see all the people.  Child’s play back in the day, with not a minaret to be seen. Nearly 58 percent of Swiss voters put the nix on minaret building and the kibosh on religious tolerance.  Of course, it’s never that simple. My heritage is Swiss.  I grew up high on its famed neutrality, sobered in time by the knowledge of

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-56130676457118374452009-11-29T18:42:00.004-05:002009-11-29T18:45:57.250-05:00

History is art, because story is art. Able writers interest us in world events by framing them in story.  And by the way, you and I are world events.  The Harding Affair: Love and Espionage During the Great War tells the story of Warren G. Harding’s 15 year affair with Caroline F. Phillips.  Of their fiery correspondence, many of his letters remain. The book is a fascinating juxtaposition of

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-20815810326682968702009-11-12T09:22:00.015-05:002009-11-14T09:41:36.647-05:00

Critics have dismissed Paul Gauguin as an artist who could not draw well, and knew it, who therefore turned to a more primitive style of expression. Noa Noa: The Tahiti Journal of Paul Gauguin was the never published companion catalogue to Gauguin’s French exhibition of 60 paintings and block prints completed in Tahiti. The public of Gauguin’s day judged his work harshly, the same work that

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-44806456552490752492009-11-07T09:51:00.004-05:002009-11-14T09:31:17.353-05:00

Why do boys and girls in schools I visit want to help me pack up when I’m finished telling lavish tales? You know, stories that take us places. There’s a certain reverence to the kids’ soft gestures as they stow my props and paraphernalia. Their desire to lend their service to the magic touches me. The story goes that when young Bob Dylan asked his Newport audience, ‘does anyone have an E

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-53447241246958240412009-10-31T14:46:00.002-04:002009-10-31T14:49:57.557-04:00

I once stepped out of my comfort zone into an acting class taught by Scott Plate. Asking his students to journal about their experiences, he promised to read every word. Now, Scott may not have been as overjoyed as Susan who, to her surprise, began to richly dream, and freely add the findings to her journal. The dreams were more vivid and complex than usual, my sense and sensitivity at full

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-77661607287943307292009-10-21T12:30:00.003-04:002009-10-21T12:34:04.463-04:00

‘We have an anti-semitic president.’ Not the kind of thing my sister and I expect to hear the cardiologist say as he listens to our dad’s heart. My sister’s Israeli, occasioning the doc’s statements of certitude on Arab religion (violent), universities (substandard) and government (violent and substandard).  Oddly, my Jewish sister is left to defend Islamic beliefs subverted by unscrupulous

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-29799423968483948512009-10-19T09:00:00.006-04:002009-10-19T09:07:31.862-04:00

‘In each of them, we find the amalgam of the child carrying old wounds and the adult who has learned to cope with a world oblivious to his or her individual dream.’ Jennifer Weil, Old Town Playhouse These are words flung out to a waiting audience by the director of Gene Abravaya’s new play, The Book of Matthew Liebowitz.  Words to secure our ascent up a fictional mountain of contiguous words,

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-11567901147579652282009-10-12T12:15:00.002-04:002009-10-12T12:17:12.402-04:00

A little girl, maybe seven, ploughs into me on her way out of the girl’s locker room.  ‘Daddy!’ she calls into the empty foyer of our local pool.  ‘My dad’s got my bag,’ she tells me. ‘Maybe he’s in the boy’s locker room,’ I offer.  ‘We can call him from the doorway.’  We both try. ‘Daddy!’ ‘Anybody in there have a little girl?’  No answer. So we head back to our locker room with me

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-87519208349974090792009-10-08T15:56:00.005-04:002009-10-17T11:43:47.035-04:00

Elsewhere I’ve tracked the rational act of making this video.  Here you’ll find the visceral exposé.  I’ve been Paul Fresty’s friend since our paths crossed in a songwriter circle many moons back.  Suddenly last summer, my imperious muse bade me go see Paul’s Beatles cover band (Revolution Pie) perform for a crowd of groovers and shakers.  Beatlemania was palpable as the stars, settling over

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-2516721449964418432008-11-12T08:09:00.006-05:002008-11-12T08:54:23.934-05:00

Dear Kim,I've been so involved in citizen politics lately that I've barely read 'Style & Taste.' Your piece about Michelle Obama caught my eye because I like your writing and sense of fair play.I admire Michelle Obama's confidence, graciousness and devotion to the good of the country. It's nice that she cares about her appearance and enjoys clothes shopping. But for me, that's a footnote.If she

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-16767231424286552182008-11-05T16:21:00.027-05:002008-11-06T15:54:20.412-05:00

Indian summer, from a bare back porch.This morning, I did two things. Clean the house. Ride my bike.While I cleaned, I thought of the family I came from and grew into. Our diverse ideas. The choices we make. I considered how the events of the past 24 hours would be met by each of us.I was moved by John McCain's concession speech, especially his call to come together for the sake of the

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-46627817614987237662008-10-04T15:23:00.029-04:002008-10-04T16:35:37.997-04:00

Time is money. So the saying goes. But this one's aging fast.A body's alloted time is finite and therefore rather precious. Until we come up with anti-death serum, this part won’t change. But when it comes to equating time with money, much has changed already.Old thinkRemember Titanic? That film took a lot of time to make. People time, coordinated by the director, James Cameron. We used to

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-33682071906800926362008-09-24T08:40:00.013-04:002008-10-04T15:56:36.692-04:00

When regulators took over mortgage finance Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac this month, they eliminated $12.59 million in exit payments for executives Daniel H. Mudd of Fannie Mae and Richard F. Syron of Freddie Mac. The executives will now get a combined $9.43 million upon their exit. The Washington Post with its giant DC circulation may be able to slide mention of this monetary peccadillo into the

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-77613027899146143712008-09-04T09:15:00.008-04:002008-09-04T10:44:06.543-04:00

The liberal mainstream media set me up. I tuned in to hear a speech by a spitfire self-starter with maverick creds surpassed by none. Instead, I heard talking points dressed in hocky ma shucks.It was embarrassing, as a woman, to see her squander her talents by pandering to a mean spirited conservatism. She lied about the Democrats' middle class tax cut."How are you going to be better off if

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-81665597753297444182008-09-01T08:56:00.007-04:002008-09-01T09:26:49.911-04:00

If we must be nationalists and have a sovereign state, we cannot also expect to have world peace.If we want to get everything at the least possible cost, we cannot expect to get the best possible quality, the balance between the two being mediocrity.If we make it an ideal to be morally superior, we cannot at the same time avoid self-righteousness.If we cling to belief in God, we cannot likewise

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-8314250928588985342008-08-31T10:24:00.009-04:002008-08-31T11:30:46.507-04:00

'Artist' can’t make even the briefest public appearance without extensive baggage. The next time you’re at a party and someone asks what you do for a living, boldly say artist, then sit back and watch the jolting effect that little word has upon a conversation. Above 14th Street, you’ll be offered money, food, some tips on where to find free lodging. Below 14th Street, the person will smirk,

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-29687040795071692412008-08-27T12:27:00.004-04:002008-08-27T12:57:12.454-04:00

She understands her future,loves the gradual warmth of the new brain marinade. Befriending time, she tells the countess of caffeinated mediocrity to leave her shoes on the stair before coming in.Youth is beautiful these days, thanks to structureevolved by kindly geeksters.When time is ripe, she ventures into its elegant mist, exhales and evaporates. Chiming.

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-84280977197559558302008-08-14T08:57:00.003-04:002008-08-27T13:06:02.991-04:00

This little boypoints at my guitar caseon the frivolous preschool carpetkeen to be knightedsir latcher of latches.He kneels into the taskstudiousremembering the groove ofslidelatchclickeach movement his personal best.When the day comesthat he is master of projectsthat change the waywe think and ask and thriveit will have been musicthat once answered prayerof his fingering mind.

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-40025266887663868382008-08-14T08:36:00.002-04:002008-08-14T08:56:16.577-04:00

the Poets unbraid itwith punked up graffitithe Pundits rebuke itwith bludgeons of grandeurand voices of siltthe children reclaim ittheir tongues on the throttletheir minds on the gutturalpulse of unknowingin backward progressionfrom silence to sound

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-67881220100856948202008-08-12T10:48:00.016-04:002008-08-27T13:29:27.664-04:00

You almost have to be full of yourself to be an artist, right? As inI'm special.I have something important to say.The world needs my _____.I owe it to the universe to live out my (stellar) trajectory.Once you get enlightend about your status as just one of the gang, do you give up or hunker down? This is all pseudo art, after all. Real art is real life, however you live it. Charles Kuralt

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-62057572340689571932008-08-05T15:14:00.011-04:002008-08-09T21:19:34.255-04:00

This is how you get a rap for being a prude: rowdy guys leer at Cindy McCain and if you find her husband less than honorable for putting her in their sites, you (presumably) lack a sense of humor and adventure. The same dynamic plays out in the litany of mega-artsy outside-the-boxers from New York to Hollywood who want you to 'lighten up! -- a little sex in the city never hurt anybody.'A brave

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-31322756237415666272008-07-23T09:07:00.020-04:002008-07-24T12:47:28.090-04:00

Twenty four hours ago I might have been pleased with myself for groping my way to pen and pad through the work strewn room at 4 am.But that was before Sarah.It was a visit I dreaded and desired since hearing that my friend's granddaughter had lost both optic nerves by a gun badly handled. I'd last seen Sarah in passing, as she kissed her granny through the car window, her bleached bangs

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-75518449502538958202008-07-17T22:41:00.010-04:002008-09-01T12:27:32.616-04:00

I reserve the right to be as offensive as I want in my cartoons, and to exaggerate however I please -- but I want my cartoons to work, to be good cartoons. A cartoon that fails to communicate its message in a way that readers understand is nothing more than a bad cartoon.Daryl Cagle political cartoonist If The New Yorker wants to get into the political cartoon business, it ought to hire some

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-62243345742743225542008-07-10T08:06:00.004-04:002008-07-10T08:53:05.823-04:00

I'm at a hospital or rehab center, visiting family. Simultaneously, I'm in Greece or Isreal with O & N, my niece and nephew. One wing of the building is noticeably run down; it's where the welfare patients live. I want to fix this, eying the foyer to the wards, wallpaper stained and peeling. I could pull down that paper, fix and paint the walls. I have skills in this work. Surly the

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-7593448934437043532008-07-06T07:50:00.003-04:002008-07-06T08:39:35.160-04:00

Once upon a cell, you did divide. You piled up cells unthinking, happy to comply with nature's plan. But even in her womb, your mama's booze, your dad's cigar, your older brother's angst took shots at you. Or maybe you were met by gentle souls who jellied up your appetite for calm. Infinite possibility flooded by finite mitigations nobody planned so precisely as to ready you for this, life on

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-57774653911238746812008-06-18T17:16:00.006-04:002008-06-18T19:21:40.451-04:00

"What consumer culture does is to privatize people. It makes them focus on their own personal well being. And not just material well-being. Why shouldn't people be concerned with their material well being? But they see in acquisition of material goods a kind of self liberation, a kind of upward rise socially, and a kind of freedom. And to the degree that consumer culture captures your

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-42197467381859262732008-06-05T15:13:00.004-04:002008-06-05T17:11:07.169-04:00

So I was testing the capabilities of iMovie before plunging into more robust video editing software. Showed it to a few people I knew to get some feedback before posting it on YouTube, yesterday. Today, 1,690 views and counting, I'm surprised by something happening (as I cruise around YouTube gathering inspiration and toolkit ideas) beyond me. Makes me wonder what's going on in the lives of the

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-59321282747611267262008-05-13T10:23:00.009-04:002008-05-13T11:44:11.058-04:00

It's one of those memories that only comes when a fresh wound conjures the ghosts. A bully on the school bus bound for Loveland Elementary pulled back a fist and belted me in the gut as he strode down the isle. I couldn't breathe at first; I sat in mute confusion, blinking. Who was this kid? Why did he attack me?I recently learned that my friend once endured unthinkable brutality by a stranger

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-9465902141520391272008-02-12T09:34:00.000-05:002008-02-12T10:47:24.557-05:00

Diane: I listen to Buffalo every single day. It has shaped my character.Susan: Can you elaborate?Diane: I can elaborate in thatI wake up each dayas a personwho feels like a maton which people walkbut the strong voicein the songand the strength of the beatmakes me feel my spinal cordhas much more giveand I want to go out and live. Listen to the hoofbeats here.

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-6901398586551682112007-11-02T10:46:00.000-04:002007-11-02T11:07:22.062-04:00

When did you last fall in love? Remember -- waking to desire that flowed into your daily ritual, no feeling too mundane to capture the light of this new love?Love found. Love cherished. Love tamed and groomed in friendship, family, sacrifice and gratitude. The secret we don't always want to hear is that we are creatures of desire. If we tamp it down with civilized love, we are contented,

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-83252039903424750502007-10-11T21:35:00.001-04:002007-10-12T17:11:50.985-04:00

The world is awash in sound, much of it humanoid.No matter where you go on this planet, you will most likely be visited by the sound of civilization within the hour. If you live in a people zone, you can become a lazy listener, passively tuned in to human sounds (or anthrophony) -- talk honks cussing roaring gushing burps ringtones soundtracks laughtracks cheering bleeps booing sobbing and of

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-16041160153391241992007-09-01T11:48:00.000-04:002007-09-01T13:53:07.205-04:00

Why is my underslept gray matter punch drunk the morning after a concert?Doubts ensconce themselves in the boudoir of Dame Cognito. In pink lamé, she drapes her curves across my spongy couch as one by one her suitors kneel and bow. These are pudgy little men who promise bells and baubles made of compliments and preen. Bored, my noble madam does her nails in deepest purple; she ignores the

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-70788985444082872142007-08-26T10:55:00.000-04:002007-08-26T13:44:07.907-04:00

Music welcomes everyone.You don't have to be gorgeous, hip or suave. Music asks you to be authentic and maybe a little bit crazy. It takes a kind of deranged love for your instrument to press on until anyone besides your loyal friends will listen.People do listen to exceptional music in any genre. It reminds them of something. It remembers them to love. Strange love, desperately wanting to

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-34982180581328033982007-08-24T23:09:00.001-04:002007-08-24T23:24:34.677-04:00

I think we have to rethink the concept of "leader." 'Cause "leader" implies "follower." ...I think we need to appropriate, embrace the idea that we are the leaders we've been looking for.-- Grace Lee Boggs, Bill Moyers JournalThis interview is worth watching -- I recommend it highly!When I can devote myself to the pleasure, I'm going to dig into this as well.There are cells in my brain, sleeper

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-18784161628749180492007-08-20T15:43:00.000-04:002007-08-20T16:24:55.635-04:00

I’m a performing songwriter who craves solitude and adores the stage. Fronting my rock band feeds all that.Monet’s Orbit is the name of my new CD. It’s a distinctive sound imbued in the songs we play. Monet’s Orbit is my bandmates, my audience, myself and all our respective muses. Until recently, solitude was hard to come by. Making a CD -- my mind was a swamp of details. When it was done,

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-90667795958211979482007-08-11T22:29:00.000-04:002007-08-11T22:42:43.003-04:00

I don't spend any time thinking about what I am or what we do means. I spend my time doing it. I focus on the task and try to do it as best we can...I think that, if we do anything in a positive sense for the world, is provide one little bit of context, that's very specifically focused, and hopefully people can add to their entire puzzle that gives them a larger picture of what it is that they

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-68329600080624874292007-08-11T10:04:00.001-04:002007-08-11T10:49:44.305-04:00

You sometimes see your friend through new eyes when the shutter speed stretches out over time. Back in the Concord Coffee days, I was singing treble clef; you were up there with the bluegrassers, high and whiny like the wind. Gold pans in our patient hands, we sifted well through chicken scratches, flummoxed chords, believing there was treasure in the wild.They say silver turns to fuzzy

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-74015834506683181512007-07-21T11:57:00.000-04:002007-07-21T12:10:13.708-04:00

In this life we cannot do great things. We can only do small things with great love.-- Mother Theresa

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-70813906765897084002007-05-20T14:16:00.001-04:002007-05-20T18:50:17.224-04:00

I value accomplishment. It feels normal to create a thing of beauty. Or, am I merely programmed to succeed?I don't have my mom here to ask how it was for her as she pushed her last starling out the door. She was 64 by then. This astonishes me. She didn't need to work and she didn't have the internet to just go ahead and publish her masterpiece, Random House be damned. I'm wondering if her

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-53102771795252301342007-04-27T16:40:00.000-04:002007-04-27T18:07:13.790-04:00

The children sleep in separate beds, one bed at Mommy's, one at Daddy's. Separate bedrooms. Separate dreams, save one -- the dream of reconciliation. These children are like any of us, caught in struggles we don't understand. One such struggle -- the estrangement of our body from our spirit -- finds our body irked by the spirit's piousness, the spirit scandalized by the body's joy.So the

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-51504122890282792912007-04-24T10:38:00.000-04:002007-04-24T13:43:28.095-04:00

Victory is what happens when ten thousand hours of training meet one moment of opportunity.Coach Jason Hill, Beachwood High SchoolA certain student earned his 'exemplary young man' moniker yet again over the past year and a half as he transformed himself from a rather likable teddy bear to an affably self-assured lean mean competing machine. Last weekend he completed his first ever

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-85554845865629054912007-04-08T14:29:00.000-04:002007-04-09T14:41:04.308-04:00

Our minds are familial search engines. They know our clan, flash point quick. They feed us reliance, surround our doubt with possibility. Thoughts remand, remonstrate, remember. They play our questions like loquacious kin. Search ignites vast comfort within the complicated otherness of nature. She steps into the sea with brush and pallet, turns to her childhood coastline, carves her darks

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-89206760328119239212007-03-26T13:10:00.000-04:002007-03-26T13:35:27.951-04:00

The soft drink industry gets rich delivering recipes like this to your blood: carbonated water, caramel color, natural & artificial flavors, phosphoric acid, aspartame, potassium benzoate, citric acid, potassium citrate, caffeine, acesulfame potassium, calcium disodium edta.The American Heart Association tells us this about you:The human heart is one powerful pump, propelling six quarts of blood

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-61966322127633663022007-03-25T09:32:00.000-04:002007-03-25T09:45:22.506-04:00

It comes out of nowhere, and it feels like you've stepped out of yourself. Oh man! That's the best part about singing!Mary J. Blige, Rolling Stone 1018I probably think too much. I can be slow to act, relentless with perfection. I'm frivolous with smiles, though, and lavish with ink. I gravitate toward kindness and admire the humble soul. I'm patient with old people and charmed by certain

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-66073217699921924622007-03-02T18:15:00.000-05:002007-03-02T20:07:57.607-05:00

Luckily, I've always thought of myself as a musician more than a guitar player. Since I'm always changing as a person and my tastes are always changing, that is reflected in the ways I approach my instrument. I never feel like I'm running out of ideas, because it is clear to me -- music is infinite.-- John Frusciante (The Red Hot Chili Peppers), Rolling StoneIf music is as infinite as the

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20775713.post-1170087913088058272007-01-29T11:14:00.000-05:002007-01-29T11:25:13.103-05:00

Spent from sheer elation, my essence stretched around the open air of careful minds expanding. There sits my audience a breath away from sentient cousins once removed. Its members know but dare not name a certain yen for meaning. Some of them ignore the pangs. They reach for comfort food, the confluence of friends and conversation. Heady stuff, this syrupy concoction brings them high

Susan Weberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05755085287157674443noreply@blogger.com0