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
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