Weaving, backtracking, making do, jumping ahead, falling behind, bravado, self-doubt, small efforts, great leaps, failures, triumphs, all of it unfinished. We are all busy constructing our own crazy quilts.
Quilters are everywhere - in the arts, in science, in construction, healthcare and teaching - you name it. We’re all trying to take two steps forward and only one back.
My computer memory banks are over flowing with material, some published, some performed, some purchased, many, not. There are journal entries searching for meaning, musical compositions about Chinese folktales, the Pied Piper, the Hudson River, the stages of life, a long-form narrative poem about the King Phillip War (it’s true), a screenplay about an old lady fighting her kids, who want to put her in a home, sell her house and make a fortune, a few memoirs, paintings of birds and Bologna, pine trees and Paris and on and on into the night. And I’d like to get back to the piano - Gershwin, Brubeck; and the guitar! My bossa nova chops are rusty. The clock ticks faster than it used to. Ho boy.
I started this Substack adventure to try to catalog it all, for me and my kids, and whoever else might be interested - before I can no longer remember how to rummage around in my computer.
I am on a rich journey. The moment I come across some old mystery, the memories flood back, along with the quiet understanding that if it weren’t for my record, I never, ever would remember some of the details of those moment in my way-back machine.
Any of you who have kept a journal know well the amazement and delight with which we read ancient entries that contain specific details and descriptions that have long ago disappeared into the mist. And what a treasure it is to uncover it all!
I have to confess here that I have never made a crazy quilt, but I imagine that the creator remembers where every piece of fabric came from - favorite old jeans, the corner of a worn-out tablecloth, a child’s first t-shirt - every piece rich with memory.
I have accumulated stories, poems, essays, lists of ideas - work that I never got out the door. And now, I’ve begun to experience the joy and surprise of patching together pieces that weren’t meant for each other. This mash-up requires a bit of coaxing, reworking, a word here, a transition there. But not as much as you might imagine! Let them be odd bedfellows! Readers and listeners are free to make their own connections. Kathy Fish’s flash fiction assignment to insert an orange balloon into an already finished piece, was at first a turn-off, and then, a revelation. The balloon forced me to add complexity. I’m discovering the power of layers.
I was looking through old stuff and came across a few stories I wrote about ‘Aloysius’, shortly after I realized how to pronounce the name. I’d heard the correct pronunciation for years, but never connected it with that spelling.
Aloysius was calling to me.
THE ADVENTURES OF ALOYSIUS SCHWARTZ- MALLOY
Aloysius Schwartz-Malloy was born with a rhyme in his mouth. At first it seemed like a miraculous gift.
His mother tickled him under his chin,“Kootchi-kootchi-koo!”
Aloysius answered, “What’s a boy to do?”
Aloysius’s mother ran to get her husband.
“Listen, dear, Aloysius just spoke his first words…and they rhymed!”
Aloysius’s father went back to his newspaper.
His mother tried again, “Aloysius, are you mommy’s favorite little boy?”
“Oh joy for Swartz-Malloy!”
Aloysius’s father peered over the paper.
“What about ma-ma and da-da”? he asked.
“or goo-goo ga-ga,” squeaked Aloysius.
“Oh honey, our Aloysius’s a genius! A whiz!”
“Fizz, mizz, quiz, bizzzzz!”
“OK, Aloysius, dear, that’s enough.”
“Rough, stuff, cuff, muff, puff, buff…”
“Aloysius!”
“Hit-and-mish us!”
“STOP!”
“Pop!”
Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz-Malloy hoped young Aloysius would outgrow his problem but it only got worse. He drove the kids in the neighborhood crazy.
“Wanna come out and play?”
“Today? Olé! No Way! Tour jeté! Bananas flambé!
“So long, Al. Catch ya later.”
“Alligatah. Darth Vadah”
The cranky lady upstairs banged on the pipes and yelled, “Quiet!”
Aloysius yelled back, “Riot! Diet! Buy it! Fry it!”
Once when Aloysius’s father got stopped for speeding, the policeman asked “May I see your license and registration?”
“United Nation! Abomination! Recrimination!” screamed Aloysius from the back seat. The policeman didn’t know what he meant but he took Mr. Schwartz-Malloy away in handcuffs.
Aloysius’s parents were frantic. Finally, when he was five, they sent him to kindergarden hoping for the best. He came home on the early bus with a note from the principal. Would you please keep Aloysius home until further notice. He’s driving his teacher insane.
Aloysius’s father pounded his fist. His mother wailed, “WHERE DID WE GO WRONG?!?”
“Wanna sing a song?” chirped Aloysius.
“NO! Go to your room!”
“Boom, doom, tomb,” muttered Aloysius as he dragged himself upstairs.
Mrs. Schwartz-Molloy burst into tears.
“What’s to become of our sweet little Ally-oop? He’s driving everyone round the bend with his insipid rhyming! His life is ruined! He’ll be a total failure!!
Mr. Schwartz-Malloy scowled and clicked on the TV to escape his troubles.
ARE YOU TIRED OF SLAVING IN THE KITCHEN, WEARING YOURSELF OUT, CHOPPING VEGETABLES AND OTHER STUFF? WELL I HAVE JUST THE THING FOR YOU –THE SUPER-DUPER CHOPPER-DOPPER, WING-DING OF A THING-A-MA-JIG. IT SLICES, IT DICES, IT MAKES EVERYTHING EASY-PEASY! FROM FRENCH FRIES TO APPLE PIES!
For the first time in a long time, Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz-Molloy smiled. First thing the next morning, Mr. Schwartz-Molloy brought Aloysius to the downtown offices of the SWELL FELLAS ADVERTISING AGENCY to arrange for an audition.
“He’s a little young, Mr. Swartz-Molloy.”
“Oh, that’s all right. He learns quickly and he doesn’t want to go to school anyway.”
“Well, it IS a bit unorthodox…” mused Mr. Swell.
“Bag o’rocks! Bagels and lox! The hound and the fox!” Aloysius blurted enthusiastically
“He’s a genius,” waxed Mrs. Schwartz-Malloy.
“Well, we COULD use some help,” mused RB. “Our last copy boy rhymed rat with back. We had to let him go.”
“Oh no! backhoe! Down-bow! Jane Doe! Plateau! Scarecrow! Skid row! Unsew! Audio! Long ago! Eskimo! Navajo! Scorpio! Sloppy Joe! Status quo! UFO! Get-up-and-…”
Mr. S-M put his hand over his son’s mouth and smiled. “He can start right away.”
The inspiration for ALOYSIUS SCHWARTZ- MALLOY’s special gift rose out of the mist from a 78 record I listened to 143, 562 times when I was a kid. Just hearing the music brings me back to lying on the rug next to the little portable record player. And The Great Gildersleeve…Heaven can wait.
And if the squirrels don’t build a nest on the side porch (thank you Howard Garis and Uncle Wiggly), I’ll tell you next about Aloysius and his piano.
Be good to yourself and all the people around you and get out your needles and thread and start quilting!
To see more art, go to shop.sullyarts.com.
Forgot about the Uncle Wiggly sign-off, love that! And I love that you’re publishing all these, you must have SO MUCH just waiting to be read in your computer!
I'm afraid needle and thread aren't much on my radar. As Lord Wickensham III famously noted about the quilt his mother made for him: "It's a bloody job, quite!"
Personally, when it comes to what I'll call "repetition art" I have a thing for shingling walls. I've done a lot of it, since I was in my teens including a portion of my house here in Michigan. There's a certain satisfaction when you climb down off the ladder or scaffolding and see the day's work: fairly (emphasis on "fairly) neat rows of shingles. When I put them up (consider each a stitch, I guess) there's the kind of repetition that frees the mind to wander--it a wonderful task for people who write. Up close, however, each shingle is individual, having its own grain and knots and color variations. The beauty is in the details, the imperfections. But when you step back and look at the finished wall, there's unique reward in all that unity. True, you can't spread it on the bed, but when the winds howl off Lake Superior, my little house remains snug and tight.