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In times of old, The Furies protected Mother Right. If a mother (or any woman) was harmed, The Furies swooped down and took their vengeance. They were one of the last vestiges of a world that existed before the patriarchy. When we feel righteous anger, it is The Furies who are calling out to us to make what is wrong right again.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Dangers of E-Voting
Here's a good article on Wired News. I apologize ahead of time for the obnoxious banner which may or may not appear when you go to this site. I usually don't link to these kinds of places, but it's an important article. I scrolled the page up until the flashing banner was hidden, and then I could read the article. When I just went there to check this link, there was no banner. At the end of the article are links to other articles about electronic voting.
Boogie Chillun
I'm listening to The Best of Beau Jocque and the Zydeco Hi-Rollers. If you want to dance, there ain't hardly nuthin' better than zydeco. If I had more time I'd give you the history of zydeco music—but I've got about two minutes before I'm out the door. And since I'd have to research the history first...well, you get the idea. I don't know nuthin' 'bout zydeco 'cept they plays it in my native Louisiana. OK, maybe not native. I was born there, in an air force hospital that had been built over a drained swamp, because my father was in the service and we were living in Shreveport. I think we lived there until I was about half a year old. Then we moved to Texas. Yes, you heard it here first. I actually lived in Texas for about a year. My sister Kathleen was born there.
Anyway, the import of this post is that I have come to the inevitable conclusion that I can't keep up daily posting while I'm working on a novel. When I'm doing fiction, I need to concentrate on the story and can't be distracted by the politics of the day—at least not distracted enough to write about them. I haven't decided what to do. I'm hoping I can talk Mario into doing a post a week. Then if I do one or two, it should work out. I can always post short stories and essays I've written in the past. Maybe I'll do that once a week. If you all out there have any ideas. Let me know.
I'm dancin' out of here.
Anyway, the import of this post is that I have come to the inevitable conclusion that I can't keep up daily posting while I'm working on a novel. When I'm doing fiction, I need to concentrate on the story and can't be distracted by the politics of the day—at least not distracted enough to write about them. I haven't decided what to do. I'm hoping I can talk Mario into doing a post a week. Then if I do one or two, it should work out. I can always post short stories and essays I've written in the past. Maybe I'll do that once a week. If you all out there have any ideas. Let me know.
I'm dancin' out of here.
Free Speech for Anyone?
Did you hear the US has shut-down an anti-American newspaper in Iraq? Do you know how the Iraqis can tell the difference between the Bush regime and Saddam's regime? Less crime during Saddam's regime.
Also, the FEC in our own country is trying to make it illegal for non-profit groups to criticize Bush!
According to MoveOn.org, "The Republican National Committee is pressing the Federal Election Commission ("FEC") to issue new rules that would shut down groups that dare to communicate with the public in any way critical of President Bush or members of Congress. Incredibly, the FEC has just issued—for public comment—proposed rules that would do just that. Any kind of non-profit—conservative, progressive, labor, religious, secular, social service, charitable, educational, civic participation, issue-oriented, large, and small—could be affected by these rules. Operatives in Washington are displaying a terrifying disregard for the values of free speech and openness which underlie our democracy. Essentially, they are willing to pay any price to stop criticism of Bush administration policy. Your comment could be very important, because normally the FEC doesn't get much public feedback.
Public comments are encouraged at politicalcommitteestatus@fec.gov. Comments should be addressed to Ms. Mai T. Dinh, Acting Assistant General Counsel, and must include the full name, electronic mail address, and postal service address of the commenter."
Time to defend our rights, brothers and seesters!
Also, the FEC in our own country is trying to make it illegal for non-profit groups to criticize Bush!
According to MoveOn.org, "The Republican National Committee is pressing the Federal Election Commission ("FEC") to issue new rules that would shut down groups that dare to communicate with the public in any way critical of President Bush or members of Congress. Incredibly, the FEC has just issued—for public comment—proposed rules that would do just that. Any kind of non-profit—conservative, progressive, labor, religious, secular, social service, charitable, educational, civic participation, issue-oriented, large, and small—could be affected by these rules. Operatives in Washington are displaying a terrifying disregard for the values of free speech and openness which underlie our democracy. Essentially, they are willing to pay any price to stop criticism of Bush administration policy. Your comment could be very important, because normally the FEC doesn't get much public feedback.
Public comments are encouraged at politicalcommitteestatus@fec.gov. Comments should be addressed to Ms. Mai T. Dinh, Acting Assistant General Counsel, and must include the full name, electronic mail address, and postal service address of the commenter."
Time to defend our rights, brothers and seesters!
Up Again
It's the middle of the night. I've eaten an apple, a fried egg, and toast with garlic and olive oil on in. How decadent. The TV is on. Too wired to sleep, I guess. I slept for two hours and then came awake. Been thinking about something I learned today: the forest service is planning on spraying pesticides in four national forests in our area, including the Gifford-Pinchot where I hike every week. They're going to fly planes and dump the poisons and drive trucks and spray the poisons. We're supposed to give public comment, which I certainly will do, but I've never seen them change a position once they have decided what they want to do.
The Giff is where Falling Creek is. Mario and I hiked this trail all the way to the waterfall three times in six days. The last time was Monday. As we walked down the trail I heard a couple of birds making a fuss. I looked to my left to try and see the birds. Instead, on a thin bent tree about 15 feet up, I saw a bird about seven inches tall. She didn't fly away. I squinted and walked around the tree. The bird's head followed me. It was an owl! A Northern Pygmy owl. What a treat.
How can they even think of poisoning this place? This owl? (Me?)
I dreamed a woman was sprawled in the road, dead from a heart attack. No one could save her. Do you think she died of a broken heart? Well, I'm not going to die of a broken heart. I'm going to figure out what I can do about it—and how to live with it either way it goes.
The Giff is where Falling Creek is. Mario and I hiked this trail all the way to the waterfall three times in six days. The last time was Monday. As we walked down the trail I heard a couple of birds making a fuss. I looked to my left to try and see the birds. Instead, on a thin bent tree about 15 feet up, I saw a bird about seven inches tall. She didn't fly away. I squinted and walked around the tree. The bird's head followed me. It was an owl! A Northern Pygmy owl. What a treat.
How can they even think of poisoning this place? This owl? (Me?)
I dreamed a woman was sprawled in the road, dead from a heart attack. No one could save her. Do you think she died of a broken heart? Well, I'm not going to die of a broken heart. I'm going to figure out what I can do about it—and how to live with it either way it goes.
Coming to the Airwaves Near You!
Air America Radio, liberal talk radio, begins today. I wish them all the best! Let's see if America is listening.
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Choices
I don't understand why the women and men of this country are not standing on their heads screaming, "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!" The Bush Administration is slowly but absolutely eroding women's reproductive rights. Score another victory for them when last week the Senate passed the "Unborn Victims of Violence Act." The title sounds OK, doesn't it? Well, it's just one more legal step in overturning Roe v. Wade. This bill gives a fetus at any stage of development the same legal rights as a woman.
These are our bodies, women. They want to tell us what to do with our own bodies. Do you understand the import of that? They want to be able to tell us when we can have children, when we can work, when and with whom we can make love. There are so many reasons to stand up and make your views known and heard these days, and your body is one of the most important reasons. Who has dominion over your being, your body? If the right-wingers and George Dubya have their ways, it won't be you. Look at this photo of this rich white men signing away our reproductive rights. NOW has four suggestions about what we can do: contribute to their emergency fund, join the march in April in Washington, D.C., register to vote, and tell 10 friends about this issue.
It's your choice, for now. Stand up and defend it.
These are our bodies, women. They want to tell us what to do with our own bodies. Do you understand the import of that? They want to be able to tell us when we can have children, when we can work, when and with whom we can make love. There are so many reasons to stand up and make your views known and heard these days, and your body is one of the most important reasons. Who has dominion over your being, your body? If the right-wingers and George Dubya have their ways, it won't be you. Look at this photo of this rich white men signing away our reproductive rights. NOW has four suggestions about what we can do: contribute to their emergency fund, join the march in April in Washington, D.C., register to vote, and tell 10 friends about this issue.
It's your choice, for now. Stand up and defend it.
Monday, March 29, 2004
War of the Fanatics
Here's that essay I wrote about the 9/11 hearings, Richard Clarke's book, and the parallels between al Qaeda and the Bush Administration.
Does any of the following sound familiar to you? Americans celebrated the end of a war and cheered a very popular king. It soon became apparent that the war had depleted the kingdom's coffers. So the king passed a series of restrictive measures. The Americans could not import goods from any place but Britain. To stop smuggling, the prime minister set up new courts which didn't give people their usual rights: like trial by jury. Plus officials could now search ships, stores, houses, and warehouses if they suspected something had been smuggled. The Brits also imposed new taxes. The Americans got pissed off and a revolution was born. I read all this and thought, "Hmmmm."
Does any of the following sound familiar to you? Americans celebrated the end of a war and cheered a very popular king. It soon became apparent that the war had depleted the kingdom's coffers. So the king passed a series of restrictive measures. The Americans could not import goods from any place but Britain. To stop smuggling, the prime minister set up new courts which didn't give people their usual rights: like trial by jury. Plus officials could now search ships, stores, houses, and warehouses if they suspected something had been smuggled. The Brits also imposed new taxes. The Americans got pissed off and a revolution was born. I read all this and thought, "Hmmmm."
Sunday, March 28, 2004
Enchanted
Hope you all have been having the times of your lives. I have had a very nice few days off with Mario. On Thursday, I lounged around the house all day because it was raining. Mario made paella and cake. The night before I had gone to a local women's gathering and invited four of my friends over for my birthday dinner on Thursday, so at some time after five they began coming over. We ate organic salad and organic paella while we talked mostly about politics and the state of our world. The conversation was relaxed, intelligent, lively.
Afterward, we had cake and ice cream. I have not had cake for my birthday in about twenty years, so I decided it was OK to try it this year. We found cake and icing mixes at New Seasons—even the sugar was organic. We had regular ice cream for our guests and soy ice cream for Mario and myself. One truly appreciates birthday cake when one hasn't had it in two decades! It was my friend Evine's 83rd birthday on Friday, so the cake and the Happy Birthday song was for her, too.
Then we watched Enchanted April, one of my favorite movies, about four English women who rent an Italian villa for the month of April. It's quite lovely. My friends were charmed. When the movie was over, we all talked for a long while about many things.
I was supposed to start writing my novel Lady Liberty on my birthday, but I didn't. I needed to do more research.
Friday Mario and I dashed into Portland and bought books at Powell's. I love books. What can I say? Sometimes I just stand in Powell's and look around and breathe in all the stories. So many books. So many beautiful books and awesome stories. I looked for my book in the new fiction, but it was not there. I don't really understand my bad luck with publishers and publishing. I bought books on American history—more research for Lady Liberty, plus Richard Clarke's Against All Enemies. Since the White House is foaming at the mouth about this book, I had to read it. After Powell's we went to Thai Noon for lunch. It's one of my favorite ways to spend a day: with Mario at a bookstore, then eating great food.
Saturday I read the Clarke book while listening to the 9/11 hearings again. I had seen (heard) most of the hearings on Tuesday and Wednesday. I was shocked and appalled by the tenor of the questions. The commissioners seemed quite blood thirsty to me. I kept thinking of the international audiences watching these hearings. All their suspicions about us being a country of war mongers would have been confirmed.
Clarke's book was enlightening. Although I doubt Mr. Clarke and I would agree on many things, I thought he was fair—at least as far as I could tell. He showed that the Bush Administration wanted to attack Iraq long before 9/11. They also didn't seem to understand the terrorist threat. The facts presented in the book made me nervous. Although I have been extremely critical of Bush, I hope I am wrong about many of the things I believe about him. I was critical of Clinton, too. I thought he used force too often, but there are so many things I don't know or understand. I thought Clinton should have been impeached for bombing Sudan; at the time, I thought it was a "wag the dog" scenario to distract us from the Monica Lewinsky crap. According to Clarke, this was not the case. Anyway, if Clarke is to be believed, the FBI and CIA couldn't find the ground beneath their feet—and Bush has fumbled everything since 9/11. I wrote an essay about it. I'll try to post it later.
Today we returned to Falling Creek. The gate was still open, so we drove to the trailhead and walked to the waterfall. Ahhhh, bliss!
Now I'm sitting at my desk. Mario is in the other room reading Cadillac Desert by Marc Reisner. While we were on the trail today, Mario told me about the book—how Los Angeles got its water. Mario is good at retelling what he has read. Usually we don't talk much on the trail, but every once in a while, Mario has a book he wants to talk about. So while we walk through the old growth, my husband tells me tales. He is good at extracting the interesting parts of a tale. When we were first married and living in Bandon, Oregon, he was reading Christine by Stephen King. He would finish a bit and then tell me about it. The story was getting so good that I picked up the book after he had gone to work one day and started reading. I was disgusted and immediately called him to tell him that he and Stephen King were twisted and perverted. He laughed and said he had been telling me the good parts version. (I greatly admire Stephen King and his writing, but I can't read horror. I can write it, but I can't read it.)
I've spent most of the rest of the day eating frozen bananas and reading about how Americans lived during the 1790's.
So this is the long way of saying I have no news or no new writing tonight to share. The new Journal of Mythic Arts is now posted. Mario and I both have poems in it. You might want to check that out. And, of course, I have posted twenty more pages of Her Frozen Wild on my website.
May You Walk in Beauty!
Afterward, we had cake and ice cream. I have not had cake for my birthday in about twenty years, so I decided it was OK to try it this year. We found cake and icing mixes at New Seasons—even the sugar was organic. We had regular ice cream for our guests and soy ice cream for Mario and myself. One truly appreciates birthday cake when one hasn't had it in two decades! It was my friend Evine's 83rd birthday on Friday, so the cake and the Happy Birthday song was for her, too.
Then we watched Enchanted April, one of my favorite movies, about four English women who rent an Italian villa for the month of April. It's quite lovely. My friends were charmed. When the movie was over, we all talked for a long while about many things.
I was supposed to start writing my novel Lady Liberty on my birthday, but I didn't. I needed to do more research.
Friday Mario and I dashed into Portland and bought books at Powell's. I love books. What can I say? Sometimes I just stand in Powell's and look around and breathe in all the stories. So many books. So many beautiful books and awesome stories. I looked for my book in the new fiction, but it was not there. I don't really understand my bad luck with publishers and publishing. I bought books on American history—more research for Lady Liberty, plus Richard Clarke's Against All Enemies. Since the White House is foaming at the mouth about this book, I had to read it. After Powell's we went to Thai Noon for lunch. It's one of my favorite ways to spend a day: with Mario at a bookstore, then eating great food.
Saturday I read the Clarke book while listening to the 9/11 hearings again. I had seen (heard) most of the hearings on Tuesday and Wednesday. I was shocked and appalled by the tenor of the questions. The commissioners seemed quite blood thirsty to me. I kept thinking of the international audiences watching these hearings. All their suspicions about us being a country of war mongers would have been confirmed.
Clarke's book was enlightening. Although I doubt Mr. Clarke and I would agree on many things, I thought he was fair—at least as far as I could tell. He showed that the Bush Administration wanted to attack Iraq long before 9/11. They also didn't seem to understand the terrorist threat. The facts presented in the book made me nervous. Although I have been extremely critical of Bush, I hope I am wrong about many of the things I believe about him. I was critical of Clinton, too. I thought he used force too often, but there are so many things I don't know or understand. I thought Clinton should have been impeached for bombing Sudan; at the time, I thought it was a "wag the dog" scenario to distract us from the Monica Lewinsky crap. According to Clarke, this was not the case. Anyway, if Clarke is to be believed, the FBI and CIA couldn't find the ground beneath their feet—and Bush has fumbled everything since 9/11. I wrote an essay about it. I'll try to post it later.
Today we returned to Falling Creek. The gate was still open, so we drove to the trailhead and walked to the waterfall. Ahhhh, bliss!
Now I'm sitting at my desk. Mario is in the other room reading Cadillac Desert by Marc Reisner. While we were on the trail today, Mario told me about the book—how Los Angeles got its water. Mario is good at retelling what he has read. Usually we don't talk much on the trail, but every once in a while, Mario has a book he wants to talk about. So while we walk through the old growth, my husband tells me tales. He is good at extracting the interesting parts of a tale. When we were first married and living in Bandon, Oregon, he was reading Christine by Stephen King. He would finish a bit and then tell me about it. The story was getting so good that I picked up the book after he had gone to work one day and started reading. I was disgusted and immediately called him to tell him that he and Stephen King were twisted and perverted. He laughed and said he had been telling me the good parts version. (I greatly admire Stephen King and his writing, but I can't read horror. I can write it, but I can't read it.)
I've spent most of the rest of the day eating frozen bananas and reading about how Americans lived during the 1790's.
So this is the long way of saying I have no news or no new writing tonight to share. The new Journal of Mythic Arts is now posted. Mario and I both have poems in it. You might want to check that out. And, of course, I have posted twenty more pages of Her Frozen Wild on my website.
May You Walk in Beauty!
Thursday, March 25, 2004
I Love Jon Stewart
If you haven't watched The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, do it NOW! He has the best political commentary around. I hope you can view this clip; it's great.
Noam has a blog!
Noam Chomsky now has his own weblog. Ain't that cool? It's called Turning the Tide. Go, Mr. Chomsky!
Coyote Cowgirl Reborn
Fed Ex just pulled up and deposited on my doorstep ten copies of the new Coyote Cowgirl, now out in trade paperback. $14.95. It's beautiful! I love it. I don't think they did any advertising. As far as I can tell, it doesn't even show up in any catalogs, so it's bound not to sell. But what the hell: it is beautiful, it's a good story, and I'm happy about that.
Good Day!
I wrote the essay below as I was listening to the Senate debate this "Unborn Victims" bill which is purported to protect women and unborn children from crime. If it passes, it will further erode Roe v. Wade, I believe—as does Diane Feinstein. One Senator stood up and showed blown-up photographs of his dead baby. Bleck!
This essay was also inspired by an online conversation I was having with members of our local peace group about who we were going to vote for in November.
Hope you're all having a great day!
This essay was also inspired by an online conversation I was having with members of our local peace group about who we were going to vote for in November.
Hope you're all having a great day!
The Lie
I have heard progressives and other left-leaning people say they cannot in good conscience “hold their noses” and vote for the lesser of two evils in this next presidential election. They say they will either abstain from voting or vote for Ralph Nader. I respect and understand these points of view. However, I think we--as citizens of this planet--need to frankly assess the consequences of our actions. Isn’t voting for Ralph Nader or abstaining from voting essentially voting for George W. Bush? Can we survive five more years of Bush?
This conundrum reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend recently. My friend claimed she would not lie under any circumstances. She said there was never a good reason to lie. I asked, "What if you were living in Nazi Germany and the Nazis came for you and your family and all you had to do was tell a lie to save yourselves, wouldn't you lie then?" She said "No, I wouldn’t lie even then."
I was flabbergasted by her response. I wondered how she could allow herself and her children to die (even hypothetically) because she decided the worst thing she could do was lie. I see the situation we are facing in this country as similar. Is voting for John Kerry the worst thing we can do?
On the Senate floor today, Senators are debating the “Unborn Victims of Violence Act.” If passed, it would make it a federal crime to kill or injure a fetus--at any stage of development--during the commission of a federal crime. Senator Feinstein argued that this bill is part of the anti-abortionists’ strategy to setup legal “beachheads” for the rights of fetuses--the ultimate end being the overturning of Roe v. Wade. This is the second round for this bill; Senator DeWine tried to get it passed during the Clinton era and failed.
This bill is part of the war going on in our country. It is a stealth war which may be won without a shot fired. While the media and the public are focused on the war in Iraq--for good reasons--and the problems with the economy, the right-wing fundamentalists who are running our government are systematically waging a culture war. One of the primary focuses of their attacks are the rights of women.
John Ashcroft is asking for and getting hospital records of women who have received abortions. Although judges in California and Chicago have said “no way” to the AG, a Manhattan judge recently ordered a New York hospital to turn over their abortion records to the Justice Department.
In 2003, Congress passed and Bush signed the so-called "Partial Birth" Abortion Ban which had no exception to protect a woman’s health. It is the first federal ban on an abortion since Roe v. Wade.
This war is not only happening at the federal level. According to the National Organization for Women, “A virtual tidal wave of anti-abortion and anti-contraception legislation sweeping across the 50 states has resulted in 380 state laws since 1995 that restrict access to reproductive health services. Many more restrictive bills are being considered now that most state houses and senates are controlled by anti-reproductive rights majorities.”
The Bush administration has taken this war worldwide. The United States was the only member of a United Nations Commission on the Status of Women to reject a resolution that would have helped protect women and children against hostage taking, rape, and sexual slavery. Why the rejection? The Bush administration refuses to support or fund any organization or clinic which allows sex education. The administration could not get the words “reproductive health” and “condoms” struck from the resolution so they rejected it.
Women are the majority in this country. We need to wake up and understand what this administration is trying to take away from us: the right to have control over our own bodies. If we get out and vote en masse, we can decide which way this election goes.
For many progressives, John Kerry is not liberal enough. However, if you look at Kerry’s record on women’s issues, Kerry has voted progressively. Perhaps if enough of us press Kerry and the Democratic mainstream, we can keep him from wandering any more toward the center; we can get him to embrace the liberal ideas we hold so dearly.
So I ask the question again: Is voting for John Kerry the worst thing we can do, or is it the best thing we can do? Kerry may be the lesser of two bad choices; however, choosing him may save the world. It may not, but that's the chance I'm going to take. I don't see how we can come back from five more years of George Bush. I suppose, if I think of my friend, voting for Kerry is a lie I am willing to tell.
This conundrum reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend recently. My friend claimed she would not lie under any circumstances. She said there was never a good reason to lie. I asked, "What if you were living in Nazi Germany and the Nazis came for you and your family and all you had to do was tell a lie to save yourselves, wouldn't you lie then?" She said "No, I wouldn’t lie even then."
I was flabbergasted by her response. I wondered how she could allow herself and her children to die (even hypothetically) because she decided the worst thing she could do was lie. I see the situation we are facing in this country as similar. Is voting for John Kerry the worst thing we can do?
On the Senate floor today, Senators are debating the “Unborn Victims of Violence Act.” If passed, it would make it a federal crime to kill or injure a fetus--at any stage of development--during the commission of a federal crime. Senator Feinstein argued that this bill is part of the anti-abortionists’ strategy to setup legal “beachheads” for the rights of fetuses--the ultimate end being the overturning of Roe v. Wade. This is the second round for this bill; Senator DeWine tried to get it passed during the Clinton era and failed.
This bill is part of the war going on in our country. It is a stealth war which may be won without a shot fired. While the media and the public are focused on the war in Iraq--for good reasons--and the problems with the economy, the right-wing fundamentalists who are running our government are systematically waging a culture war. One of the primary focuses of their attacks are the rights of women.
John Ashcroft is asking for and getting hospital records of women who have received abortions. Although judges in California and Chicago have said “no way” to the AG, a Manhattan judge recently ordered a New York hospital to turn over their abortion records to the Justice Department.
In 2003, Congress passed and Bush signed the so-called "Partial Birth" Abortion Ban which had no exception to protect a woman’s health. It is the first federal ban on an abortion since Roe v. Wade.
This war is not only happening at the federal level. According to the National Organization for Women, “A virtual tidal wave of anti-abortion and anti-contraception legislation sweeping across the 50 states has resulted in 380 state laws since 1995 that restrict access to reproductive health services. Many more restrictive bills are being considered now that most state houses and senates are controlled by anti-reproductive rights majorities.”
The Bush administration has taken this war worldwide. The United States was the only member of a United Nations Commission on the Status of Women to reject a resolution that would have helped protect women and children against hostage taking, rape, and sexual slavery. Why the rejection? The Bush administration refuses to support or fund any organization or clinic which allows sex education. The administration could not get the words “reproductive health” and “condoms” struck from the resolution so they rejected it.
Women are the majority in this country. We need to wake up and understand what this administration is trying to take away from us: the right to have control over our own bodies. If we get out and vote en masse, we can decide which way this election goes.
For many progressives, John Kerry is not liberal enough. However, if you look at Kerry’s record on women’s issues, Kerry has voted progressively. Perhaps if enough of us press Kerry and the Democratic mainstream, we can keep him from wandering any more toward the center; we can get him to embrace the liberal ideas we hold so dearly.
So I ask the question again: Is voting for John Kerry the worst thing we can do, or is it the best thing we can do? Kerry may be the lesser of two bad choices; however, choosing him may save the world. It may not, but that's the chance I'm going to take. I don't see how we can come back from five more years of George Bush. I suppose, if I think of my friend, voting for Kerry is a lie I am willing to tell.
The Last Joke
This is my favorite joke, although it really is more than a joke. It says something very profound and funny about life, I think! Enjoy the day.
Ira went into the synagogue and said, "God, I'm 90 years old. I'm an old man. I have never asked for anything, but I am now asking you for this. I want to win the lottery, so that I can die a rich and happy man. How about it, God?"
Ira shuffled back to his apartment. Friday, the day they announced the lottery winners, came and went. Ira returned to the synagogue and said loudly, "God, I'm thinking maybe you didn't hear me clearly. We're both getting on in age. I've never asked you for anything before, but I'm asking you now. I want to win the lottery. I want to at least die a rich man."
Ira went back home, certain he had made his point. Friday came and went again, and Ira returned to the synagogue. This time, he was angry.
"All right, God. I've asked you for one lousy favor my entire life! I just want to win the lottery. Can't you grant me this one wish?"
Suddenly, he heard a voice from above. "Ira," the voice said. "Help me out. Buy a ticket."
Ira went into the synagogue and said, "God, I'm 90 years old. I'm an old man. I have never asked for anything, but I am now asking you for this. I want to win the lottery, so that I can die a rich and happy man. How about it, God?"
Ira shuffled back to his apartment. Friday, the day they announced the lottery winners, came and went. Ira returned to the synagogue and said loudly, "God, I'm thinking maybe you didn't hear me clearly. We're both getting on in age. I've never asked you for anything before, but I'm asking you now. I want to win the lottery. I want to at least die a rich man."
Ira went back home, certain he had made his point. Friday came and went again, and Ira returned to the synagogue. This time, he was angry.
"All right, God. I've asked you for one lousy favor my entire life! I just want to win the lottery. Can't you grant me this one wish?"
Suddenly, he heard a voice from above. "Ira," the voice said. "Help me out. Buy a ticket."
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
Hilaria Day Eve
Sorry this is so late; it was a crazy day. Mario is better at telling this joke than I am. So I'm turning it over to him. He told me this joke on St. Patrick's Day. I don't know why people tell me all these Irish drinking jokes on St. Patty's Day. I don't drink....Maybe I should.
Sean and Mike are at the local pub having a few beers.
"Are you from here?" says Sean.
"Oh my, yes," says Mike. "I grew up right here in this town."
"Is that a fact? So did I. Tell me, what school did you go to?"
"St. Mary's."
"Heavens," says Sean. "So did I."
"That's amazing," says Mike. "When did you graduate?"
"It was 1964."
"Incredible! I graduated in 1964 too. Tell me this. Who was your first grade teacher?"
"Why it was Mrs. Kelly," says Mike, "as I live and breathe."
"What an amazing coincidence. Mrs. Kelly was my teacher too."
"Saints alive," says Mike. "That is amazing."
The bar maid overhears all this as she serves them another round. She goes to the back room and says, "It's going to be a long night. The Murphy twins are drinking again."
Sean and Mike are at the local pub having a few beers.
"Are you from here?" says Sean.
"Oh my, yes," says Mike. "I grew up right here in this town."
"Is that a fact? So did I. Tell me, what school did you go to?"
"St. Mary's."
"Heavens," says Sean. "So did I."
"That's amazing," says Mike. "When did you graduate?"
"It was 1964."
"Incredible! I graduated in 1964 too. Tell me this. Who was your first grade teacher?"
"Why it was Mrs. Kelly," says Mike, "as I live and breathe."
"What an amazing coincidence. Mrs. Kelly was my teacher too."
"Saints alive," says Mike. "That is amazing."
The bar maid overhears all this as she serves them another round. She goes to the back room and says, "It's going to be a long night. The Murphy twins are drinking again."
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Wild Child
I hope you are all having a great week. On Monday, Mario and I went to Catherine Creek, a patch of land east of White Salmon, Washington. On the south side of the road, a paved trail leads you around the landscape and signs describe the wildflowers. On the north side of the road, the trail is a bit more untamed. Still, it used to be a ranch, and cattle and sheep decimated the wildflowers. It's like a little miracle to come here from February through June and see the different wildflowers blooming at different times. Some have blossoms as tiny as the head of a pin. Others are huge plants, like the wild parsley. They look like heads of frizzy light green hair with purple (or green) flowers poked into them.
We stopped at one point and sat on a bench overlooking Catherine Creek. To the southwest of us was Mount Hood. The sky was completely clear, pale blue. The creek, which will be dry by June, spilled down the scrubland into a pool beneath our viewpoint. A meadow lark sang from one of the ponderosa pine trees. Above, a red-tailed hawk circled. I lay my head on Mario's lap and listened to the water fall into the pool and was happy as a clam. (What does that mean? Are clams particularly happy? How would anyone know?)
Today, we drove out to Falling Creek, which is in the Giff. They don't open the gate until April 1st, but we hoped to park near the gate and walk in. Last week it had been too snowy, but today we were surprised to find the snow almost all melted. We drove up to the gate and discovered it was open, so we kept driving. The road was clear of snow and most of the blowdown. We met the sheriff's truck; they had been clearing the road. He told us he had forgotten to lock the gate, but it was OK for us to keep going. I was so excited. Falling Creek is one of my favorite places to go. One summer I hiked it one to three times a week. Last summer I wasn't able to hike it much because I was ill. I figured the gate being open was a good sign.
The first thing I did after getting out of the car—besides peeing—was to say a little blessing and ask permission to enter the forest. I figured it was only polite.
(I want to say something about relieving oneself in the woods right here and now—especially to women. It is disgusting and sickening and polluting to leave your toilet paper all over the forest. STOP IT!!! Just shake it off, ladies. It'll dry. If you have to do anything besides urinate, either take it out with you in a plastic baggie or dig a freaking hole and bury it six inches down. That goes for your dogs' poo, too. Poop pollutes. Yes, wild animals defecate in the forest, but they don't have the same bacteria or all the different chemical residues which we leave behind in our crapola.)
Moving right along...
I'm often at a loss on how to describe what it's like being out in Nature. To me it is always a profound and ordinary experience. I grew up in the country, so being in the wilds—albeit relatively tame wilds—feels natural. Although being in the forests of the Pacific Northwest is a bit different than being on my 80 acres of "wildness" back in Michigan. Out here, you have to be alert for ticks, bears, cougars, and the like. And I am. I am always aware of sounds and sights which might tell me a predator is near. Fresh scat is one sign. Teeth marks on the cambium beneath the bark of a tree, still oozing from the injury, is another sign. Today we found only elk scat.
Falling Creek is an old growth forest. As we walked, we looked up at Douglas firs that were three and four hundred years old, leaning toward old and gorgeous cedars. We also encountered many trees that had fallen over during the winter. At this time of year, the forest is just beginning to realize it is spring. The buds on trees are starting to unfold, ever so slightly. The Oregon grape stays green and shiny all year round. The rest is still dormant. In a week or so, the ferns will begin to rise, along with vanilla leaf, trillium, violets. Now, the forest floor was all humus, fertile ground for whatever grows there.
Mario and I walked the trail this morning, breathing in the old forest. I was absolutely giddy with joy. The trail is 1.7 miles to the waterfall, where it ends. Then you have to turn around and come back. On the way to the falls, the trail is up. Up. Up. No rest for the wicked. Or anyone else. It took me a long time to be able to walk this trail. Even these days, I don't always make it. I get dizzy or have trouble breathing, or just run out of stamina. Today, I almost ran up the trail. What a difference a few months and some drugs will do ya! (Last summer I didn't realize I was fighting a staph infection from a bug bite—or something—on my back. Then it blew up, I went to the hospital, and they gave me antibiotics which gave me hives. I could barely stand to wear clothes. I walked around the house naked for weeks, my back looking like elephant skin. It itched so badly I couldn't sleep and often curled up into a ball and wept. But I'm sure I've told you this little tale before.)
Anyway, I was so relieved I was able to walk the trail. Up and around. Stopping to chug water. Listening. Reaching out to touch the old ones. What is it like to be in one place for hundreds of years? The things you must know.
I could hear the first waterfall before I saw it. Up.
We came to railroad ties. We don't know why, but a pile of railroad ties sits on the curve of the trail near a plastic bridge. When I see the ties, when I know I can make it to them, then I know I can make it to the waterfalls. We kept going and stood on the bridge watching milk white water tumble over bright green moss-covered boulders to fall beneath us.
Up and up. Around.
Now I could hear the three-tiered waterfalls which marked the end to this trail. We stood on a spot on the trail where we could see the waterfalls and the white creek beneath it. Then we continued walking. I always wondered at this point in the trail—where forest gave way a bit to cliffs and caves above us—if cougar or bear watched us. I murmured, "I don't taste good. Pretty much skin and bones. I blame the flu, but there you have it. Maybe next time."
Then up and over. Thunder. The water fell over the tiers, then free fell for a hundred feet or so, before slamming into the pool and becoming the body of the creek. Mist rose from it all. Mario and I held hands and watched. Usually at this time of year, the creek and waterfalls were more swollen with snowmelt than they were today. We wondered if this meant we were in for a drought, or if the snow had not melted yet. We ate apples, then wrapped the cores in a towel and returned them to our backpack.
I squatted close to the Earth and breathed in the place: the blue sky, clouds sweeping across it like the white hair of some unseen giant; the huge damp boulders resting on the ground we stood upon, like toys that same giant had tossed down from the mountainside; mist rising like breath on a cold morning, or water coaxed into steam by a seductive sun; the white water streaming over the rock like moving icing over an earth-colored wedding cake; Mario and me still with wonder. When I stood again, pulled up by Mario's hand reaching for mine, I hoped I could convey to you the absolute beauty of it all.
So I breathe it back out again for you.
We stopped at one point and sat on a bench overlooking Catherine Creek. To the southwest of us was Mount Hood. The sky was completely clear, pale blue. The creek, which will be dry by June, spilled down the scrubland into a pool beneath our viewpoint. A meadow lark sang from one of the ponderosa pine trees. Above, a red-tailed hawk circled. I lay my head on Mario's lap and listened to the water fall into the pool and was happy as a clam. (What does that mean? Are clams particularly happy? How would anyone know?)
Today, we drove out to Falling Creek, which is in the Giff. They don't open the gate until April 1st, but we hoped to park near the gate and walk in. Last week it had been too snowy, but today we were surprised to find the snow almost all melted. We drove up to the gate and discovered it was open, so we kept driving. The road was clear of snow and most of the blowdown. We met the sheriff's truck; they had been clearing the road. He told us he had forgotten to lock the gate, but it was OK for us to keep going. I was so excited. Falling Creek is one of my favorite places to go. One summer I hiked it one to three times a week. Last summer I wasn't able to hike it much because I was ill. I figured the gate being open was a good sign.
The first thing I did after getting out of the car—besides peeing—was to say a little blessing and ask permission to enter the forest. I figured it was only polite.
(I want to say something about relieving oneself in the woods right here and now—especially to women. It is disgusting and sickening and polluting to leave your toilet paper all over the forest. STOP IT!!! Just shake it off, ladies. It'll dry. If you have to do anything besides urinate, either take it out with you in a plastic baggie or dig a freaking hole and bury it six inches down. That goes for your dogs' poo, too. Poop pollutes. Yes, wild animals defecate in the forest, but they don't have the same bacteria or all the different chemical residues which we leave behind in our crapola.)
Moving right along...
I'm often at a loss on how to describe what it's like being out in Nature. To me it is always a profound and ordinary experience. I grew up in the country, so being in the wilds—albeit relatively tame wilds—feels natural. Although being in the forests of the Pacific Northwest is a bit different than being on my 80 acres of "wildness" back in Michigan. Out here, you have to be alert for ticks, bears, cougars, and the like. And I am. I am always aware of sounds and sights which might tell me a predator is near. Fresh scat is one sign. Teeth marks on the cambium beneath the bark of a tree, still oozing from the injury, is another sign. Today we found only elk scat.
Falling Creek is an old growth forest. As we walked, we looked up at Douglas firs that were three and four hundred years old, leaning toward old and gorgeous cedars. We also encountered many trees that had fallen over during the winter. At this time of year, the forest is just beginning to realize it is spring. The buds on trees are starting to unfold, ever so slightly. The Oregon grape stays green and shiny all year round. The rest is still dormant. In a week or so, the ferns will begin to rise, along with vanilla leaf, trillium, violets. Now, the forest floor was all humus, fertile ground for whatever grows there.
Mario and I walked the trail this morning, breathing in the old forest. I was absolutely giddy with joy. The trail is 1.7 miles to the waterfall, where it ends. Then you have to turn around and come back. On the way to the falls, the trail is up. Up. Up. No rest for the wicked. Or anyone else. It took me a long time to be able to walk this trail. Even these days, I don't always make it. I get dizzy or have trouble breathing, or just run out of stamina. Today, I almost ran up the trail. What a difference a few months and some drugs will do ya! (Last summer I didn't realize I was fighting a staph infection from a bug bite—or something—on my back. Then it blew up, I went to the hospital, and they gave me antibiotics which gave me hives. I could barely stand to wear clothes. I walked around the house naked for weeks, my back looking like elephant skin. It itched so badly I couldn't sleep and often curled up into a ball and wept. But I'm sure I've told you this little tale before.)
Anyway, I was so relieved I was able to walk the trail. Up and around. Stopping to chug water. Listening. Reaching out to touch the old ones. What is it like to be in one place for hundreds of years? The things you must know.
I could hear the first waterfall before I saw it. Up.
We came to railroad ties. We don't know why, but a pile of railroad ties sits on the curve of the trail near a plastic bridge. When I see the ties, when I know I can make it to them, then I know I can make it to the waterfalls. We kept going and stood on the bridge watching milk white water tumble over bright green moss-covered boulders to fall beneath us.
Up and up. Around.
Now I could hear the three-tiered waterfalls which marked the end to this trail. We stood on a spot on the trail where we could see the waterfalls and the white creek beneath it. Then we continued walking. I always wondered at this point in the trail—where forest gave way a bit to cliffs and caves above us—if cougar or bear watched us. I murmured, "I don't taste good. Pretty much skin and bones. I blame the flu, but there you have it. Maybe next time."
Then up and over. Thunder. The water fell over the tiers, then free fell for a hundred feet or so, before slamming into the pool and becoming the body of the creek. Mist rose from it all. Mario and I held hands and watched. Usually at this time of year, the creek and waterfalls were more swollen with snowmelt than they were today. We wondered if this meant we were in for a drought, or if the snow had not melted yet. We ate apples, then wrapped the cores in a towel and returned them to our backpack.
I squatted close to the Earth and breathed in the place: the blue sky, clouds sweeping across it like the white hair of some unseen giant; the huge damp boulders resting on the ground we stood upon, like toys that same giant had tossed down from the mountainside; mist rising like breath on a cold morning, or water coaxed into steam by a seductive sun; the white water streaming over the rock like moving icing over an earth-colored wedding cake; Mario and me still with wonder. When I stood again, pulled up by Mario's hand reaching for mine, I hoped I could convey to you the absolute beauty of it all.
So I breathe it back out again for you.
Dead People Walking
I wrote this essay late last night when I should have been doing research on my novel or sleeping. Ah well. Here it is. See what you think.
Lately as I watch the news, I am struck by how crazy people seem to be acting. The Israelis assassinated a Palestinian leader, and a news reporter commented that “there will probably be more revenge than is normal.” More revenge than is normal? What a strange world it is when revenge is considered normal and sane.
I know, I know. I’ve heard it before: “That’s the way it is. People are violent. That’s why we have rules and laws. You’ve got to keep people in line.”
I’m all for rules and laws—I think—and I’m the first one to applaud culture: art, plays, literature, flush toilets. But I wonder if we’ve become caged by our cultures, religion, belief systems and because of that, we have gone a bit crazy. These systems were designed, after all, to protect us from the wild—to protect us from our wild selves. Our ancestors thought the wild was something to be feared. In many ways they were right.
Nowadays, however, people confuse the words ‘wild’ and ‘crazy.’ A wild animal is not a crazy animal. Most wild animals act in very logical ways.
It is caged animals that often go crazy. They have a word for it: zoochosis (the words zoology and psychosis combined). Birds pull out their feathers. Elephants and bears compulsively circle in their habitats, placing their feet in the exact same spot each time around the circle. Chimpanzees will rock incessantly, bears and elephants will sway back and forth and bob and weave their heads to and fro for hours. Big cats, bears, and primates will self-mutilate, biting or chewing their legs and/or tails and hitting their heads against a wall. Gorillas sometimes develop a peculiar kind of bulimia where they vomit and then ingest the vomit. Barry Lopez said that a bear in a zoo is a mammal, but she is no longer a bear. She has lost that wild something that makes her a bear.
On a reserve in Africa recently young male elephants began killing rhinoceroses. The park officials were at a loss to explain this abnormal elephant behavior. As they kept investigating, they realized the young murderous bulls were orphans; the park had “culled” older elephants some years ago when the population of elephants spiked. The bulls had missed the important “teachings” of the matriarch, aunts, and older bulls. When the young bulls began going into musth, they started killing rhinos. (Being “in musth” is a peculiar glandular reaction that occurs mostly in male elephants; it has not been completely explained but it appears to cause hormonal changes that make the elephants highly excitable and sexually aroused.)
The park found an older bull and steered him in the direction of the rhino killers. Immediately, the young bulls were either thrown out of musth or when they went into it, it lasted only a few days at a time and was accompanied by much less violent behavior. The rhino killings have stopped, for now.
A wild animal in a forest, desert, savanna, or wetland knows how to find food, raise its young, and what to do or what plants to eat if it gets sick. For instance, an elephant with a tooth abscess in her tusk will rub it against something hard until it pops out and relieves the infection.
Put a cow in a field of clover, and she’s likely to eat herself to death. Cattle seem unnatural to me. The cattle near one of my hiking trails will one day be hamburger. When I pass them on my walks, my macabre sense of humor kicks in, and I whisper, “Dead cow walking.” Animals who are bred in captivity cannot be released back into the wild. They have lost the sense—whatever it was—to take care of themselves. They have no sense.
Humans once lived in the wild. When war, disease, famine, or ecological disaster caused populations to move away from Nature and become more domesticated, humans lost their wild senses.
Or was wildness bred out of us? Any conquerors would have killed off the rebellious people, the ones who tried to escape, who stirred up trouble. Are we like cows, then? Bred to be docile and do what “the man” says? Waking up, going to jobs or going shopping, coming home, watching television, going to sleep. Or waking up, planning violence, committing violence, coming home, going to sleep. Waking up...
Dead people walking.
Have we also lost the wisdom of our matriarchs (and male elders) as women’s rights and their status around the globe have been put in jeopardy by male-run religions and governments, as the world becomes more consumer-driven? Perhaps so many young men turn to outer violence and young women to self-destruction because they were not socialized by their elders—or they were socialized by elders who have lost their senses, too.
If we now have no wild sense, is it completely gone? Or is it dormant? When I go into the woods, I often look around and try to determine how long I could survive. I wouldn’t starve the first day. Maybe the third. Are any of my innate senses still intact?
Could I become wild again?
Nearly everyone I know has some kind of addiction and/or repetitive compulsive behavior. Around the world we see examples of violence daily. Addictions, compulsions, and violent behavior could be human forms of zoochosis. Perhaps we are all zoochotic, locked in the cage of this bizarre consumptive Nature-fearing culture.
Can we come to our senses?
When I am out in the woods, I feel necessary anxiety— alertness. Depression lifts. I have to pay attention. It is not a safe place. It isn’t a psychotic place. It is a natural wild place where anything could happen. We need wild places on this planet—even if we never visit them. Sometimes it is enough to know they exist. They are the keys to our cages.
Ahhhh, freedom.
Perhaps if all people felt free, felt autonomous, and believed they were the captains of their own fates, violent psychotic behavior would end. Maybe if we reconnected to the wild places on our planet and in ourselves, we would stop acting like caged animals.
Wouldn’t that be wild?
Lately as I watch the news, I am struck by how crazy people seem to be acting. The Israelis assassinated a Palestinian leader, and a news reporter commented that “there will probably be more revenge than is normal.” More revenge than is normal? What a strange world it is when revenge is considered normal and sane.
I know, I know. I’ve heard it before: “That’s the way it is. People are violent. That’s why we have rules and laws. You’ve got to keep people in line.”
I’m all for rules and laws—I think—and I’m the first one to applaud culture: art, plays, literature, flush toilets. But I wonder if we’ve become caged by our cultures, religion, belief systems and because of that, we have gone a bit crazy. These systems were designed, after all, to protect us from the wild—to protect us from our wild selves. Our ancestors thought the wild was something to be feared. In many ways they were right.
Nowadays, however, people confuse the words ‘wild’ and ‘crazy.’ A wild animal is not a crazy animal. Most wild animals act in very logical ways.
It is caged animals that often go crazy. They have a word for it: zoochosis (the words zoology and psychosis combined). Birds pull out their feathers. Elephants and bears compulsively circle in their habitats, placing their feet in the exact same spot each time around the circle. Chimpanzees will rock incessantly, bears and elephants will sway back and forth and bob and weave their heads to and fro for hours. Big cats, bears, and primates will self-mutilate, biting or chewing their legs and/or tails and hitting their heads against a wall. Gorillas sometimes develop a peculiar kind of bulimia where they vomit and then ingest the vomit. Barry Lopez said that a bear in a zoo is a mammal, but she is no longer a bear. She has lost that wild something that makes her a bear.
On a reserve in Africa recently young male elephants began killing rhinoceroses. The park officials were at a loss to explain this abnormal elephant behavior. As they kept investigating, they realized the young murderous bulls were orphans; the park had “culled” older elephants some years ago when the population of elephants spiked. The bulls had missed the important “teachings” of the matriarch, aunts, and older bulls. When the young bulls began going into musth, they started killing rhinos. (Being “in musth” is a peculiar glandular reaction that occurs mostly in male elephants; it has not been completely explained but it appears to cause hormonal changes that make the elephants highly excitable and sexually aroused.)
The park found an older bull and steered him in the direction of the rhino killers. Immediately, the young bulls were either thrown out of musth or when they went into it, it lasted only a few days at a time and was accompanied by much less violent behavior. The rhino killings have stopped, for now.
A wild animal in a forest, desert, savanna, or wetland knows how to find food, raise its young, and what to do or what plants to eat if it gets sick. For instance, an elephant with a tooth abscess in her tusk will rub it against something hard until it pops out and relieves the infection.
Put a cow in a field of clover, and she’s likely to eat herself to death. Cattle seem unnatural to me. The cattle near one of my hiking trails will one day be hamburger. When I pass them on my walks, my macabre sense of humor kicks in, and I whisper, “Dead cow walking.” Animals who are bred in captivity cannot be released back into the wild. They have lost the sense—whatever it was—to take care of themselves. They have no sense.
Humans once lived in the wild. When war, disease, famine, or ecological disaster caused populations to move away from Nature and become more domesticated, humans lost their wild senses.
Or was wildness bred out of us? Any conquerors would have killed off the rebellious people, the ones who tried to escape, who stirred up trouble. Are we like cows, then? Bred to be docile and do what “the man” says? Waking up, going to jobs or going shopping, coming home, watching television, going to sleep. Or waking up, planning violence, committing violence, coming home, going to sleep. Waking up...
Dead people walking.
Have we also lost the wisdom of our matriarchs (and male elders) as women’s rights and their status around the globe have been put in jeopardy by male-run religions and governments, as the world becomes more consumer-driven? Perhaps so many young men turn to outer violence and young women to self-destruction because they were not socialized by their elders—or they were socialized by elders who have lost their senses, too.
If we now have no wild sense, is it completely gone? Or is it dormant? When I go into the woods, I often look around and try to determine how long I could survive. I wouldn’t starve the first day. Maybe the third. Are any of my innate senses still intact?
Could I become wild again?
Nearly everyone I know has some kind of addiction and/or repetitive compulsive behavior. Around the world we see examples of violence daily. Addictions, compulsions, and violent behavior could be human forms of zoochosis. Perhaps we are all zoochotic, locked in the cage of this bizarre consumptive Nature-fearing culture.
Can we come to our senses?
When I am out in the woods, I feel necessary anxiety— alertness. Depression lifts. I have to pay attention. It is not a safe place. It isn’t a psychotic place. It is a natural wild place where anything could happen. We need wild places on this planet—even if we never visit them. Sometimes it is enough to know they exist. They are the keys to our cages.
Ahhhh, freedom.
Perhaps if all people felt free, felt autonomous, and believed they were the captains of their own fates, violent psychotic behavior would end. Maybe if we reconnected to the wild places on our planet and in ourselves, we would stop acting like caged animals.
Wouldn’t that be wild?
Joke du Jour
I'm not certain this classic joke will work written down. You have to say it outloud. It is a favorite with our older friends.
The friends of a 90 year old man decided to hire him a hooker as a surprise for his birthday. On the big night, the woman knocked on his door. When he opened it, she said, "I'm here to offer you super sex." The man thought for just a second and then said, "I'll have the soup."
Badda-boom
The friends of a 90 year old man decided to hire him a hooker as a surprise for his birthday. On the big night, the woman knocked on his door. When he opened it, she said, "I'm here to offer you super sex." The man thought for just a second and then said, "I'll have the soup."
Badda-boom
Monday, March 22, 2004
Police State?
Have you heard about Dudley Hiibel? He refused to give identification to a police officer who wouldn't tell Hiibel why he wanted the ID. So the police arrested him. Then when his daughter jumped out of her truck when she saw her father was being arrested, they threw her to the ground, handcuffed her, and arrested her. Watch the tape. It's amazing. This is not a police state. The police are here to serve and protect. They need to remember that.
Did you see The Practice last night? Camryn Manheim who plays Ellenor gave a great closing argument about "free speech zones." Her client had hit a police officer when he tried to remove her from the group of people who were supporters of President Bush. She was also a supporter of President Bush, but she had some questions about some of his policies. The police said she had to be in the "free speech zone" which was several miles away—where Bush would never see her. She thought that was wrong because she believed all of the United States was a free speech zone. I'm assuming David Kelly wrote the episode. Bravo to him.
Did you see The Practice last night? Camryn Manheim who plays Ellenor gave a great closing argument about "free speech zones." Her client had hit a police officer when he tried to remove her from the group of people who were supporters of President Bush. She was also a supporter of President Bush, but she had some questions about some of his policies. The police said she had to be in the "free speech zone" which was several miles away—where Bush would never see her. She thought that was wrong because she believed all of the United States was a free speech zone. I'm assuming David Kelly wrote the episode. Bravo to him.
Boffo!
I giggled when I read that The Passion of the Christ was bumped from box office first place by Dawn of the Dead. Times like these are when I love the American people. We are a fickle bunch, eh? Or shall I say eclectic. Although I will most likely never see Dawn of the Dead, I appreciated a preview where someone asked, "Is everyone dead?" And the answer was, "Deadish."
Peace Sign
This article comes with a beautiful photograph of a huge peace sign in Budapest created by people holding lights. Inspiring.
Hilaria Day
This is my birthday week. As my present, Mario has taken the week off, so I probably won't be posting much. I was born on March 25, Hilaria Day. Hilaria was Laughing Day in ancient Rome. Z. Budapest writes in her book The Grandmother of Time, "Originating from the rituals of Cybele and Attis, Laughing Day is the original Eastern Easter celebration of the resurrection of the Earth." I love the idea I was born on Laughing Day! As you Catholics (or former Catholics) all know, March 25 is also Annunciation Day, when the Angel came to Mary and said, "Guess what? You are preggers." I bet she thought that was a laugh riot.
In keeping with laughing day, I shall try to find a joke to share with you every day.
Today, I will tell you a joke my friend Ira sent me on St. Patrick's Day. (Remember, I'm Irish, so it's OK.)
So Paddy, a fixture at a local pub in a small Irish village, decides he's had enough, so he says good-night to everyone, leave the pub, and gets into his car. He starts driving, turns a corner and suddenly there's a tree in the middle of the road! Horrified, he swerves to avoid it and he almost runs into another tree! He expertly swerves to avoid that tree and is faced with yet another one. His way home has become a slalom course, and it takes everything he's got to avoid hitting the trees.
Soon, he notices police lights in his rear view mirror. He pulls his car off to the side. The police officer, who has known Paddy since childhood, walks up to Paddy's window and says, "What on Earth, Paddy?"
Breathless, Paddy tells his friend about all the trees that had suddenly sprung up. The policeman puts up his hand to stop Paddy before he finishes his story. "Fer Chrissakes, Paddy, that's yer air freshener!"
In keeping with laughing day, I shall try to find a joke to share with you every day.
Today, I will tell you a joke my friend Ira sent me on St. Patrick's Day. (Remember, I'm Irish, so it's OK.)
So Paddy, a fixture at a local pub in a small Irish village, decides he's had enough, so he says good-night to everyone, leave the pub, and gets into his car. He starts driving, turns a corner and suddenly there's a tree in the middle of the road! Horrified, he swerves to avoid it and he almost runs into another tree! He expertly swerves to avoid that tree and is faced with yet another one. His way home has become a slalom course, and it takes everything he's got to avoid hitting the trees.
Soon, he notices police lights in his rear view mirror. He pulls his car off to the side. The police officer, who has known Paddy since childhood, walks up to Paddy's window and says, "What on Earth, Paddy?"
Breathless, Paddy tells his friend about all the trees that had suddenly sprung up. The policeman puts up his hand to stop Paddy before he finishes his story. "Fer Chrissakes, Paddy, that's yer air freshener!"
Sunday, March 21, 2004
I Don't Know What to Say
At this site, you can find out which presidential candidate your neighbors are supporting financially. (Yes, I suppose you could just go over and ASK them, but how retro is that?) Anyway, this site gives me the creeps. It's three months out of date, by the way.
Seeking Balance
It's been a strange weekend. Sleepy and energetic. Friday Mario and I took a hike at Eagle Creek; then we drove to Portland to watch Fog of War but decided maybe Japanese Story would be less depressing. When Japanese Story was over, we thought about going to Fog of War to cheer ourselves up. Instead we went to a Thai restaurant in the Alberta district of Portland, called Thai Noon. We were able to get vegetarian and organic vegetables. A nice treat. Home again.
Saturday was the day of the big peace rallies around the world. I watched the news in the morning. CNN did less than 60 seconds about all the peace rallies. At 11:00, I walked two blocks down to our peace rally. "We still say NO to war!" It was sunny, chilly, and very windy. Someone played a guitar while others gathered around him, singing along. Several people walked up and down the sidewalk carrying signs. I can't remember now what the signs said! Ah well. It was nice to be among friends. I kept trying to come up with anti-war chants but they were all slightly obscene. We waved to cars. Only one person flipped us off. Many people waved and honked. Three truckers honked. That was new. We've had four rallies now, I believe, and usually the truckers were somewhat hostile. About 20 people attended, down by about half since the war started. Our last rally was before the war.
Mario took his lunch early and came down for the last half 'n hour of the rally. We went home to eat when it was over, and I decided to go to the Portland rally. I tried to find my friends Barbara and Lee who were also going, but I missed them, so I drove myself. I made the hour trip in 45 minutes.
I parked in front of the Fox Tower movie theater, just a couple of blocks from the rally, then ran into Nordstrom's to the bathroom. When I came out, the rally was over and the march had started, so I joined the crowd. I couldn't tell how many people attended—thousands, but I don't know how many thousands. All kinds of people: young, old, middle-aged, well-dressed, ratty-looking. Some carried signs declaring they were veterans against the war, gays and lesbians against the war, mothers against the war, etc. I tried to stay near the drummers. I liked the noise as we walked through the deserted streets of Portland. Lots of people brought their dogs, and of course, the dogs starting fighting with one another. I don't understand why people have to bring their dogs EVERYWHERE. I think it's because they don't know how to interact with people; the dogs act as a buffer.
Whenever we stopped to listen to someone's speech, I stood down near the police. I always try to engage the police at these things, so that—I'm hoping—they see us as human beings. I first talked to a policeman on a bike, dressed in his cute little shorts. That's when we were stopped in front of the Oregonian building. When we stopped in front of the William Jefferson Clinton Federal Building, I stayed near the men in blue. To my left were several police dressed up in those Nazi-like uniforms. Black, with headgear, lots of weapons and body armor. One woman yelled, "We need better libraries but nice helmet! My kids need better schools but nice assault weapon!" It was great.
At one stop, my friend Linda Short spotted me, so I walked with her and her husband. I felt sort of separate from it all. I'm not sure why. When it was over, I said good-bye to Linda, then went to the Fox Tower Movies. My car was not there. "Shit." I must have thought I parked in front of the movies. I had been in such a hurry. The rally started at 1:00 and I had gotten into town at 1:30. I went over to the next block. No, the cars were parked in the wrong direction. I walked to the next block after that. Right direction. No car. I felt stupid. I'm so accustomed to being with Mario and having the benefit of his attention and his memory. I wondered what I would do. Would Mario drive to Portland and we'd drive around Portland looking for my car? Maybe someone had stolen it. Portland has one of the highest stolen car rates in the U.S.
I stopped, tried to breathe deeply and quell the panic, and looked around. I knew which direction I had parked the car. I knew it was somewhere that looked like it did near the movies. So I walked down a couple of blocks on the same street as the movies. There was a parking lot next to the street where I had parked. And there was my car. Grateful expletives deleted as I unlocked the car and got inside.
Buoyed by the fact I had not lost the car or my mind, I decided to drive to the Thai restaurant and get us take out. As I was going over the beautiful Fremont Bridge, I looked down at Portland and thought about how much I loved this city. Then I saw Mount Hood to my right and Mount Saint Helens to my left, both snow-covered and beyond-beautiful against the blue blue sky. I felt like I was at the heart of the world in that moment. Such joy!
At the restaurant, the young waitress chatted with me about the neighborhood. I always appreciate kindness. Another man was waiting for take-out, too, and he seemed disgusted by my chatter. I thought, "Lighten up. Do you see where you live? Isn't it GREAT?"
I took my take-out and left town. I easily found the expressway and was on my way home, the mountain never growing larger as I sped toward it, until it disappeared behind time and space. I turned up the radio and sang and danced as best I could. A few years ago when I was so sick, I couldn't drive. I certainly could not have navigated a car all over a huge metropolitan city. My brain could not have gotten me from A to C. Today I did it. I was so happy.
Mario and I gratefully munched our take-out and watched a movie. A nice way to spend Equinox and a Dark Moon day.
(I apologize if this sounds too traveloguey. Mario and I went up the Gorge today. Stopped at Catherine Creek but 2 billion other people had the same idea, so we kept going to Maryhill Museum where we walked amongst the outdoor sculptures. It was sunny and warm and I got sleepy, so my brain is a bit fuzzy. I hope you all had a great weekend. Mario just came in the room and showed me apples. I need to get peeling. We're making apple pie!)
Saturday was the day of the big peace rallies around the world. I watched the news in the morning. CNN did less than 60 seconds about all the peace rallies. At 11:00, I walked two blocks down to our peace rally. "We still say NO to war!" It was sunny, chilly, and very windy. Someone played a guitar while others gathered around him, singing along. Several people walked up and down the sidewalk carrying signs. I can't remember now what the signs said! Ah well. It was nice to be among friends. I kept trying to come up with anti-war chants but they were all slightly obscene. We waved to cars. Only one person flipped us off. Many people waved and honked. Three truckers honked. That was new. We've had four rallies now, I believe, and usually the truckers were somewhat hostile. About 20 people attended, down by about half since the war started. Our last rally was before the war.
Mario took his lunch early and came down for the last half 'n hour of the rally. We went home to eat when it was over, and I decided to go to the Portland rally. I tried to find my friends Barbara and Lee who were also going, but I missed them, so I drove myself. I made the hour trip in 45 minutes.
I parked in front of the Fox Tower movie theater, just a couple of blocks from the rally, then ran into Nordstrom's to the bathroom. When I came out, the rally was over and the march had started, so I joined the crowd. I couldn't tell how many people attended—thousands, but I don't know how many thousands. All kinds of people: young, old, middle-aged, well-dressed, ratty-looking. Some carried signs declaring they were veterans against the war, gays and lesbians against the war, mothers against the war, etc. I tried to stay near the drummers. I liked the noise as we walked through the deserted streets of Portland. Lots of people brought their dogs, and of course, the dogs starting fighting with one another. I don't understand why people have to bring their dogs EVERYWHERE. I think it's because they don't know how to interact with people; the dogs act as a buffer.
Whenever we stopped to listen to someone's speech, I stood down near the police. I always try to engage the police at these things, so that—I'm hoping—they see us as human beings. I first talked to a policeman on a bike, dressed in his cute little shorts. That's when we were stopped in front of the Oregonian building. When we stopped in front of the William Jefferson Clinton Federal Building, I stayed near the men in blue. To my left were several police dressed up in those Nazi-like uniforms. Black, with headgear, lots of weapons and body armor. One woman yelled, "We need better libraries but nice helmet! My kids need better schools but nice assault weapon!" It was great.
At one stop, my friend Linda Short spotted me, so I walked with her and her husband. I felt sort of separate from it all. I'm not sure why. When it was over, I said good-bye to Linda, then went to the Fox Tower Movies. My car was not there. "Shit." I must have thought I parked in front of the movies. I had been in such a hurry. The rally started at 1:00 and I had gotten into town at 1:30. I went over to the next block. No, the cars were parked in the wrong direction. I walked to the next block after that. Right direction. No car. I felt stupid. I'm so accustomed to being with Mario and having the benefit of his attention and his memory. I wondered what I would do. Would Mario drive to Portland and we'd drive around Portland looking for my car? Maybe someone had stolen it. Portland has one of the highest stolen car rates in the U.S.
I stopped, tried to breathe deeply and quell the panic, and looked around. I knew which direction I had parked the car. I knew it was somewhere that looked like it did near the movies. So I walked down a couple of blocks on the same street as the movies. There was a parking lot next to the street where I had parked. And there was my car. Grateful expletives deleted as I unlocked the car and got inside.
Buoyed by the fact I had not lost the car or my mind, I decided to drive to the Thai restaurant and get us take out. As I was going over the beautiful Fremont Bridge, I looked down at Portland and thought about how much I loved this city. Then I saw Mount Hood to my right and Mount Saint Helens to my left, both snow-covered and beyond-beautiful against the blue blue sky. I felt like I was at the heart of the world in that moment. Such joy!
At the restaurant, the young waitress chatted with me about the neighborhood. I always appreciate kindness. Another man was waiting for take-out, too, and he seemed disgusted by my chatter. I thought, "Lighten up. Do you see where you live? Isn't it GREAT?"
I took my take-out and left town. I easily found the expressway and was on my way home, the mountain never growing larger as I sped toward it, until it disappeared behind time and space. I turned up the radio and sang and danced as best I could. A few years ago when I was so sick, I couldn't drive. I certainly could not have navigated a car all over a huge metropolitan city. My brain could not have gotten me from A to C. Today I did it. I was so happy.
Mario and I gratefully munched our take-out and watched a movie. A nice way to spend Equinox and a Dark Moon day.
(I apologize if this sounds too traveloguey. Mario and I went up the Gorge today. Stopped at Catherine Creek but 2 billion other people had the same idea, so we kept going to Maryhill Museum where we walked amongst the outdoor sculptures. It was sunny and warm and I got sleepy, so my brain is a bit fuzzy. I hope you all had a great weekend. Mario just came in the room and showed me apples. I need to get peeling. We're making apple pie!)
Saturday, March 20, 2004
Noam Chomsky Backs Kerry
Noam Chomsky is backing John Kerry for president. I don't remember Chomsky backing anyone before, do you? He is this time. He says that the Bush administration is so "cruel and savage" that it must be replaced.
Motherland
Listening to Natalie Merchant's Motherland. It always reminds me of 9/11 and my visit home when my father was ailing—because that's around the time I bought the CD. It was a terrible time, wasn't it? Sometimes I think I'm stuck there, in that morning. I know terrible things happen all the time. Terrible things happen in other countries that we as Americans know nothing about—or pay little attention to. That morning, September 11, I awakened from a really good sleep. I don't normally have very good sleeps. (Is that a word?) I awakened smiling. I thought, "Everything is going to be all right." It was almost like a mantra in my head. I thought for the first time in a long whil, that everything was going to be all right.
For some reason I went downstairs and checked our voice message. It was before 9:00 a.m., so no one would have called. But I had four messages on our voice mail. My heart started racing. I knew something bad had happened. What if something had happened to my father? Fortunately the first message was from my father. His voice was very stern, talking quickly, "Kim, Kim, turn on your television." Then three other messages. I don't remember who they were from. I was now shouting to Mario, "Oh no, oh no, oh no." "What? What?" He was getting ready for work. "Turn on the TV," I said. "Turn on the TV." I saw the smoke pouring out of the twin towers. Was that a jet crashing into it? "Oh no, oh no, oh no."
I remember I wanted Mario to stay home. I don't think he understood. I can still see him getting ready for work as I'm weeping and he's watching me, his look perplexed. I knew something irrevocable had happened. Something that would change the world forever—not "just" because all those people had died. But because of what would happen next.
I remember I wanted to see the President that day. Which was strange since I don't like George Bush. But I wanted to see him. I wanted him there, live on TV, explaining what had happened. But he never showed up. I don't remember if anyone from the government ever showed up. Do you? I thought if this had happened when Clinton was in office, he would have been down at ground zero within hours. Giuliani. We saw Giuliani. I was impressed by him during those first hours (and days).
A few weeks after 9/11, Mario and I drove home to see my parents. By the time we arrived, the war with Afghanistan had started, I was sick, and my father was sicker. It was an awful visit. Because my father was so ill, he didn't really want anyone around. Because I was sick and stressed, I took this personally, and all the old feelings we often felt as a child—we were unloved, unwanted, uncherished—came roaring to the surface.
About a month after Mario and I got back home, I started a novel, Forks in the Road. I wrote it in about two weeks, or less, about a woman's trip to Michigan to visit her ailing father. I normally do not write about myself fictionally. I like writing stories and novels about other people. But this novel was clearly a fictionalized account of my trip back home. The first half of the book was the best work I've ever done. The second half has problems, so I've never done anything with the novel. Maybe I'll post some pages later today.
I just heard a police siren. It reminds me I have to get ready for the peace rally. I've decided not to go into Portland for that demonstration after our local rally here. I'm not certain any of these achieve anything—except community, which is a good thing. And my community is here. It's sunny, cold, and windy. I'll bundle up soon and walk the two blocks to the protest. On this Equinox day, I wish for balance. I wish for good health, peace, and compassion for all.
When I was a girl, I remember I longed for someone to tell me it was going to be all right. I just wanted to hear those words, even if they weren't true. Funny the things we want as a child. I fantasize that in a true Motherland, where Nature is revered, every child would be held close. Every child would hear what s/he needed to hear every night before she drifted off to sleep, "Shhhh. Everything's going to be all right, sugar." And it would be true.
Love and peace, brothers and sistahs!
For some reason I went downstairs and checked our voice message. It was before 9:00 a.m., so no one would have called. But I had four messages on our voice mail. My heart started racing. I knew something bad had happened. What if something had happened to my father? Fortunately the first message was from my father. His voice was very stern, talking quickly, "Kim, Kim, turn on your television." Then three other messages. I don't remember who they were from. I was now shouting to Mario, "Oh no, oh no, oh no." "What? What?" He was getting ready for work. "Turn on the TV," I said. "Turn on the TV." I saw the smoke pouring out of the twin towers. Was that a jet crashing into it? "Oh no, oh no, oh no."
I remember I wanted Mario to stay home. I don't think he understood. I can still see him getting ready for work as I'm weeping and he's watching me, his look perplexed. I knew something irrevocable had happened. Something that would change the world forever—not "just" because all those people had died. But because of what would happen next.
I remember I wanted to see the President that day. Which was strange since I don't like George Bush. But I wanted to see him. I wanted him there, live on TV, explaining what had happened. But he never showed up. I don't remember if anyone from the government ever showed up. Do you? I thought if this had happened when Clinton was in office, he would have been down at ground zero within hours. Giuliani. We saw Giuliani. I was impressed by him during those first hours (and days).
A few weeks after 9/11, Mario and I drove home to see my parents. By the time we arrived, the war with Afghanistan had started, I was sick, and my father was sicker. It was an awful visit. Because my father was so ill, he didn't really want anyone around. Because I was sick and stressed, I took this personally, and all the old feelings we often felt as a child—we were unloved, unwanted, uncherished—came roaring to the surface.
About a month after Mario and I got back home, I started a novel, Forks in the Road. I wrote it in about two weeks, or less, about a woman's trip to Michigan to visit her ailing father. I normally do not write about myself fictionally. I like writing stories and novels about other people. But this novel was clearly a fictionalized account of my trip back home. The first half of the book was the best work I've ever done. The second half has problems, so I've never done anything with the novel. Maybe I'll post some pages later today.
I just heard a police siren. It reminds me I have to get ready for the peace rally. I've decided not to go into Portland for that demonstration after our local rally here. I'm not certain any of these achieve anything—except community, which is a good thing. And my community is here. It's sunny, cold, and windy. I'll bundle up soon and walk the two blocks to the protest. On this Equinox day, I wish for balance. I wish for good health, peace, and compassion for all.
When I was a girl, I remember I longed for someone to tell me it was going to be all right. I just wanted to hear those words, even if they weren't true. Funny the things we want as a child. I fantasize that in a true Motherland, where Nature is revered, every child would be held close. Every child would hear what s/he needed to hear every night before she drifted off to sleep, "Shhhh. Everything's going to be all right, sugar." And it would be true.
Love and peace, brothers and sistahs!
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Narcissistic Decadence
Roger Glover is singing "Queen of England." Wind is stroking the house. Reminds me of someone blowing in my ear. I'm not sure at first whether it'll be sensuous or annoying. Maybe both. Is that possible?
Have had someone writing to me about my essay "Communication Breakdown." Screaming at me about how stupid, ignorant, decadent, and narcissistic we Americans are. She went on and on about the sins of our government—and how we Americans are the cause of all the problems in the world. I'm the first to criticize our government, and I've worked for years trying to stop or at the very least mitigate the damage the US has done to the planet. That fact did not make a difference to this letter writer. I was just plain ignorant because I was American.
She said it was unbecoming of me to use "I." In her culture, this was NOT done. I explained that in creative nonfiction, a personal essay kind of requires an "I." Then she could not fathom how I could grieve for the dead in Madrid and then go rent a movie. Pardon me? I explained that I had had a bit of suffering in my own life and what I had learned was that there was absolutely no value in suffering. How we can honor the dead and the living is by living. That was the wrong thing to say; I got the lecture about using "I."
I don't mind when someone disagrees with me, but when someone is not listening, I have no patience. She was so deaf—except to her own propaganda spiel—that she couldn't hear that we agreed on many issues. Made me want to scream.
I have never been able to abide people who talk and don't listen. I mean as a way of life. We all space out and don't hear what someone is saying. I'll often ask a question and then forget to listen to the answer. So I'm forced to out myself. "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening." Usually the person I'm not listening to is Mario and he is charmed that I will admit it, so he laughs and is not offended. Sometimes he'll talk and talk about something, and then he'll notice I haven't said much and he'll say, "Are you wondering what I'm babbling about?" "No, darlin'," I'll say. "I wasn't listening." And he'll just chuckle, as if that is the punch line to a great joke.
Her accusing me of every crime under the sun reminded me of when I was very young and my live-in was always accusing me of running around on him. After a while, I thought, "What the hell, I'm getting all the grief I might as well have the fun, too." After listening to this person rant and rave about how ignorant, decadent, imperialistic, and narcissistic I was (she knew this because I was an American and how else could I be?), I wanted to be all those things. As Mario and I were driving home from Vancouver, tonight, I said, "What is this crap about us living simply all these years? Where's my hummer?" I was wearing a coat that was ten years old. My clothes were from the Salvation Army, bought at least five years ago. My shoes were fairly new: five years old? I must admit, the car is decadent. It's five years old.
The thing is I recognize that I am extremely fortunate to have a coat, clothes, shoes, and a car. I know how lucky I am. But decadent? I will cop to narcissistic. But not ignorant or imperialistic.
Yes, this post is all about me. I. I. I. I. I.
I have no news.
The Yardbirds are singing, "Please don't tell me 'bout the news."
So I won't.
I shall endeavor to be less narcissistic and more informative on the morrow.
But I wouldn't place any bets on it.
'night.
Have had someone writing to me about my essay "Communication Breakdown." Screaming at me about how stupid, ignorant, decadent, and narcissistic we Americans are. She went on and on about the sins of our government—and how we Americans are the cause of all the problems in the world. I'm the first to criticize our government, and I've worked for years trying to stop or at the very least mitigate the damage the US has done to the planet. That fact did not make a difference to this letter writer. I was just plain ignorant because I was American.
She said it was unbecoming of me to use "I." In her culture, this was NOT done. I explained that in creative nonfiction, a personal essay kind of requires an "I." Then she could not fathom how I could grieve for the dead in Madrid and then go rent a movie. Pardon me? I explained that I had had a bit of suffering in my own life and what I had learned was that there was absolutely no value in suffering. How we can honor the dead and the living is by living. That was the wrong thing to say; I got the lecture about using "I."
I don't mind when someone disagrees with me, but when someone is not listening, I have no patience. She was so deaf—except to her own propaganda spiel—that she couldn't hear that we agreed on many issues. Made me want to scream.
I have never been able to abide people who talk and don't listen. I mean as a way of life. We all space out and don't hear what someone is saying. I'll often ask a question and then forget to listen to the answer. So I'm forced to out myself. "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening." Usually the person I'm not listening to is Mario and he is charmed that I will admit it, so he laughs and is not offended. Sometimes he'll talk and talk about something, and then he'll notice I haven't said much and he'll say, "Are you wondering what I'm babbling about?" "No, darlin'," I'll say. "I wasn't listening." And he'll just chuckle, as if that is the punch line to a great joke.
Her accusing me of every crime under the sun reminded me of when I was very young and my live-in was always accusing me of running around on him. After a while, I thought, "What the hell, I'm getting all the grief I might as well have the fun, too." After listening to this person rant and rave about how ignorant, decadent, imperialistic, and narcissistic I was (she knew this because I was an American and how else could I be?), I wanted to be all those things. As Mario and I were driving home from Vancouver, tonight, I said, "What is this crap about us living simply all these years? Where's my hummer?" I was wearing a coat that was ten years old. My clothes were from the Salvation Army, bought at least five years ago. My shoes were fairly new: five years old? I must admit, the car is decadent. It's five years old.
The thing is I recognize that I am extremely fortunate to have a coat, clothes, shoes, and a car. I know how lucky I am. But decadent? I will cop to narcissistic. But not ignorant or imperialistic.
Yes, this post is all about me. I. I. I. I. I.
I have no news.
The Yardbirds are singing, "Please don't tell me 'bout the news."
So I won't.
I shall endeavor to be less narcissistic and more informative on the morrow.
But I wouldn't place any bets on it.
'night.
My Kind of Mom
"I'm not a humanitarian, I'm a hell raiser."
—Mother Jones
—Mother Jones
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Tired of the Spectacle
As many of you who read FS regularly know, I have mixed feelings about the effectiveness of the anti-war demonstrations. Last year, I was stunned that millions of people around the world seemed to have absolutely no effect on the war: it started in spite of our protests. I believed then we needed to step back and analyze our actions. I know that after decades of activism, I feel as though I have accomplished nada. So I'm perplexed at what to do next. I admire those who do direct action. It is no longer my way—if it ever was. I try indirect action and have recently started getting involved in the political process. I have my doubts about that, too, but I'm not comfortable standing on the sidelines letting things just happen. We're planning a peace rally here Saturday. I'll go because I want to support my fellow peace activists. But I know it won't make any difference on US policy.
Pattrice Jones in her Common Dreams article makes the argument that these "spectacles" (peace demonstrations) do absolutely no good and, in fact, take energy away from the real solutions. I think she makes some good points.
Pattrice Jones in her Common Dreams article makes the argument that these "spectacles" (peace demonstrations) do absolutely no good and, in fact, take energy away from the real solutions. I think she makes some good points.
We Jailed You Wrongly, Now Pay Up!
In Britain, David Blunkett, the Labour Home Secretary, wants to charge room and board to innocent people who were wrongly jailed. Can you believe it? Blunkett "will fight in the Royal Courts of Justice in London for the right to charge victims of miscarriages of justice more than £3000 for every year they spent in jail while wrongly convicted. The logic is that the innocent man shouldn’t have been in prison eating free porridge and sleeping for nothing under regulation grey blankets."
Thanks to Mario for finding this little gem.
Thanks to Mario for finding this little gem.
The Earth Needs Your Help!
I only rarely pass on one of these missives I regularly get, but I believe it is so important that we stop what Bush is doing to our environment. They have not stopped trying to push through the Bush-Cheney bill which would devastate our environment and be detrimental to our health. Unfortunately, money is needed for this fight. I don't have much money, but I did donate $25. That doesn't sound like much, except they've sent this letter off to $1 million people. What if each of them donated $25? That would be something. It's up to you, of course. Each of us needs to decide how we can best use our resources. Here's the letter I received from the NRDC. From what I can tell, the NRDC is a great organization working tirelessly for the environment. See what you think.
Dear NRDC BioGems Defender:
The decisive vote is at hand in our year-long battle to stop the Bush-Cheney energy bill.
A few weeks ago, NRDC Trustee Robert Redford sent you an email explaining that if this disastrous bill passes, America's biggest energy companies will start drilling their way through our last wild places . . . building risky nuclear power plants in our backyards . . . and burning massive quantities of dirty coal that will sicken countless Americans.
Senate leaders are promising to hold their floor vote on this devastating bill in the next two weeks!
We must have your immediate financial support if we are to alert millions of Americans to this looming disaster and mobilize massive grassroots pressure on senators in all 50 states.
Please click here to make an Emergency Contribution to defeat this pro-polluter legislation.
Every single contribution will make a huge difference in our all-out fight to stop a bill that would make oil and gas drilling top priority across the West, even in national treasures like Greater Yellowstone . . . let the oil and gas industry evade clean water laws . . . and shield nuclear companies from full liability in the event of a catastrophic nuclear meltdown!
In fact, the Bush-Cheney energy bill is so far-reaching in its corporate giveaways and so unimaginably destructive to our health and natural heritage that we are taking the unprecedented step of setting up an entirely new arm of the Natural Resources Defense Council to defeat it.
Let me explain why your support of the new NRDC ACTION FUND is so vitally important.
When NRDC was founded 34 years ago as a non-profit 501(c)(3) organization, our budget for lobbying Congress on behalf of the environment was—and still is—strictly limited by federal law. For three decades, we've stayed within those tight limits, fighting effectively on your behalf in Congress.
But President Bush has changed the rules of the political game by launching the most sweeping attack on bedrock environmental laws in modern American history. Doing battle with this White House under the older, restrictive government rules is no longer an option.
That's why, to launch our massive counterattack, we have established the NRDC ACTION FUND as a separate 501(c)(4) organization that is free to educate and mobilize the public in the face of legislative threats and aggressively lobby in Congress for the sake of our environment.
But here's the best part: the new NRDC ACTION FUND can legally raise and spend as much money as we deem necessary to defeat President Bush's horrendous energy bill.
I'm sending this letter to one million environmentally concerned citizens like you. Just imagine the political earthquake if you and every one of those people made a donation today of $25 to the NRDC ACTION FUND.
That kind of environmental war chest —$25 million!!—would scare the living daylights out of George Bush, Halliburton, ExxonMobil and every other adversary of our environment.
Why? Because, for the first time ever, environmentalists would be doing battle in Congress on equal footing with the fat-cat corporations that have bought and paid for this president's policies.
Think of it: for only $25, you can give corporate America a lesson in democracy they'll never forget! With millions of us working together, we will not only defeat this energy bill, we also have a very real chance to break Big Oil's stranglehold on our nation's energy future.
If you doubt it, let me remind you that our formidable people-power has already achieved the impossible. Last fall, when passage of the Bush-Cheney energy bill seemed like a done deal, NRDC, working under the tighter rules, used the media and Internet to trigger a national tidal wave of public opposition that sank the energy bill before it could be voted on!
But round two in this historic fight promises to be even tougher—and much more expensive. Here's why: The White House and Senate leaders now realize they won't be able to pass the energy bill in its current form.
So they're giving the "old" energy bill a new number (S.2095) and a new disguise (they're calling it a "jobs creation bill"), and they've tricked it up with accounting gimmicks to hide the billions in corporate pork that were in the original bill.
Well, they can dress up this bill all they like but the NRDC ACTION FUND is going to broadcast the truth: this is the same multi-billion-dollar handout to energy giants that will plunder our last wildlands . . . poison our air . . . worsen global warming . . . and keep our energy supply chained to the Persian Gulf.
Time is short. Senate leaders are attempting to rush this stealth bill past the American people before they can even find out what's in it.
That means the NRDC ACTION FUND needs your donation right now— today!—in order to launch a swift and effective counterattack. Please click here to contribute your $25—even more if you possibly can.
Your gift will enable us to arm millions of Americans with the damning facts about the Bush-Cheney energy bill . . . expose those senators who have fronted for the energy industry . . . and mobilize massive grassroots pressure on all 100 senators when this disastrous bill comes to the floor for a vote.
Thanks to the NRDC ACTION FUND, we now have the means to aggressively fight back in Congress with all of the resources that this historic campaign deserves. We can win. But the money to make it happen must come from millions of concerned Americans like you.
Please, give today and help us break Big Oil's stranglehold on our environment and on our future.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
John H. Adams, President
NRDC Action Fund
Dear NRDC BioGems Defender:
The decisive vote is at hand in our year-long battle to stop the Bush-Cheney energy bill.
A few weeks ago, NRDC Trustee Robert Redford sent you an email explaining that if this disastrous bill passes, America's biggest energy companies will start drilling their way through our last wild places . . . building risky nuclear power plants in our backyards . . . and burning massive quantities of dirty coal that will sicken countless Americans.
Senate leaders are promising to hold their floor vote on this devastating bill in the next two weeks!
We must have your immediate financial support if we are to alert millions of Americans to this looming disaster and mobilize massive grassroots pressure on senators in all 50 states.
Please click here to make an Emergency Contribution to defeat this pro-polluter legislation.
Every single contribution will make a huge difference in our all-out fight to stop a bill that would make oil and gas drilling top priority across the West, even in national treasures like Greater Yellowstone . . . let the oil and gas industry evade clean water laws . . . and shield nuclear companies from full liability in the event of a catastrophic nuclear meltdown!
In fact, the Bush-Cheney energy bill is so far-reaching in its corporate giveaways and so unimaginably destructive to our health and natural heritage that we are taking the unprecedented step of setting up an entirely new arm of the Natural Resources Defense Council to defeat it.
Let me explain why your support of the new NRDC ACTION FUND is so vitally important.
When NRDC was founded 34 years ago as a non-profit 501(c)(3) organization, our budget for lobbying Congress on behalf of the environment was—and still is—strictly limited by federal law. For three decades, we've stayed within those tight limits, fighting effectively on your behalf in Congress.
But President Bush has changed the rules of the political game by launching the most sweeping attack on bedrock environmental laws in modern American history. Doing battle with this White House under the older, restrictive government rules is no longer an option.
That's why, to launch our massive counterattack, we have established the NRDC ACTION FUND as a separate 501(c)(4) organization that is free to educate and mobilize the public in the face of legislative threats and aggressively lobby in Congress for the sake of our environment.
But here's the best part: the new NRDC ACTION FUND can legally raise and spend as much money as we deem necessary to defeat President Bush's horrendous energy bill.
I'm sending this letter to one million environmentally concerned citizens like you. Just imagine the political earthquake if you and every one of those people made a donation today of $25 to the NRDC ACTION FUND.
That kind of environmental war chest —$25 million!!—would scare the living daylights out of George Bush, Halliburton, ExxonMobil and every other adversary of our environment.
Why? Because, for the first time ever, environmentalists would be doing battle in Congress on equal footing with the fat-cat corporations that have bought and paid for this president's policies.
Think of it: for only $25, you can give corporate America a lesson in democracy they'll never forget! With millions of us working together, we will not only defeat this energy bill, we also have a very real chance to break Big Oil's stranglehold on our nation's energy future.
If you doubt it, let me remind you that our formidable people-power has already achieved the impossible. Last fall, when passage of the Bush-Cheney energy bill seemed like a done deal, NRDC, working under the tighter rules, used the media and Internet to trigger a national tidal wave of public opposition that sank the energy bill before it could be voted on!
But round two in this historic fight promises to be even tougher—and much more expensive. Here's why: The White House and Senate leaders now realize they won't be able to pass the energy bill in its current form.
So they're giving the "old" energy bill a new number (S.2095) and a new disguise (they're calling it a "jobs creation bill"), and they've tricked it up with accounting gimmicks to hide the billions in corporate pork that were in the original bill.
Well, they can dress up this bill all they like but the NRDC ACTION FUND is going to broadcast the truth: this is the same multi-billion-dollar handout to energy giants that will plunder our last wildlands . . . poison our air . . . worsen global warming . . . and keep our energy supply chained to the Persian Gulf.
Time is short. Senate leaders are attempting to rush this stealth bill past the American people before they can even find out what's in it.
That means the NRDC ACTION FUND needs your donation right now— today!—in order to launch a swift and effective counterattack. Please click here to contribute your $25—even more if you possibly can.
Your gift will enable us to arm millions of Americans with the damning facts about the Bush-Cheney energy bill . . . expose those senators who have fronted for the energy industry . . . and mobilize massive grassroots pressure on all 100 senators when this disastrous bill comes to the floor for a vote.
Thanks to the NRDC ACTION FUND, we now have the means to aggressively fight back in Congress with all of the resources that this historic campaign deserves. We can win. But the money to make it happen must come from millions of concerned Americans like you.
Please, give today and help us break Big Oil's stranglehold on our environment and on our future.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
John H. Adams, President
NRDC Action Fund
Blast in Iraq
I need to stop watching this stuff. I think I need to be witness to it. Someone has to be witness to it. Yet I don't know what to do to stop it. We each do what we can?
A bomb has gone off in Baghdad. Dozens of people have been killed. At least initially when US soldiers arrived on the scene to help, they were pushed away by the citizens. What an image. It says everything, doesn't it? They know the US is complicit in the creation of these horrors.
It reminds me of all those cell phones ringing after the bombings in Spain. Something about that image of phones ringing amongst the dead and dying said all there was to say.
A bomb has gone off in Baghdad. Dozens of people have been killed. At least initially when US soldiers arrived on the scene to help, they were pushed away by the citizens. What an image. It says everything, doesn't it? They know the US is complicit in the creation of these horrors.
It reminds me of all those cell phones ringing after the bombings in Spain. Something about that image of phones ringing amongst the dead and dying said all there was to say.
...and Nasty
Yes. I woke up like clockwork at the same time I've been awakening every night for the last few weeks. Was up for about three hours. I left the TV off, didn't eat a thing, and instead wrote an essay which I will post below. It is a companion piece to "Saturday At the Caucus." I'm going to try some stress management methods today, to see if I can sleep better. Maybe meditate. Take a walk. No news. I should just drink or do drugs. Isn't that supposed to be relaxing?
It's a beautiful day here. I hope wherever you are you dance a jig of joy today.
It's a beautiful day here. I hope wherever you are you dance a jig of joy today.
Allegiance
Monday night, as part of my ongoing goal to be part of the problem—I mean part of the process—I attended the monthly Democratic meeting in our county courthouse annex along with twenty other people.
In many ways, going to a meeting is worse than going to the dentist. It’s more painful, it takes longer, and when it’s over, all my teeth hurt. But I had participated in the caucuses, and that had been inspiring. Perhaps this meeting would be equally as interesting.
We crowded around two long tables. I sat next to Ira, my retired 80-something friend who had come with his wife Rhoda who was the chief organizer of our peace rally this upcoming Saturday. Keith, the 40-something vice-chair of the group, sat on the other side of me. As we waited to get started, we talked about the media and ways to get Bush out of office. Everyone seemed friendly and like-minded.
Ira leaned over and told Keith and me a joke about a group of women skinny-dipping, a farmer, and a crocodile. I laughed. We tried to tell each other jokes whenever we saw one another. The peace work we did together was often depressing, so we were determined to make each other laugh despite everything. I adored Ira and Rhoda and was happy to go anywhere they were: even to a meeting.
Then I glanced at the agenda. The first thing we were scheduled to do was recite the Pledge of Allegiance. I pointed this out to Keith. “We’re pledging allegiance to the flag?” I asked. He shrugged. I turned to Ira and asked the same thing. Ira wondered where the flag was.
“I’m not pledging allegiance to a flag,” I said. “I haven’t done that since I was a kid.”
Nevertheless, everyone stood, faced the south where a small flag hung, and said the Pledge of Allegiance. I stood quietly with my arms crossed, wondering where this particular ritual had originated. I appreciated meaningful ceremony and ritual, but saying the Pledge had always been a rote exercise performed by children who did not know any better.
I later learned that the Pledge of Allegiance had been written in 1892 by Frank Bellamy, a young socialist, to help commemorate Columbus Day. In 1954, Congress and President Eisenhower added the phrase “under God,” apparently at the behest of the Knights of Columbus. The U.S. was only one of two nations that had a pledge to its flag; the other country was the Philippines who created its pledge in imitation of the U.S.
After we sat down again, the chair talked about old agenda items. A few “regulars” went back and forth about party business. I’m not certain what they said. I heard something like, “We’ve got to send in the PDL ASAP or PD-quick we will be xyzed.” Or maybe they said ZZ Top was coming to town. Who knows?
As they discussed a problem with our primaries, I started to comprehend a few things. I vaguely remembered the federal courts had outlawed Washington’s blanket primaries which had allowed people to vote for Democrats and Republicans on the same ballot. Now the state had to decide whether they would use the modified Montana system or the Cajun system.
In the Cajun system, the top two candidates advanced to the general election regardless of party. Those in the know around our table shuddered as they talked about the Cajun system. It was especially dangerous in areas where one party was stronger than the other, they said, because that would most likely mean the top two candidates would be from the same party. We wouldn’t be able to chose between a Democrat, Republican, Libertarian, or Green party candidate; we might only be able to chose between a Republican and a Republican. No one spoke positively about the Cajun primaries.
“Damn Cajuns,” I murmured to Ira. He chuckled. I wondered if he remembered I had been born in Louisiana.
Which way to go with the primaries was complicated, obviously, and I was once again flabbergasted at my ignorance about my own system of government. I wasn’t sure if I was more reassured or distressed that most people in the room seemed as confused as I was about the issue.
We then talked about the upcoming county convention in April where we would elect delegates for the state convention and vote on our county platform to send to the congressional convention. The chair held up a sheaf of papers and said we had to follow strict guidelines sent to us by the state Democratic party mucky mucks. My eyes began to glaze over. I thought about the dinner my husband Mario was preparing at home. The chair asked for volunteers to help with the convention.
Be part of the process, I told myself. So I said, “I’ll help.”
“We really need someone to make coffee,” the secretary said.
Coffee? This was how Democracy worked? It wasn’t pretty, but it was necessary.
“I don’t know how to make coffee,” I remembered. Really. I don't drink coffee.
“We need signs painted,” someone else suggested.
No, couldn’t do that. Paint fumes.
Several other suggestions were made. I finally said, “I can help set up before the convention.”
“That would be great,” the secretary said. “I’ll be there about 8:00.”
“In the morning?” I asked.
Yep. 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning. I glanced at Ira. He smiled.
“OK,” I agreed. I immediately tried to think of ways I could get out of it. It was times like these when I wished I had had children. Having to take one of the little tykes to soccer or baseball or something would have been a perfect excuse. Ah well, I guess I would have to do my civic duty.
The meeting went on. It was dinnertime. I leaned over to Rhoda to make certain she was going to mention the peace rally to the group; then I got up, patted Ira on the back, and went into the cool night.
The stars were out. I breathed deeply. I would pledge allegiance to this: the stars, trees, wind. I unlocked my car and got in. As I drove slowly home, I smiled, remembering Ira’s joke. I would pledge allegiance to Ira and Rhoda, maybe even to the other people I had left back in that room, and to Mario who was at home making dinner. Yes, those were the things I would pledge allegiance to. With liberty and justice for all.
In many ways, going to a meeting is worse than going to the dentist. It’s more painful, it takes longer, and when it’s over, all my teeth hurt. But I had participated in the caucuses, and that had been inspiring. Perhaps this meeting would be equally as interesting.
We crowded around two long tables. I sat next to Ira, my retired 80-something friend who had come with his wife Rhoda who was the chief organizer of our peace rally this upcoming Saturday. Keith, the 40-something vice-chair of the group, sat on the other side of me. As we waited to get started, we talked about the media and ways to get Bush out of office. Everyone seemed friendly and like-minded.
Ira leaned over and told Keith and me a joke about a group of women skinny-dipping, a farmer, and a crocodile. I laughed. We tried to tell each other jokes whenever we saw one another. The peace work we did together was often depressing, so we were determined to make each other laugh despite everything. I adored Ira and Rhoda and was happy to go anywhere they were: even to a meeting.
Then I glanced at the agenda. The first thing we were scheduled to do was recite the Pledge of Allegiance. I pointed this out to Keith. “We’re pledging allegiance to the flag?” I asked. He shrugged. I turned to Ira and asked the same thing. Ira wondered where the flag was.
“I’m not pledging allegiance to a flag,” I said. “I haven’t done that since I was a kid.”
Nevertheless, everyone stood, faced the south where a small flag hung, and said the Pledge of Allegiance. I stood quietly with my arms crossed, wondering where this particular ritual had originated. I appreciated meaningful ceremony and ritual, but saying the Pledge had always been a rote exercise performed by children who did not know any better.
I later learned that the Pledge of Allegiance had been written in 1892 by Frank Bellamy, a young socialist, to help commemorate Columbus Day. In 1954, Congress and President Eisenhower added the phrase “under God,” apparently at the behest of the Knights of Columbus. The U.S. was only one of two nations that had a pledge to its flag; the other country was the Philippines who created its pledge in imitation of the U.S.
After we sat down again, the chair talked about old agenda items. A few “regulars” went back and forth about party business. I’m not certain what they said. I heard something like, “We’ve got to send in the PDL ASAP or PD-quick we will be xyzed.” Or maybe they said ZZ Top was coming to town. Who knows?
As they discussed a problem with our primaries, I started to comprehend a few things. I vaguely remembered the federal courts had outlawed Washington’s blanket primaries which had allowed people to vote for Democrats and Republicans on the same ballot. Now the state had to decide whether they would use the modified Montana system or the Cajun system.
In the Cajun system, the top two candidates advanced to the general election regardless of party. Those in the know around our table shuddered as they talked about the Cajun system. It was especially dangerous in areas where one party was stronger than the other, they said, because that would most likely mean the top two candidates would be from the same party. We wouldn’t be able to chose between a Democrat, Republican, Libertarian, or Green party candidate; we might only be able to chose between a Republican and a Republican. No one spoke positively about the Cajun primaries.
“Damn Cajuns,” I murmured to Ira. He chuckled. I wondered if he remembered I had been born in Louisiana.
Which way to go with the primaries was complicated, obviously, and I was once again flabbergasted at my ignorance about my own system of government. I wasn’t sure if I was more reassured or distressed that most people in the room seemed as confused as I was about the issue.
We then talked about the upcoming county convention in April where we would elect delegates for the state convention and vote on our county platform to send to the congressional convention. The chair held up a sheaf of papers and said we had to follow strict guidelines sent to us by the state Democratic party mucky mucks. My eyes began to glaze over. I thought about the dinner my husband Mario was preparing at home. The chair asked for volunteers to help with the convention.
Be part of the process, I told myself. So I said, “I’ll help.”
“We really need someone to make coffee,” the secretary said.
Coffee? This was how Democracy worked? It wasn’t pretty, but it was necessary.
“I don’t know how to make coffee,” I remembered. Really. I don't drink coffee.
“We need signs painted,” someone else suggested.
No, couldn’t do that. Paint fumes.
Several other suggestions were made. I finally said, “I can help set up before the convention.”
“That would be great,” the secretary said. “I’ll be there about 8:00.”
“In the morning?” I asked.
Yep. 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning. I glanced at Ira. He smiled.
“OK,” I agreed. I immediately tried to think of ways I could get out of it. It was times like these when I wished I had had children. Having to take one of the little tykes to soccer or baseball or something would have been a perfect excuse. Ah well, I guess I would have to do my civic duty.
The meeting went on. It was dinnertime. I leaned over to Rhoda to make certain she was going to mention the peace rally to the group; then I got up, patted Ira on the back, and went into the cool night.
The stars were out. I breathed deeply. I would pledge allegiance to this: the stars, trees, wind. I unlocked my car and got in. As I drove slowly home, I smiled, remembering Ira’s joke. I would pledge allegiance to Ira and Rhoda, maybe even to the other people I had left back in that room, and to Mario who was at home making dinner. Yes, those were the things I would pledge allegiance to. With liberty and justice for all.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Mean
Today after weeks of not sleeping well—hell, years of not sleeping well—I turned to Mario and said, "I'm crankier than a two dollar whore." He looked at me for a moment, then said, "They are particularly cranky?" "Well think about it," I said. Don't know where that came from, but Mario keeps going on these riffs about why a two dollar whore would be feeling a bit off kilter. I used to hate that word: whore. Then I read Barbara Walker's entry on the "houri" in her The Woman's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets. She says the "houris were dancing 'Ladies of the Hour' who kept time in heaven and tended the star-souls...Each ruled a certain hour of the night...." They were sacred prostitutes, instructing men on the holy rites of the Goddess.
In any case, I've felt mean all day. Tonight I shall sleep. I realize I haven't posted much news. It's all too depressing. If we have to put up with this bickering for eight months, no one is going to vote. Last night I went to the Democratic meeting here. It was like most meetings are: torturous. They started the meeting by turning to the flag and reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. I stood, with my arms folded. I don't pledge allegiance to a flag. Or to any republic. I pledge allegiance to this planet. To my husband. That's about it. I felt rather petulant, but I wasn't going to say it. So I didn't.
We watched the movie 21 Grams (pop-up). Talk about confusing and depressing. I think I'm off movies for a while.
In any case, I've felt mean all day. Tonight I shall sleep. I realize I haven't posted much news. It's all too depressing. If we have to put up with this bickering for eight months, no one is going to vote. Last night I went to the Democratic meeting here. It was like most meetings are: torturous. They started the meeting by turning to the flag and reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. I stood, with my arms folded. I don't pledge allegiance to a flag. Or to any republic. I pledge allegiance to this planet. To my husband. That's about it. I felt rather petulant, but I wasn't going to say it. So I didn't.
We watched the movie 21 Grams (pop-up). Talk about confusing and depressing. I think I'm off movies for a while.
Monday, March 15, 2004
Don't Know Nuthin' About No 'puters!
When Mario told me the US Military is preparing the procedures to institute a targeted draft for people with computer and language skills, I thought he was giving me the set-up to a joke. I was appalled to learn it was true! Fortunately, I don't know a second language well enough to help with anything, although I did minor in linguistics in college. And as far as computers go, well, I know nothing! That's my story and I'm sticking to it. What kind of world is this? It's so different from anything I could have imagined. Makes my brain hurt. I'm going to go take a bath or suck my thumb, or something, and pretend everything is all right.
Saw a couple of deer today while out in the wood. Lots of deer and elk tracks—and poop. A few birds. Mostly silence, except for the sound of water running. The creeks are full of snow melt. I have so much work to do, but I think tomorrow I may go out into the woods and sit there, see if the trees have anything to share.
Saw a couple of deer today while out in the wood. Lots of deer and elk tracks—and poop. A few birds. Mostly silence, except for the sound of water running. The creeks are full of snow melt. I have so much work to do, but I think tomorrow I may go out into the woods and sit there, see if the trees have anything to share.
Goddess Planet
NASA says a tenth planet may be hanging around our Solar System. They have named it after the Inuit Goddess Sedna. I wonder why they picked her? She had a terrible life. She married a bird but was not happy with her life in bird land. Her father came to get her, but her leaving made the bird people very angry. Somehow they got the sea involved in this, and as Sedna and her father travelled home over the sea, it rose up and threatened them with death. Dearest Daddy pushed Sedna overboard. She tried to get back into the boat, but Dad cut off her fingers. Then she tried to hang on with her arms. He cut off her arms and jammed his oar into her eyes. She sank to the bottom of the sea and became queen of the deep. Her fingers and arms transformed into fish and sea mammals. She decided what can and cannot be killed for food. She had certain rules about killing, too. The rules had to be strictly adhered to or else she would withhold the "food," and people would starve.
Good times.
Sun is out. The forest awaits.
Good times.
Sun is out. The forest awaits.
Midnight Musings
It is not actually midnight, but it is mid-night. It's a bit after 3:00 a.m. so I will make no claim at coherence. As you know, I've been writing quite a few essays, and they've been "published" (posted) on Alternet.org and Commondreams.org. I have been getting some interesting letters. So far, my essay "Communication Breakdown" has engendered the most variety of letters. What do I mean by that? If it was daytime, I probably would have rewritten that last sentence. But what I mean is that I've gotten many letters saying "thank you for your essay but..." and then the author of the letter proceeds to tell me I'm wrong because of this, that, or the other. That's not the curious part, however. What's strange is that most of the time the letter writer is reiterating something I said in the essay! So either I did not articulate my thesis well, or people don't read carefully, or both. However, these misunderstandings prove my thesis, unfortunately: we don't communicate well with one another. I think this happens for a variety of reasons, but one of the main reasons is that we don't listen well. I know I don't. I'm working on that. That's one reason I haven't been posting very much. I'm trying to learn to listen instead of talk, talk, talking.
I think another reason I'm getting lot of mail regarding "Communication Breakdown" is because I admitted my failings: I get angry, I have bad thoughts, I am soooo imperfect. These kinds of admissions often trouble readers. When I was publishing my fiction magazine Daughters of Nyx, where Furious Spinner first appeared, I wrote about the incident where I almost hit the teenaged girl (I talk about it in the essay below). One woman wrote and said, "I thought you were above all that." It was meant as a rebuke, I believed. I wrote back and inquired, "Above all what? Getting angry? Having feelings? Being human?"
This time one person wrote and said she couldn't understand how I could mourn the victims in Madrid and then go and rent a movie. That seemed a strange comment to me. This was the same letter where I was screamed at for being a stupid narcissistic imperialistic American. I probably should not have responded, but because the essay was about communication, I tried to communicate. I wrote, "What I have learned...is that there is no value in suffering. Martyrdom and longing
for suffering is religious claptrap that I certainly do not buy into. For me, being able to do ordinary things and to find any joy that I can honors all those who have lived—and died. If we don't feel joy, if we don't love, if we don't dance, then evil has prevailed."
You can link to the essay above, but I'll also post it below, in case you're curious.
I've put some soup on. I've already gotten two stories and one essay ready to send out tonight, plus taken a long bath. Did I say I'm hoping to start a new novel on March 25 (which is also my b-day)? I'm a little nervous. I haven't written a novel in a while. I've been concentrating mostly on nonfiction. I hope I can still do it. I wonder if that doubt ever goes away? It's a strange thing. I don't doubt that I could go into a library and run it, but I still worry about my writing. I've been doing it since I was five years old, so why would it suddenly go away? Because it did once. When I first got sick, I could not write fiction for a couple of years. It was very strange. Gradually it came back, but it was different. I don't know that my abilities as a short story writer ever came back fully.
The toast just dinged. Better go eat.
May you walk in Beauty and Joy. Really. I wish this for all of you.
I think another reason I'm getting lot of mail regarding "Communication Breakdown" is because I admitted my failings: I get angry, I have bad thoughts, I am soooo imperfect. These kinds of admissions often trouble readers. When I was publishing my fiction magazine Daughters of Nyx, where Furious Spinner first appeared, I wrote about the incident where I almost hit the teenaged girl (I talk about it in the essay below). One woman wrote and said, "I thought you were above all that." It was meant as a rebuke, I believed. I wrote back and inquired, "Above all what? Getting angry? Having feelings? Being human?"
This time one person wrote and said she couldn't understand how I could mourn the victims in Madrid and then go and rent a movie. That seemed a strange comment to me. This was the same letter where I was screamed at for being a stupid narcissistic imperialistic American. I probably should not have responded, but because the essay was about communication, I tried to communicate. I wrote, "What I have learned...is that there is no value in suffering. Martyrdom and longing
for suffering is religious claptrap that I certainly do not buy into. For me, being able to do ordinary things and to find any joy that I can honors all those who have lived—and died. If we don't feel joy, if we don't love, if we don't dance, then evil has prevailed."
You can link to the essay above, but I'll also post it below, in case you're curious.
I've put some soup on. I've already gotten two stories and one essay ready to send out tonight, plus taken a long bath. Did I say I'm hoping to start a new novel on March 25 (which is also my b-day)? I'm a little nervous. I haven't written a novel in a while. I've been concentrating mostly on nonfiction. I hope I can still do it. I wonder if that doubt ever goes away? It's a strange thing. I don't doubt that I could go into a library and run it, but I still worry about my writing. I've been doing it since I was five years old, so why would it suddenly go away? Because it did once. When I first got sick, I could not write fiction for a couple of years. It was very strange. Gradually it came back, but it was different. I don't know that my abilities as a short story writer ever came back fully.
The toast just dinged. Better go eat.
May you walk in Beauty and Joy. Really. I wish this for all of you.
Communication Breakdown
Wednesday, March 11, ten bomb blasts ripped through four commuter trains in Spain. Witnesses described horrific scenes: the mangled trains, the dead and dying, body parts strewn amongst purses and briefcases. And then the sound—as the news got out—of cell phones ringing amidst the carnage, friends and relatives on the other end, trying to communicate with those they knew were riding the trains that day. As I listened to the news, I imagined all those people on the other end pleading with their loved ones to please answer their phones.
I wondered what the perpetrators of this crime had been trying to communicate. Did they actually want to accomplish anything besides murder and terror? How do people get to the point where they decide violence is the only answer?
I live in a warrior culture. I know war. When I am wronged, my first thought is war. I was breast-fed on the teat of television and listened to stories of war. It is what I know best. It is what most of us in this culture know best. I have tried to step out of the warrior culture and learn a different way, but it is still my first response to most stressful situations.
Today my husband and I went to the video store. The background music was loud, a repetitive hip-hop song that had the same beat as the headache I was about to get. Minutes before, after reading an article about the Madrid bombings, I was wiping away tears. Now I stepped up to the counter to pay for the movies.
“If I had to listen to that music all day,” I said, “I’d go crazy. I think I’d have to kill someone.”
The young woman at the counter smiled.
I said, “And I’m a pacifist.”
“Isn’t it interesting when things challenge our belief systems?” the woman said as she got our movies for us.
“Yes it is,” I agreed.
I didn’t tell her I was not a true pacifist. I had used violence my entire life. As a girl, I hit my sisters and got into frequent fights with boys. As a young adult, I decided I was non-violent, but that did not keep me from flipping off pedestrians while driving a car or screaming obscenities at cars when I was a pedestrian. During a stressful time in my mid-thirties when I was ill and unemployed, a teenaged girl called me a name. I saw red—I had never understood or believed people when they said they “just lost it.” Until then. I raised my hand to hit the girl. Fortunately I came awake to what I was about to do, and I stopped. I knew then that anyone could be pushed past their limits.
Several years ago, I began working to stop pesticide spraying in our county. For years I tried to be the “peace” warrior. I attempted to engage the people in charge in dialogue. I brought in experts to talk about the dangers of pesticides. I even became part of the system as a member of an advisory board on pesticide use. The county’s use of pesticides went up. I hired a lawyer, sued and won, and they continued to spray.
Last summer, the person in charge of public land near where we lived decided to use pesticides. We explained I was chemically sensitive and exposure to the pesticides could be dangerous to my health. People from all over the community called to ask them not to spray. The man in charge did not like getting phone calls, he told us. He said he would agree to contact me before they sprayed if I agreed to never have anyone call his office about this matter again. It was blackmail. I wouldn’t agree. He shrugged and said he was not doing anything illegal: so screw me. Essentially.
When I first began talking with the county about this issue, I was a reasonable human being. When I didn’t feel as though they were listening to me, my view of them began to change. I figured they must be stupid. Otherwise they would see that the evidence was clear: pesticides were harmful to human beings.
When they sprayed in front of my house one morning without telling me, I got paranoid. Maybe they were trying to kill me. When the man tried to blackmail me this summer, I knew they were evil. I was certain they were out to get me. I also knew there was nothing I could do about it. I felt helpless and hopeless. I had tried all legal avenues, but my life was still in jeopardy because of the actions of these people.
I began fantasizing about ways I could make them suffer. I imagined vandalizing the man’s car, writing “poisoner” all over his place of work. I hoped he would find himself in a situation where he or one of his family members was in jeopardy, so he would know what it was like to be terrified. It startled me that I was thinking up ways to make this man hurt, even though I was never going to act on any of the ideas. I wanted to communicate to him how much he had made me suffer. After years of trying to work within the system, I could see no value in the system. I wanted the system destroyed--and the man with it.
All of this was happening at the same time that Bush was waging war in Iraq and I was part of a peace group. I was fully aware of the contradiction of me trying to create peace in one place and waging a war in another area of my life. In our peace group, we were also struggling with communication problems. One person would ask a question and another person would take the question as an attack upon them. But we worked on these problems because we trusted one another. No one was seen as evil or the "bad guy."
I told a friend who had lived in the Northwest all his life about the problems I was having with government officials. I asked how he would deal with a problem. He told me that, for instance, if he was having trouble with a neighbor’s dog, he would never go over and tell the neighbor to get control of his dog. (Which is exactly what I would do.) He would go over casually, talk about the weather, gossip a bit, then say something like, “I see you’ve got material over there to build that fence for your dog you were talking about. I’ve got some time today to help.”
“That seems so indirect,” I told my friend.
He shrugged. “But that’s the way it works here. My way the dog isn’t a problem any more. Your way the dog, you, the man, you’re in a war.”
I knew he was right. Everyone communicates in their own cultural way. Each of us is our own culture: a medley of personal, familial, regional, and country belief systems. The people in the county were not evil or out to get me, they merely communicated in a different way than I did. English is a second language for my husband, so sometimes we need to explain semantics to one another. When this happens, I am in awe that so many of us get along so well. Language is an imprecise way of communication. Some believe we started using language in the first place so we could lie.
Violence is also an imprecise way to communicate. Had I ever acted on any of my impulses to make the “man in charge” pay for putting my life in jeopardy, I would have communicated nothing worthwhile and gained nothing--except a stint in jail. Yet for a few moments as I contemplated those petty acts of violence, I did not care. Because he had not listened to me—because we had not communicated--he had become a thing to me; I wanted him to suffer. Is that how terrorism begins?
I suppose the people who caused the bombings in Spain were attempting to communicate something. If they were trying to spread terror, they succeeded. If they were attempting to communicate anything else, they failed. No one is answering the phone, no one is listening. And that is the problem.
I wondered what the perpetrators of this crime had been trying to communicate. Did they actually want to accomplish anything besides murder and terror? How do people get to the point where they decide violence is the only answer?
I live in a warrior culture. I know war. When I am wronged, my first thought is war. I was breast-fed on the teat of television and listened to stories of war. It is what I know best. It is what most of us in this culture know best. I have tried to step out of the warrior culture and learn a different way, but it is still my first response to most stressful situations.
Today my husband and I went to the video store. The background music was loud, a repetitive hip-hop song that had the same beat as the headache I was about to get. Minutes before, after reading an article about the Madrid bombings, I was wiping away tears. Now I stepped up to the counter to pay for the movies.
“If I had to listen to that music all day,” I said, “I’d go crazy. I think I’d have to kill someone.”
The young woman at the counter smiled.
I said, “And I’m a pacifist.”
“Isn’t it interesting when things challenge our belief systems?” the woman said as she got our movies for us.
“Yes it is,” I agreed.
I didn’t tell her I was not a true pacifist. I had used violence my entire life. As a girl, I hit my sisters and got into frequent fights with boys. As a young adult, I decided I was non-violent, but that did not keep me from flipping off pedestrians while driving a car or screaming obscenities at cars when I was a pedestrian. During a stressful time in my mid-thirties when I was ill and unemployed, a teenaged girl called me a name. I saw red—I had never understood or believed people when they said they “just lost it.” Until then. I raised my hand to hit the girl. Fortunately I came awake to what I was about to do, and I stopped. I knew then that anyone could be pushed past their limits.
Several years ago, I began working to stop pesticide spraying in our county. For years I tried to be the “peace” warrior. I attempted to engage the people in charge in dialogue. I brought in experts to talk about the dangers of pesticides. I even became part of the system as a member of an advisory board on pesticide use. The county’s use of pesticides went up. I hired a lawyer, sued and won, and they continued to spray.
Last summer, the person in charge of public land near where we lived decided to use pesticides. We explained I was chemically sensitive and exposure to the pesticides could be dangerous to my health. People from all over the community called to ask them not to spray. The man in charge did not like getting phone calls, he told us. He said he would agree to contact me before they sprayed if I agreed to never have anyone call his office about this matter again. It was blackmail. I wouldn’t agree. He shrugged and said he was not doing anything illegal: so screw me. Essentially.
When I first began talking with the county about this issue, I was a reasonable human being. When I didn’t feel as though they were listening to me, my view of them began to change. I figured they must be stupid. Otherwise they would see that the evidence was clear: pesticides were harmful to human beings.
When they sprayed in front of my house one morning without telling me, I got paranoid. Maybe they were trying to kill me. When the man tried to blackmail me this summer, I knew they were evil. I was certain they were out to get me. I also knew there was nothing I could do about it. I felt helpless and hopeless. I had tried all legal avenues, but my life was still in jeopardy because of the actions of these people.
I began fantasizing about ways I could make them suffer. I imagined vandalizing the man’s car, writing “poisoner” all over his place of work. I hoped he would find himself in a situation where he or one of his family members was in jeopardy, so he would know what it was like to be terrified. It startled me that I was thinking up ways to make this man hurt, even though I was never going to act on any of the ideas. I wanted to communicate to him how much he had made me suffer. After years of trying to work within the system, I could see no value in the system. I wanted the system destroyed--and the man with it.
All of this was happening at the same time that Bush was waging war in Iraq and I was part of a peace group. I was fully aware of the contradiction of me trying to create peace in one place and waging a war in another area of my life. In our peace group, we were also struggling with communication problems. One person would ask a question and another person would take the question as an attack upon them. But we worked on these problems because we trusted one another. No one was seen as evil or the "bad guy."
I told a friend who had lived in the Northwest all his life about the problems I was having with government officials. I asked how he would deal with a problem. He told me that, for instance, if he was having trouble with a neighbor’s dog, he would never go over and tell the neighbor to get control of his dog. (Which is exactly what I would do.) He would go over casually, talk about the weather, gossip a bit, then say something like, “I see you’ve got material over there to build that fence for your dog you were talking about. I’ve got some time today to help.”
“That seems so indirect,” I told my friend.
He shrugged. “But that’s the way it works here. My way the dog isn’t a problem any more. Your way the dog, you, the man, you’re in a war.”
I knew he was right. Everyone communicates in their own cultural way. Each of us is our own culture: a medley of personal, familial, regional, and country belief systems. The people in the county were not evil or out to get me, they merely communicated in a different way than I did. English is a second language for my husband, so sometimes we need to explain semantics to one another. When this happens, I am in awe that so many of us get along so well. Language is an imprecise way of communication. Some believe we started using language in the first place so we could lie.
Violence is also an imprecise way to communicate. Had I ever acted on any of my impulses to make the “man in charge” pay for putting my life in jeopardy, I would have communicated nothing worthwhile and gained nothing--except a stint in jail. Yet for a few moments as I contemplated those petty acts of violence, I did not care. Because he had not listened to me—because we had not communicated--he had become a thing to me; I wanted him to suffer. Is that how terrorism begins?
I suppose the people who caused the bombings in Spain were attempting to communicate something. If they were trying to spread terror, they succeeded. If they were attempting to communicate anything else, they failed. No one is answering the phone, no one is listening. And that is the problem.
Friday, March 12, 2004
Fandango Friday
What does Fandango Friday mean? Well, let me tell you—since I looked it up and all. Fandango is "an animated Spanish or Spanish-American dance in triple time." OK. I still don't know what it is since I don't know what triple time means. Call me ignorant. Or call me and tell me what dancing in triple time means. Badda-boom.
I couldn't resist posting today. Mario is upstairs writing. The house is quiet. The music in the background sounds like the Universe breathing. It is a perfect moment. Do you know that particular hush when things are either scary or wonderful? Today, it is wonderful. I want to breathe in and out and enjoy it. Outside, poppy greens have come up. I imagine my flowers beds vibrant orange with their flowers this summer. Maybe I will plant poppies everywhere. They make me laugh.
I have "sold" five essays this week. Five! I'm a writing machine. (I say "sold" because not all journals pay in cash dollars.) I've had two essays on Common Dreams this week and one on Alternet. Under the Sun wants to publish "Light," one of my Falling essays, and EarthFirst! Journal is publishing "The Disappeared." I've been thinking about these essays, and they are all very serious. I do have a sense of humor. Really. Parts of my novels are laugh riots. Perhaps I'll post my Falling essay about whether bears (and other creatures) poop in the woods. Nothing like scatological writing to prove you have a sense of humor.
This morning I awakened at 6:30 a.m. Mario was still sleeping off the cough syrup narcotics, so I came downstairs. In an hour and a half, I made yellow split pea soup and spaghetti sauce (both from scratch, all natural, organic, and vegetarian). I did three loads of laundry, vacuumed, washed the dishes, and made myself breakfast. It felt great. Some day I will do a piece on that split pea soup—it is amazingly delicious. Anyway, I hope you can delight in my delight. I love being able to do ordinary simple things. When I was so sick, I couldn't even walk across the room without the world spinning. Doing the laundry or washing dishes was completely beyond me. I missed having the ability—the capability. So now I am very grateful and happy when I have energy.
Ahhh, I've figured out what Fandango Friday is. I think it's the dance of joy I just did around my living room. In triple time.
Have a great weekend, Furious Spinners.
Ta!
I couldn't resist posting today. Mario is upstairs writing. The house is quiet. The music in the background sounds like the Universe breathing. It is a perfect moment. Do you know that particular hush when things are either scary or wonderful? Today, it is wonderful. I want to breathe in and out and enjoy it. Outside, poppy greens have come up. I imagine my flowers beds vibrant orange with their flowers this summer. Maybe I will plant poppies everywhere. They make me laugh.
I have "sold" five essays this week. Five! I'm a writing machine. (I say "sold" because not all journals pay in cash dollars.) I've had two essays on Common Dreams this week and one on Alternet. Under the Sun wants to publish "Light," one of my Falling essays, and EarthFirst! Journal is publishing "The Disappeared." I've been thinking about these essays, and they are all very serious. I do have a sense of humor. Really. Parts of my novels are laugh riots. Perhaps I'll post my Falling essay about whether bears (and other creatures) poop in the woods. Nothing like scatological writing to prove you have a sense of humor.
This morning I awakened at 6:30 a.m. Mario was still sleeping off the cough syrup narcotics, so I came downstairs. In an hour and a half, I made yellow split pea soup and spaghetti sauce (both from scratch, all natural, organic, and vegetarian). I did three loads of laundry, vacuumed, washed the dishes, and made myself breakfast. It felt great. Some day I will do a piece on that split pea soup—it is amazingly delicious. Anyway, I hope you can delight in my delight. I love being able to do ordinary simple things. When I was so sick, I couldn't even walk across the room without the world spinning. Doing the laundry or washing dishes was completely beyond me. I missed having the ability—the capability. So now I am very grateful and happy when I have energy.
Ahhh, I've figured out what Fandango Friday is. I think it's the dance of joy I just did around my living room. In triple time.
Have a great weekend, Furious Spinners.
Ta!
Dropped Along the Trail
This is another one of the Falling: A Memoir in Nature essays that I wrote in 2002. I hiked this trail one to three times a week, then came home and wrote an essay nearly every time. Journal of Mythic Arts has published two of the essays, and another one will soon appear in Under the Sun. See what you think of this one.
Mario and I drove to Falling Creek early Friday morning, hoping to beat the Memorial Day weekend rush. It was a perfect day, partly sunny, no wind, about 65 degrees. I had my camera and four and a half rolls of film. We were relieved to find only two other cars in the parking lot when we arrived.
We started down the trail. The white-flowered trilliums were all gone—at least the flower part. A favorite of deer, we supposed. A few yellow violets bloomed along the trail side. The pale blue anemones had begun their wilt.
From the middle of the clumps of bear-grass grew a single green stalk with either a green or purplish head which looked, close-up, as if it had been woven. I looked at it through the macro lens, and the tips of the grass growing up around the stalk were exquisite: pin-points of yellow on the green grass awash in a hazy pea-colored background. The points looked so purposeful—and artful—spiraling around the stalk.
Area Natives dried bear-grass and wove it into baskets. Once I checked eight different sources to find out why it was called bear-grass. Four naturalists said bears ate the grass, thus the name; four said bears definitely did not eat any part of the plant. (Two of the opposing views on bear noshing on the grass were in the same magazine, different month.)
We had glimpsed a bear on our way out of Falling Creek once but we had not seen any signs of bear on this trail. At Panther Creek earlier in the week we had come across several trees where some creature had peeled away the bark and left two horizontal parallel lines on the bare spot, like the beginning of an I Ching reading. The lines were most likely teeth marks where a bear had gnawed at the cambium, the thin living membrane between the inner bark and the wood.
It was actually rare to see mammals in the woods, but finding evidence of them was relatively easy once one knew what to look for. Teeth and claw marks were good clues—and so was animal excrement. Mario and I had spotted a number of different piles of dung on our trips through the forest. However, I was still on the lookout for the fabled bear feces.
Coyote fumets decorated nearly every trail we had ever been on. Coyote crap looks nothing like dog do-do, despite the animals’ familial relationship. Coyote droppings are cylindrical, and one can often tell exactly what the coyote ate—usually some unfortunate fur-bearing creature. Later in the summer, the feces will deepen to a lovely dark purple color; they’re all that’s left of a coyote berry binge. If one wanted to look more closely at the coyote droppings (and I certainly did not), one would probably find teeth inside, perhaps attached to some tiny little jaw of a long dead rabbit or other animal.
We had seen mountain lion fumets on one of our jaunts in the Giff, up by the lava beds deeper in the forest. These fumets were segmented, like house cat droppings, only bigger. As the mountain lion excrement got older, it hardened and became white.
Wild animal excrement is often beneficial to the forest. For instance, flying squirrels eat truffles. Their digestion does not kill the fungi spores. They poop them out in tiny little pellets. The fungal spores then start new colonies or fuse with an existing fungi colony, adding to it its own genetic material. These flying squirrel pellets are smaller than the head of a match stick, so there was little chance I would be able to spot them in the forest.
(Dog excrement, like people poop—how many ways are there to say feces?—contains bacteria which can be harmful to animals and get into the water, so it is recommended that if you take your dog into the woods, make certain you both defecate at least 200 feet from any water sources. Then you should bury the feces at about six inches deep. If you bury it less than six inches, other animals could dig it up; much below that and it won’t decompose properly.)
Mario and I continued along the trail with me snapping bear grass photos. We crossed the first bridge—the water level had dropped since our last visit. Mushrooms were beginning to push up through the humus on the sides of the trail.
We had not passed any people yet, and I wondered where the occupants of those cars were. We walked slowly, reveling in the quiet of the forest and taking photographs.
At least an hour had passed, and I had to pee. We weren’t even halfway up the trail. I either had to go here or return to the car and drive somewhere. We stood on the curve of a switch back while I decided what to do.
The problem was that as much as I wanted to be Nature’s child, born to be wild and all that, I often could not do in the woods what every other creature could do: urinate.
When I was a girl it was no problem. Second nature, actually. We had seven people in our household—six females—and one bathroom. Once a day my mother locked herself in the bathroom with a magazine and a pack of cigarettes, and sat there for hours—or at least it seemed so to us.
I would knock on the door. “Mom, I’ve got an emergency!”
“I asked you all before I came in here if you had to go.”
“I didn’t have to go then!”
I could not coerce her out, so I ran into the woods and did what I had to do.
All grown up, I couldn’t go. The last time I tried on this trail, something bit me (on my arm, thank you very much), plus I was not able to urinate.
Now I couldn’t see anyone coming, so I walked up the hillside and stood behind a tree and looked down at the trail. I could see the trail, so anyone on it could see me. Up and up I went. Finally I felt secluded enough, and I dropped my drawers.
I tried to get the floodgates to open. But I could not pee.
This would be a perfect time for a cougar to jump me—if she could stop laughing long enough.
I pulled up my pants and started back down the hill.
“This is ridiculous,” I said.
I turned around and tried again.
With relief, I did the deed.
Just as I got back to the Mario, a family of four came around the corner.
We kept walking. I took photos of deer’s head orchids. Mario found lichen thin as grass growing on a small rock face. About an inch tall, they were gray with black tops that looked like match heads. (Later we learned they were called devil’s match sticks.) We discovered chickweed monkey flower around another bend, small yellow blossoms with a heart-shaped spot of red on the bottom of each face, growing amongst some tiny succulents near another rock face, this one more of a cliff, with water dripping from above.
I spotted the shiny telltale signs of slug slime on the side of the trail. It looked pretty in the sun so I got close with my camera. Just as I snapped the photo I realized the translucent slime slid over a tiny S-shaped bit of green feces. I wondered which creature had left that behind.
At the waterfall, Mario took photos of me down by the falls. A couple with their loud very excited boy arrived. We smiled at them and went on our way back down the trail. I took pictures of the Pacific dogwood blossoms that grew in a spot of sunlight beneath the old dougs and cedar trees. The flowers and leaves of this amazing beautiful tree looked like they were floating in the forest. The creamy white bracts surrounding tiny dark green flower clusters were islands of light in the forest. From our viewpoint the leaves looked like small green birds (or butterflies) fluttering away from us. We had called the dogwoods the ‘floating flower tree’ long before we knew its name. Every time I saw one I was reminded of a Japanese garden or landscape painting. Northwest Indians apparently boiled dogwood bark to make a laxative.
We continued on our way, keeping an eye out for any animal droppings—especially bear. I recalled a conversation I had recently had with my friend Linda after I found a book at the library that identified animal droppings. I was disappointed that an illustration or photograph was lacking for the mammal I was most interested in.
“It’s a good reference book,” I told Linda. “But he doesn’t answer that age-old question: does a bear shit in the woods?”
“Let me tell you,” Linda said. “Late summer, early fall each year, a bear climbs my apple trees and gorges on apples.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Cuz in the morning, I find huge piles of bear dung around the tree trunks.”
“What do they look like?” I asked.
“The bears?”
“No, I’ve seen bears. The poop. What does the poop look like?
“Like giants piles of digested apples.”
That put a picture in my brain.
Besides deer pellets, I didn’t remember ever seeing any other droppings on this trail, today was no exception. So much of it just becomes part of the forest floor and the Earth, along with leaves, branches, bones, and blood.
Now my bit of passing water was a part of the mix, too. I hoped it would cause no harm.
Although, hopefully, that too would pass.
Mario and I drove to Falling Creek early Friday morning, hoping to beat the Memorial Day weekend rush. It was a perfect day, partly sunny, no wind, about 65 degrees. I had my camera and four and a half rolls of film. We were relieved to find only two other cars in the parking lot when we arrived.
We started down the trail. The white-flowered trilliums were all gone—at least the flower part. A favorite of deer, we supposed. A few yellow violets bloomed along the trail side. The pale blue anemones had begun their wilt.
From the middle of the clumps of bear-grass grew a single green stalk with either a green or purplish head which looked, close-up, as if it had been woven. I looked at it through the macro lens, and the tips of the grass growing up around the stalk were exquisite: pin-points of yellow on the green grass awash in a hazy pea-colored background. The points looked so purposeful—and artful—spiraling around the stalk.
Area Natives dried bear-grass and wove it into baskets. Once I checked eight different sources to find out why it was called bear-grass. Four naturalists said bears ate the grass, thus the name; four said bears definitely did not eat any part of the plant. (Two of the opposing views on bear noshing on the grass were in the same magazine, different month.)
We had glimpsed a bear on our way out of Falling Creek once but we had not seen any signs of bear on this trail. At Panther Creek earlier in the week we had come across several trees where some creature had peeled away the bark and left two horizontal parallel lines on the bare spot, like the beginning of an I Ching reading. The lines were most likely teeth marks where a bear had gnawed at the cambium, the thin living membrane between the inner bark and the wood.
It was actually rare to see mammals in the woods, but finding evidence of them was relatively easy once one knew what to look for. Teeth and claw marks were good clues—and so was animal excrement. Mario and I had spotted a number of different piles of dung on our trips through the forest. However, I was still on the lookout for the fabled bear feces.
Coyote fumets decorated nearly every trail we had ever been on. Coyote crap looks nothing like dog do-do, despite the animals’ familial relationship. Coyote droppings are cylindrical, and one can often tell exactly what the coyote ate—usually some unfortunate fur-bearing creature. Later in the summer, the feces will deepen to a lovely dark purple color; they’re all that’s left of a coyote berry binge. If one wanted to look more closely at the coyote droppings (and I certainly did not), one would probably find teeth inside, perhaps attached to some tiny little jaw of a long dead rabbit or other animal.
We had seen mountain lion fumets on one of our jaunts in the Giff, up by the lava beds deeper in the forest. These fumets were segmented, like house cat droppings, only bigger. As the mountain lion excrement got older, it hardened and became white.
Wild animal excrement is often beneficial to the forest. For instance, flying squirrels eat truffles. Their digestion does not kill the fungi spores. They poop them out in tiny little pellets. The fungal spores then start new colonies or fuse with an existing fungi colony, adding to it its own genetic material. These flying squirrel pellets are smaller than the head of a match stick, so there was little chance I would be able to spot them in the forest.
(Dog excrement, like people poop—how many ways are there to say feces?—contains bacteria which can be harmful to animals and get into the water, so it is recommended that if you take your dog into the woods, make certain you both defecate at least 200 feet from any water sources. Then you should bury the feces at about six inches deep. If you bury it less than six inches, other animals could dig it up; much below that and it won’t decompose properly.)
Mario and I continued along the trail with me snapping bear grass photos. We crossed the first bridge—the water level had dropped since our last visit. Mushrooms were beginning to push up through the humus on the sides of the trail.
We had not passed any people yet, and I wondered where the occupants of those cars were. We walked slowly, reveling in the quiet of the forest and taking photographs.
At least an hour had passed, and I had to pee. We weren’t even halfway up the trail. I either had to go here or return to the car and drive somewhere. We stood on the curve of a switch back while I decided what to do.
The problem was that as much as I wanted to be Nature’s child, born to be wild and all that, I often could not do in the woods what every other creature could do: urinate.
When I was a girl it was no problem. Second nature, actually. We had seven people in our household—six females—and one bathroom. Once a day my mother locked herself in the bathroom with a magazine and a pack of cigarettes, and sat there for hours—or at least it seemed so to us.
I would knock on the door. “Mom, I’ve got an emergency!”
“I asked you all before I came in here if you had to go.”
“I didn’t have to go then!”
I could not coerce her out, so I ran into the woods and did what I had to do.
All grown up, I couldn’t go. The last time I tried on this trail, something bit me (on my arm, thank you very much), plus I was not able to urinate.
Now I couldn’t see anyone coming, so I walked up the hillside and stood behind a tree and looked down at the trail. I could see the trail, so anyone on it could see me. Up and up I went. Finally I felt secluded enough, and I dropped my drawers.
I tried to get the floodgates to open. But I could not pee.
This would be a perfect time for a cougar to jump me—if she could stop laughing long enough.
I pulled up my pants and started back down the hill.
“This is ridiculous,” I said.
I turned around and tried again.
With relief, I did the deed.
Just as I got back to the Mario, a family of four came around the corner.
We kept walking. I took photos of deer’s head orchids. Mario found lichen thin as grass growing on a small rock face. About an inch tall, they were gray with black tops that looked like match heads. (Later we learned they were called devil’s match sticks.) We discovered chickweed monkey flower around another bend, small yellow blossoms with a heart-shaped spot of red on the bottom of each face, growing amongst some tiny succulents near another rock face, this one more of a cliff, with water dripping from above.
I spotted the shiny telltale signs of slug slime on the side of the trail. It looked pretty in the sun so I got close with my camera. Just as I snapped the photo I realized the translucent slime slid over a tiny S-shaped bit of green feces. I wondered which creature had left that behind.
At the waterfall, Mario took photos of me down by the falls. A couple with their loud very excited boy arrived. We smiled at them and went on our way back down the trail. I took pictures of the Pacific dogwood blossoms that grew in a spot of sunlight beneath the old dougs and cedar trees. The flowers and leaves of this amazing beautiful tree looked like they were floating in the forest. The creamy white bracts surrounding tiny dark green flower clusters were islands of light in the forest. From our viewpoint the leaves looked like small green birds (or butterflies) fluttering away from us. We had called the dogwoods the ‘floating flower tree’ long before we knew its name. Every time I saw one I was reminded of a Japanese garden or landscape painting. Northwest Indians apparently boiled dogwood bark to make a laxative.
We continued on our way, keeping an eye out for any animal droppings—especially bear. I recalled a conversation I had recently had with my friend Linda after I found a book at the library that identified animal droppings. I was disappointed that an illustration or photograph was lacking for the mammal I was most interested in.
“It’s a good reference book,” I told Linda. “But he doesn’t answer that age-old question: does a bear shit in the woods?”
“Let me tell you,” Linda said. “Late summer, early fall each year, a bear climbs my apple trees and gorges on apples.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Cuz in the morning, I find huge piles of bear dung around the tree trunks.”
“What do they look like?” I asked.
“The bears?”
“No, I’ve seen bears. The poop. What does the poop look like?
“Like giants piles of digested apples.”
That put a picture in my brain.
Besides deer pellets, I didn’t remember ever seeing any other droppings on this trail, today was no exception. So much of it just becomes part of the forest floor and the Earth, along with leaves, branches, bones, and blood.
Now my bit of passing water was a part of the mix, too. I hoped it would cause no harm.
Although, hopefully, that too would pass.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
First They Came for the Shock Jocks
Ted Rall has a good article on Common Dreams. He says Howard Stern is being punished for criticizing George W. "First they came for the shock jocks..." Here's an article by Laurie Spivak about a similar topic.
Yes, I'm still "on break." Just had to share the article. Ta!
Yes, I'm still "on break." Just had to share the article. Ta!
Freaky Thursday
Good morning! The people next door are mowing their lawn. I'm looking at snow on the Gorge cliffs across the river, and these freaks are mowing their lawn. Yes: FREAKS.
I'm taking a few days off. I'm behind in my work, plus I feel as though I'm coming down with Mario's stuff. *sigh* I hope not.
They keep playing that Kerry remark about Republicans being crooked over and over and over and over. FREAKS. (I can't find a link. Sorry.)
Do you know the origins of the word FREAK are obscure? FREAKISH.
Can you tell I need a few days off? If you haven't looked at The New Pentagon Papers that I talked about yesterday, do it. They're amazing.
I'm goin'.
Here's a new essay of mine on Alternet.org. Enjoy!
I'm taking a few days off. I'm behind in my work, plus I feel as though I'm coming down with Mario's stuff. *sigh* I hope not.
They keep playing that Kerry remark about Republicans being crooked over and over and over and over. FREAKS. (I can't find a link. Sorry.)
Do you know the origins of the word FREAK are obscure? FREAKISH.
Can you tell I need a few days off? If you haven't looked at The New Pentagon Papers that I talked about yesterday, do it. They're amazing.
I'm goin'.
Here's a new essay of mine on Alternet.org. Enjoy!
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
The New Pentagon Papers, etc.
This is an amazing piece by Karen Kwiatkowski, a retired lieutenant colonel in the U.S. Air Force. The subtitle sums up the article: a high-ranking military officer reveals how defense department extremists suppressed information and twisted the truth to drive the country to war. Why is this not the headline on every newspaper in the country?
Did you know Saudi Arabian women can't vote? That's all about to change. I would like to cheer, but Saudi Arabian women still are not allowed to drive, need permission from a male relative to travel, and must follow a strict dress code.
In case you need a giggle, here's a Bush cartoon. He's kind of grotesque, although in real life he's...kind of grotesque.
Eric Weiner makes an interesting argument about the citizens of the United States. He has returned after being away for 10 years, and he believes we aren't as polarized as we might think.
The sun is out. Mario is asleep—drugged out on cough syrup and lack of sleep. I think I shall take a saunter.
Dance with Joy. (She's right there somewhere!)
Did you know Saudi Arabian women can't vote? That's all about to change. I would like to cheer, but Saudi Arabian women still are not allowed to drive, need permission from a male relative to travel, and must follow a strict dress code.
In case you need a giggle, here's a Bush cartoon. He's kind of grotesque, although in real life he's...kind of grotesque.
Eric Weiner makes an interesting argument about the citizens of the United States. He has returned after being away for 10 years, and he believes we aren't as polarized as we might think.
The sun is out. Mario is asleep—drugged out on cough syrup and lack of sleep. I think I shall take a saunter.
Dance with Joy. (She's right there somewhere!)
Culture War
I believe Bush and his administration are waging a culture war. I've said that all along. (As have many others.) James Carroll has a fascinating article about the dangers of starting a culture war, pointing out that the phrase was first coined in Germany when Otto Van Bismarck began his own culture war. Bismarck's strategy was to unite his base by inciting hatred of those who were not part of it.
"His first target was the sizable Catholic minority in the new, mostly Protestant German state," Carroll writes, "but soon enough, especially after an economic depression in 1873, Jews were defined as the main threat to social order."
Of course, we all know what eventually came of this "strategy to unite" by "inciting hatred."
"His first target was the sizable Catholic minority in the new, mostly Protestant German state," Carroll writes, "but soon enough, especially after an economic depression in 1873, Jews were defined as the main threat to social order."
Of course, we all know what eventually came of this "strategy to unite" by "inciting hatred."
Crack of Dawn
I am awake and have been awake since...a long time. Or as I often cheerfully tell me husband when he asks how long I've been up, "Since the butt crack of dawn." I am a farmer's granddaughter, so we have precise technical terms for the various times of the day.
Yes, I am aware I am babbling. Mario is going to the doctor today to get something for his cough. I should go and get something for my neuroses, but I am rather opposed to lobotomies. (I have heard that lobotomies are making a comeback, along with electroshock therapy, but when I looked for proof of this I only found articles which claimed that "lobotomies are making a medical comeback" but they did not note their source for these claims, so who knows?)
The birds are now chirping outside. A sign the day is upon us. Mario found this joke as a part of an article on Counterpunch: John Ashcroft heard Iraq was having trouble with its constitution so he offered them ours—since we weren't using it.
Badda-boom.
OK. Have a good one. I shall endeavor to be more coherent in the future.
Yes, I am aware I am babbling. Mario is going to the doctor today to get something for his cough. I should go and get something for my neuroses, but I am rather opposed to lobotomies. (I have heard that lobotomies are making a comeback, along with electroshock therapy, but when I looked for proof of this I only found articles which claimed that "lobotomies are making a medical comeback" but they did not note their source for these claims, so who knows?)
The birds are now chirping outside. A sign the day is upon us. Mario found this joke as a part of an article on Counterpunch: John Ashcroft heard Iraq was having trouble with its constitution so he offered them ours—since we weren't using it.
Badda-boom.
OK. Have a good one. I shall endeavor to be more coherent in the future.
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
I Forgot...
I'm up in the middle of the night again, so my brain is rebelling. I wanted to let you know I had another piece published on Common Dreams. This one is about gay marriages. I am now going to try to sleep. Ta!
Opposite of Fate
Here's the thing: China imposed a one child only rule on its population in 1980 to curb population growth. Historically, the Chinese have had a cultural preference for male children. Didn't it occur to the Chinese officials that soon girl children would be murdered, and that eventually an imbalance of the numbers of men and women would occur? China now fears it will have 40 million single men by 2020 who will have little chance of finding themselves a good woman—or any woman at all. I recently asked an acquaintance of ours who moved here from China a few years ago about female infanticide, she assured me that no longer happened, although she did say the orphanages are filled: with girls. The article I linked above says that not only does female infanticide occur, it is now on the rise.
Kevin is reading Amy Tan's new book The Opposite of Fate; she talks about the suicide rate of Chinese women. I looked up the stats, too. Suicide is the leading cause of death of young women in rural China. 150,000 women commit suicide in China every year (out of 280,000 total number of suicides). This statistic surprised me. In the United States, Asian women commit suicide at a rate that is 2.5 to 3 times higher than Caucasian women.
What does it all mean?
Kevin is reading Amy Tan's new book The Opposite of Fate; she talks about the suicide rate of Chinese women. I looked up the stats, too. Suicide is the leading cause of death of young women in rural China. 150,000 women commit suicide in China every year (out of 280,000 total number of suicides). This statistic surprised me. In the United States, Asian women commit suicide at a rate that is 2.5 to 3 times higher than Caucasian women.
What does it all mean?
First Butterfly
I have been running this way and that for the last few days. Today I walked to the post office, bank, grocery store. Mario usually runs these errands, and it was kind of fun doing it myself on this warm and sunny morning. I went into Bloomsbury, near the post office, and bought three cards. A large Buddha was for sale. You've seen them, I'm sure. About two feet tall, sitting in the lotus position. I put my hand on his head and thought, "If you were a female Buddha, I'd find a way to bring you home with me.”
We got fun things in the mail. A check for me from one of my essay sales, and several copies of a journal that published two of Mario's poems. We had $2.00 in our checking account, so I deposited my writing check, then walked up the hill back to our house where Mario was still miserable with a cold.
It is not fun when Mario is ill. I can't stop worrying about him, and he's miserable. So both of us are miserable. Unfortunately, if one of us gets sick, often the other soon follows. I'm crossing my fingers. I've already been sick twice in the last two months, so I'm hoping my immune system is killing off anything and everything in its way.
I gave Mario one of the cards I had purchased. It had a photo of a Japanese Garden with this quote, from Buddha it said, "Things to do today: exhale, inhale, exhale...ahhh." I gave myself one of the cards. It was a photo of a Japanese Garden, this one a bridge with bright red railings. Beneath it was a quote from Buddha, "The secret of health for both the body and the mind is not to mourn the past or worry about the future, but to live the present moment wisely and earnestly."
We decided by early afternoon that it would be wise and earnest to get me out into the sunshine and away from the house—husband and wife would both be happier. So after I talked to the doc and fed Mar his meds, I left him at his computer with a full box of Kleenex and drove out to Linda's farm in Home Valley.
At Linda's house, she sat on an overturned pail in the sun. I sat on the cement floor of her porch, half in and half out of the sun. The new lambs—seven of them—called out for their mothers every now and again. Her two dogs, Maggie and Jimmy, kept trying to lick me. I kept telling them I wasn't that kind of girl. I remembered when I was. As a girl I rolled around in the dirt, rubbed my face in every animal I came across, and let the dogs lick my face. (Yuck.) I wish I was still like that but then...if wishes were horses...I still wouldn't let them lick my face.
As we sat relaxing, a butterfly flitted over to us. It was orange with black spots. My first butterfly of the season. Every time I see a butterfly I feel as though everything is OK. How can anything be wrong when something as wonderful and exquisite as butterflies exist in this world? Shapechanging beauties. I gave Linda the third card of the Japanese Garden. The quote beneath a sprig of wild roses was, "No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted." Linda smiled and thanked me.
Eventually Linda and I got up, and after much dilly dallying, I drove us out to Panther Creek. The snow was off the road, but most of the blowdown remained, so I had to maneuver the car around the fallen trees. I parked the car, then we crossed the road and stepped onto the Pacific Crest Trail. We both breathed deeply the moist air, letting our lungs fill with green. I felt enveloped by the old growth forest. Part of it. As if this was where I belonged. Usnea and moss dripped from the branches like tattered green sleeves. We stepped over elk droppings. We have been on this trail together many times. Today it was green, dark, and cool inside the forest.
A year and a half ago, Linda, myself, and our friend Lydia came when the woods were yellow and gold from the giant maple leaves that covered the trail. We stood in a golden dip on the trail. Sweet light. It was a spot we all knew instantly was magical. We danced in the leaves, in this triad. Canary-yellow leaves rained down on us, looking like yellow falling stars, Linda said. She howled. We all danced. I sang to the goddess Hecate.
For weeks back then, I had been researching Hecate, the ancient goddess of the crossroads, Trivia, who walked the darkness wearing a crown of stars and holding a torch in each hand; she who had dominion over life, death, and regeneration; the goddess of the people, of the commonplace; the goddess of Halloween, whose companions were dogs, wild animals, and darkness. I sang to Hecate as we danced that day, wondering if her crown of stars could have been stars of leaves.
“Hecate, Hecate, hear my song,” I sang aloud. “Come and right all the wrongs. Hecate, Hecate, if you may, lead us to your healing ways.”
I sang it three times in honor of her sacred number and asked that she give me a sign that my friend would be OK. In ancient times when worshipers prayed to Hecate, they listened for the howl of a dog to see if their wishes had been heard.
The yellow tree stars fell again as I waited.
Then Linda said, “Shhh."
We stopped our dance.
In the distance, coyotes howled. One? Two of them?
No, at least three. Or only one, dancing. Hearing our prayers. Carrying them to Hecate?
Today, Linda and I stood in the same dip in the trail remembering that day. Then we continued our walk. Several of the huge old trees had fallen since Mario and I had last been here, a week or so ago. Linda and I found an old cedar and leaned against it in the sun.
Then we walked to the creek. We talked about Linda's daughter—and any number of things I cannot now remember. It doesn't matter. We walked up onto the bridge over the creek. The sun had dried the water from most of the wooden bridge—except where the shadow of the railing had fallen. The water had not evaporated where the shadow had been, so it was like the shadow of a shadow remained. Or a negative on film. (I'm supposed to be a writer—able to explain this to you. But it's difficult. I wish I could draw you a picture!) In any case, Linda and I laughed. We were certain this must be a metaphor or a sign of something significant. Maybe it was significant because it made us laugh.
We continued our walk. We used to walk together a few times a week. The last few months, we have been otherwise occupied—trying to get healthy, so we had not been in the woods together much. Now mist began rising from the ground. Sunlight came through the trees.
"To the Celts, mist was magical," I said. "There be fairies here."
"When we were kids, we called that god light," Linda said, "because the light looked like all those paintings you'd see of God coming down from heaven. Or when something miraculous was happening."
"Let’s go stand in the god light then," I said.
So we did.
We breathed deeply. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Ahhh.
For a few minutes, as we walked amongst the Old Growth, I did not worry. I did not think about death or dying or sickness. I walked with my friend and talked about magical mist, god light, the first butterfly of the season—and the shadow of shadows.
Linda and I breathed the breath of sacred cedars together. Then we went home.
We got fun things in the mail. A check for me from one of my essay sales, and several copies of a journal that published two of Mario's poems. We had $2.00 in our checking account, so I deposited my writing check, then walked up the hill back to our house where Mario was still miserable with a cold.
It is not fun when Mario is ill. I can't stop worrying about him, and he's miserable. So both of us are miserable. Unfortunately, if one of us gets sick, often the other soon follows. I'm crossing my fingers. I've already been sick twice in the last two months, so I'm hoping my immune system is killing off anything and everything in its way.
I gave Mario one of the cards I had purchased. It had a photo of a Japanese Garden with this quote, from Buddha it said, "Things to do today: exhale, inhale, exhale...ahhh." I gave myself one of the cards. It was a photo of a Japanese Garden, this one a bridge with bright red railings. Beneath it was a quote from Buddha, "The secret of health for both the body and the mind is not to mourn the past or worry about the future, but to live the present moment wisely and earnestly."
We decided by early afternoon that it would be wise and earnest to get me out into the sunshine and away from the house—husband and wife would both be happier. So after I talked to the doc and fed Mar his meds, I left him at his computer with a full box of Kleenex and drove out to Linda's farm in Home Valley.
At Linda's house, she sat on an overturned pail in the sun. I sat on the cement floor of her porch, half in and half out of the sun. The new lambs—seven of them—called out for their mothers every now and again. Her two dogs, Maggie and Jimmy, kept trying to lick me. I kept telling them I wasn't that kind of girl. I remembered when I was. As a girl I rolled around in the dirt, rubbed my face in every animal I came across, and let the dogs lick my face. (Yuck.) I wish I was still like that but then...if wishes were horses...I still wouldn't let them lick my face.
As we sat relaxing, a butterfly flitted over to us. It was orange with black spots. My first butterfly of the season. Every time I see a butterfly I feel as though everything is OK. How can anything be wrong when something as wonderful and exquisite as butterflies exist in this world? Shapechanging beauties. I gave Linda the third card of the Japanese Garden. The quote beneath a sprig of wild roses was, "No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted." Linda smiled and thanked me.
Eventually Linda and I got up, and after much dilly dallying, I drove us out to Panther Creek. The snow was off the road, but most of the blowdown remained, so I had to maneuver the car around the fallen trees. I parked the car, then we crossed the road and stepped onto the Pacific Crest Trail. We both breathed deeply the moist air, letting our lungs fill with green. I felt enveloped by the old growth forest. Part of it. As if this was where I belonged. Usnea and moss dripped from the branches like tattered green sleeves. We stepped over elk droppings. We have been on this trail together many times. Today it was green, dark, and cool inside the forest.
A year and a half ago, Linda, myself, and our friend Lydia came when the woods were yellow and gold from the giant maple leaves that covered the trail. We stood in a golden dip on the trail. Sweet light. It was a spot we all knew instantly was magical. We danced in the leaves, in this triad. Canary-yellow leaves rained down on us, looking like yellow falling stars, Linda said. She howled. We all danced. I sang to the goddess Hecate.
For weeks back then, I had been researching Hecate, the ancient goddess of the crossroads, Trivia, who walked the darkness wearing a crown of stars and holding a torch in each hand; she who had dominion over life, death, and regeneration; the goddess of the people, of the commonplace; the goddess of Halloween, whose companions were dogs, wild animals, and darkness. I sang to Hecate as we danced that day, wondering if her crown of stars could have been stars of leaves.
“Hecate, Hecate, hear my song,” I sang aloud. “Come and right all the wrongs. Hecate, Hecate, if you may, lead us to your healing ways.”
I sang it three times in honor of her sacred number and asked that she give me a sign that my friend would be OK. In ancient times when worshipers prayed to Hecate, they listened for the howl of a dog to see if their wishes had been heard.
The yellow tree stars fell again as I waited.
Then Linda said, “Shhh."
We stopped our dance.
In the distance, coyotes howled. One? Two of them?
No, at least three. Or only one, dancing. Hearing our prayers. Carrying them to Hecate?
Today, Linda and I stood in the same dip in the trail remembering that day. Then we continued our walk. Several of the huge old trees had fallen since Mario and I had last been here, a week or so ago. Linda and I found an old cedar and leaned against it in the sun.
Then we walked to the creek. We talked about Linda's daughter—and any number of things I cannot now remember. It doesn't matter. We walked up onto the bridge over the creek. The sun had dried the water from most of the wooden bridge—except where the shadow of the railing had fallen. The water had not evaporated where the shadow had been, so it was like the shadow of a shadow remained. Or a negative on film. (I'm supposed to be a writer—able to explain this to you. But it's difficult. I wish I could draw you a picture!) In any case, Linda and I laughed. We were certain this must be a metaphor or a sign of something significant. Maybe it was significant because it made us laugh.
We continued our walk. We used to walk together a few times a week. The last few months, we have been otherwise occupied—trying to get healthy, so we had not been in the woods together much. Now mist began rising from the ground. Sunlight came through the trees.
"To the Celts, mist was magical," I said. "There be fairies here."
"When we were kids, we called that god light," Linda said, "because the light looked like all those paintings you'd see of God coming down from heaven. Or when something miraculous was happening."
"Let’s go stand in the god light then," I said.
So we did.
We breathed deeply. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Ahhh.
For a few minutes, as we walked amongst the Old Growth, I did not worry. I did not think about death or dying or sickness. I walked with my friend and talked about magical mist, god light, the first butterfly of the season—and the shadow of shadows.
Linda and I breathed the breath of sacred cedars together. Then we went home.
Monday, March 08, 2004
Let's Make It 2.4 Million Plus One!
In honor of International Women's Day, CodePink is continuing its creative and imaginative demonstrations for peace. Yesterday they floated a pink balloon in front of the White House which said, "Women say: Fire Bush!" Another sign said, "2.4 million jobs lost." You go, Pink Ladies!
Mock Trial Held
Kevin found this piece about a mock trial held in Ciudad Juarez. As Furious Spinner readers know, we've been keeping watch over the happenings down in the Mexican border town where hundreds of women have disappeared and been murdered.
I'm up before the crack of dawn. Trouble sleeping again. Mario couldn't sleep last night either. Must be something in the air. Spring is springing or something. But it means I haven't anything coherent to say.
The rich are even questioning Bush's tax cuts. Warren Buffett says the tax cuts favor the wealthy. Thanks to Kevin for this article, too. He hasn't been sleeping well either, but he's more wide awake than I am!
I can't remember if I told you about this piece on Common Dreams.
Hope you all are sleeping well. Sweet dreams.
May you walk in Beauty.
I'm up before the crack of dawn. Trouble sleeping again. Mario couldn't sleep last night either. Must be something in the air. Spring is springing or something. But it means I haven't anything coherent to say.
The rich are even questioning Bush's tax cuts. Warren Buffett says the tax cuts favor the wealthy. Thanks to Kevin for this article, too. He hasn't been sleeping well either, but he's more wide awake than I am!
I can't remember if I told you about this piece on Common Dreams.
Hope you all are sleeping well. Sweet dreams.
May you walk in Beauty.
Sunday, March 07, 2004
Wake Up!
My server seems to be working again. I was up all night. I haven't slept well in days. Maybe it was the full moon yesterday. When Mario is sick, I often can't sleep. The sun is out. I finally fell to sleep around 7:00 a.m. Got up around 11:00. Then I sat down and wrote an essay. I seem to have a writing compulsion lately. I'm even dreaming about it. Last night I had a funny dream. A bunch of us were doing a show or benefit for the library. I talked with one of my co-workers about Ashcroft and his ninnies trying to take away my reproductive rights. I said I had come up with a new slogan, "You'll have to pry my abortion rights from my cold dead fingers." I was stealing from Charlton Heston. In his speeches for the NRA he would hold up a gun and cry something like, "They'll have to take my gun from my cold dead fingers!" In the dream, a group of us stood up and sang a pro-abortion song.
Mario is still sick, but he wanted to make dinner. He does not like to sit around doing nothing. I was no slacker in the middle of the night. I took a bath. Did the dishes. Cooked my most perfect breakfast: boiled red potatoes, then made hash browns out of them; basted egg; toast. Mmmmm. Soon after I consumed breakfast I was able to sleep.
Yes, I'm throwing trivia at you. Forgive me. My brain is still asleep.
Does it surprise you that people are starting to wonder what the U.S. role was in Haiti as of late? Hmmmmm. Let's start another war! Here's another interesting piece about the real power behind the Haiti "revolution."
This story about peaceniks participating in a flag-waving parade brought tears to my eyes. This is how I believe (naively) citizens of the U.S. should act: we need to respect people with differing opinions from ours.
I'm sure you all know by now that the majority of voting machines are going to be electronic and paperless this fall. I would encourage everyone to bug every lawmaker in your district to keep this from happening. The two CEO's of the two main companies who produce voting machines have strong Republican ties. The CEO of Diebold has pledged to get George W. as many electoral votes as he can. Come on! Congressman Rush Holt is trying to do something about this problem; see if you can help him out.
I'm going out for a walk while the sun is out.
Later, gators.
Mario is still sick, but he wanted to make dinner. He does not like to sit around doing nothing. I was no slacker in the middle of the night. I took a bath. Did the dishes. Cooked my most perfect breakfast: boiled red potatoes, then made hash browns out of them; basted egg; toast. Mmmmm. Soon after I consumed breakfast I was able to sleep.
Yes, I'm throwing trivia at you. Forgive me. My brain is still asleep.
Does it surprise you that people are starting to wonder what the U.S. role was in Haiti as of late? Hmmmmm. Let's start another war! Here's another interesting piece about the real power behind the Haiti "revolution."
This story about peaceniks participating in a flag-waving parade brought tears to my eyes. This is how I believe (naively) citizens of the U.S. should act: we need to respect people with differing opinions from ours.
I'm sure you all know by now that the majority of voting machines are going to be electronic and paperless this fall. I would encourage everyone to bug every lawmaker in your district to keep this from happening. The two CEO's of the two main companies who produce voting machines have strong Republican ties. The CEO of Diebold has pledged to get George W. as many electoral votes as he can. Come on! Congressman Rush Holt is trying to do something about this problem; see if you can help him out.
I'm going out for a walk while the sun is out.
Later, gators.
Saturday, March 06, 2004
Weekend Wandering
I'm at our community library. Something is wrong with our server, so I can't go to my own weblog at home! It's very strange. Mario is sick. Yes, I know. He was sick two weeks ago. It's been a long winter. I think we have to get out of the house we're living in. Unfortunately, we haven't been able to find anything else in the area to move into. We went to see Hidalgo yesterday afternoon. I thought it would be a good fun horse and Viggo movie. It was not. Lots of violence. The story line did not make any sense. It was two and a half hours long. It could have been a good ninety minute movie about this horse race across the Arabian desert. Instead they had to throw in all this garbage. It was based on a real person (and real horse) and a real 3,000 mile race. That sounds interesting to me. Why make up stuff? Anyway, it made me cranky. And having Mario sick makes me cranky and nervous. I hope you are all well. I can't get to my e-mail either, so if you've written to me and haven't heard back, give me a few days. If I still don't write back, write me again; it may have gotten lost.
Have a good weekend. May you walk in Beauty!
Have a good weekend. May you walk in Beauty!
Friday, March 05, 2004
Martha, Martha, Martha
Guilty. Interesting how Bush's friend from Enron is still running around free, and now Martha has been convicted. All I can say is: FREE MARTHA!
Da Obvious
The former UN Chief Weapons Inspector Hans Blix has declared that the Iraq War was illegal. Haven't we been saying that for the last year? Peace groups around the globe will be protesting the war March 20th. The theme is: The World Still Says No to War.
Here's Bush being the evergreen president. He's trying to help out the poor maligned pesticide companies again. By the way, the Natural Resources Defense Council (NRDC) is a great organization to stay connected with to find out what is happening in environmental issues.
Here's Bush being the evergreen president. He's trying to help out the poor maligned pesticide companies again. By the way, the Natural Resources Defense Council (NRDC) is a great organization to stay connected with to find out what is happening in environmental issues.
Hug a Liberal Today
In a recent debate, a reporter asked John Kerry if he was a liberal. He did not answer the question. Dennis Kucinich did. He said, "I'm liberal, and I'm co-chair of the Progressive Caucus in the United States Congress....I stand for full employment, universal health care, protection of Social Security, canceling NAFTA and the WTO, creating a Department of Peace." I thought, “I want that man to be president.” But he’s not going to be. So I need to learn to embrace John Kerry in order to work for him, and John Kerry needs to learn to embrace the liberals—or at least some liberal ideas—if he wants to become president of the United States.
In the last two debates, Kerry seemed to be pulling toward the center. As I watched him, I felt myself withdrawing, wondering if I could support his campaign with good conscience. He voted for NAFTA. Worse yet, he voted for the war and the Patriot Act. I still haven’t heard him explain his vote on the Patriot Act. Yet when I start to think nothing will change with him in office, I remind myself that on environmental issues and women’s rights he has voted the right way, or should I say, he’s voted the “left” way, the progressive way. If a Democrat was in office right now, we never would have gone to war in Iraq. Those 500 plus American soldiers and thousands of Iraqis would be alive today. John Ashcroft would not be Attorney General, therefore the Patriot Act would not exist, and the Attorney General would not be trying to spy on peace groups or snooping into the medical records of women who have had abortions.
OK. So I can work for John Kerry, but he needs to work for me and all the other independent voters and liberals who have been energized by the campaigns of Howard Dean and Dennis Kucinich. He needs to realize we became engaged in politics again because Dean and Kucinich were not centrists. They were not trying to court middle-of-the road voters or Republicans, for the most part. They were talking about good old liberal ideas: health care for everyone, peace, women’s rights, cleaning up the environment, tolerance.
I live in a conservative rural county in Washington state, yet during the caucuses, our caucus site had six times the normal number of attendees. At our precinct table, no one had every participated in a caucus before, and everyone said they had gotten involved because they wanted to get rid of Bush and because Dean and Kucinich had given them hope that not everyone in the Democratic party was Republican-light. Although this example is anecdotal, I have heard similar stories from people all over the United States.
Now that John Kerry is the presumptive Democratic presidential nominee, the Bush/Cheney/Rove mudslinging machine is revving up. Only they are not going to be slinging mud; they will be lobbing something more akin to nuclear bombs. They are going to lie and distort and spend more money than anyone has ever spent on a political campaign, I’m guessing.
This means that in the end, the Republicans are going to vote for Bush, and the few fence-sitters out there will probably vote for Bush. The Democrats are going to vote for John Kerry. The people who were inspired by Dean and Kucinich, those who call themselves independents and liberals, are the ones who will make or break this election: not because they might vote for Bush, but because they might become disgusted with the whole process and not vote at all. That could happen if they believe there is little difference between John Kerry and George Bush.
Watching the debates, I felt a little queasy knowing I had pledged to work for the Democratic presidential nominee. I wondered how politicians become so wishy-washy when many of them probably start out wanting to do good and change the world. Why don’t they answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions with a ‘yes’ or a ‘no?’
A few years ago, I was part of a county committee charged with figuring out a compromise between using pesticides to control roadside weeds and not using pesticides. During the course of a year, the anti-pesticide group (my side) brought in all kinds of scientific evidence about the harmful effects of pesticides. The pro-pesticide group kept saying “This is the way we do it, this is the way we have always done it.” Frustrated by their attitude, the anti-pesticide group tried to come up with a compromise. The pro-pesticide group would not budge. We could not even get them to agree to stop spraying children’s school bus stops.
By the end of the year, the anti-pesticide group was exhausted. The county commissioners, who never wanted to stop the spraying in the first place, disbanded the group, happy that they had kept the anti-pesticide group occupied for a year and out of their hair. I keep thinking about this experience as I watch and listen to Kerry. Is he going to be kept so busy trying to please the centrists and old guard Democrats that the real liberals drop out of the political arena again and Bush wins the election?
To keep that from happening, I will be so bold as to make these suggestions to Senator John Kerry: Remember the liberals. Don’t shy away from the “L” word. Lean to the left. It ain’t a bad place to be. If you stand up to Bush, if you become more progressive, the liberals will be there to hold you up. We will back you, even though we don’t agree with every thing you say. We all know that once the Bush/Cheney/Rove campaigning juggernaut gets into gear, you are going to need all the support you can get. So go ahead and get started, Senator Kerry. Hug a Liberal today.
In the last two debates, Kerry seemed to be pulling toward the center. As I watched him, I felt myself withdrawing, wondering if I could support his campaign with good conscience. He voted for NAFTA. Worse yet, he voted for the war and the Patriot Act. I still haven’t heard him explain his vote on the Patriot Act. Yet when I start to think nothing will change with him in office, I remind myself that on environmental issues and women’s rights he has voted the right way, or should I say, he’s voted the “left” way, the progressive way. If a Democrat was in office right now, we never would have gone to war in Iraq. Those 500 plus American soldiers and thousands of Iraqis would be alive today. John Ashcroft would not be Attorney General, therefore the Patriot Act would not exist, and the Attorney General would not be trying to spy on peace groups or snooping into the medical records of women who have had abortions.
OK. So I can work for John Kerry, but he needs to work for me and all the other independent voters and liberals who have been energized by the campaigns of Howard Dean and Dennis Kucinich. He needs to realize we became engaged in politics again because Dean and Kucinich were not centrists. They were not trying to court middle-of-the road voters or Republicans, for the most part. They were talking about good old liberal ideas: health care for everyone, peace, women’s rights, cleaning up the environment, tolerance.
I live in a conservative rural county in Washington state, yet during the caucuses, our caucus site had six times the normal number of attendees. At our precinct table, no one had every participated in a caucus before, and everyone said they had gotten involved because they wanted to get rid of Bush and because Dean and Kucinich had given them hope that not everyone in the Democratic party was Republican-light. Although this example is anecdotal, I have heard similar stories from people all over the United States.
Now that John Kerry is the presumptive Democratic presidential nominee, the Bush/Cheney/Rove mudslinging machine is revving up. Only they are not going to be slinging mud; they will be lobbing something more akin to nuclear bombs. They are going to lie and distort and spend more money than anyone has ever spent on a political campaign, I’m guessing.
This means that in the end, the Republicans are going to vote for Bush, and the few fence-sitters out there will probably vote for Bush. The Democrats are going to vote for John Kerry. The people who were inspired by Dean and Kucinich, those who call themselves independents and liberals, are the ones who will make or break this election: not because they might vote for Bush, but because they might become disgusted with the whole process and not vote at all. That could happen if they believe there is little difference between John Kerry and George Bush.
Watching the debates, I felt a little queasy knowing I had pledged to work for the Democratic presidential nominee. I wondered how politicians become so wishy-washy when many of them probably start out wanting to do good and change the world. Why don’t they answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions with a ‘yes’ or a ‘no?’
A few years ago, I was part of a county committee charged with figuring out a compromise between using pesticides to control roadside weeds and not using pesticides. During the course of a year, the anti-pesticide group (my side) brought in all kinds of scientific evidence about the harmful effects of pesticides. The pro-pesticide group kept saying “This is the way we do it, this is the way we have always done it.” Frustrated by their attitude, the anti-pesticide group tried to come up with a compromise. The pro-pesticide group would not budge. We could not even get them to agree to stop spraying children’s school bus stops.
By the end of the year, the anti-pesticide group was exhausted. The county commissioners, who never wanted to stop the spraying in the first place, disbanded the group, happy that they had kept the anti-pesticide group occupied for a year and out of their hair. I keep thinking about this experience as I watch and listen to Kerry. Is he going to be kept so busy trying to please the centrists and old guard Democrats that the real liberals drop out of the political arena again and Bush wins the election?
To keep that from happening, I will be so bold as to make these suggestions to Senator John Kerry: Remember the liberals. Don’t shy away from the “L” word. Lean to the left. It ain’t a bad place to be. If you stand up to Bush, if you become more progressive, the liberals will be there to hold you up. We will back you, even though we don’t agree with every thing you say. We all know that once the Bush/Cheney/Rove campaigning juggernaut gets into gear, you are going to need all the support you can get. So go ahead and get started, Senator Kerry. Hug a Liberal today.
Thursday, March 04, 2004
Unsafe at Any Speed
Hmmm. Can this be true about Ralph Nader? I hesitate to link it because I don't want to be passing on wrong information. Is this a campaign to smear him? (And if the DNC is responsible, shame on them.) But what if it's true? I've trusted Ralph Nader since I was a girl growing up near Detroit, the car capital of the world. He came out with Unsafe at Any Speed, the book which pointed out the resistance of car companies to safety features. Nader was particularly critical of the Corvair. The results were consumers believed Nader's research and stopped buying the Corvair. My high school boyfriend, whose father worked for General Motors, drove an old Corvair just to prove Nader was a troublemaker. Needless to say, Nader was not a popular guy in my neck of the woods. But I thought he was cool. I don't really understand what he is doing now, but I had hoped he had a good reason for running for president. This article says he has aligned himself with some fairly shady characters.
Justice Harry A. Blackmun's papers have just been released. If you think one justice does not make a difference, take a look at Blackmun's life. Nixon appointed him to the bench because he was a conservative, yet he ended up writing the majority opinion on Roe v. Wade. From these papers, it has already been learned that Roe v. Wade was almost overturned in 1992. That's scary. Another reason to get Bush out of office as quickly as possible—before he can appoint any Supreme Court Justices.
From the horrible prospect to the banal but vaguely interesting: UPS just stopped by and dropped off a box of goodies. We bought a timer from Bradshaw International. It stopped working after about a month. So we wrote a letter and sent back the broken timer. We didn't hear back for several weeks, so we figured nothing would come of it. But Mario just opened the UPS box, and it's from Bradshaw. They sent us a new timer, spatula, can opener, measuring cups, and tongs. Presents! Very impressive. Plus a nice letter from Mr. Bradshaw.
A year after Mario and I got married, I noticed that our postage scale was off. I figured we had been over paying postage for over a year. I estimated we had overpaid by about $50, which was a lot of money twenty years ago when we were poor starving writers. (So unlike today.) So I sent Pelouze a letter telling Pelouze all this. I also returned the scale. Mario thought I was nuts. Why would I write to a company? They wouldn't do anything for us. A few weeks later, they sent us a check for $50, plus a new postage scale. Mario was just tickled. Now whenever something doesn't work, Mario eagerly writes a letter and awaits the good news.
The sun is out. I'm going to walk my husband back to work and then take a walk.
May you all walk in Beauty!
Justice Harry A. Blackmun's papers have just been released. If you think one justice does not make a difference, take a look at Blackmun's life. Nixon appointed him to the bench because he was a conservative, yet he ended up writing the majority opinion on Roe v. Wade. From these papers, it has already been learned that Roe v. Wade was almost overturned in 1992. That's scary. Another reason to get Bush out of office as quickly as possible—before he can appoint any Supreme Court Justices.
From the horrible prospect to the banal but vaguely interesting: UPS just stopped by and dropped off a box of goodies. We bought a timer from Bradshaw International. It stopped working after about a month. So we wrote a letter and sent back the broken timer. We didn't hear back for several weeks, so we figured nothing would come of it. But Mario just opened the UPS box, and it's from Bradshaw. They sent us a new timer, spatula, can opener, measuring cups, and tongs. Presents! Very impressive. Plus a nice letter from Mr. Bradshaw.
A year after Mario and I got married, I noticed that our postage scale was off. I figured we had been over paying postage for over a year. I estimated we had overpaid by about $50, which was a lot of money twenty years ago when we were poor starving writers. (So unlike today.) So I sent Pelouze a letter telling Pelouze all this. I also returned the scale. Mario thought I was nuts. Why would I write to a company? They wouldn't do anything for us. A few weeks later, they sent us a check for $50, plus a new postage scale. Mario was just tickled. Now whenever something doesn't work, Mario eagerly writes a letter and awaits the good news.
The sun is out. I'm going to walk my husband back to work and then take a walk.
May you all walk in Beauty!
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
So It Begins
The Bush/Rove mudslinging machine has geared up. Now that John Kerry is the (unofficial) Democratic candidate for president, he will be attacked from all sides. I've already noticed the Republicans keep saying, "Tax increase. Tax increase. Tax increase." That's going to be their mantra. If they say it enough, they believe, the American public will think it's true. It's worked before. Now is the time for us to stand-up and work on getting Bush out of office. I'll paste in a letter from MoveOn.org:
"Dear friend,
President Bush is going on the air with his first campaign ads of the season. I've joined MoveOn PAC's campaign to fight back—a massive grassroots-driven effort to take back our country in November. I'm hoping you will, too—you can sign up right now.
President Bush has already raised hundreds of millions for his bid. Our great hope is in our collective power to get out the vote. We'll work via the Internet, the telephone, and face-to-face conversations with voters. And we'll take back our democracy, city by city, block by block, and voter by voter.
Once again, it looks like this race will be a squeaker—even now, polls place it in the margin of error. Strategists on both sides agree that ultimately the outcome will turn on person-to-person contact: the side that talks to its voters more and better wins. That's why together we can be so powerful. By making phone calls, writing letters, and talking to our neighbors, we literally could help provide the margin of victory.
Are you in? Please join me and thousands of others in pledging to help defeat Bush this fall.
Thanks."
"Dear friend,
President Bush is going on the air with his first campaign ads of the season. I've joined MoveOn PAC's campaign to fight back—a massive grassroots-driven effort to take back our country in November. I'm hoping you will, too—you can sign up right now.
President Bush has already raised hundreds of millions for his bid. Our great hope is in our collective power to get out the vote. We'll work via the Internet, the telephone, and face-to-face conversations with voters. And we'll take back our democracy, city by city, block by block, and voter by voter.
Once again, it looks like this race will be a squeaker—even now, polls place it in the margin of error. Strategists on both sides agree that ultimately the outcome will turn on person-to-person contact: the side that talks to its voters more and better wins. That's why together we can be so powerful. By making phone calls, writing letters, and talking to our neighbors, we literally could help provide the margin of victory.
Are you in? Please join me and thousands of others in pledging to help defeat Bush this fall.
Thanks."
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
Happy Endings
Sunday Mario and I had our almost annual Oscar Party. We invited a few people over to watch the Academy Awards with us. Mario and I have watched the Oscars every year during our 23 years together, even after we were bored by the whole thing. The last few years, we have invited friends to come watch with us. We printed out ballots ahead of time, so we could all guess who would win. The person who had the most right guesses had bragging rights for a year.
The night before, I made spaghetti sauce. Mario vacuumed the house, and we generally made the place look halfway decent. I slept well and came fully awake at 6:30 a.m. after I reached for a tissue and something bit me. It turned out it was a wasp. It was the middle of winter and I was bit by a wasp. I panicked. For a moment I felt like I couldn't breathe and was afraid I was having an allergic reaction. I ran downstairs and took the homeopathic remedy apis and sliced a potato and put it on the bug bite. The potato remedy I got from my friend Linda (not her real name, although she said I could use her name). My fingers swelled a tiny bit, but otherwise I was OK. A couple hours later, I called Linda to tell her what had happened, but no one answered the phone. I left a message and asked her to call me.
After breakfast, Mario and I went into Portland to see In America. It was up for a couple of awards, so I wanted to see it ahead of time. When we got home around 3:30, I called Linda. Again, no one answered.
Around 5:30, Evelyn and her son Daniel arrived. (Not their real names.) I've known Daniel since he was a young boy. Now he was graduated from college and working to make enough money for law school. He wanted to do environmental law and work in politics. Mario and I said our hellos, gave Evelyn and Daniel their ballots, and worked on dinner while Billy Crystal did his opening number. We all applauded when he finished.
We ate around 6:00. I still couldn't get a hold of Linda. I've known Linda for about five years. I met her while we were both trying to get the county to stop using pesticides. Mario and I lived about ten miles out of town then, and Linda and her daughter used to stop by on their way back from Linda's cancer treatments in Portland. I liked Linda immediately, in part because she had no self-pity. I had been chronically ill for many years, and I had plenty of self-pity. I never saw her sick from chemo, never saw her dispirited about her cancer—I saw her frustrated with the county and their archaic views about pesticides, but she continued to live her life as she wanted: a single mother out in the country, living off the fruits of her labors on her farm.
A year and a half ago, Linda learned the cancer had metastasized to her bones. Every month now she goes to Vancouver for chemo. The cancer eats her bones, and the chemo builds up her bones. Once she called me from the clinic while she was getting chemo. She told me it was like being in a Kafka story, all these people sitting in chairs with tubes in their arms.
I tell you all this to explain why I was worried about her. I don't let her know I worry about her, because she doesn't like that. But when I couldn't get a hold of her for more than 24 hours, I was afraid something had happened to her.
The four of us kept watching the Oscars. I paced the room a bit. I apologized to Evelyn. I could tell my concern was making her nervous. Three and a half years ago, Evelyn had a mastectomy. A few days after she got home from the hospital but before she started chemo, her husband went out hunting. He didn't come home on time, and Evelyn called the police. A few hours later they came to tell her the bad news. They had found her husband, and he was dead from a heart attack. She had to go through chemo while mourning her husband. What a time it was. And now Linda was late. I was getting ready to drive out to the farm when the phone rang. It was Linda. She had been out helping build a lean-to on her barn and lost track of time. She'd be over soon.
Linda arrived, then a bit later another friend came. We watched the Oscars, applauded and jeered, ate spaghetti. When I was washing the dishes, Linda came in to keep me company, and I told her I had been worried. She didn't get mad. She had me feel the bump on her forehead, a "mets," she called it, created by the cancer. I felt the bump and wanted to cry. I could feel my jaw setting into place, just like my father's often did. I had always thought he was angry when he did that. Maybe he had been trying to hide how he felt, just as I was trying to do at that moment.
I don't know why, but most of my closest friends have chronic or acute illnesses. One friend has chronic fatigue syndrome, another a "benign" brain tumor, another diabetes, and several are recovering from cancer. Two of my closest friends have died in the last year and a half, one from complications from HIV, one from lung cancer. (She didn't smoke; she had multiple chemical sensitivities and her immune system was severely compromised.) It is a sign of the state of our environment, I believe, that so many people suffer from these devastating illnesses. But I also know that when someone becomes ill, they often lose many of their old acquaintances. Linda told me most of her friends drifted away when she first got cancer. "It was like they thought they could catch it," she said. When I got sick, I lost most of my friends. When I started getting better, I lost a lot of friends, too. Since the new friends had only known me when I was ill, they were surprised at the boisterous, opinionated woman who began to emerge as I recovered. They had gotten the notion I was quiet and Zen-like. (I have to laugh. Please, all join me.)
I don't think of my friends as "diseases." I hope they don't see me like that either. Illness can happen to anyone. That's the way it is. The people who desert their friends when they become ill are those who want to pretend it won't happen to them, I suppose.
Ah well. In any case, I was glad Mario and I had decided to carry on our tradition and invite friends over for the Oscars. We won the bragging rights, which was kind of embarrassing. We got 17 awards correct out of 24. Yes, Mario and I tied even though we had several different answers. (Did that make sense?)
I like movies because I like stories. The stories I write and the stories I watch at the movies are always easier than real life, no matter how harrowing they are on the screen or on the pages. In real life, it is difficult to face pain, to participate in sickness and death.
After the Oscars were over, I hugged Linda good-bye and watched her walk slowly down our front steps. I knew it was painful on her hips and legs to go down the stairs. She called good-bye, and there was a lilt in her voice. Hearing her voice just then, my stomach quivered. I loved her more than I could express.
"Drive carefully," I called.
She laughed. She knew I was a worrier. She didn't understand it, but she didn't judge it. She laughed at it.
"See you later," I said.
“Yep,” she said.
It was the happiest of endings.
The night before, I made spaghetti sauce. Mario vacuumed the house, and we generally made the place look halfway decent. I slept well and came fully awake at 6:30 a.m. after I reached for a tissue and something bit me. It turned out it was a wasp. It was the middle of winter and I was bit by a wasp. I panicked. For a moment I felt like I couldn't breathe and was afraid I was having an allergic reaction. I ran downstairs and took the homeopathic remedy apis and sliced a potato and put it on the bug bite. The potato remedy I got from my friend Linda (not her real name, although she said I could use her name). My fingers swelled a tiny bit, but otherwise I was OK. A couple hours later, I called Linda to tell her what had happened, but no one answered the phone. I left a message and asked her to call me.
After breakfast, Mario and I went into Portland to see In America. It was up for a couple of awards, so I wanted to see it ahead of time. When we got home around 3:30, I called Linda. Again, no one answered.
Around 5:30, Evelyn and her son Daniel arrived. (Not their real names.) I've known Daniel since he was a young boy. Now he was graduated from college and working to make enough money for law school. He wanted to do environmental law and work in politics. Mario and I said our hellos, gave Evelyn and Daniel their ballots, and worked on dinner while Billy Crystal did his opening number. We all applauded when he finished.
We ate around 6:00. I still couldn't get a hold of Linda. I've known Linda for about five years. I met her while we were both trying to get the county to stop using pesticides. Mario and I lived about ten miles out of town then, and Linda and her daughter used to stop by on their way back from Linda's cancer treatments in Portland. I liked Linda immediately, in part because she had no self-pity. I had been chronically ill for many years, and I had plenty of self-pity. I never saw her sick from chemo, never saw her dispirited about her cancer—I saw her frustrated with the county and their archaic views about pesticides, but she continued to live her life as she wanted: a single mother out in the country, living off the fruits of her labors on her farm.
A year and a half ago, Linda learned the cancer had metastasized to her bones. Every month now she goes to Vancouver for chemo. The cancer eats her bones, and the chemo builds up her bones. Once she called me from the clinic while she was getting chemo. She told me it was like being in a Kafka story, all these people sitting in chairs with tubes in their arms.
I tell you all this to explain why I was worried about her. I don't let her know I worry about her, because she doesn't like that. But when I couldn't get a hold of her for more than 24 hours, I was afraid something had happened to her.
The four of us kept watching the Oscars. I paced the room a bit. I apologized to Evelyn. I could tell my concern was making her nervous. Three and a half years ago, Evelyn had a mastectomy. A few days after she got home from the hospital but before she started chemo, her husband went out hunting. He didn't come home on time, and Evelyn called the police. A few hours later they came to tell her the bad news. They had found her husband, and he was dead from a heart attack. She had to go through chemo while mourning her husband. What a time it was. And now Linda was late. I was getting ready to drive out to the farm when the phone rang. It was Linda. She had been out helping build a lean-to on her barn and lost track of time. She'd be over soon.
Linda arrived, then a bit later another friend came. We watched the Oscars, applauded and jeered, ate spaghetti. When I was washing the dishes, Linda came in to keep me company, and I told her I had been worried. She didn't get mad. She had me feel the bump on her forehead, a "mets," she called it, created by the cancer. I felt the bump and wanted to cry. I could feel my jaw setting into place, just like my father's often did. I had always thought he was angry when he did that. Maybe he had been trying to hide how he felt, just as I was trying to do at that moment.
I don't know why, but most of my closest friends have chronic or acute illnesses. One friend has chronic fatigue syndrome, another a "benign" brain tumor, another diabetes, and several are recovering from cancer. Two of my closest friends have died in the last year and a half, one from complications from HIV, one from lung cancer. (She didn't smoke; she had multiple chemical sensitivities and her immune system was severely compromised.) It is a sign of the state of our environment, I believe, that so many people suffer from these devastating illnesses. But I also know that when someone becomes ill, they often lose many of their old acquaintances. Linda told me most of her friends drifted away when she first got cancer. "It was like they thought they could catch it," she said. When I got sick, I lost most of my friends. When I started getting better, I lost a lot of friends, too. Since the new friends had only known me when I was ill, they were surprised at the boisterous, opinionated woman who began to emerge as I recovered. They had gotten the notion I was quiet and Zen-like. (I have to laugh. Please, all join me.)
I don't think of my friends as "diseases." I hope they don't see me like that either. Illness can happen to anyone. That's the way it is. The people who desert their friends when they become ill are those who want to pretend it won't happen to them, I suppose.
Ah well. In any case, I was glad Mario and I had decided to carry on our tradition and invite friends over for the Oscars. We won the bragging rights, which was kind of embarrassing. We got 17 awards correct out of 24. Yes, Mario and I tied even though we had several different answers. (Did that make sense?)
I like movies because I like stories. The stories I write and the stories I watch at the movies are always easier than real life, no matter how harrowing they are on the screen or on the pages. In real life, it is difficult to face pain, to participate in sickness and death.
After the Oscars were over, I hugged Linda good-bye and watched her walk slowly down our front steps. I knew it was painful on her hips and legs to go down the stairs. She called good-bye, and there was a lilt in her voice. Hearing her voice just then, my stomach quivered. I loved her more than I could express.
"Drive carefully," I called.
She laughed. She knew I was a worrier. She didn't understand it, but she didn't judge it. She laughed at it.
"See you later," I said.
“Yep,” she said.
It was the happiest of endings.
Movie Madness
The sun is beginning to go down. It was a beautiful day. I spent very little time outdoors today. I was writing, writing, writing, then researching Martha Washington. For the past week or more, Mario and I have been a little movie crazy. I'm not sure why. We had planned on watching the Oscars, as I told you, because we have watched them every year of our married life, so it's a tradition. I wanted to see as many of the nominated movies as possible.
The Monday before yesterday (which to me is last Monday), we went to see Lord of the Rings, which I told you about. On Friday, we went into Vancouver to see Something's Gotta Give. When I describe this movie to people I say, "Essentially, Diane Keaton has to choose between Keanu Reeves and Jack Nicholson." Everyone says, "Well, that's obvious." Mario said, "I have to agree. Keanu rules."
Saturday night we watched Pieces of April. A twenty-something woman is preparing Thanksgiving dinner for her family which includes an apparently terminally ill mother who hasn't been very nurturing. I usually don't like watching movies about sick people. I've got enough sickness in my life, but I thought this was one of the best movies I've seen in a long while. We also watched The Whale Rider again. I love that movie. Every girl on the planet should see that movie, and then every girl on the planet should show it to every boy on the planet. On Sunday, we drove into Portland to see In America. It's about an Irish family coming to America. The two young girls were amazing. It was a funny and moving movie.
Yesterday we went to see Touching the Void, the true story of two climbers and what happened to them after one fell and broke his leg on the mountain. Mario and I had read the book, so we knew the story very well. I got a bit bored, but I don't like watching documentaries or animated features at the movies. My brain just doesn't track. I do better watching them on television.
So that's my wrap-up of movies we've seen lately, in case you're looking for something to see. Now I suppose I will need to return to the real world. But first, tonight we're going to watch School of Rock.
The Monday before yesterday (which to me is last Monday), we went to see Lord of the Rings, which I told you about. On Friday, we went into Vancouver to see Something's Gotta Give. When I describe this movie to people I say, "Essentially, Diane Keaton has to choose between Keanu Reeves and Jack Nicholson." Everyone says, "Well, that's obvious." Mario said, "I have to agree. Keanu rules."
Saturday night we watched Pieces of April. A twenty-something woman is preparing Thanksgiving dinner for her family which includes an apparently terminally ill mother who hasn't been very nurturing. I usually don't like watching movies about sick people. I've got enough sickness in my life, but I thought this was one of the best movies I've seen in a long while. We also watched The Whale Rider again. I love that movie. Every girl on the planet should see that movie, and then every girl on the planet should show it to every boy on the planet. On Sunday, we drove into Portland to see In America. It's about an Irish family coming to America. The two young girls were amazing. It was a funny and moving movie.
Yesterday we went to see Touching the Void, the true story of two climbers and what happened to them after one fell and broke his leg on the mountain. Mario and I had read the book, so we knew the story very well. I got a bit bored, but I don't like watching documentaries or animated features at the movies. My brain just doesn't track. I do better watching them on television.
So that's my wrap-up of movies we've seen lately, in case you're looking for something to see. Now I suppose I will need to return to the real world. But first, tonight we're going to watch School of Rock.
Mom's Intuition
I heard this amazing story, and it turns out it's true. A woman was told her baby daughter died in the fire that consumed her home in 1997. She was at a birthday party in January and saw a 6-year-old girl. She knew immediately this child was her daughter! They did a DNA test, and she was right. The woman who was raising the girl had apparently started the fire and kidnapped the infant. The true mother is awaiting a reunion with a daughter who doesn't know her. You couldn't make this stuff up.
Interview with Vicki Noble
Vicki Noble is a healer, author, scholar and wisdom teacher. She is co-creator with Karen Vogel of the bestselling Motherpeace Tarot. Her other books include The Double Goddess: Women Sharing Power; Shakti Woman; Motherpeace: A Way to the Goddess Through Myth, Art, and Tarot; and Rituals and Practices with the Motherpeace Tarot. She lives in the mountains near Santa Cruz, California.
K.A.: Vicki, you are a preeminent feminist scholar, writer, healer and have been working in these fields for a long while. Did a particular event in your life put you on this path? Or were you born on this path?
V.N.: As I have written in Shakti Woman, I was awakened by a "shamanic healing crisis" in 1976 which ended up being just what the (shaman) doctor ordered. I stopped with Western Medicine (cold turkey) and began to have visions, psychic energy experiences, and much physical healing. I found books to explain what was happening to me, and pretty soon I was deeply involved in yoga, shamanism, psychic healing, tantra, and esoteric science. Of course, as things opened up and experiences happened, I recognized that I had "always" had some version of these experiences, but without a cultural tradition, there was no way to name or understand them.
For instance, while doing yoga I began to have "breath suspension" experiences—a very advanced yogic practice—but I recognized the states from my years of doing underwater breathing when I was a synchronized swimmer during high school. I never talked with anyone about the experiences in high school. I just found that I could stop needing to breathe while doing upside-down stunts, by turning on a kind of internal breathing that was very relaxing and allowed me as much time as I needed for executing the stunt. I was a soloist so I didn't have to coordinate with anyone else, and thus I never mentioned it to anyone, even my teacher.
K.A.: Your work weaves women's spirituality with feminist scholarship. In the past, some feminists were not comfortable having spirituality part of the issue. Do you think this is still true? And how do you answer critics who say they are two separate issues?
V.N.: Unfortunately it is still very much true. The Women's Studies conferences held each year are loathe to include Goddess scholarship—they're having a big controversy about it now—and even my Goddess/Scholars list have discussions about whether the Goddess has any "reality" or is just a kind of mental image. The idea of devotion or actual active spirituality seems to threaten academics, even when they are women. It's the basis of Cynthia Eller's diatribe against "feminist matriarchalists" as she calls us—the fact that we actually seem devotional just makes her want to scream.
K.A.: Marija Gimbutas and other feminist archaeologists believed peaceful egalitarian societies existed thousands of years ago. Since Gimbutas's death, there appears to be a backlash against these ideas. Some of the criticism of Gimbutas's work has been quite vicious, almost personal, and some of the criticism is from women. What do you think is going on?
V.N.: I think part of the problem is that most people who criticize Marija Gimbutas don't actually read her. They just have heard that she "tolerated" or was supported by those of us in the Goddess movement, and therefore, by association they blame her and dismiss her work. Her work is difficult to read, because she was very brilliant and had a spacious capacity for synthesis. She was capable of reading in many languages so she used primary texts from Eastern Europe, Russia, and so on, which very few archaeologists are able to do. She had studied and collected folk songs from her adolescence—she knew at least a thousand songs by the time she was doing her dissertation—and she observed the continuity of patterns from the neolithic to the present in her native land of Lithuania.
An archaeologist in American or England can't possibly duplicate that hands-on experiential knowledge. Then she studied archaeology and got a Ph.D., and by the time she came to America, she was so far ahead of the other archaeologists they couldn't even comprehend her approach. At UCLA she invented a department—an interdisciplinary Eastern European archaeology. She invented "ArchaeoMythology," which people criticize but they don't even begin to understand her interdisciplinary methods. She is accused of being "flaky" when in fact, she was brilliant.
K.A.: When asked whether they still believe a matriarchy ever existed, some women leaders say, "Yes, but even if it didn't, I believe in the idea of it." Others says, "We never said a matriarchy—the opposite of patriarchy—we said egalitarian societies existed." How do you feel about all these arguments?
V.N.: I've always felt that matriarchy was a perfectly adequate word for describing ancient cultures where women were literally at the center—at the center of human evolution, at the center of civilization, and at the center of communal life. Mothers who give birth to both males and females and love them equally—feeding their offspring and sharing language—this is matriarchy. Matriarchy means "beginning with the mother." Mother-centered. Mother-focused.
We now know that there are living matriarchal cultures, peoples who identify themselves as matriarchal (such as the Mosuo in China). Their clan structures totally support my theory. They are organized around the mother. When girls come of age, they are given their own private rooms where they may entertain their lovers. Men come from other clans to visit in the night, and in the morning they go home to their mother's houses. Their productive labor is in service to their mothers. The only thing that binds the men and women lovers together is affection and passion. There are no economic reasons to pair bond. There are no illegitimate children, and no single mothers.
K.A.: Some archaeologists cite goddess iconography as evidence that women were respected and the goddess worshipped, yet one only has to look at modern India to know goddess iconography does not necessarily mean women are treated well or have status in a society. What other evidence convinced you that egalitarian societies existed and that women were once powerful leaders?
V.N.: As I stated above, the presence of living matriarchal cultures where men and women get along well, where all people are loved and respected, the mother is central and the lineage is "matrilineal descent." Algerian Berbers are similar. There was a conference on Matriarchy last September in Luxembourg which I attended and where I was able to hear members of these different matriarchal societies describe their living cultures. These cultures are remnants of a time when the whole world was matriarchal.
K.A.: We have seen more and more women come to power in our country. Yet the idea that women would "rule" differently than men has not necessarily come true. Condeleeza Rice appears to be gung-ho for war. Margaret Thatcher was not a compassionate peaceful leader by any means. There are other examples. Are these women anomalies? Or does our culture breed warmongers, male and female? Do you believe women are inherently more peaceful or better leaders than men?
V.N.: Yes of course, but it can't happen in a vacuum. As long as the structure within which we function is patriarchal and male dominant, based on the values of that mindset, of course any women who rise to power will either be tokens (already male-identified) or will have to compromise their natural ways in order to remain in power by adopting the prevailing ways. We know now from scientific studies that men and women respond to stress (and no doubt most other things) in different ways, and that different hormones govern the responses. Women don't experience "fight or flight" (from testosterone production). Instead our bodies generate oxytocin which promotes a "tend or befriend" response in women. We rush to gather in the children and collaborate with other women on how to solve the problems. The scientists who published this material believe that this proves women need female friendship in their lives. I say it proves that women need to govern society.
K.A.: Your book The Double Goddess just came out. What would you like to say about ideas in The Double Goddess and how you came to some of your conclusions?
V.N.: I started out thinking I was writing "a Goddess book for lesbians" since these images are so provocative in their representation of female bonding and affection. But once I got into the investigation and research, I found that the material went back so far it actually had to do with human evolution and the menstrual cycle. The Double Goddess is first of all a glyph of the female lunar cycle:our completely natural "bipolarity" around which early societies were organized. Then it represents other cyclic dualities like winter and summer, Earth and Moon. Finally it represents queens ruling in dual queenship, as reported about the Amazons. "Women Sharing Power." (the subtitle of my book)
K.A.: Did you have any problems getting The Double Goddess published? The midlist seems to be dying in publishing. Tax laws put into place a decade ago have hit publishers and writers particularly hard. Do you think feminist writers are having a more difficult time than other midlist writers?
V.N.: I think the backlash against feminism functions as an all-out war on feminist writers. If we want to write a book with "Goddess" in the title, forget it—the editors and publishers will refuse to find it worthwhile. But if a man uses "Goddess" in a title, it's considered sexy and fresh, so they are getting the new hardback books with all the advertising and money thrown at them. It's a crime.
K.A.: What research are you most excited about now in your field?
V.N.: I am continuing to work on the links I have discovered across the Silk Road, especially in early times (Bronze Age, around 2000 BCE) between the Aegean "Maenads" (shaman women) and the later "Amazons" and eventually the Tibetan "Dakinis" and Indian "Yoginis." I maintain that they are all basically the same. This includes Gorgons, Valkyries, and European Witches as well. Shaman women are completely invisible to the scholars, who name them differently in every culture, during every time period, which is extremely disjointed and confusing. A shaman is a shaman is a shaman. Period. Ecstatic female shamans, dancing, brewing sacred beverages, practicing divination, healing, and funerary rituals. Meditating in cemeteries. Meeting in covens. Flying through the sky.
K.A.: You are also a healer. Do you want to talk about this part of your work? How does this aspect of your life influence your research? Do you believe "alternative" healing still has a place in this modern world where virulent bugs are on the rise.
V.N.: My natural healing is the basis for my understanding of these connections I'm finding. I am a shaman woman myself and have had many varied supernatural experiences that I study in other cultures where there is more of a tradition (either oral or written) for understanding them. My experience informs my research and authorizes my understanding.
K.A.: The world seems to be going to "hell in a handbasket" as of late. Sometimes it appears as if all the work done by civil rights workers, feminists, environmentalists, peace workers has gone nowhere. Our current administration seems bent on starting war after war, turning back all environmental progress, and taking away women's rights. Do you have any advice on what people can do to get through this period of time?
V.N.: It is so discouraging, isn't it? I sometimes feel overwhelmed by despair at the current situation. We had so much warning, so many opportunities to turn it around. There must be some profound teaching that people are experiencing right now through the denial and avoidance of the truth that has characterized the last two decades. Rather than face the "Fate of the World" as Jonathan Schell put it in the late 1970's, we have chosen to ignore it and simply believe what our "leaders" tell us. The State media is doing a great job of completely brainwashing the public, and the populace of this country is stupider at the moment than any population I can think of ever in history. Comatose—the result of watching WAY too much t.v.
Thank goodness nothing stays the same and everything changes. We must never give up hope—as a natural healer my faith is in the supernatural ("miracle") events that completely transform reality. The experts declared Lake Erie "dead" and they made the polluters stop dumping toxic substances into the lake. How could they have known that a tiny algae would be the agent of transformational healing, and that the lake would return to its original state of vitality? This is also true of our bodies, and it's true of our planet. Nature is "regenerative." She can always restore herself.
K.A.: You also facilitate and participate in ceremony and ritual. What does this work mean to you? How does it inform your life? Most Americans do not have meaningful ceremony in their lives? Do you think this accounts for our crazy-making behavior? How do we differ from other societies in this way?
V.N.: Absolutely. In tribal cultures the troubles are flushed out through regular rituals and ceremonies. They drum and chant and do hands-on healing for days at a time. Negativity cannot withstand such vibrational energy. Everyone in the tribe is healed, people enter altered states and become ecstatic. It only takes a short dose of ecstatic healing to completely restore our sanity and well-being, and then you need to do it regularly. My transformational healing rituals are phenomenal—a hundred people singing and putting hands on sick people for an hour in the context of a good solid drumbeat, driving cancer out of the bodies and out of the community. We've seen malignant brain tumors just disappear, poof. We've put MS and Lupus in remission. Healed all kinds of menstrual disorders. There's nothing quite like it. Western medicine can't even imagine it. Yet it's as old as humanity.
K.A.: What are you working on now? Anything else you'd like to share with us?
V.N.: I'm working on a new book right now with a young Tibetan lama, a reincarnated "tulku" who is very fresh and progressive. Tulku Thubten Rinpoche and I are both devotees of Throma, the Black Dakini (depicted on the front of my book, Shakti Woman) and we have made a wonderful connection. In the book I am comparing Dzogchen (a form of Tibetan Buddhism) with Radical Feminism, quoting from Tulku Thubten and other Lamas and Mary Daly and other feminists—it's very exciting! I am basically saying that the instant awakening—the "conversion" experience—I experienced in regard to radical feminism was (and is) much the same as the instantaneous awakening to enlightenment described in Dzogchen, where we realize our true nature and are liberated in that moment. I'm looking for a publisher right now for this book, so wish me luck!
All photographs and written material copyright © 2003-2008 by Kim Antieau unless otherwise indicated. May not be used without permission.
K.A.: Vicki, you are a preeminent feminist scholar, writer, healer and have been working in these fields for a long while. Did a particular event in your life put you on this path? Or were you born on this path?
V.N.: As I have written in Shakti Woman, I was awakened by a "shamanic healing crisis" in 1976 which ended up being just what the (shaman) doctor ordered. I stopped with Western Medicine (cold turkey) and began to have visions, psychic energy experiences, and much physical healing. I found books to explain what was happening to me, and pretty soon I was deeply involved in yoga, shamanism, psychic healing, tantra, and esoteric science. Of course, as things opened up and experiences happened, I recognized that I had "always" had some version of these experiences, but without a cultural tradition, there was no way to name or understand them.
For instance, while doing yoga I began to have "breath suspension" experiences—a very advanced yogic practice—but I recognized the states from my years of doing underwater breathing when I was a synchronized swimmer during high school. I never talked with anyone about the experiences in high school. I just found that I could stop needing to breathe while doing upside-down stunts, by turning on a kind of internal breathing that was very relaxing and allowed me as much time as I needed for executing the stunt. I was a soloist so I didn't have to coordinate with anyone else, and thus I never mentioned it to anyone, even my teacher.
K.A.: Your work weaves women's spirituality with feminist scholarship. In the past, some feminists were not comfortable having spirituality part of the issue. Do you think this is still true? And how do you answer critics who say they are two separate issues?
V.N.: Unfortunately it is still very much true. The Women's Studies conferences held each year are loathe to include Goddess scholarship—they're having a big controversy about it now—and even my Goddess/Scholars list have discussions about whether the Goddess has any "reality" or is just a kind of mental image. The idea of devotion or actual active spirituality seems to threaten academics, even when they are women. It's the basis of Cynthia Eller's diatribe against "feminist matriarchalists" as she calls us—the fact that we actually seem devotional just makes her want to scream.
K.A.: Marija Gimbutas and other feminist archaeologists believed peaceful egalitarian societies existed thousands of years ago. Since Gimbutas's death, there appears to be a backlash against these ideas. Some of the criticism of Gimbutas's work has been quite vicious, almost personal, and some of the criticism is from women. What do you think is going on?
V.N.: I think part of the problem is that most people who criticize Marija Gimbutas don't actually read her. They just have heard that she "tolerated" or was supported by those of us in the Goddess movement, and therefore, by association they blame her and dismiss her work. Her work is difficult to read, because she was very brilliant and had a spacious capacity for synthesis. She was capable of reading in many languages so she used primary texts from Eastern Europe, Russia, and so on, which very few archaeologists are able to do. She had studied and collected folk songs from her adolescence—she knew at least a thousand songs by the time she was doing her dissertation—and she observed the continuity of patterns from the neolithic to the present in her native land of Lithuania.
An archaeologist in American or England can't possibly duplicate that hands-on experiential knowledge. Then she studied archaeology and got a Ph.D., and by the time she came to America, she was so far ahead of the other archaeologists they couldn't even comprehend her approach. At UCLA she invented a department—an interdisciplinary Eastern European archaeology. She invented "ArchaeoMythology," which people criticize but they don't even begin to understand her interdisciplinary methods. She is accused of being "flaky" when in fact, she was brilliant.
K.A.: When asked whether they still believe a matriarchy ever existed, some women leaders say, "Yes, but even if it didn't, I believe in the idea of it." Others says, "We never said a matriarchy—the opposite of patriarchy—we said egalitarian societies existed." How do you feel about all these arguments?
V.N.: I've always felt that matriarchy was a perfectly adequate word for describing ancient cultures where women were literally at the center—at the center of human evolution, at the center of civilization, and at the center of communal life. Mothers who give birth to both males and females and love them equally—feeding their offspring and sharing language—this is matriarchy. Matriarchy means "beginning with the mother." Mother-centered. Mother-focused.
We now know that there are living matriarchal cultures, peoples who identify themselves as matriarchal (such as the Mosuo in China). Their clan structures totally support my theory. They are organized around the mother. When girls come of age, they are given their own private rooms where they may entertain their lovers. Men come from other clans to visit in the night, and in the morning they go home to their mother's houses. Their productive labor is in service to their mothers. The only thing that binds the men and women lovers together is affection and passion. There are no economic reasons to pair bond. There are no illegitimate children, and no single mothers.
K.A.: Some archaeologists cite goddess iconography as evidence that women were respected and the goddess worshipped, yet one only has to look at modern India to know goddess iconography does not necessarily mean women are treated well or have status in a society. What other evidence convinced you that egalitarian societies existed and that women were once powerful leaders?
V.N.: As I stated above, the presence of living matriarchal cultures where men and women get along well, where all people are loved and respected, the mother is central and the lineage is "matrilineal descent." Algerian Berbers are similar. There was a conference on Matriarchy last September in Luxembourg which I attended and where I was able to hear members of these different matriarchal societies describe their living cultures. These cultures are remnants of a time when the whole world was matriarchal.
K.A.: We have seen more and more women come to power in our country. Yet the idea that women would "rule" differently than men has not necessarily come true. Condeleeza Rice appears to be gung-ho for war. Margaret Thatcher was not a compassionate peaceful leader by any means. There are other examples. Are these women anomalies? Or does our culture breed warmongers, male and female? Do you believe women are inherently more peaceful or better leaders than men?
V.N.: Yes of course, but it can't happen in a vacuum. As long as the structure within which we function is patriarchal and male dominant, based on the values of that mindset, of course any women who rise to power will either be tokens (already male-identified) or will have to compromise their natural ways in order to remain in power by adopting the prevailing ways. We know now from scientific studies that men and women respond to stress (and no doubt most other things) in different ways, and that different hormones govern the responses. Women don't experience "fight or flight" (from testosterone production). Instead our bodies generate oxytocin which promotes a "tend or befriend" response in women. We rush to gather in the children and collaborate with other women on how to solve the problems. The scientists who published this material believe that this proves women need female friendship in their lives. I say it proves that women need to govern society.
K.A.: Your book The Double Goddess just came out. What would you like to say about ideas in The Double Goddess and how you came to some of your conclusions?
V.N.: I started out thinking I was writing "a Goddess book for lesbians" since these images are so provocative in their representation of female bonding and affection. But once I got into the investigation and research, I found that the material went back so far it actually had to do with human evolution and the menstrual cycle. The Double Goddess is first of all a glyph of the female lunar cycle:our completely natural "bipolarity" around which early societies were organized. Then it represents other cyclic dualities like winter and summer, Earth and Moon. Finally it represents queens ruling in dual queenship, as reported about the Amazons. "Women Sharing Power." (the subtitle of my book)
K.A.: Did you have any problems getting The Double Goddess published? The midlist seems to be dying in publishing. Tax laws put into place a decade ago have hit publishers and writers particularly hard. Do you think feminist writers are having a more difficult time than other midlist writers?
V.N.: I think the backlash against feminism functions as an all-out war on feminist writers. If we want to write a book with "Goddess" in the title, forget it—the editors and publishers will refuse to find it worthwhile. But if a man uses "Goddess" in a title, it's considered sexy and fresh, so they are getting the new hardback books with all the advertising and money thrown at them. It's a crime.
K.A.: What research are you most excited about now in your field?
V.N.: I am continuing to work on the links I have discovered across the Silk Road, especially in early times (Bronze Age, around 2000 BCE) between the Aegean "Maenads" (shaman women) and the later "Amazons" and eventually the Tibetan "Dakinis" and Indian "Yoginis." I maintain that they are all basically the same. This includes Gorgons, Valkyries, and European Witches as well. Shaman women are completely invisible to the scholars, who name them differently in every culture, during every time period, which is extremely disjointed and confusing. A shaman is a shaman is a shaman. Period. Ecstatic female shamans, dancing, brewing sacred beverages, practicing divination, healing, and funerary rituals. Meditating in cemeteries. Meeting in covens. Flying through the sky.
K.A.: You are also a healer. Do you want to talk about this part of your work? How does this aspect of your life influence your research? Do you believe "alternative" healing still has a place in this modern world where virulent bugs are on the rise.
V.N.: My natural healing is the basis for my understanding of these connections I'm finding. I am a shaman woman myself and have had many varied supernatural experiences that I study in other cultures where there is more of a tradition (either oral or written) for understanding them. My experience informs my research and authorizes my understanding.
K.A.: The world seems to be going to "hell in a handbasket" as of late. Sometimes it appears as if all the work done by civil rights workers, feminists, environmentalists, peace workers has gone nowhere. Our current administration seems bent on starting war after war, turning back all environmental progress, and taking away women's rights. Do you have any advice on what people can do to get through this period of time?
V.N.: It is so discouraging, isn't it? I sometimes feel overwhelmed by despair at the current situation. We had so much warning, so many opportunities to turn it around. There must be some profound teaching that people are experiencing right now through the denial and avoidance of the truth that has characterized the last two decades. Rather than face the "Fate of the World" as Jonathan Schell put it in the late 1970's, we have chosen to ignore it and simply believe what our "leaders" tell us. The State media is doing a great job of completely brainwashing the public, and the populace of this country is stupider at the moment than any population I can think of ever in history. Comatose—the result of watching WAY too much t.v.
Thank goodness nothing stays the same and everything changes. We must never give up hope—as a natural healer my faith is in the supernatural ("miracle") events that completely transform reality. The experts declared Lake Erie "dead" and they made the polluters stop dumping toxic substances into the lake. How could they have known that a tiny algae would be the agent of transformational healing, and that the lake would return to its original state of vitality? This is also true of our bodies, and it's true of our planet. Nature is "regenerative." She can always restore herself.
K.A.: You also facilitate and participate in ceremony and ritual. What does this work mean to you? How does it inform your life? Most Americans do not have meaningful ceremony in their lives? Do you think this accounts for our crazy-making behavior? How do we differ from other societies in this way?
V.N.: Absolutely. In tribal cultures the troubles are flushed out through regular rituals and ceremonies. They drum and chant and do hands-on healing for days at a time. Negativity cannot withstand such vibrational energy. Everyone in the tribe is healed, people enter altered states and become ecstatic. It only takes a short dose of ecstatic healing to completely restore our sanity and well-being, and then you need to do it regularly. My transformational healing rituals are phenomenal—a hundred people singing and putting hands on sick people for an hour in the context of a good solid drumbeat, driving cancer out of the bodies and out of the community. We've seen malignant brain tumors just disappear, poof. We've put MS and Lupus in remission. Healed all kinds of menstrual disorders. There's nothing quite like it. Western medicine can't even imagine it. Yet it's as old as humanity.
K.A.: What are you working on now? Anything else you'd like to share with us?
V.N.: I'm working on a new book right now with a young Tibetan lama, a reincarnated "tulku" who is very fresh and progressive. Tulku Thubten Rinpoche and I are both devotees of Throma, the Black Dakini (depicted on the front of my book, Shakti Woman) and we have made a wonderful connection. In the book I am comparing Dzogchen (a form of Tibetan Buddhism) with Radical Feminism, quoting from Tulku Thubten and other Lamas and Mary Daly and other feminists—it's very exciting! I am basically saying that the instant awakening—the "conversion" experience—I experienced in regard to radical feminism was (and is) much the same as the instantaneous awakening to enlightenment described in Dzogchen, where we realize our true nature and are liberated in that moment. I'm looking for a publisher right now for this book, so wish me luck!