June 2004 Who says I despair? That is to say, I would reverse Kierkegaard's aphorism that the worst despair is that despair which is unconscious of itself as despair, and instead say that the best despair and the beginning of hope is to be conscious of despair in the very air we breathe, and to look around for something better. I like to eat crawfish and drink beer. That's despair? - Walker Percy (via Woods_Lot)
My dad and I didn't spend a lot of time together. If you added all our visits up it might not equal a year. For a short time of his life he owned a quarter horse ranch in Texas and raced the horses. I visited him there when I was an eighteen year old hippie chick wearing patched blue jeans, work boots, tye-dyed t-shirts and no bra, or underwear. I wore Buddhist prayer beads and a rosery hanging from a belt loop. I didn't really fit into the scene. And I was afraid of the horses. I was a city kid. I never even had a cat. I'd read The Black Stallion and National Velvet. I even had a few horse statues and childhood daydreams of a best friend horse. But standing next to one was overwhelming. I liked watching the horses. And I liked going to the track. We sat in the stands drinking Pearl and smoking filterless cigarettes. Hours of nothing and then the horses were in the gate and then they were running and we were all standing and yelling and then it was over and we popped another beer. When I lived in NYC I knew a woman who worked on the east coast race tracks. I would take a train out to Long Island and we would spend the day at the track. Same thing. Drinking and smoking and talking to trainers and waiting and then the rush of horses and the tension and the shouting and then it was over and everyone went back to the drifting and waiting. I still felt like an outsider. I wore East Village black then. Drinking Corona. Smoking Duhills. And I still liked watching the horses. I like the feel of risk and possibility. Sometimes I put a movie in my Netflix queue because other people liked it but I'm not that interested. Like Seabiscuit. I didn't think I'd like it as much as I did. It had everything I needed to watch at this moment in my life. People coming together and supporting one another. Commitment. Healing. Getting back up from a thousand falls. It's a beautiful film. And the acting is great. Unlike everything on television it's about knowing that winning isn't the most important part of aspiration. I almost watched it twice. Maybe it was because yesterday I talked to my aunt. The family house is sold. I haven't been there in a couple of decades but I spent my summers there when I was growing up. I did imagine that I might go back to visit. Some day. She said they'd been to the cemetery to put red, white and blue flowers on Dad's grave. And now I wanna spend a day at the track. Just watching.
Renee is home for the summer and I am a happy Godmother. We drove around SF. Shopped for yarn. Ate some lunch. Talked and talked. SO much fun. We came home and she showed me how to make a hat. I must have spent three hours trying to figure it out on my own. Unsuccessfully. She made it clear to me in ten minutes. I pulled out the yarn I got to make something for Jan and made a pretty cute hat. I made it a little big because, judging from the most recent photos, he's a big boy. I used to sing a song to Renee when she was little the title of which was Horses. I listened to it while I worked and marveled at the reoccurring theme. Stuff like that makes me smile. Kristina is moving on to Chekhov. I'm ready. Chekhov always convinces me to keep my heart open. And I need that right now. I just did a Chekhov binge not too long ago. But some things are worth repeating. Lots of things are I guess.
Dru linked the We Have Brains topic but had no names to offer to the list of feminist men. I share her jaded view in many ways. I worked in male dominated kitchens and hung out with male musicians. I learned to swear faster and louder, drink harder, make the randier joke and not back down. I've thought a lot about being a feminist in those worlds. If I couldn't listen to men be sexist I couldn't work. But I can't listen to men be sexist and I needed to work. And being fat gave me great training in how to use humor to make my point. I think there was a wonky way in which I was trying to use the master's tools. As it were. Oh, some times I just make myself laugh. I don't really understand men, or women for that matter, who don't call themselves feminists. What does that mean? Do you not think women should make the same amount of money for the same job? Do you think they do? And it's not just about a penny for penny exchange. It's about a redefinition of job value, access to the jobs that pay well, the education needed to get them, childcare, oh you know. You either get it or you haven't been paying attention. Renee and I had an interesting conversation about this once when she was younger. She announced that she wasn't a feminist because things shouldn't just be fair for women they should also be fair for men. And I said, yeah, that's true. And feminism is also about things being fair for men. I don't think men are served by the way things are. I think men might enjoy spending more time with their kids. I think they might be healthier if they understood themselves emotionally and had a vocabulary with which to talk about their feelings. I think the work place might be less carnivorous and mean spirited if the values of the workplace included knowing when getting the work done isn't as important as taking care of the crying child. Things might be slower, but so? Men are more and more subject to body assessment obsession. More worried about their weight and their hair loss and their clothes. Men are not served by sexism. Dru mentions privilege and I agree with her. It is hard for me when anyone doesn't get the way privilege informs their life. And men do have privilege in no uncertain terms. But I'm also aware that privilege is costly. Costly to our hearts, our community, our perception, our wellness. When you think in terms of the most stereotypically sexist man you picture a stack of porn mags and a continual sports feed. Maybe that's just one type but it's the image that springs to my mind. And I think of the loss of true Eros and connectivity in that life. Which isn't to dis sports but some times when I notice how many sports channels there are and read what the pay is for the players it seems to me that sports have become a market driven addiction zone out for (mostly) men. I'm losing my thread here because the topic is so big and the actual WHB thing was just to name five feminist men. The first name that came to me was Barry's. He get's the issues, make an effort to learn about them and talk about them. I thought about Kobi. I'm not really sure he calls himself a feminist but I know him to be a thoughtful and fair minded man. And I've watched him with his kid. He is with that kid. He is changing diapers and soothing and he is just with that kid. And he is with his wife. In a generous and willing and lush and dignified manner. I thought about Paul. Because he's actually said he was feminist, out loud. And because he asks the questions. I thought about George, who seems to have disappeared and I never book marked his bardo digs. I'm on the verge of swimming across the bay to find him. But, in terms of feminism, he gets it. Those first five came very quickly. And then I went through a list of names and didn't feel quite as confident. In terms of local leadership, I think both Tom and Matt might be on my list but not without some qualifiers. Dennis would be on my list but we know there are problems. Michael. Yeah. But thinking about them I went back to Dru's idea about how well the most politically vocal men hold their own privilege. So I'll keep thinking about number five. I'm sure I'm forgetting someone obvious. Or many be I'm just holding the spot open. For reasons of my own.
I had a psychological epiphany in the morning. You know the kind where you know that you've figured something out on a core level. And now that you get it nothing will be the same. You will never again sell yourself out. I mean ya know, I really saw the mechanics of something. I understood the tab A slot B fit of it. By four o'clock I was curled in a ball weeping. Running pretty much the same tape loop I ran all through the month of May. Sigh. I'll have to call my personal social worker (I do have one you know) and ask her for a clear diagnosis. But it can't be good. The word manic comes to mind. Happily, Renee called. Kate has arrived to spend the summer. They were on their way over for Mo's burgers and books. One of our favorite combos. Lawrence was walking through the store and Renee pointed him out to Kate. It made me happy that she knew who he was. Then we had coffee at the Steps of Rome and talked. A lot. We walked home past beautiful Italian men calling us into their restaurants. One called me bella and I flirted and he flirted back and we all giggled. I have thermal pajamas with cowboys all over them. One time when Renee was spending the night she saw me in the pjs and just began to giggle. They are very cute. And I am very cute in them. I told her she could tell everyone I was sleeping with cowboys. We giggled some more. I was telling them that, for me, having her delight in my cowboy pajamas reminded me of me delighting in her. I used to buy her all these cute clothes from a friend who had a baby clothes company and delight in how cute she looked in them. There was something about her manner when she was looking at me with the cowboys. The way she giggled. It made me aware that she was an adult. I can't really explain why. She was there giggling. It might not sound adult. But it was her. Having her own delight. About me. The details of the epiphany are still with me. My heart is full of conversation with smart young women. I still had a pang as my head hit the pillow. A longing so deep. It's been with me for so long I might not know who I am without it. But I was sleeping with cowboys. Riding on the horse in the air. And now, when we fall, we pick each other up.
George is back from bardo and I am breathing easier. He reminded me of this post and I had to link it as another example of his feminism.
That's what I'm talkin about. And he gives the best hugs ever.
I don't want to start I have a complete crush on Atom Egoyan now. It only took three movies to do it for me. When his first film was shown at the Montreal Film Festival, Wim Wenders insisted that an award given to him for Wings of Desire be given to Egoyan. I woulda done the same thing. I watched Calendar. Twice. DVD's have those directors talking over the film thing but I never really want to watch a film and listen to someone talk. But I did with Calendar. Egoyan and his wife, both in the film, did the commentary. It was so interesting and charming. The Netflix description is wrong. He doesn't ask dates to call people. He hires escorts to make calls to men they would rather be with and talk in a language other than English. And language is the heart of this movie. Language as seduction. Language as identity. Language as medicine. Language as alienation. It's all in there. He's directing the Ring cycle. You have to submit an application for a ticket. It just so not fair. I wanna go. Really, really really. Really.
I'm awake too early. I think a far away phone was ringing. And my dream was confusing. And there was a song that Joni sings in my head.
It's still in my head. But I have Amy Goodman to drown the sound. The old tape loop is trying to kick in but I'm not going to listen. I'm not. I already took a shower and got dressed. I have some yoghurt and blueberries and a croissant. Or maybe I'll scramble some eggs. And tea. I ought to make some tea.
Monster has already sent the list of not too interesting jobs. I'll go to Craig's list and Opportunity Knocks. Someday, someone, somewhere must be gonna hire me for something. Maybe I'll call that grad school program.
Yoga. I will do some yoga. I will stand in warrior pose and remember that I am strong. I can deal with it all. Bring it on. Just not that tape loop. That has to stop. And Joni needs to find another groove.
My efforts to make Jan's hat big went a bit off scale. It fits me. I started again last night and I think it's going well. I still have the big one. Maybe Kobi will like it. That would be cute. I can work on them both. I can clean the kitchen. Maybe Renee and Kate will call and want to take me with them on some adventure. I can read. Exotica is coming from Netflix. I can keep that tape loop off.
Gore Vidal is talking. Droll. Entitled. He doesn't think much of the boy prince. But he isn't helping to get this song to stop. The Morning Show is on now. Maybe that will do it. And that tea. Better get the tea pot on. Joni wrote a poem.
Sigh. Maybe I can go back to sleep for a while and hope for a dream that does make sense. But no. I'm going to make that tea. I have things to do. I can make that tape loop stop. I'll eat something and read some blogs. I'll walk to the store and buy some arugala for dinner and maybe a baguette. I won't buy cigarettes and wine. I won't listen to that tape loop. I'll remember my epiphany and live my real life.
There's a lot of sentimental musing on what a nice guy Ray-gun was. Perhaps. People are complex. No one is all good, or all bad. I watched And The Band Played On today. In one of the opening scenes the television is on and Regan has just been elected the first time. The film is a nightmare of documentation on how lack of funding, greed, ego and homophobia slowed AIDS research.
Yeah. I'm just not in the mood to listen to stories about what a nice guy he was. When I was writing my book I realized how much I'd checked out during those eight years. I voted for Carter the first time but I didn't even vote the second time. I won't make that mistake again. People are complex. I don't believe in good guys and bad guys. But I do believe in accountability. And I believe that there are times when indifference is criminal.
Marx was asked if he would be attending a Marxist discussion meeting. He said he would not. He was not a Marxist. Or that's a story I read somewhere. I was thinking about it yesterday. I was thinking about ideology and how it becomes distorted. Even with Jesus. My reading of his life is that it was a life of process. He may have had more inchoate ability in terms of enlightenment but the whole idea is that we see how he thought and felt his way through the sorrows of life. Ideology seems to take the great thinking and feeling of the few and shape it into something else. Something that can be held onto and used as a method of control. I wondered about Marx while I was watching And The Band Played On. I wondered what he would say about blood banks as an industry. This morning I listened to my lefty news and smiled when Susan remembered People's Park. While I listen to the perspective with which I am aligned, my TV (with the sound off) was on CNN showing a casket and a family and a lot of pomp and circumstance. I try to take it all in. During the Regan years I believed that the political leadership of the world would no doubt destroy the world. I wanted to find as much truth and joy as I could before they did. So I went to India and came back to Boulder and did drugs and played music and sought truth and joy. I found some truth and joy. And some lies and sorrow. Living in SF makes it easier to believe that constitutional politics can be effective. And even here we have problems. Maybe it's because I'm the age that I am. But I see it more as process. And process is often slow. Meandering. Incomplete. I'm aware of my own process. My own zigg zagging road. My own desire. My own need. I'm trying to trust. Something. All the ideologies that held me dear were too tight. I am not a Marxist. But I like the way the guy thinks. And I must think and feel my way through the sorrows of life. Maybe not too joyfully. And maybe without much inchoate ability in terms of anything in particular. But with great faith. And some help from my friends.
It's time for a mythological revolution. Not only do we need some regime change in world governments, we also need a new spiritual pantheon. We have lived long enough with the old stories: the mishugas of warring desert tribes; the personified sky gods who judge and punish; the idea that we aren't tied to materiality, to atoms or to the elements; and the notion that our true identity has some life beyond the one we are now living. Isn't it time to be more in the present? Isn't it time to come back home? -Scoop Nisker (via Paul Krassner via Susan) Venus is dancing between the sun and the earth. Thinking about it makes me shiver. I went to Caroline's site to see what she might be saying.
We see what we normally don't see. I hope so. In my chart Venus is in Taurus. I'm going to light candles and listen to music and dance with the planet of love and beauty. Eyes wide open.
Caroline says deep sober reflection or complete lock down. I think both. In SF yesterday there were two cops for every demonstrator. This morning, on the streets around the convention center, battle lines are drawn. The local news is filming. I just watched an officer in complete riot gear kick a plant. The demonstrators had placed potted plants in an intersection to block traffic. The officer was kicking the plant over.
Newsom courts and woos and I light purple candles to a goddess who loves beauty and send up dreams for peace and love and pleasure and healing. I have baskets and bowls full of dry roses. Most of them I bought myself and dried myself but I have these little tiny buds that Karen bought me in Chinatown. I was using them in my ritual for the dancing planet. When I walked into my bedroom one of the dried roses from a bowl on my dresser was on the floor. I'm sure I knocked it out of the bowl when I was changing clothes or something but seeing it there, that little flower of love, in the middle of my floor, made me smile. Felt like an affirmation. If I could make magic I'd fill the streets with roses today. Knee high. High enough to cover jack boots and fill the air with a scent so sweet and intoxicating that people would begin to dance and kiss. Not hot house roses, mind you. Big luscious garden roses. Not buds, tight and closed and firm. Fully bloomed roses. Heavy. Open. Over full and dripping leaves.
In the year after my trip to the ashram I lived in a garage and wandered from diner to cafe to club reading Tarot cards for five bucks. I made just enough to pay for whatever I was drinking or eating and enough to buy a book or two. I listened to my friends play music and danced daughters-of-Jah dancing with my new age sisters. Arms in the air. Birkenstocks shuffling. Hearts lifted to the sky. There was a wood stove in the garage. The woman who owned it intended it to be a small apartment but no one would pay for it. I lived there in exchange for babysitting her kids. But Colorado winters are cold and brick walls store temperature and wood was costly. Sometimes I huddled in my sleeping bag, trembling with cold, watching snow fall through a window high on the wall. It was so cold. Life went the way it went and I put away the Tarot. I still read for friends who know I can. Usually on their birthday. I used to pull a card for myself on New Years and on my own birthday. But I stopped. All part of a long dark night in which I do not believe I know how to hear the angels. And as melodramatic as that may sound I think it has been good for me in ways I can't fully articulate. Reading Willa has been poking at me. Calling me to play. And in my current candlelight and roses dancing with planets mood I went to read what the cards were telling her today.
Oh Rilke. Always reminding me. And so I thought I'd pull a card. Once when I was reading my friend Poonah told me that he didn't think I knew what the cards meant. He thought I used them as a prop so that I could spout my own wisdom. I'm not sure if it was wisdom but I think there was some truth to me using them to spout. I did know what they meant. I read books about them. I looked at different decks and pondered the art. I use the Aquarian Deck. Mine is worn soft from use. Almost cloth like. Today I pulled the four of swords. At first I felt sad. My reading of that card is rest after strife. And I'm supposed to be dancing with love and beauty today. I went to a page Willa links for someone else's divination. "The card advises the Querent that they need to get away, rest, recuperate. Especially after the Three of Swords! " Well. OK. There's some truth to that. "The card indicates that the Querent has been facing mental or emotional stress, arguments, misunderstandings or verbal abuse, or that they're ill or injured. A healing retreat is needed, time to clear the head, heart and soul, or just fix a damaged body. In this case, the stillness of the "4" is healing and positive. A quiet, unchanging scene is needed." Well. OK. There's some truth to that. But I feel like a kid who has been told to take a nap. I'm tired of resting and healing. Yesterday I thought about a guy in North Beach. I met him when he was tending bar a bunch of years ago. We flirted wildly until I met his girl friend. We were still friendly when we ran into each other. I never had much heart invested. The last time I saw him he was flirting again but by then I knew about some problematic aspects of his character. Still. Yesterday I thought about hunting him down. Going bar to bar. Prowling like I used to. I felt like Rilke's panther. But, really. Bar to bar? That was then. Just as I was reading about my four of swords the purple candle, which is sitting on top of the shelf above my desk, began to drip. It dripped a lot. All over the screen of my monitor. OHMYGAWD. I'm sure there's a metaphor in that. I'm sure it can't be good. I scraped the wax from the screen with my finger nail and giggled. I got it mostly cleaned up, put a dish under the candle. Made my apologies to the dancing planet. Perhaps I need to accept that I am in a slow and inner time. At least for today. I don't think it will hurt to walk to the mailbox and send my resume out. Maybe I'll do some laundry. I have arugala, cucumber and turkey for lunch. And I will still dance. On the news I watched the demonstrators dancing in a circle in the street. Dancing can be a form of resting. I like the deck that Willa is using. I have three other decks. Well, four actually. And wanted another. Maybe I need to play some more. I dunno. I'm just trying to stimulate some vision and faith in a worn out heart.
Renee and Kate came over. We played with the Tarot and talked and ate pizza and danced. Renee had to work so Kate stayed over. We watched the next film in my Atom Egoyan festival. And now Kate is asleep on the futon behind me and I am trying not to type too loudly. Which is hard because the shelf that holds my keyboard rattles. Soon I will go into the kitchen and make waffles with oatmeal and yoghurt in them and blueberries and nectarines on top. Renee will be here soon and we'll have more fun. There's a helicopter over head. Could be news. Could be police. The card for the day is the Knight of Rods. Which may just be about these wonderful girls who visit me and make smile. Or maybe we're going to meet a shining knight.
When Kate saw the dancing planet candle she asked what it was about. I mumbled some vague hippie chick thing and she said, "So, it's like leaving cookies for Santa." Yep. Today we played speed Scrabble in a coffee house near the ocean. The coffee was acrid and I got too many vowels but we had fun. The guy walking down Church street with the feather bird face mask carrying a cardboard box full of who knows what and talking to no one in particular startled Kate a little bit. I guess I can understand that.
There's a thread on BFB, which began with some news about gastric bypass. I'm late to the dance on this and feel funny jumping in via comments. But there is much to be parsed in the comments. Lately I've been feeling how difficult it can be to have a conversation about the health of fat people. We know that health research is funded. We know that funding can dictate the focus. These aren't new ideas, nor are they particular to the health of fat people. But the result is always the same. Information on health isn't always useful. And for those of us, facing the exaggerated hysteria of the obesity epidemic, adequate health information (not mention health care) is close to nil. I heard a few minutes of Dr. Weil on PBS the other day. He was talking about how there was nothing about prevention in medical school. Nothing about nutrition. For the record, Dr. Weil has his own market driven perspective. I just like his products better than gastric bypass, diet plans and drugs. He talks about spirit, mind and body. In the comments on BFB there is a woman who is at a weight she calls mid size. She is having trouble moving and she feels her heart race when she climbs stairs. She says people in the size acceptance community have nothing useful to say to her. I hope that's not true. I have a friend who I met at a NAAFA weekend. She's pretty disenfranchised from the community at this point. There's more than one reason. But part of it is about experience she's had of intolerance in the community. Lately she's been swimming and doing yoga and she's always been someone who eats healthy, real food. She's a vegetarian. She says she eats whatever she wants. And she's lost some weight lately. And she's happy about it. She notes that she would have to lose lots of weight before she would even be in the range of what is defined as average. And weight loss was not and is not her goal. But she is happy about it. Why? It's usually at this point in the conversation when things can get tense between us. Because I'm wary of the list of negative health issues associated with being fat. I am aware that there are health issues for fat bodies. But we don't always agree on what they are. I am however, not in the least bit uncomfortable with her efforts to care for her body. I even get why she's happy about losing weight. I don't think the fat revolution is about trying to get fat, or stay fat. And I don't think she wishes she were thinner. But she lost a little weight and all she's done is care for her body. There is a measure of change in that. I understand. In the fat community she feels afraid to talk about it. Any mention about weight loss is a betrayal. There's something kinda wonky about that. We are under attack. We are braced and defended. And we need to hold the complexity of what life in a fat body is. Spirit, mind and body. The woman in the comments talks about being a compulsive over eater. Since this is the Internet we need to think about the possibility that this woman isn't who she says she is. But let's take her at her word. I've met people with compulsive over eating issues. I've had some experience with it myself. But I think it's something we need to really parse. Food is about many things. It is about comfort sometimes. And it is about pleasure. Spirit, mind and body. When food is problematized we get confused. For too many in this country food has lost vitality and substance. Salt and chemicals and processing. We forget what real food tastes like. We eat on the run. In front of the television or the computer. I do. I eat in front of the computer, a lot. I try to make myself eat meals at the table, with music on and candles lit, regularly. Real meals. It would be great to always eat with spirit, mind and body fully engaged. But it's not always possible. I hope people with compulsive over eating issues can work through them. But I hope they don't lose comfort and pleasure in their effort. There's a difference between being obsessed with food and being a sensualist. Sometimes it's just about fuel. Sometimes it ought to be more. My friend says she eats whatever she wants. But I know her to have excellent taste in food. By which I mean she likes a variety of fruits and vegetables. She likes whole grains. She eats dairy but she also uses soy products. She recognizes well prepared food. She has for as long as I have known her. And she is very fat. The community needs to be able to have conversations about all this. But in a post about gastric bypass it's a shift of the debate. I understand why people feel desperate and pressured about losing weight. And I wish they all had medical care that thought in terms of spirit, mind and body and not in terms of selling. Because gastric bypass is unsound and punitive. And pressured, desperate people need care. In the thread the surgery is rationalized by the list. Problems with movement, out of control eating, high heart rate. And the leap to the surgery is made. The fact that people have died after the surgery becomes blurred. I think there are some great posters over there doing great work. I couldn't think of anything to say that hadn't been said. The conversation is moving along. But I am left thinking about how often we fight with each other about how health and fat work, or don't work together. I want us to bang on the doors of the medical establishment and say get all of us. Spirit, mind and body. All of who we are. And that's what the revolution means to me. Embracing all of who I am. Not trying to be less.
Looking back on the day I think the Knight of Rods might just have been about us driving around all day. We were all the way to the west of the city and all the way to the east. We were pretty far south and all the way north. When we got home we flopped down and watched Hitchcock movies. Today I pulled the Four of Cups.
OK so two days ago I was supposed to put on armor and lay down and today I'm complacent. See how the gods toy with me? When I read that card I always mention that the querant may be waiting for information, or response. Like could one of my resumes be responded to please? And, oddly enough, yesterday I noticed that I was at 1000 comments. This post is 1001. I was going to say something about that. Something commemorative. But I forgot. The other thing I noticed was that all the comments on Avoirdupois were gone. I guess YACCS stores them and I can download them to my own server. But there are problems with my server. Things I ought to have dealt with long ago. I'm not sure I can make it work. And it made me sad. Because sometimes I would read those comments to cheer myself up about the book and my inability to get it published. I'm sort of hand wringing and teeth gnashing about it all. I do wait for messages. Check comments. Wait for e-mail. It is all a little addictive and I do need to focus. I can feel some brooding coming on. The card is apt. I have things I can do to counter it all. A piece of writing I began and some errands to run. I know I have a penchant for fits of drama. I use things like laundry and vacuuming to subvert my passion play. So. OK. Grumble. Eye roll. Onward.
It's a challenge Gotta make myself remember Facing the truth, well, that doesn't mean surrender What is bravado and how much is a force of will? -Todd Rundgren Sometimes you come up with a plan. You think that plan will keep you safe. But the plan fails. Or maybe you fail the plan. And safety. Safely is an illusion. I've never been safe. My face is full of blood. My heart is pushing. There are two loads of laundry in the drier. Half a load in the wash. The grey morning has burned off and opened to the clarity of the sun. I will mop the kitchen floor. I will put clean sheets on the bed. I will fold everything and put it all away. There's more turkey and arugala. I will send the mail. Chop wood. Carry water. Joyful participation in the sorrows of life. There must be a sentence somewhere that will stroke my cheek and sooth me. Fucking four of cups. Maybe I'll just pick another card.
Despite the fact that I was tense and wary while I was shuffling, the cards were good to me today. I have to admit that it feels good to have this moment of ritual. I like the feel of cards in my hand. Today I got the Magician. It's one of those cards. You look at the images and you think maybe things will be OK. Or maybe that's just me. And maybe that's just me today. We'll see.
Honestly. I have no idea what to do with that. Yesterday wore me down. When I walked into the little shopping mall down the street I saw a woman on a bench. She was older, dressed in bright colors, orange and red and yellow. She wore a long skirt and layers of sweaters. White hair, pulled back and a face brown and wrinkled from sun. She looked Slavic and ancient and more than a little mad. As I passed she spoke to me but I couldn't understand what she was saying. Her look was hostile but contained. I looked directly into her eyes. I am done in. But I continued with my one step after another get stuff done even though you don't feel like it method of self comfort. In the evening, Renee and Kate and I were going to go to Headlands and listen to Cynthia but when they arrived at my apartment Renee said the brakes were acting funny. She was worried about driving too far and that made sense to me. We made popcorn and watched terrible television. I'm going to pretend that the national day of mourning is for Ray. I'm going to think about magic and possibility and making something occur and NOW. And if I can't figure it out I'll go ask Bob for help. Susan says he's cool. Or Alice. Michael has had some interesting conversations with her.
Me and my grrrl team ate sandwiches in the park. Drank coffee in a cafe. Looked through tattoo books at a tattoo place on the corner. I showed them a sketch I have in an old journal of an angel that I was going to have on my shoulder. The angel is male and naked with arms extended up and wings in full span. He is leaning to one side. I wanted to have him on my back. But today we were talking about him being on my front, wing span along the line of my shoulder, feet just at the top of my breast. And maybe the words
in a very delicate script. While we were looking in the journal a bar napkin fell out. On it was something John wrote to me in very drunk and hard to read scrawl.
I'm sure we were both very drunk at the time.
A friend talked to me about opening a restaurant yesterday. I'm not sure he's serious. I'm not sure he's able. But I walked through a empty restaurant space near by. Imagined all the possibilities. I think it would take a lot of money. I'm not Rocco and my friend isn't someone with a ton of cash. I don't know what's possible. I don't know how I feel. I do know how to make a restaurant. I also know that a restaurant is like getting married. I know how I am when I'm running a restaurant. I think writing would just fall away. But. I need a job. Any big emotion is premature. I'm not sure what will happen. It's too early to do any hand wringing. My friend may change his mind once he finds out how much the lease is. This may be a fork in the road. Or it may not. I didn't feel magical. I felt... I don't really know how I felt. Today's card is the six of rods and I am just chagrined. If there was a moment yesterday when I was magical I missed it. And if there is a reason to feel victorious today, well. I'll have to understand later.
I wasn't going to write today. I'm really feeling so wretched and dark. Sometimes I write my darkness here and I think people get too worried about me. I tell the truth about my worst self and people may get the impression that I have forgotten that I have a better self. And, really, on a day like today I don't really remember my better self. If I wrote out how I'm feeling ... well. I'm just not sure it would serve any purpose. Sometimes when I'm feeling like this I want to voice the darkness. It's like I'm calling out to some eternal parent. I'm blaming and raging and asking, "How can you let this happen?" It's like I want to stand in the darkest corner and demand that the light come there too. Come. Here. In this darkness. I mean, you know. I live in country drunk and delusional. Swooning over images. Bought and sold in every way possible. Acting out a need for great leadership in a dance of denial all week long. The longer it went on, the more elaborate it became, the darker I felt. It wasn't just that stuff that pushed me into the corner of gloom I woke up in this morning. And if I begin to write out all the things in my head, all the stories and wishes and failures and losses, I will be doing exactly what I wasn't going to do today. I found no victory yesterday. I did the smallest amount of tentative writing. I watched more Egoyan. In some ways I think his movies are like therapy. And still I woke up in misery. Skin aching misery. And then I made some tea. And peaches and yoghurt and a bran muffin. Sat down at the computer and began to click through the roll. I went to see what beauty Marie had posted because I hadn't been there in a few days and discovered that she had written something very sweet about me. And, at first I took it as confirmation. I should definitely not write today. If I write what I feel today she will think I don't believe any good things about myself. And I do believe good things about myself. Just not right this minute. But it was so sweet and dear and generous. Someone I have never met wishing me well from so far away. And I know she isn't the only one. So I began to type. In response to that energy. In acknowledgement of the web of care in which I am held. Because there are these days of gloom and doom. And I believe that telling the truth is important. Even when telling the truth means loss. And I need to trust that people know I will work my way out of this place. Because I need to believe that I will work my way out of this place. Steve use to sing a song for me on Sunday nights in the Mezzanine.
I listened and smoked and drank and ran to the alley to pack my nose as soon as he was through with the song. I want to think I'm past that kind of petulant self indulgent wound licking. I don't do the toxin overload but I still listen to the saddest music in the world and tell myself the worst. And I hold out the same defense. If I exorcise my devils, my angels may leave too. People always tell me to go out. The sun is shining. The air is clean. I could go sit near the water and feel my energy shift and move. Maybe I will. Or maybe I'll watch the other Egoyan. Or read. Or try to work on some writing. June is always hard. Or maybe I just make it hard. But, as always, I am softened by the kindness of strangers. Grateful beyond my ability to articulate. And (big breath) willing to ... well. Just willing.
Or. Maybe I'll play around with my website. Just coz. Mark Woods linked the Ulysses-one page every day project. I'm going to try and keep up for awhile.
The comment number for this post is 1008.
Hi Jeane.
Kristina came up to take me out for way too much Dim Sum. She brought a purple bag with a bottle of Bombay Sapphire, a fantastic book and the most perfect card ever. We went to Green Apple, where I used more of my credit card company's money to make myself feel better about life. It's really wrong headed to feel bad about life when a lovely friend is filling you full of pork buns and ginger laden shrimp dumplings. I came home and got a letter telling me that I did not get the big grant. One of the other 449 people who applied got it. It was a standard form letter on which the sentence: We applaud your effort, had been underlined in pen. And, also in pen: Please keep writing! Oh. Also. My friend called. He is really serious about the restaurant. It is still too early to get worked up. But worked up I am. I think I'm adding 2+2+2 and coming up with negative 143. But. That's what I'm doing. I'm anxious to read my new book. I've been reading Anais again. It's so interesting to read something that you read when you were twenty. I remember how it made me feel then. I wanted to be in Paris with Henry and June and Anais. But I had my own gang. More than one. Tonight I have a pack of Gitanes and a glass of gin. Two books about passionate friendships in Paris. Left over Dim Sum, which I will eat if I ever stop sobbing. More fear and doubt than I can articulate. Ever more dependant on the people who love me. So dependant that I can't even pretend it isn't true.
Trinity doughnut tarot is pretty spectacular. I've been about to bag the whole card of the day thing. The last few days the cards seem to have been playing with me. And, really, when you think about me getting the four of swords (need to rest) one day and the four of cups (need to look outside oneself) two days later, it really feels like I whatever I'm doing I should be doing something else. In the last few days I've pulled the happy ever after card and then the everything falls apart card and I'm just about to go mad with the need for insight and information. Caroline says this great thing about astrology. She says, "believe nothing, entertain possibility." That's how I feel about tarot. There is a mystery. I've read the cards for many people. People I knew and people I didn't know. There is something that happens. Something that is revealed. What? Why? I dunno. For me right now it's just about trying to reengage with a crazy wisdom. Reengage the mystery. Be more open to grace. Or sumthin. Caroline says something else.
Uh. Yeah. Today I forgot to pull a card first thing but after some tea I woke up enough and reached for them. I pulled the nine of swords. Arg. Damn. Like I need a tarot card to tell me that. Sitting here with sand dry from crying eyes, stomach and head achy from gin and smoke (turns out I still do the toxin overload) and spirit drained. I had my reflex reaction to the card so I thought I'd jump to trinity doughnuts for another view. You really need to click on the card and check out the little girl. It made me smile. I really feel like a child these days. It's as if I can't quite take care of myself. I want to sit and draw. I want to zone and drift. And I want there to be cake. Heh. But I am not a child. I am middle aged. Whatever that means. It's not the number. I don't care about the number. I'm happy being the age that I am. It's about having worked really hard to be in a different place. And feeling like I am falling back. Or not even falling. Just not able. Disabled in some fundamental emotional way. Looking at the little girl with her hand pressed against her forehead made my heart melt. I need to pull the hands away from my face and get back to work. The day is passing. This is the razors edge. Things are erratic, internally and externally. And somehow I need to keep moving.
I got the cool picture from Liberal Arts Media. Pointed to by Wood_s Lot. I'm just learning about Bloomsday. I was saving Joyce for when I was seventy. Don't ask me why. This is better. I bought a lovely hardback on sale at Green Apple the other day. The first page is longer in my book. But I'm reading ahead anyway. Having spent so much time in Paris for the last few days I head to Dublin. And maybe I'll drink a pint and make a toast to women who get to it. And call upon the ghost of Nora Barnacle for wisdom. My question would be ...
Every year I get caught up in the budget committee. It's odd because I don't really understand what they're talking about but every year I listen to hours of department questioning and public testimony. It's the public testimony that really gets me. Tuesday night it was social workers and heath care providers begging that their funds not be cut. Health care workers. Many of them break down in tears. It's so moving. The meeting was still going at 11:30 when I took my book to bed. And yesterday the committee was back at work. I can never find any news about it. Not on TV. Not in the paper. I found this article, which explains some of the issues. Yesterday I got to page twenty in Ulysses and then hit a sentence in which someone was trailing “his ashplant by his side. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels.” I’m still not sure what an ashplant is. The guy is smoking. I thought it might be ash from his cigarette. Ferrule was what got me to the computer in search of my dictionary. 1. A metal ring or cap placed around a pole or shaft for reinforcement or to prevent splitting. 2. A
bushing used to secure a pipe joint. Yeah. OK. I'm lost. Is it just poetic? Poetic ash? Poetic rings of ash? What is an ashplant? I am enjoying the reading but there are these books that make me feel like if I read all day every day I'll only get a bit of what I want to read read. I'm too far behind. I'll never catch up. And I need to learn Latin, Spanish, French and (gasp) my head begins to spin. So I watched In America. It's a beautiful movie. And now I have the Irish accent in my head, fresh for the Joyce. Except I was craving more of Camus & Sartre and Anais, Henry and June. I went from book to book. This is exactly how I would like to spend my day, every day. If only I were an heiress. I know it's good to do a practice everyday. But I haven't been doing yoga. I did yesterday and it was so good. My shoulder was stiff and sore. I think I slept on it funny. Stretching hurt a little. But the pain kept me focused and I held poses longer. Sometimes I think it's good to let something go and come back to it.
Kate just called to say that the grrrl gang will be here at 1:30.
Or 2:00.
Or maybe 3:00. What? Do they think I am just sitting here waiting? Harrumph. Except. I am. I am just sitting here waiting. I am waiting for an e-mail from that editor. I am waiting for a letter from that publisher. I am waiting for a call from that on line magazine. I am waiting for a response to those resumes. I am waiting for something, anything, to reassure me.
I am waiting while I'm eating yoghurt. I am waiting while I read blogs. I am waiting while I take a shower and get dressed. I am waiting while I do yoga. I am waiting while I listen to the budget committee. I am waiting while I clean the bath room and mop the kitchen floor.
And now I am waiting for my grrrl gang. We have a new, visiting from LA member of the gang. That will be cool.
Sigh.
But ya know (she said while pondering the question - what would Nora do ) if you have time on your hands (as it were) and you don't know anyone you can meet on Dollymount Strand, you can always put your hand in your own pants.
I finally got around to watching The Return of the King. Most of it I found exhausting. I fast forwarded through a few battle scenes. There is too much battle imagery available these days. I wasn't in the mood. The themes that capture my attention in the movies are the same as the ones I loved in the books decades ago when I read them. Friendship, loyalty, the choices that we make to be there for one another, the times when we fail. The choices that we make for love. Honor. Family and home. There was a scene that brought me back to a truncated conversation I was having a couple of weeks ago. The scene in which the big bad guy says no man can kill me and Eowyn pulls off her mask and says. I'm no man. And then. Of course. She kills him. And that. Of course. Is a good thing. Honestly. In that moment. I smiled. I want to be done with battle. I'm tired of the forces of good and the forces of evil. I'm none with duality. But I'm not done with the unexpected. I'm not tired of victory won by the smallest and least likely. I remember why I wore a Frodo Lives button. In the end the battle ground isn't the most important place. The hobbit battling with his attachment to a shiny gold ring on a precipice above a river of fire, that's where I find all my fear and hope portrayed. I was struck by Sam begging Frodo to let go of the ring one minute and begging him not to let go as Frodo hangs from the cliff. Frodo, after all, made the bad choice. He succumbed to the thrill of power. He slipped the ring on his finger and was lost. Gollum bites the ring from his hand. I remember being really disturbed by that when I read it. I was too young to understand how easy it can be to lose track of your purpose. I wanted the easier narrative of the hero who always makes the right choice. But Frodo fails. His humanity overwhelms his intention. And everything looks grim. And then, Gollum makes his move. The book that Kristina gave me is about the rift between Camus and Sarte. I doubt I can synopsize it with any clarity but it is the kind of book I wish someone else was reading with me. I want to be able to look up from my book and talk with someone about it. They were both so brilliant and engaged. Their sense of themselves was so invested in the evolution of their ideas and so troubled by how the world valued those ideas. In one part of the book the author suggests that Camus distanced himself from ideas and Sartre without seeming to understand what the ideas were. I think it was more that Camus was less interested in ideas and more interested in a sense wrought from experience. And Sartre? I'm still not sure. When I was watching Frodo on the precipice, sliding on the ring, valuing the thing and not the meaning, I thought about Camus and Sartre. Valuing their articulation of ideas and the associated credibility. And not knowing when to let go and when to hold on. This is all still moving around in my brain and not clear. But it's something I think about a lot. When to let go and when to hold on. What is a true purpose, or value? And what is a position, held so long that it has lost relevance? Loren Webster has been writing about the Tao Teh Ching and issues of translation. So interesting. And this section of the Tao Teh Ching was in his post yesterday.
Loren says:
And, strange as it may seem, I thought about that while watching Frodo on the precipice. I thought about the complexity of that moment. Frodo failed. He didn't let go. It took an attack from another, more obsessed (or possessed) than Frodo, to snap him back into action. It is an uncertain victory. And that's what I hated when I was seventeen and love now, at almost fifty one. Maybe I was wound up while I was watching because me and the grrrl gang had double cappuccinos and cupcakes and then came back to the apartment to listen to Meatloaf and play with the tarot. Kate is interested in the Ace of Swords so I've been talking about it a lot. I read it as the right use of will. There were plenty of swords in the movie. Plenty of moments of will. Eowyn in battle. Not a man. Nothing like a man. And that is what ensures her victory. Maybe there are times and places when we need to pick up a sword. But I feel more like I am on cliff above a river of fire. Struggling with letting go.
Question 8. It was too much of a dare. How could I not?
Juneteenth!!!!
Fifty Years Later It's always been a source of irony for me that father's day occasionally falls on my birthday. I didn't meet my father until I was twelve. I had the experience, more than once, of calling my dad to say happy father's day, on my birthday and we hung up without him saying happy birthday. He just didn't remember. I won't have that problem this year. His spirit was poured back into the cosmic soup this year. He is star dust and golden. For me, he is as he has always been, a far away man. Or. Maybe he's very close now. Maybe he is whispering in my ear. Maybe instead of haunting me the way the idea of him always has, he is haunting me now, more real than he could have been while in a body. I don't know. The scene in The Return of the King I wrote about the other day was followed by a scene in which Eowyn is talking to her father as he dies. She tells him she will save him and he tells her she already has and he tells her to let him go. I wept hot tears through that one. Last year, when I was turning 50, and I was finishing my MFA after a six year push to "get college", I kept saying that it seemed like it should be a pinnacle. But it felt like a cliff. One year later. It has turned out to be a wide arid desert. I feel like I've been on my belly. Crawling. In some ways this has been the worst of my life. It feels wrong to say that because I have a place to live and food to eat. And there were years when none of that was true. I have abundant support from gracious friends. I do not get up to go to a job I hate. And there were years when that was true. But after the "get college" and finish the book push I seem to have crashed. It feels like everything I do is not quite enough. I feel like it takes all my effort to just wake up and keep ... trying. When I didn't get the grant I felt so lost. So I've spent the last few days just trying stay centered and calm. I'm only relatively successful. The time I spend looking for a job every day brings on a spasm of misery. I have it tucked between breakfast and yoga, which demands a lot from my yoga practice. My desire to know and hold what's going on the world is often wearing. I feel more fear and anger than I can speak about most of the time. I'm told to take news breaks and I try. But I want to know. I want to understand. And there have been other things. Things I don't want to write about. Or maybe I do. Sometimes it might be better to be silent. I can't be sure and so ... I'm trying to at least not make things worse. But every day is filled with manic cycling and the things I do to regain balance. It's exhausting. I also read and watch movies and talk with friends and play with my grrrl gang and make dinner. Every day I am aware of how fortunate I am. And I blog. Blogging is a lifeline. Blogging is a reminder of the wide world and the billions of beating hearts and the stories. Oh, I how love the stories. Technically I'm not fifty one until 4:35 AM. I thought about waking up to post at the moment of my birth. I'm almost always awake then anyway. But. The grrrl gang came over and we ate roasted chicken and potatoes and chard. We watched a movie and ate cannoli. They're sleeping on the futon so they can make me breakfast. We checked on the cost of the tattoo the other day. It's more money than I should spend on anything that isn't food or bill paying. Not that that stops me from spending. I like the tattoo guy. He does beautiful work. I'm still thinking about it. Fifty one is a six year. Six is about balance. I must find a way to be more creative and problem solving. I must make the effort to get up from my crawling. I'm not sure how old I was when I learned to walk the first time. But. Somehow. I need to remember how again. I need to believe in love. And redemption. And possibility.
The most important point is to accept yourself and stand on your two feet. -Shunryu Suzuki Roshi The grrl gang was still in deep zzz's when I woke up. I crept to the computer and read blogs. I pulled the five of rods for the day, which made me tense right away. I mean, it's not like I take the cards as anything absolute but I've been trying to be ...uh...open. And I wasn't open to that message. For me that card is about struggle and conflicting agendas and, in a way it proved apt. The grrl gang woke up late and slow moving and lacking a plan. We went to a cafe for breakfast. I didn't really want to be out. In public. With strangers. And I became a storm. Dark and brooding. They went off into their day and I went deeper into my storm. Lynn called and I talked out some of the storm. And then the mighty Premji called and I felt every cell of my body relax. I went to Wood_s Lot. I like reading there on Sunday afternoons. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the quiet, contemplative nature of the day. Mark had linked up some Shunryu Suzuki Roshi and I wandered through it until I stumbled upon the page with my new epigraph. Something about the idea of standing on my own feet. Echo of my desire to learn to walk again. And then I took a second shower. The first one had been rushed and, also, too, sometimes a grrl just has to spend some time with her shower massage. I slathered up in healing scents and ... well ...you know. After that the cells of my body relaxed a little deeper. K3 wanted to make me dinner and chocolate cake but they're dealing with a lot these days and my mood was too fragile. I thought I might take myself out. I like taking a book and reading and eating alone in a restaurant. But I went for left over chicken and potatoes and (by then) way too cooked chard. No cake. But a stack of Newman-O's. And then I listened to Poetic Champions Compose and danced a little bit. it's one of those disks. My heart opens. My head clears. And I need to sway. It was a solstice birthday. I want that magic and mystery. I tossed the cards for the year and got a reading that didn't totally make sense but wasn't all together negative My card for the year is the Knight of Cups. With a card like that ... you just have to wait and see. Thank you. Everyone who left a comment. I want to grab you and kiss you on both cheeks. I want to hug you so tight and kiss your cheeks again. Thank you.
It sucks. And I wish it weren't. But it's just so true.
Last year Adrienne took me out for lunch and sent me a picture of the Buddha in her garden with a rose. This year she took me to dinner at Da Flora and brought me the Buddha with a big daisy.
Da Flora, as always, was fantastic.
I had ravioli with corn and cherry tomatoes and prawns.
We drank wine and ate a peach tart and chocolate cake. Mary Beth and Flora always make me feel like family. They didn't know it had just been my birthday but they make me feel like it's always my birthday. Adrienne is family. I could talk to her forever. It was a restorative evening after a long troubled day. I got another rejection letter from another journal. This is what you're supposed to be able to deal with as a writer. Rejection. It's just so fucking hard. I stood at the kitchen sink with my head in my hands feeling myself come apart. Wondering if I could put myself back together again. Again. Anais says that Proust says that happiness is the absence of fever. And she says that if that is true she will never know happiness because she has a fever for knowledge, experience and creation. I smiled when I read that. I've been in a fever all month. I look at the picture of the Buddha and read my bit of Shunryu Suzuki Roshi and I think that I need to shake off the fever. I need to sit and breathe and be alive in the present. I need to summon up some Buddhist detachment. There is so much in my life for which I am grateful. But sometimes fevers need to burn out. This one was fired by broken hope and longing and a promise of friendship that cracked when I didn't behave. The fever seems to still be seething just beneath my skin. Last night I sat in a beautiful restaurant eating perfect food served by wonderful women and had great Gemini conversation with my sister twin. Feed a fever. I suck at Buddhist detachment. I am attached to all these stories. These passionate pleasures of the flesh and the mind. If happiness is the absence of fever I chose misery. For all the angst and misery and loss there is the taste of corn and tarragon. The story of the quartz in the ground where the wine is from and a monastery on a hill. The perfect phrase from the mouth of a friend saying something exactly the way it should be said. And even in the glow of all that comfort the ache in my heart. So. Ya know. I'll do my yoga. And look at the picture of a daisy in the lap of the Lord. And I'll let the fever cook me. Somehow. It will all be. What it is.
I am one of those paintings by Frida. You know the ones in which her internal organs are on the outside. Even in all that comfort. The ache.
Because I'm reading Anais again I decided to watch the movie. I'd seen it before and even as it was getting started I thought it was a mistake to watch. It just didn't seem like I should spend more time feeding my fever. It turned out to not be so bad. And I'm still not sure why. I have the heart ripped out of the chest pain. It didn't get worse. It didn't get better. I wish I had a theory about why. I don't. Except. Maybe. Things can only hurt as bad as they hurt. I learned that when my foot was under the wheel of a truck. Knowing how I love the chocolate/coconut combo, Deb always makes me macaroons for my birthday. She showed up with them right at dinner time so we went to ... Da Flora!! I've wanted to go there with her. It was funny. I don't go for a year and then I'm there two nights in a row. Although, as much as I love it, it's a bit much for me to eat that much that late two nights in a row. Not that I'm complaining. I am not complaining. Being taken out to dinner is a good thing. Last year I got an e-mail from a blogger who I much admire. He talked about my dispassionate objectivity. He mentioned a couple of posts. I kept the e-mail. It meant so much to me. I keep trying to delete it and I can't. I value the opinion. I treasure it. Dispassionate? Objective? Well. Not so much. Not lately. And there's more than one reason for that. But. I'll be OK. As soon as I get this throbbing blood pump tucked back inside. And I will. Last night. When my head hit the pillow. I said to myself. Self. Oh dear self. Let the fuck go. Please. And I think it may have worked. This morning I pulled a card. The Trinity Doughnuts description is uncannily perfect and comforting. In an odd sort of way.
Self. Oh dear self. Take that heart in both hands and gently pull it back into the center of your chest. Where it belongs.
Clinton has been on the screen a lot lately. Pushing his book. I've listened to a little bit of all of it. He's a charmer. When I watch him I always feel like he's saying, "You like me don't you?" And I'm not being harsh because I think I do something similar. Maybe all fatherless children do. If I were him, I'd be sick of the constant questioning about his big transgression. I never cared. I cared about NAFTA, GATT, don't ask/don't tell, the dismantling of welfare, the broken promise of health care. I cared about a lot of things. What he did or didn't do with a cigar was not the least bit interesting to me. I don't even really care that he lied. In a sexually idiotic culture, we all lie. Given that, he is so defensive. He gets so pissy when he feels uncomfortable. I remember when Amy Goodman got the interview he was not expecting to give. It was cool that he answered her questions. And, he got more and more defensive as the questions got more and more direct. He accused Amy of being hostile, combative and disrespectful. Amy has one of the most even tones ever heard from a journalist. He just didn't like the questions. He is the true believer. Kind of like a puppy. Earnest. Willing. "You like me don't you? " There certainly was a difference when he was in office. There are differences. But he took the Democratic party to the right and there they stay. Today Kerry is making a similar promise about health care, avoiding the same sex marriage issue and articulating a war rhetoric that claims to be different but is really still war rhetoric. It's a tired politic. But I'll vote for him. Watching Clinton I can't help but think about the vigor of the attack on him. Every minute that he was in office he was under attack. Mean spirited, relentless attack. And now we have silencing. mean spirited, relentless silencing. Oh, yeah. There are differences. And yet, there is a more pernicious silencing. It's the silencing we do to each other. Mention Nader and feel the threat. Talk about Kucinich and watch the eye roll. Our fear has captured the conversation. We slouch toward the polls resigned to voting against and not for. Me too. I'll be there. Pen in hand. No courage of conviction. Just a horror driven hand shaking vote to make the boy prince go away. Please. We are reduced. The first vote I cast for Clinton was a vote for. I wasn't as engaged the second time but it was still for. Right now, I just want to put my arm around him and say, "Yes baby. I like you. And now can we tell some truth?"
Personally I'm somewhere between believing in the possibility of atonement and reparation, and wanting to say "execute all the brutes," like Kurtz in Heart of Darkness. - Edwidge Danticat For a few days I was an adorable little rodent. And then I dropped back to being a flappy bird. Which, I must say, I sort of prefer. It seems to be a matter of a hit or two a day. Although, I don't totally get it. And I don't totally care. Which is not to say that I don't care if people read me. I really. Really. Really. Care. I am comforted by the fact that people read me. In ways I am deeply dependant on that fact. I survive these rejections of my writing by agents and journals by reminding myself that people come here to read me. I'm just suspicious of the evolutionary theory. Adrienne and I were musing about the fact that when I was in school and owned a coffee cart I was in public for hours every day. And now I am a recluse. Except for the fact that I write about taking a shower on the world wide web. And people stop by to read about it. So many stopped by the other day that I evolved. Hmmm. Was it the shower story? I was half watching West Wing. And there was this moment when the music did the thing that it does to let you know something is going to happen. Something important and meaningful. I want that music. Maybe I'm missing things. And maybe if I had that music I wouldn't miss them. Kurt wrote this poem. I can't stop reading it. I don't miss everything. For years I've been writing narrative lines for the gods. Scripts. Stories about how it all works out. Those have been rejected too. They hand me the rewrite every morning. I woke up too early. Full of narrative lines. I decided to write in my paper journal. The last time I wrote there it was October, 5 2003. I stopped writing in it because my hand writing is so bad and I wasn't writing well. It's been frustrating for me that I don't write there. I wrote a few pages and my hand began to cramp. Back to bed for more restless jerky not sleep and woe is me narrative lines
Again. Phew.
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There is, sort of, an inward way of being. In a general sense. And an outward way of being. By which I mean there are people who do things. Projects. Outward things. And people who can spend the day inside their own head. Guess which one I am? The problem with being in my head these days is that it isn't really a very nice place to be. I am quite mentally ill just at the moment. It's just. Such. A drag. I am blessed with friends who call to talk. Or stop by to visit. Or send e-mail. Or bring me Gerber daisies. So. I pull up out of the madness. And then. I fall. Yesterday I roasted zucchini and cherry tomatoes and piled them on a spelt/corn meal crust from Vicolo. Swacked some goat cheese on top. Ate while I read. Wished for fresh basil. See now ... I could plant a pot or two. That would be an outward thing. I sort of hate the kind of thinking that draws a distinction between being in one's head and/or being in one's body. When someone says that a person is "in their head" I always feel like they're saying - ew, that person thinks. I actually like my head. I like the sound of my own thinking. But. Not just now. Just now the shadows are having their say. So. I think about all the people I know who have projects. I finished the hat for Jan. And one for Renee. If I had a camera I would be one of those people who has projects and takes pictures of them. Damn. I admire the people with projects. I admire the people who don't spend time thinking about things that are what they are and can't be other than what they are. Me? I'm just trying to pull my heart back into my chest. Where, I'm hoping, it can rest. Swear to God. If I can get it back in there, I will never let it out again. I have some nice purple yarn. Yep. There must be a project I can do. I pulled the Moon today. And I smiled. Because I have been in a deep internal and toxic inner chaos. And I need to ... Well. That's the problem. What? How? How do I move from too far in to maybe just a little out? Swear to God. Somebody write me a check. I'll make a restaurant. I'll pour my life into it. I'll be out every day. Talking to purveyors. Joking with dishwashers. It'll be great. You'll want to be there every day. I might not get much writing done. But. Oh. Well.
Paul says to get out of IE.. I know he's right. Mark has
linked on Wood_s Lot. The honest and somewhat embarrassing truth is that I started using IE because of the color slide bar. April wrote about not liking the color slide bar once. I tried to find her post but I couldn't. Before my thing for the slide bar I was all about Netscape. And that was about anyone but Microsoft. I also have Opera. Today I decided to use Opera. When I first opened it the books in my All Consuming thing were wrong on my page. I went into AC to try and tweak things. But I couldn't get it to change. And there were no numbers on my comments. I went to Netscape for a while and then came back to Opera and the books and comment numbers were there. What is that about? Oh don't tell me. I'll get a headache. I'm still in the uses-tables dunce class. This most recent design was, in part, about my side bar. I was never able to get it to stay at the top. Someone sent me some code once but I lost it. I decided that I 'd make the side pretty and keep the side bar low. If it moves around I don't care because the pretty flowers are there. Inept, seat of my pants design. I know. I know I have some spy ware. I clicked on something stupid recently and boom. I was in pop up hell. I got something Meg recommended. It seems to help. Opera seems faster. So. There ya have it. No more IE. No more colored slide bar. Sniff.
My pride weekend post is always the same. I like to link the straight privilege list. I think it's important to consider the ways in which we are passively complicit with oppression. Last year reading the list triggered my thin and average sized person privilege list. I've been meaning to make a page for the list. Pull the comments (if I can still access them) and add them to the list. Links to other people who joined in. Yeah. Maybe I'll do that today. Margaret and I were talking about the differences she notices since her wedding. The words "my husband" seem to open doors and grant credibility. It's subtle. The parade today is a celebration of gay marriage. I still have issues with marriage. Suzanne says she likes her outlaw identity. She isn't interested in joining the ranks of the "normal." I agree. And yet, I still want to celebrate.
Pride. It's an interesting word. Harvey talked about visibility. The parade is a carnival of visibility. I love it. But I'm always aware of the distance.
Imagine. You've been together for 53 years. And you're a newly wed.
I'm watching the parade for the second time. San Francisco. I just love it here. My morning post was vague. I'm distracted and narcoleptic today. Drugged with emotion and. The fever. Pride is the antidote for shame. And I wish there were no shame. I wish there never had been any shame. But I feel proud to live here. The parade. Goodgawd. Everybody. So beautiful. Love and justice.
Oh gosh. I figured out that for five bucks a year I can get back all my archived comments and get e-mail notification for new ones. Sometimes I'm slow. And unemployment makes it hard to want to spend money. But five bucks a year? I think I can afford it. After a frustrating amount of time trying to figure out why YAACS didn't seem to know I'd sprung for the five spot, I read that it might take two weeks. All this research was because I wanted the comments from the privilege list so that I could make a page for it. And I will make a page for it when I can access them. And it's time to reregister the domain. There's always something. I woke up a few times last night from dreams in which I was discussing the notion of transgression and how I'm always on the side of the transgressor. And the dreams were full of petty crimes. I think it's because I've been talking about the whole time of my life spent in bars and on drugs. I've always had an outlaw identity. Abbie Hoffman. Steal This Book. Counter culture outlaw. Citizen of the Woodstock nation. Watching the parade yesterday, I saw the police chief and the sheriff and city assessor and the mayor. Kids, families and leather boys, drag queens, dykes on bikes, everyone. Marching for pride, love, justice, visibility and inclusion. It was amazing. The truth of these communities is much more complex. There is in-fighting and back stabbing. Politicing and showboating. But yesterday was a time to let it all go, smile and wave. In my emotional life the reasons for my outlaw identity are also complex. And I've been working through some things. But my goal isn't necessarily clear. I want to take the time for all my emotions. My anger. My grief. And the more abstract things like alienation. In my emotional life transgression is just a place to do some sorting and feel through. It seems like I need to be where I am until I'm not there. I guess the tricky part is knowing when you're stuck. And what about when I'm the one who feels transgressed upon? I guess. I'm always trying to understand how I'm part of the crime. In my dreams there was a car theft. But it wasn't really a theft. It was a borrow. And I was making sure no one went to jail. Heh. Outlaw that I am. I dunno. Can you be an justice outlaw? Is that oxymoronic? When I got my Monster job list for the morning. There was a job for a Private Investigator. A job for which I am remarkably unsuited. But it made me laugh. Someone asked me if I'd lost all hope. I haven't lost all hope. I'm just sorting and feeling through. And waking up with the word transgression and a need to defend. And I pulled The World. So maybe I'm done with sorting.
We must include both the tender-minded and the tough-minded within ourselves. Because we cannot permanently allow one part of our personality to be cared for symbolically by another. - Carl Jung Long slow release of breath. The mighty Premji sent books with a fancy book mark. So sweet. So. So. So. Sweet. I watched What I Want My Words To Do To You. I read Couldn't Keep It To My Self awhile ago. It took me a long time to read it. So many sad stories. Both titles are provocative. Both speak about the healing that writing can provide and the hope of passionate connection. Visibility. The end of easy narrative. The discomfort of ambivalence and uncertainty. Oddly. Perhaps. Or maybe not. These women helped me to find some clarity. They were so dignified. Sometimes you have to let go and you don't want to. And you don't really have a choice. Every minute that you're still holding on is madness. Still, you don't want to let go. Full expand the chest inhale. And then ...
Yesterday I got a note from someone suggesting a place to send the book. The truth is I've kinda given up on the book. There is one more place I have yet to hear from but I wasn't doing the work of getting it out there. Or finding an agent. Or much of anything. The note hit me like a cool breeze. The book becomes abstract for me sometimes. I worked so hard on it. And now what? I guess there are ways in which I wanted the book to carry me into the world. Another abstraction. Whenever I print out a section of the book it becomes real again. Holding the pages, watching them pile up, the weight of them, it's such a good feeling. So I sent it off with fingers crossed and heart a flutter. I love the feel of books. Sometimes I look at the books on my shelf and remember reading them. They have presence. I love that moment in the day when I sit down and open a book. And I want to feel my own book in my hands. I want it to have substance. June is almost over. Thankfuckinggawd. I want to love June better than I do but I tend to arrive at my birthday with a long list of failures. And this one was one of the worst. I'm suspicious of the notion of falling in love. I don't really want to fall. I want to meet. I want to meet someone. Both of us on our feet. But I do fall. Maybe I read too many fairy tales. Maybe I think that love for me would be nothing less than a miracle. Maybe it always is a miracle. The list of maybes I have about love is so long it would suck up all the bandwidth in the world. But fall I do. And I have been fallen. Splayed. Shattered. Part of me likes the swoon. I always have. But maybe love is about meeting someone who catches you when you fall. And maybe I get it all wrong. Somewhere. Maybe there is someone who won't be afraid of my anger. Over whelmed by my sadness. Someone who can meet me where I am and look me in the eyes. Someone who can hold all of who I am. But. I haven't met them yet. And so I have been fallen. I thought I might not be able to get up again. I though I might not want to get up again. But I have been called back to my feet by the generosity of people who love me. I might not be all the way to standing. I might just be on my knees. But I've been working on it. And I will keep working on it. Watching the women in the movie called me back. The thing about writing is that it comes from more than one part of who we are. I want my writing to be skilled. I want my writing to be literary. But mostly I want my writing to be real. Those women were writing from their need. They were writing to challenge the darkness that seeks to swallow us all. Sometimes I think my book is a plea. And I like that. I want to imagine someone holding it the way I hold a new book. What do I want my words to do to you? Sometimes when someone reads my book they begin to tell me there own story. I love that. We meet in a place where our stories make us less alone. Sometimes when people read my book they tell me that they never thought about what it's like to be fat. One young man in my MFA program told me it made him think about the way he doesn't look at fat women. It was kinda cute. I don't really think he went out and began to date fat women. But maybe. Sometimes when people read the book they just like the rhythm of the words. They just dig the feel. Ooooo. I love that. I want my words to do what they do. I imagine that will be different for different people. If anyone gets to read it. I mean, you know, I could just put it up here. People have done that. I like that. But I do have a desire to hold it in my hand. To see it in someone else's hand. I want it to have substance. I want that feeling I get when I print it out and it becomes a stack of pages. With weight. I like weight. My confidence has been shaken. My heart has another scar. But maybe I just get something wrong. And either way, I have to get back up and get to work.
George made a birth chart (more)for the "new" Iran. Since I've been in the gloom and doom place I hear everything with a jaundice ear. Can an ear be jaundice? Ick. But really. I heard the news and didn't even react. As I read through the chart I began to wish that this were a child. Or even a beginning. But it feels so perverse and manipulated. River articulates what I fear.
There are people who will read this (cough) early handover as a sign of good faith. I don't know any of them but I know they're out there. And the blood keeps spilling. But the chart says Mars in Leo.
Let's hope.
What are you gonna do today? I'm tellin ya. That's where all the trouble begins.
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