I was just poking around on Flickr, and found this photo of my friend David (aka Mrs. Vera) from this year's Pride. Mrs. Vera is actually a collaborative work between David and his partner Michael Johnstone, and you should totally check out their work here.
This is one of the things I love about living in San Francisco. Despite the high rents, despite the gentrification, there are still artists here, living and working and playing Ma Jongg on Mondays.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Thursday, June 29, 2006
hobnobbing
So I ran into Armistead Maupin the other day. Literally.
At least that's what I told my sister when I called her a few minutes later. I told her that we'd collided, and I'd said excuse me, and that a carful of men had ridden past in a converable, singing the 'lonely goatherd' song from The Sound of Music. This, I told her, was the reason I lived in the Castro. Stuff like this happens all the time.
In reality, there was a good three-foot saftey zone between the Armistead and I. We made passing eye contact, if even that. He was looking over something that looked like a bill, and I was regretting my shirt-choice and realizing I was late to work. No words were spoken, no limbs intertwined or even bumped. I didn't see the 'lonely goatherd' men until I went around the corner. Mary? Forgive me. I lied. I embellished.
But that's what writers do. We make the truth better. How do I know (well, besides the fact that I've been exaggerating since I learned how to talk)? Armistead told me (and a roomful of other writers) tonight, at the Novel Writing and Publshing Seminar at 826 Valencia. So there.
At least that's what I told my sister when I called her a few minutes later. I told her that we'd collided, and I'd said excuse me, and that a carful of men had ridden past in a converable, singing the 'lonely goatherd' song from The Sound of Music. This, I told her, was the reason I lived in the Castro. Stuff like this happens all the time.
In reality, there was a good three-foot saftey zone between the Armistead and I. We made passing eye contact, if even that. He was looking over something that looked like a bill, and I was regretting my shirt-choice and realizing I was late to work. No words were spoken, no limbs intertwined or even bumped. I didn't see the 'lonely goatherd' men until I went around the corner. Mary? Forgive me. I lied. I embellished.
But that's what writers do. We make the truth better. How do I know (well, besides the fact that I've been exaggerating since I learned how to talk)? Armistead told me (and a roomful of other writers) tonight, at the Novel Writing and Publshing Seminar at 826 Valencia. So there.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Uncanny Valley
A moth is sitting on my ring finger as I type this. It feels so strange -- not just tickly-strange, but unheimlich, like I'm breaking some deep-set and rooted taboo. Just my luck: sit down at my desk to finally write, next thing you know, I'm the Moth Bride.
Anyway. So I'm done with school. That might be fairly temporary though; I'm looking at a few grad programs (one a Ph.D, one yet another MFA), both of which have deadlines looming, both of which I might apply to. I say 'might' because I'm having trouble deciding which to go with, and because, well, I'm busy enough already.
Busy with what, you may ask, O imaginary reader. 'This and that,' I'd reply, and then we'd both sit and ponder how much of our lives are spent this-or-thating, and before you know it whole weeks dissapear out of the 'future' drawer, only to show up crammed inside in the overstuffed 'past' drawer and oh God the moth is going for my beer.
Anyway (did you know Brian has started counting how many 'anyways' it takes me to finally get to my point? Not all the time, that would be horrible, just sometimes, when I'm being especially pedantic and digressive). Anyway.
I have been busy. With the Day Job, which takes up an awful lot of air, despite only being 6 hours, thrice a week, and 3 hours, twice a week. And with getting ready for teaching next semester, which entails lots of reading & listening to lectures-on-tape, and basically giving myself my education thus far all over again, so that I don't feel underqualified. And with not writing, which takes up more time than you'd imagine.
Meanwhile summer's here, and even though seasons in San Francisco bear almost no resemblance to the ones I had growing up in Massachusetts, there's always that funny tug of memory when the weather changes (like the distinctive beach-ball smell of sunblock, which pulls me, for a moment, back into every summer day I've ever lived all at once).
And now I'm thinking about summer, and I've lost my train of thought entirely.
Anyway. So I'm done with school. That might be fairly temporary though; I'm looking at a few grad programs (one a Ph.D, one yet another MFA), both of which have deadlines looming, both of which I might apply to. I say 'might' because I'm having trouble deciding which to go with, and because, well, I'm busy enough already.
Busy with what, you may ask, O imaginary reader. 'This and that,' I'd reply, and then we'd both sit and ponder how much of our lives are spent this-or-thating, and before you know it whole weeks dissapear out of the 'future' drawer, only to show up crammed inside in the overstuffed 'past' drawer and oh God the moth is going for my beer.
Anyway (did you know Brian has started counting how many 'anyways' it takes me to finally get to my point? Not all the time, that would be horrible, just sometimes, when I'm being especially pedantic and digressive). Anyway.
I have been busy. With the Day Job, which takes up an awful lot of air, despite only being 6 hours, thrice a week, and 3 hours, twice a week. And with getting ready for teaching next semester, which entails lots of reading & listening to lectures-on-tape, and basically giving myself my education thus far all over again, so that I don't feel underqualified. And with not writing, which takes up more time than you'd imagine.
Meanwhile summer's here, and even though seasons in San Francisco bear almost no resemblance to the ones I had growing up in Massachusetts, there's always that funny tug of memory when the weather changes (like the distinctive beach-ball smell of sunblock, which pulls me, for a moment, back into every summer day I've ever lived all at once).
And now I'm thinking about summer, and I've lost my train of thought entirely.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Monday, April 17, 2006
Time travel
I just got this email. I've got to say, my timing's impeccable.
(The following is an e-mail from the past, composed on Sunday, April 17, 2005, and sent via FutureMe.org)
Dear FutureMe,
Well, I hope you have (almost finished) your mfa by now, and nothing in our life has changed drasticly for the worse. Brain's great, eh? Six years by now! You go, me!
Give my love to everyone,
Nora
(The following is an e-mail from the past, composed on Sunday, April 17, 2005, and sent via FutureMe.org)
Dear FutureMe,
Well, I hope you have (almost finished) your mfa by now, and nothing in our life has changed drasticly for the worse. Brain's great, eh? Six years by now! You go, me!
Give my love to everyone,
Nora
Friday, April 14, 2006
Lucky
So, last night when I finally crawled off to bed at around 4:00 or so (I don't know why I can't get to bed at a normal hour anymore, but that's topic for another day), I was thinking about how lucky Brian and I have been since we moved here. I've finished not one but three degrees, he's started making art again and found a studio space to do it in, we've made a whole new set of wonderful friends and reconnected with old ones whe had lost touch with, and -- the most astounding luck of all, we have lived for nearly a year now practically rent free, exchanging odd jobs and cat-sitting for our apartment.
This housing situation has made it possible for me to devote all my attention to school, for Brian to accept fewer web design jobs and work more on his sculptures, and has introduced us to yet another round of really great people, including our landlady Jana and our upstairs neighbor, Ira.
So, the class I'll be teaching at New College is just the latest in what seems like an endless stream of good news. And going to bed last night, I couldn't help but wonder, in that it's-4AM-and-God-I'm-tired way, if maybe we didn't deserve it. After all, I've made so many mistakes in my life, messed up so many good oppurtunities. Could the universe really still have such a store of good luck set aside for me? Shouldn't a meteor be hurtling towards us or something?
So when Brian woke me up this morning to tell me the cat was missing, I couldn't help but see it as fate's fickle finger pressing down. Nine-One-One -- the cat that is -- tends to be a homebody. He'll usually hang out in whatever room we're in when we're home, and when he does go outside (there's a cat door built in to the back door, and he can come and go at will) he usually just sticks to the porch or wanders into one of the adjoining yards. It's very, very rare that he won't come when he's called, particularly when we're holding treats.
But this morning he didn't come, and he didn't come. Brian and I scoured the house and yard, checking every place we thought a cat might get trapped, or (god forbid) hide if he were sick or wounded. We pressed our ear to the floor, listening for faint meows from the crawlspace below the house and poked through the construction site next door. I even checked the refirgerator, on the off chance that he'd jumped in when I got myself a glass of water before bed.
Finally, we just decided we'd have to wait, and that if he wasn't home by 3 or 4 this afternoon, we'd start printing up lost cat signs and knocking on neighbor's doors. We were hoping he'd just wandered in to someone else's kitchen, or maybe fallen asleep in a patch of sunlight too far from our yard to hear us calling. I tried to work on my thesis, but couldn't concentrate. Finally, I just decided to take a book and lie down for a while, hoping my nerves would settle.
I hadn't even made it through one chapter when the cat walked in, looking sheepish but otherwise fine. We picked him up and hugged him (and for once he didn't complain about being held) and fed him an obscene amount of treats. And he's here now, purring and snoring and generally being his awful cute self.
I guess we're just lucky.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Poetry Thursday, plus good news
First the good news: I just found out I will be teaching in the fall, a course called Revenge, Justice, & Civilization: The Trojan War & the Classical Tradition, which was honestly my favorite of the three proposals that I put together. I am very excited, and very nervous, and very very wound up right now.
So, with the Trojan War as our theme, here's an excerpt from Christopher Logue's All Day Permanent Red, his reinterpretation of the battle scenes from Homer's Iliad.
-------
Silence and light
The earth
And its attendant moon
(Neither of great importance
But beautiful and dignified)
Making their way around the sun.
Bread trucks have begun to stream
across the vast plateau,
fair skies, high cumulous cloud --
the birds are in full throat
as the sun lights up the east.
Who is it sees
Set in the north Agean sea, their coasts
Nosegays of seaweed tossing Ida's snow,
The Isles of Imbros and Samothrace?
And over there -- grapes ghosts and vocal grottoes --
Greece. Above it Macedon,
Its wooded folds declining til they meet
Those of Carpathia and Kagan Gorge,
Through which, fed by a hundred tributaries since
It crossed the northern instep of the Alps,
The Danuge reappears.
Eyes to Italy
(Where squirrels go from coast to coast and never touch the ground)
Then up, over her cyclorama peaks
Whose snow became before the fire before the wheele, the Rhine,
Below whose estuaries beneath an endless sky,
Sand baars and sabre grass, salt flats and travelling dunes
Lead west, until, green in their shallow sea
That falls away into the Atlantic deeps
He sees the Islands of the West.
He who? Why, God, of course.
Who sighs before He looks
Back to the ridge that is, save for a million footprints,
Empty now.
So, with the Trojan War as our theme, here's an excerpt from Christopher Logue's All Day Permanent Red, his reinterpretation of the battle scenes from Homer's Iliad.
-------
Silence and light
The earth
And its attendant moon
(Neither of great importance
But beautiful and dignified)
Making their way around the sun.
Bread trucks have begun to stream
across the vast plateau,
fair skies, high cumulous cloud --
the birds are in full throat
as the sun lights up the east.
Who is it sees
Set in the north Agean sea, their coasts
Nosegays of seaweed tossing Ida's snow,
The Isles of Imbros and Samothrace?
And over there -- grapes ghosts and vocal grottoes --
Greece. Above it Macedon,
Its wooded folds declining til they meet
Those of Carpathia and Kagan Gorge,
Through which, fed by a hundred tributaries since
It crossed the northern instep of the Alps,
The Danuge reappears.
Eyes to Italy
(Where squirrels go from coast to coast and never touch the ground)
Then up, over her cyclorama peaks
Whose snow became before the fire before the wheele, the Rhine,
Below whose estuaries beneath an endless sky,
Sand baars and sabre grass, salt flats and travelling dunes
Lead west, until, green in their shallow sea
That falls away into the Atlantic deeps
He sees the Islands of the West.
He who? Why, God, of course.
Who sighs before He looks
Back to the ridge that is, save for a million footprints,
Empty now.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Oh really I'm fine
I shouldn't blog while it's raining. It's never anything a break in the clouds and a walk through the puddles won't fix.
I've been having trouble with sleeping lately. Not with falling asleep, I can do that fine. I just can't seem to stop sleeping for hours on end.
At first I was staying up late working, going to bed at 4:00 AM and sleeping in til noon. But for the last week or so, it's been shifting. I'll go to bed earlier, but sleep til one. And waking, I won't feel particularly rested, as I seem to have the strangest dreams right before I wake up. The predominant theme of these dreams seems to be guilt (my own), and sometimes retribution (other people's). Also fish. I've always been afraid of fish.
Tune in next week for more Nora goes stark raving bonkers!
At first I was staying up late working, going to bed at 4:00 AM and sleeping in til noon. But for the last week or so, it's been shifting. I'll go to bed earlier, but sleep til one. And waking, I won't feel particularly rested, as I seem to have the strangest dreams right before I wake up. The predominant theme of these dreams seems to be guilt (my own), and sometimes retribution (other people's). Also fish. I've always been afraid of fish.
Tune in next week for more Nora goes stark raving bonkers!
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Heck, why not have poetry Sunday, then, too.
It is national poetry month, after all.
The Good-Morrow
John Donne
I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I
Did, till we lov'd? were we not wean'd till then ?
But suck'd on countrey pleasures, childishly ?
Or snorted we in the seaven sleepers den ?
T'was so ; but this, all plesures fanices bee.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desir'd, and got, t'was but a dream of thee
And now good morrow to our waking soules,
Which watch not one another out of feare ;
For love, all love of other sights controules,
And makes one litte room, an every where.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let Maps to other, worlds on worlds have showne,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
My face is thine eye, thine in mine appeares,
And true plaine hearts doe in the faces rest,
Where can we find two better hemispheares
Without sharp North, without declining West?
What ever dyes, was not mixt equally ;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die.
The Good-Morrow
John Donne
I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I
Did, till we lov'd? were we not wean'd till then ?
But suck'd on countrey pleasures, childishly ?
Or snorted we in the seaven sleepers den ?
T'was so ; but this, all plesures fanices bee.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desir'd, and got, t'was but a dream of thee
And now good morrow to our waking soules,
Which watch not one another out of feare ;
For love, all love of other sights controules,
And makes one litte room, an every where.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let Maps to other, worlds on worlds have showne,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.
My face is thine eye, thine in mine appeares,
And true plaine hearts doe in the faces rest,
Where can we find two better hemispheares
Without sharp North, without declining West?
What ever dyes, was not mixt equally ;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none doe slacken, none can die.
Friday, April 07, 2006
Day late Poetry Thursday
Time flies when you don't know what day it is...
Tom Clark
Artificial Light
Without it, what savage unsocial nights
Our ancestors must have spent! All those deadly
Winter nocturnes in caves and unillumined icy
Fastnesses: they must have laid around and
Grumbled at one another in the dark like the blind,
Fumbling each other's features for the wrinkle of a smile.
What tedious repartee must have passed! Perhaps
This accounts for the dullness of much archaic
Poetry, whose somber cast is notorious and must
Have derived from the traditions of those
Long unlanterned nights. Jokes came in with candles.
How did they see to pick up a pin, if they
Had any? How did they get dinner down? Think of
The mélange of chance carving that must have
Ensanguined dining after dusk! Lights out,
Not even love's what it's cracked up to be.
The senses absolutely give and take
Reciprocally. One wants to know whether that's
An elbow, a knee, or the night table
Before one returns the favor of a friendly nudge.
Wasn't it by the midnight taper all writers once digested
Their meditations? By that same light we ought
To approach them, if we ever expect to catch
The tiger-moth of inspiration that dances
In the word incandescent.
from Like Real People
Black Sparrow Press, Santa Rosa, Calif., 1995
Tom Clark
Artificial Light
Without it, what savage unsocial nights
Our ancestors must have spent! All those deadly
Winter nocturnes in caves and unillumined icy
Fastnesses: they must have laid around and
Grumbled at one another in the dark like the blind,
Fumbling each other's features for the wrinkle of a smile.
What tedious repartee must have passed! Perhaps
This accounts for the dullness of much archaic
Poetry, whose somber cast is notorious and must
Have derived from the traditions of those
Long unlanterned nights. Jokes came in with candles.
How did they see to pick up a pin, if they
Had any? How did they get dinner down? Think of
The mélange of chance carving that must have
Ensanguined dining after dusk! Lights out,
Not even love's what it's cracked up to be.
The senses absolutely give and take
Reciprocally. One wants to know whether that's
An elbow, a knee, or the night table
Before one returns the favor of a friendly nudge.
Wasn't it by the midnight taper all writers once digested
Their meditations? By that same light we ought
To approach them, if we ever expect to catch
The tiger-moth of inspiration that dances
In the word incandescent.
from Like Real People
Black Sparrow Press, Santa Rosa, Calif., 1995
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Hmmm
So here I am sitting in front of the computer at 4 AM, surfing the internet while my work sits untouched in a minimized window. And so I thought, why not take an online test for Adult ADD, because hey! There might be something to all that.
Incidentally, anyone know if those herbal remedies (hypnitol, Focus ADDult, etc) work?
Oh look, a peanut.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Poetry Thursday: Brian Teare
So I just found out about Poetry Thursday over at be present, be here, and decided that, it being Thursday, and poetry being on my mind, hey! I might as well join in.
This is a poem I just recently found online over at Blackbird. It's by Brian Teare, who just happens to be one of my favorite teachers over at New College, and whose work is just absurdly, intimidatingly good.
---
Lent Prayer
The way prayer is root to precarious : two crows creep
the steeple. Not winter,
not spring. Given a chance,
a season out of season will write
bastard pastoral, elegy
full of errant splendor and spent sheets of sleet, rain all spondaic
and unrelenting. Pallid nouns look familiar
but they're dead :
after thaw, after crocuses, even tulips : new snow, and robins
caught on a border without name, lost
to a scrim of frost, dozens
dead, each a lace of lice. The way soul has
no certain etymology, how weirdly what's rootless goes
wrong-like, fog
erasing syntax that holds
nouns in the sentence called landscape, looks like : streetlight tree
snowdrop stray-cat tow-truck leaves sidewalk snowmelt : except
what's visible
shifts, wind
arranging things,
the neighbor's lit window gone down the block like a dog
off its lead.
But all the small-town lights have left
for the Susquehanna
where they lean over water and rinse long-
billed birds into shallows, cattails
that shiver
the river like quills
sunk in dark ink. If I bring
to the banks what nouns I've found,
what of it?
Clean of scene they shine
in the mind like fish flick water open, switchblade-
quick : weathervane
horse-cart milk-pail police-tape
farmhouse snowplow : if
I put them back, I'll hate the tableaus
they make : cows
crapping in crabgrass; on Market St.,
little flags flapping; or two Amish girls
pressing curd through cloth;
dirty water. It's written :
the opera house burned
in 1906. What is it goes on living
in a town like this, between penitentiary and nicotine, the way form lives on
in both feign and fiction : arson
or accident, the plaque says this
is the original cornerstone : because
the root of error is wander,
who wouldn't want
out of a town so wrong? The current's fed under the bridge
like fabric to a sewing needle, each light
a small satin boat
stitched slow in folds.
Who wouldn't want to go
to them,
the lights? As prayer is
route to precarious, the river trembles on its treadle.
This is a poem I just recently found online over at Blackbird. It's by Brian Teare, who just happens to be one of my favorite teachers over at New College, and whose work is just absurdly, intimidatingly good.
---
Lent Prayer
The way prayer is root to precarious : two crows creep
the steeple. Not winter,
not spring. Given a chance,
a season out of season will write
bastard pastoral, elegy
full of errant splendor and spent sheets of sleet, rain all spondaic
and unrelenting. Pallid nouns look familiar
but they're dead :
after thaw, after crocuses, even tulips : new snow, and robins
caught on a border without name, lost
to a scrim of frost, dozens
dead, each a lace of lice. The way soul has
no certain etymology, how weirdly what's rootless goes
wrong-like, fog
erasing syntax that holds
nouns in the sentence called landscape, looks like : streetlight tree
snowdrop stray-cat tow-truck leaves sidewalk snowmelt : except
what's visible
shifts, wind
arranging things,
the neighbor's lit window gone down the block like a dog
off its lead.
But all the small-town lights have left
for the Susquehanna
where they lean over water and rinse long-
billed birds into shallows, cattails
that shiver
the river like quills
sunk in dark ink. If I bring
to the banks what nouns I've found,
what of it?
Clean of scene they shine
in the mind like fish flick water open, switchblade-
quick : weathervane
horse-cart milk-pail police-tape
farmhouse snowplow : if
I put them back, I'll hate the tableaus
they make : cows
crapping in crabgrass; on Market St.,
little flags flapping; or two Amish girls
pressing curd through cloth;
dirty water. It's written :
the opera house burned
in 1906. What is it goes on living
in a town like this, between penitentiary and nicotine, the way form lives on
in both feign and fiction : arson
or accident, the plaque says this
is the original cornerstone : because
the root of error is wander,
who wouldn't want
out of a town so wrong? The current's fed under the bridge
like fabric to a sewing needle, each light
a small satin boat
stitched slow in folds.
Who wouldn't want to go
to them,
the lights? As prayer is
route to precarious, the river trembles on its treadle.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Keep your fingers crossed
I just submitted some undergraduate course proposals for next semester. And I have so much bad undergraduate karma to work off, I don't even want to think about it. So wish me luck! Time spent teaching undergrads = less time in Purgatory.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Crazy, definitely crazy
So I've had this habit, for pretty much my entire academic life, of going completely stark raving bonkers as soon as any project nears completion. I sit around for hours, obsessing over my manifold failings: all the things I should have said but didn't, all the things I said and did that I shouldn't, the way my butt looks in these jeans, which are awful comfy, but sheesh, what am I thinking?
And so it is that now, as I'm scrambling to finish my thesis, which is due in less than a month, and get my reading done for this weekend, and I need to type up a paper for the class I'm taking with ZZ Packer(name drop! Woo hoo!), and write the course proposals that my poetry professor suggested I do (which I just found out must be in by this time next week), I find myself trolling through myspace and friendster, and friends blogs, and friends of friends blogs, and just wanting to send out a mass email screaming I'm just so sorry for not being the friend you wanted or needed. And I'm so sorry to have bothered you with this here apology. And this one, too.
Yup. Weirdo!
And so it is that now, as I'm scrambling to finish my thesis, which is due in less than a month, and get my reading done for this weekend, and I need to type up a paper for the class I'm taking with ZZ Packer(name drop! Woo hoo!), and write the course proposals that my poetry professor suggested I do (which I just found out must be in by this time next week), I find myself trolling through myspace and friendster, and friends blogs, and friends of friends blogs, and just wanting to send out a mass email screaming I'm just so sorry for not being the friend you wanted or needed. And I'm so sorry to have bothered you with this here apology. And this one, too.
Yup. Weirdo!
Friday, March 10, 2006
And this is how I feel right now
Unfocused at best. All eyes and no brain. An empty something something something.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
HAHAHAHA
This mural is on the side of one of the grocery stores in our neighborhood. It always makes me want to cackle in solidarity. Because I love bannanas and grapes too, and if I could enjoy them while busting through a wall, you know I would.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Monday, February 27, 2006
dreams are strange
Slept like a bump-on-a-frog-on-a-log-in-a-hole-in-the-bottom-of-the-sea after The World's Longest flight from Portland to San Francisco. Apparently,when it's really windy in SF, they close all but one runway at SFO, which means flights are delayed all over the world, and planes waiting for landing have to circle and circle and rise and fall and rise and fall in a dark foggy world lit by nothing save the blinking lights on their wings, and the passengers inside start to wonder if maybe they have died, and this is limbo, and if so, it's a good thing they thought to grab the new issue of the NewYorker before they boarded.
But anyway, we finally landed, and I was met by Brian, who had been getting worried because on the telescreens my flight had shown up as delayed delayed delayed before disappearing altogether, and he had thought I might have left this this dimension, too. And then I went home and slept the sleep of the not-dead-yet, I dreamed that I was watching a soap opera wherin a baby was brought back to life when someone was electricuted during a fight and knocked up against the cabinet in which its body was being kept, and the camera zoomed in on a headline which read Miracle Baby Found! Is Cleavland Next?
But anyway, we finally landed, and I was met by Brian, who had been getting worried because on the telescreens my flight had shown up as delayed delayed delayed before disappearing altogether, and he had thought I might have left this this dimension, too. And then I went home and slept the sleep of the not-dead-yet, I dreamed that I was watching a soap opera wherin a baby was brought back to life when someone was electricuted during a fight and knocked up against the cabinet in which its body was being kept, and the camera zoomed in on a headline which read Miracle Baby Found! Is Cleavland Next?
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