A friend of mine, another trance mama with two kids, has been an internet marketer for years. She has tried a lot of things and not succeeded the way she had hoped, until recently. Since mid-June she's made over $30,000. I don't usually buy that kind of bullshit, but this is someone I actually know actually succeeding in doing this. So I decided to try it. If you want to try it to just go to my link.
I'll keep you posted on my progress.
http://www.sure-and-pure-prosperity.com
Friday, September 29, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
33: a birthday excerpt
My life has been in an intense and powerful transitionary space. It's been all encompassing and nothing feels solid, not love or money or home or life or death. It's not bad, it's all just so fluid and flowing there's nothing to grasp onto. I feel as if someone picked up all the pieces of my life and tossed them into the air and I am waiting, spellbound to see where each piece falls. I feel the free fall. I like the free, I fear the fall.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
some thoughts on burning
I can't believe how hard it is to do Burning Man justice in words, even for a wordy creature like myself. I have found I have hardly even talked about it to many of my friends because I just do not know where to begin. I wrote this article for New Life Journal and had a very specific slant in mind for it. Though I stand behind everything I say in the article, I feel I truly failed to capture the magic and the poetry of Burning Man. Burning Man is a free form poem, not a piece of prose for an alternative but slightly reserved print magazine. I imagine I'll get around to writing the poems. They'll eek their way out of my system in trickles and floods like my word children always do. My dreams only recently quit reeling wildly out of control with people soaked, mad moments on the playa. Now I can begin to distill. But trust me, no matter what you take away from what I say, know that I am changed. I have been burned and transformed, and I feel I am rising again.
Synchronicity: The Gift of the Culture of Burning Man
Deep in the dry and decorated landscape of the Black Rock Desert lives another world, an antidote to capitalism and the dreary cultural mundane of America’s homogenized homeland. Once a year Black Rock City, population 40,000, rises from the flat and empty desert plain 120 miles north of Reno, Nevada. It is the home of Burning Man, an international arts festival that has spawned not only a generation of dedicated artists, activists and followers, but a ritual based tradition that has been changing lives for twenty years.
Burning Man is nearly impossible to define. It has been written about, video documented, and photographed more extensively than an army of paparazzi could accomplish, but it is the very nature of this event that is what lends itself to the lack of definition. It is a participation-only week of pandemonium that eschews the stage and spectator arrangement more common in other arts and music arenas. Every attendee is invited to create the art, the audio, the experience they desire. The result is a non-stop city of sights and sounds where anything goes, where there is something for everyone; everyone, that is, who seeks something different from that served up by the strip mall and pop radio standard.
One of the most endearing qualities of this brave, new culture is its adherence to the tenets of a gift economy. Every performer, every artist, every kind soul who lavishly embellishes their offering to the community whether it be pulsing sets of electronic music or an impossibly large wooden sculpture on the desert terrain or freshly made French toast served from a cart on the side of the road does so for free. They each offer their art, service or craft as a gift to the community, not a commodity for which they expect to receive compensation, which flies in the face of how we as a culture understand trade. Capitalism becomes moot in Black Rock City where every member of the community comes prepared to offer gifts to one another, whether that gift is food or drink or handmade crafts or artwork or entertainment or clothes or jewelry.
As a gift to oneself and to others and as part of the no-spectators philosophy, Burning Man participants practice radical self-expression which is exhibited through dress and personal style, an endless variety of Theme Camps, decorated bicycles and elaborate art cars known as “Mutant Vehicles,” as well as through art and performance. There is an inherent freedom to express oneself against the status quo, which is exemplified in the events’ very namesake. This is a modern day gathering of the tribes that has gained momentum on the premise of “burning the Man.” Yes, every year at Burning Man a giant effigy, who has grown taller each year, is painstakingly hauled into the desert and built with great care only to be burned on the last night as a statement, as a tool and prayer for transformation, as an offering from the community to the community for their delight, their desecration and their dedication.
The use of fire as a ritual tool is as ancient as any tradition humans have. Many have grown away from fire, no longer needing to interact with it on a daily basis as we cook our food in microwaves and on electric ranges and heat our homes with forced air and radiant floors and no longer with open flames to which we must tend. We have forgotten that fire is alive; it eats, it breathes, it consumes and grows, then withers and dies just like we do. We have forgotten how beautiful fire is, how mesmerizing it can be to simply stare into the plumage of dancing flames. We have forgotten, many of us, that when we feed fire our intentions, ours hopes and fears and prayers, that the fire can transform them, give them life or render them powerless, whatever our desire may be. This ceremony is one that Burning Man returns to its people.
It is in this ceremony and this yearly ritual that an ancient type of tradition is emerging from this modern festival. The call to arrive to Burning Man every August is akin to a pilgrimage for many people; regular “burners” speak of Black Rock City as their home and greet each other upon arrival with wide arms and proclamations of “Welcome home!” Seekers who have felt alienated by their culture and unfulfilled by the options they have found for spiritual paths available to them have created this week long, round-the-clock, vision quest of extremes in which the climate, the beauty of the landscape, the events, the people, and the stamina required to participate are more dramatic than anything they can find in their cities of origin, and therefore, for many, the Burning Man experience is more satisfying, enlightening, and even ecstatic than any other path they have taken. Once they find Burning Man, many return year after year and begin to incorporate into their lives not just the one-week event, but the concepts of radical self-expression, the gifting mentality, and the fire ceremony ethic.
Though Burning Man draws people together from many distant locations its community has begun to have an unexpected cohesion exemplified by a profound synchronicity that weaves the experience together and is carried back into the “default world,” which is how life as most know it is described in Black Rock City. Burners who have never met and who live on opposite sides of the country may find that they share numerous common acquaintances or are connected through business, through an art project, through their musical affiliations, or other random circumstance. Participants may find that throughout the week they are again and again confronted with mind bending realizations that one story from their life has echoed repeatedly off the lives of others whom they previously did not know, but who are now coincidentally their closest neighbors in a temporary city of tens of thousands. Connections abound and new connections continue to be forged as this gathering and its practices develop as an authentic, modern day tradition.
The Burning Man community has long recognized that its connection to the earth is no less important than its connections amongst its participants, and members hold an innate respect for the desert ecosystem that is home to Black Rock City. The land itself is lovingly referred to as “the playa” due to the uncanny resemblance that the wide, flat, desert expanse and far reaching horizon holds to a beachfront coastline, and it is with great affection for the land that burners use that term. From its outset Burning Man participants have held this consciousness regarding their surroundings, coining the term “leave no trace” as a policy attendees follow that seeks to preserve the integrity and the purity of the land which hosts the event. “Leave No Trace” requires participants to remove from the site all of their waste, not limited to garbage but including grey water, ash and burned materials and remains of any sort produced by their camps. Though community members are far from perfect, it is unique to see an event of Burning Man’s size leave so little trash and debris in its wake, and debris that is left behind is scrupulously removed by staff and teams of volunteers.
Now that the gathering has grown to such an impressive size, many citizens of Black Rock City are also focusing more upon issues of sustainability within their infrastructure and continue to raise the level of consciousness about how larger components of Black Rock City and individuals themselves can seek lower impact choices for life on the playa. Increasingly Theme Camps such as the Alternative Energy Zone Village, the Evolutionary Center and the Earth Guardians are focusing not only upon leaving the land clean behind them, but what powers the city in the first place and are leaders in what is now known as the Greening the Burn Movement. Having been dependent on gasoline generators for its first years, these Burning Man participants are now working toward increasing the use of solar and wind power and bio-diesel generators, decreasing the use of disposable goods in camps, and encouraging collectives which can utilize bulk purchasing and transportation to bring organic foods and clean, potable water to the playa for members use with the least long term environmental impact.
It is in accord with this movement that the theme for next year’s Burning Man is the Green Man, and event organizers are taking even greater steps to incorporate recycled materials into the art projects on the playa, and are now calculating the “carbon footprint” of burning the Man and other art installations, which is an estimation of the amount of climate changing gases that are released into the air by their construction and subsequent burning. To minimize negative environmental impact, they will sponsor projects that will efface this imprint and are encouraging all participants to involve themselves likewise.
Amidst the all night dancing and ongoing parties and what may seem like unbridled hedonism in the streets of Black Rock City there is a distinct underlying cohesiveness and consciousness to Burning Man’s community, and its power lies in the paradox of so much careful planning and well-laid intention snuggled warmly in the cold desert night amongst impulsive inspiration, unexpected events, and a zen-like attention to the now. Synchronistic meetings occur and profound connections are made which will be carried off the playa and into the default world. Networking for future art projects and Theme Camps build momentum so that each subsequent year builds on itself and the intensity and power of the event continue to heighten.
It is not uncommon for the very direction of a participant’s life to be changed by attending Burning Man, propelling many to seek a more artistic or ritualistic focus in their lives and many more to return to the playa in subsequent years to foster and create more enchanting artwork, more daring participation, more magic and more synchronicity. The gathering of this ever-growing, experience focused, fire-worshipping tribe is tantamount to a revolution in the consciousness of popular culture to utilize modern technology to achieve the glory of an ancient shamanic state working towards harmony with the whole. The art is impressive, the setting is gorgeous, the people are amazing, and the experience is otherworldly, but it is in the rebirth of fire ritual that burners may truly activate a lasting shift in their consciousness and send its effects out like so many wisps of smoke to waft into the consciousness of the rest of humankind.
Synchronicity: The Gift of the Culture of Burning Man
Deep in the dry and decorated landscape of the Black Rock Desert lives another world, an antidote to capitalism and the dreary cultural mundane of America’s homogenized homeland. Once a year Black Rock City, population 40,000, rises from the flat and empty desert plain 120 miles north of Reno, Nevada. It is the home of Burning Man, an international arts festival that has spawned not only a generation of dedicated artists, activists and followers, but a ritual based tradition that has been changing lives for twenty years.
Burning Man is nearly impossible to define. It has been written about, video documented, and photographed more extensively than an army of paparazzi could accomplish, but it is the very nature of this event that is what lends itself to the lack of definition. It is a participation-only week of pandemonium that eschews the stage and spectator arrangement more common in other arts and music arenas. Every attendee is invited to create the art, the audio, the experience they desire. The result is a non-stop city of sights and sounds where anything goes, where there is something for everyone; everyone, that is, who seeks something different from that served up by the strip mall and pop radio standard.
One of the most endearing qualities of this brave, new culture is its adherence to the tenets of a gift economy. Every performer, every artist, every kind soul who lavishly embellishes their offering to the community whether it be pulsing sets of electronic music or an impossibly large wooden sculpture on the desert terrain or freshly made French toast served from a cart on the side of the road does so for free. They each offer their art, service or craft as a gift to the community, not a commodity for which they expect to receive compensation, which flies in the face of how we as a culture understand trade. Capitalism becomes moot in Black Rock City where every member of the community comes prepared to offer gifts to one another, whether that gift is food or drink or handmade crafts or artwork or entertainment or clothes or jewelry.
As a gift to oneself and to others and as part of the no-spectators philosophy, Burning Man participants practice radical self-expression which is exhibited through dress and personal style, an endless variety of Theme Camps, decorated bicycles and elaborate art cars known as “Mutant Vehicles,” as well as through art and performance. There is an inherent freedom to express oneself against the status quo, which is exemplified in the events’ very namesake. This is a modern day gathering of the tribes that has gained momentum on the premise of “burning the Man.” Yes, every year at Burning Man a giant effigy, who has grown taller each year, is painstakingly hauled into the desert and built with great care only to be burned on the last night as a statement, as a tool and prayer for transformation, as an offering from the community to the community for their delight, their desecration and their dedication.
The use of fire as a ritual tool is as ancient as any tradition humans have. Many have grown away from fire, no longer needing to interact with it on a daily basis as we cook our food in microwaves and on electric ranges and heat our homes with forced air and radiant floors and no longer with open flames to which we must tend. We have forgotten that fire is alive; it eats, it breathes, it consumes and grows, then withers and dies just like we do. We have forgotten how beautiful fire is, how mesmerizing it can be to simply stare into the plumage of dancing flames. We have forgotten, many of us, that when we feed fire our intentions, ours hopes and fears and prayers, that the fire can transform them, give them life or render them powerless, whatever our desire may be. This ceremony is one that Burning Man returns to its people.
It is in this ceremony and this yearly ritual that an ancient type of tradition is emerging from this modern festival. The call to arrive to Burning Man every August is akin to a pilgrimage for many people; regular “burners” speak of Black Rock City as their home and greet each other upon arrival with wide arms and proclamations of “Welcome home!” Seekers who have felt alienated by their culture and unfulfilled by the options they have found for spiritual paths available to them have created this week long, round-the-clock, vision quest of extremes in which the climate, the beauty of the landscape, the events, the people, and the stamina required to participate are more dramatic than anything they can find in their cities of origin, and therefore, for many, the Burning Man experience is more satisfying, enlightening, and even ecstatic than any other path they have taken. Once they find Burning Man, many return year after year and begin to incorporate into their lives not just the one-week event, but the concepts of radical self-expression, the gifting mentality, and the fire ceremony ethic.
Though Burning Man draws people together from many distant locations its community has begun to have an unexpected cohesion exemplified by a profound synchronicity that weaves the experience together and is carried back into the “default world,” which is how life as most know it is described in Black Rock City. Burners who have never met and who live on opposite sides of the country may find that they share numerous common acquaintances or are connected through business, through an art project, through their musical affiliations, or other random circumstance. Participants may find that throughout the week they are again and again confronted with mind bending realizations that one story from their life has echoed repeatedly off the lives of others whom they previously did not know, but who are now coincidentally their closest neighbors in a temporary city of tens of thousands. Connections abound and new connections continue to be forged as this gathering and its practices develop as an authentic, modern day tradition.
The Burning Man community has long recognized that its connection to the earth is no less important than its connections amongst its participants, and members hold an innate respect for the desert ecosystem that is home to Black Rock City. The land itself is lovingly referred to as “the playa” due to the uncanny resemblance that the wide, flat, desert expanse and far reaching horizon holds to a beachfront coastline, and it is with great affection for the land that burners use that term. From its outset Burning Man participants have held this consciousness regarding their surroundings, coining the term “leave no trace” as a policy attendees follow that seeks to preserve the integrity and the purity of the land which hosts the event. “Leave No Trace” requires participants to remove from the site all of their waste, not limited to garbage but including grey water, ash and burned materials and remains of any sort produced by their camps. Though community members are far from perfect, it is unique to see an event of Burning Man’s size leave so little trash and debris in its wake, and debris that is left behind is scrupulously removed by staff and teams of volunteers.
Now that the gathering has grown to such an impressive size, many citizens of Black Rock City are also focusing more upon issues of sustainability within their infrastructure and continue to raise the level of consciousness about how larger components of Black Rock City and individuals themselves can seek lower impact choices for life on the playa. Increasingly Theme Camps such as the Alternative Energy Zone Village, the Evolutionary Center and the Earth Guardians are focusing not only upon leaving the land clean behind them, but what powers the city in the first place and are leaders in what is now known as the Greening the Burn Movement. Having been dependent on gasoline generators for its first years, these Burning Man participants are now working toward increasing the use of solar and wind power and bio-diesel generators, decreasing the use of disposable goods in camps, and encouraging collectives which can utilize bulk purchasing and transportation to bring organic foods and clean, potable water to the playa for members use with the least long term environmental impact.
It is in accord with this movement that the theme for next year’s Burning Man is the Green Man, and event organizers are taking even greater steps to incorporate recycled materials into the art projects on the playa, and are now calculating the “carbon footprint” of burning the Man and other art installations, which is an estimation of the amount of climate changing gases that are released into the air by their construction and subsequent burning. To minimize negative environmental impact, they will sponsor projects that will efface this imprint and are encouraging all participants to involve themselves likewise.
Amidst the all night dancing and ongoing parties and what may seem like unbridled hedonism in the streets of Black Rock City there is a distinct underlying cohesiveness and consciousness to Burning Man’s community, and its power lies in the paradox of so much careful planning and well-laid intention snuggled warmly in the cold desert night amongst impulsive inspiration, unexpected events, and a zen-like attention to the now. Synchronistic meetings occur and profound connections are made which will be carried off the playa and into the default world. Networking for future art projects and Theme Camps build momentum so that each subsequent year builds on itself and the intensity and power of the event continue to heighten.
It is not uncommon for the very direction of a participant’s life to be changed by attending Burning Man, propelling many to seek a more artistic or ritualistic focus in their lives and many more to return to the playa in subsequent years to foster and create more enchanting artwork, more daring participation, more magic and more synchronicity. The gathering of this ever-growing, experience focused, fire-worshipping tribe is tantamount to a revolution in the consciousness of popular culture to utilize modern technology to achieve the glory of an ancient shamanic state working towards harmony with the whole. The art is impressive, the setting is gorgeous, the people are amazing, and the experience is otherworldly, but it is in the rebirth of fire ritual that burners may truly activate a lasting shift in their consciousness and send its effects out like so many wisps of smoke to waft into the consciousness of the rest of humankind.
i am ready
I have been waiting, like many of us, for my life to begin. But I went away and burned through layers and now I am ready.
I am ready for love that has everything to offer. I am ready for consistency and constancy and care. I am ready to be through with generations worth of bad habits.
I am ready for leisurely afternoons spent in the sun, in the grass, with my sons, free from worry that there is something more important I should be doing, because what could be more important than being in that moment? I am ready to feel that there is nothing more important than the moment in which I am every moment.
I am ready for passion reckless and ruthless that will rule my nights and give breadth to my days. I am ready for passion pure and positive that sits simmering on my soul's burner emitting enticing scents and slowly, alchemically distilling nourishing relations.
I am ready for insurmountable joy with each sunrise bright or lackluster, fog-hidden and grey.
I am ready for unbridled energy coursing through my veins daily, hourly. I am ready for the body I never knew I should praise, I never knew I should revere, for which I never knew I should give thanks. I am ready for regular comfort, deep, unhindered breaths, the subtle lack of symptoms.
I am ready to up the ante on the pleasure principle promoting my interactions. I am ready for unabashed, ongoing, ecstatic evolution.
I am ready for the queen's bounty swollen like the tides, like the spring debacle drowning every notion of lack or debt ever considered. I am ready to casually cast my seed in the loamy banks of the fertile crescent and to sit back and relaxedly watch the crops come rolling in.
I am ready to offer my services to my gods and my people for all they are worth.
I am ready to spend countless hours letting the words flow from the ends of my fingertips, fashioning prayers and poems and stories and sermons. I am ready for my mind to unfurl and finally bleed itself openly of the volumes impacted therein.
I am ready for unknown worlds and the delight of foreign conversation while exotic tastes rest on my tongue. I am ready for mysticism and waterfalls and tropical fanfare. I am ready for the steady whine of the engine beyond me escorting me amongst other pilgrims to destinations of sheer delight.
I am ready for the new world reborn in an earthly paradise balanced and pristine, honored and upheld, understood, accepted, and appreciated.
I am ready for the births for which I have been waiting to labor into being healthfully, productively, and with ease.
I am ready to dance. I am always ready to dance. I have always been ready to dance, and so I remain.
I am ready. I am.
I am ready for love that has everything to offer. I am ready for consistency and constancy and care. I am ready to be through with generations worth of bad habits.
I am ready for leisurely afternoons spent in the sun, in the grass, with my sons, free from worry that there is something more important I should be doing, because what could be more important than being in that moment? I am ready to feel that there is nothing more important than the moment in which I am every moment.
I am ready for passion reckless and ruthless that will rule my nights and give breadth to my days. I am ready for passion pure and positive that sits simmering on my soul's burner emitting enticing scents and slowly, alchemically distilling nourishing relations.
I am ready for insurmountable joy with each sunrise bright or lackluster, fog-hidden and grey.
I am ready for unbridled energy coursing through my veins daily, hourly. I am ready for the body I never knew I should praise, I never knew I should revere, for which I never knew I should give thanks. I am ready for regular comfort, deep, unhindered breaths, the subtle lack of symptoms.
I am ready to up the ante on the pleasure principle promoting my interactions. I am ready for unabashed, ongoing, ecstatic evolution.
I am ready for the queen's bounty swollen like the tides, like the spring debacle drowning every notion of lack or debt ever considered. I am ready to casually cast my seed in the loamy banks of the fertile crescent and to sit back and relaxedly watch the crops come rolling in.
I am ready to offer my services to my gods and my people for all they are worth.
I am ready to spend countless hours letting the words flow from the ends of my fingertips, fashioning prayers and poems and stories and sermons. I am ready for my mind to unfurl and finally bleed itself openly of the volumes impacted therein.
I am ready for unknown worlds and the delight of foreign conversation while exotic tastes rest on my tongue. I am ready for mysticism and waterfalls and tropical fanfare. I am ready for the steady whine of the engine beyond me escorting me amongst other pilgrims to destinations of sheer delight.
I am ready for the new world reborn in an earthly paradise balanced and pristine, honored and upheld, understood, accepted, and appreciated.
I am ready for the births for which I have been waiting to labor into being healthfully, productively, and with ease.
I am ready to dance. I am always ready to dance. I have always been ready to dance, and so I remain.
I am ready. I am.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
only in asheville
Don't worry. I'll write about Burning Man. Right now I'm still in recovery, still trying to collect my thoughts.
In the meantime, I couldn't pass this by. The other morning I'm sitting at the cafe at a local health food store having some breakfast with my kids. This hip-hop, breakdancing, hipster I know from around town approaches me very intently. He's got something on his mind. He says to me, "You've got the moon cycle tattooed on you somewhere, don't you?"
In fact I do not, though my mom and a few other women I know do. But this didn't help him at that moment. I got the impression he really needed to LOOK at a moon calendar for some reason and thought I'd make do for his needs. I told him no and he wandered back to his table without explanation.
Only in this freaky ass town, man.
In the meantime, I couldn't pass this by. The other morning I'm sitting at the cafe at a local health food store having some breakfast with my kids. This hip-hop, breakdancing, hipster I know from around town approaches me very intently. He's got something on his mind. He says to me, "You've got the moon cycle tattooed on you somewhere, don't you?"
In fact I do not, though my mom and a few other women I know do. But this didn't help him at that moment. I got the impression he really needed to LOOK at a moon calendar for some reason and thought I'd make do for his needs. I told him no and he wandered back to his table without explanation.
Only in this freaky ass town, man.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
morning thought collage: the man soon burns
I slept fitfully, woke often with an engorged, gassy belly and a head full of things to do. I am an earthy, grounded creature, sometimes too much so for my own good. Transition, change of routine, personal upheaval make my mind race and my digestion halt to a crawl yanking my body in different directions. I am leaving in two days for the biggest journey I have engulfed upon in ages. I am going to Burning Man, and in so doing realizing a goal of many years. I am also, I think, finally leaving the man that I love. He doesn't know it yet. The sheer fact that I can write that announcement in my public journal before I tell him is a sign to myself that I ought to have done this long ago. He doesn't read my blog. It has never occurred to him to do so even though I have discussed at length how my words are my art, that writing is my saving grace, that with my words I attempt to save his life. It never occurred to him that what I say might matter enough to him to pursue even though sometimes I post on his computer and I send out a link to my blog in my every e-mail.
The abdominal rumbling just got worse, downward motion to accompany the heightening emotion. For two years, ever since his psychotic break before he went to rehab that man has ruled my bowels. But I did not wake up this morning to write about him, I woke to the sound of my roosters crowing, to a monstrous flock of crows and other morning birds loudly cacophonous. I woke to a text message from my beloved Burning Man traveling partner that simply said, "Burning Man! Aaaaaaaaaaa!" I woke to plans of completing my mix CD as a gift to others on the playa. I woke to a head full of packing plans and last minute errands and a house needing a thorough cleaning before I embark and laundry still drying that belongs in my suitcase and new love. I woke to my own Hope and Fear for the Future and exhilaration and exhaustion. I am awake? Already? Again?
I will miss my babies, and I will miss the cool mountain greenness of my home. I will miss my dogs and my cats and my chickens and my snakes, those that live in the house and those that live in my yard, a constant threat lurking in the grass. I will miss my crisp cotton sheets and firm mattress. I will miss my dear friends and the new friend who occupies so much of my thoughts these days. I will miss long baths and hot tub soaks under the waxing moon. I may miss the internet. I will probably miss my blog. At moments I will likely miss my sanity while I rage long into the desert night in silly outfits and fur-lined boots and a head full of psychedelic trance and psychedelic thoughts. I wouldn't have it any other way.
I am going home to a strange new land, dusty and dry, daring and delightful. I will meet new people and see new stars and think new thoughts. I will wash my feet in vinegar and shower under a tepid gallon of water from a tube. I will ride a bike (for the first time in years) decked out with a bell and purple streamers and red flashing lights. I will stroll languidly and naked in the sun and dance vigorously to keep warm in the night. I will trip and trip and trip and trip. I hope I get to kiss new lips. I will eat lycii berries and raw chocolate bars and emergen-c packets to keep up my strength. I will glory and gush and giggle. A lot. My Burning Man girl and I, we giggle ourselves hoarse.
The day after tomorrow I get on an airplane and fly someplace new. I'll see you on the playa.
The abdominal rumbling just got worse, downward motion to accompany the heightening emotion. For two years, ever since his psychotic break before he went to rehab that man has ruled my bowels. But I did not wake up this morning to write about him, I woke to the sound of my roosters crowing, to a monstrous flock of crows and other morning birds loudly cacophonous. I woke to a text message from my beloved Burning Man traveling partner that simply said, "Burning Man! Aaaaaaaaaaa!" I woke to plans of completing my mix CD as a gift to others on the playa. I woke to a head full of packing plans and last minute errands and a house needing a thorough cleaning before I embark and laundry still drying that belongs in my suitcase and new love. I woke to my own Hope and Fear for the Future and exhilaration and exhaustion. I am awake? Already? Again?
I will miss my babies, and I will miss the cool mountain greenness of my home. I will miss my dogs and my cats and my chickens and my snakes, those that live in the house and those that live in my yard, a constant threat lurking in the grass. I will miss my crisp cotton sheets and firm mattress. I will miss my dear friends and the new friend who occupies so much of my thoughts these days. I will miss long baths and hot tub soaks under the waxing moon. I may miss the internet. I will probably miss my blog. At moments I will likely miss my sanity while I rage long into the desert night in silly outfits and fur-lined boots and a head full of psychedelic trance and psychedelic thoughts. I wouldn't have it any other way.
I am going home to a strange new land, dusty and dry, daring and delightful. I will meet new people and see new stars and think new thoughts. I will wash my feet in vinegar and shower under a tepid gallon of water from a tube. I will ride a bike (for the first time in years) decked out with a bell and purple streamers and red flashing lights. I will stroll languidly and naked in the sun and dance vigorously to keep warm in the night. I will trip and trip and trip and trip. I hope I get to kiss new lips. I will eat lycii berries and raw chocolate bars and emergen-c packets to keep up my strength. I will glory and gush and giggle. A lot. My Burning Man girl and I, we giggle ourselves hoarse.
The day after tomorrow I get on an airplane and fly someplace new. I'll see you on the playa.
Friday, August 18, 2006
puberty
Though I think he'd probably find it incredibly unacceptable for me to make the public announcement I am about to make, I feel I must. I want this venue to honor and pay tribute to the immensity of the process he is experiencing. If you should ever come across this post, dear son, please know that we have ALLLLL been through what you are going through and it is no source of shame, and my intention in writing about it is to share my pride that my child is growing towards adulthood which should be lauded in the same way all cyclical, natural phenomenon should be hailed as the simple miracles they are.
My oldest son is going through puberty. He still seems like such a tiny, young fellow to me. I realize at 12 that I had physically fully blossomed into womanhood and furthermore was foolishly taking liberties playing at very adult games, but he is so different than I was. He is still small statured, wearing a young boy's physique, though he has grown about 3 inches in the last year. And he, thank all the gods in the heavens, is still a child, an innocent youngster who plays. He and his brother play dress up. They still put on funny outfits, capes and tunics and hoods and boots and take their toy swords and bows into the woods and play elves. They don robes and mount brooms and pretend to play quidditch in the yard with their soccer goal and a sparkly pink soccer ball, no less. Hell, I think they still play cowboys now and again. They have stick horses, OK? Stick horses that still get used, as well as legos and playmobiles and fuckin' bionicles. Less and less often these items appear, but I can fairly say they are still in use. Again, thankfully.
So I was really surprised at first to find some very physical development was occurring. He had already started to get the errant blackhead on his face, but then I found out about the pubic hair. How did I find out? Well, honestly he told me many months ago that the hair had started to grow, but I figured, prone as he is to dramaticism, that when he said he was starting to grow hair around there he just meant some light peach fuzz. But no. It so happened that a few months back we were both stricken with vicious cases of poison ivy, and in an attempt to soothe our rashy skin we got into a tub full of oatmeal and salt and baking soda together. We don't really bathe together anymore, and that was in February and we haven't again since. But that was when I realized that what he described to me was no light fuzz but honest to goodness, dark colored, growing all over his groin, pubic hair. That day I came face to face with the reality that my little son, the funny, little fellow who once had the silky, fine, long hair and the chatterbox mouth was becoming a young man complete with the physical nature of adulthood.
Then this summer his voice started changing. Honestly I have always heard about the archetypal, teenage boy voice cracking, but I don't remember it. Perhaps when I was a young woman and the young men around me had begun to change and their voices were ranging from high falsettos to deeper baritones and shrieking in every octave in between I did not notice because I was so enamored with them in my boy-crazed way. Or perhaps, since I had gone through my own changes at lightning speed that I had already discarded the boys my age by the time they were changing and had moved on to spending (unhealthy) time with older boys who had completed that phase, and I missed it altogether. In any case, now I know that that archetype is all based in reality. My son shrieks with high-pitched giggles when he laughs, but when he answers the phone my callers keep wondering aloud who the new man answering my phone is. He is often hoarse and froggy, and is very self-conscious about this animalistic transition in the way he presents himself to the world, especially because he is such a vocal character.
And now the blackheads have colonized his nose and his forehead and are making progress towards complete facial domination despite the fact that I keep insisting to this young man that he needs to wash his face more often.
I can hardly neglect to mention the attitude change. My L has been a consummate mama's boy most of his life. He listens well, he does my bidding, he adores me. Now, though he still is fairly compliant in terms of completing his chores and such, he gives me lip nearly constantly. He says mean and sardonic things. His brother and he used to get along famously, but now there is much bickering and wrestling and mockery. He wants to listen to his music, loudly, all the time, and he's on this death metal kick right now thanks to my downstairs neighbor, a 32 year old adolescent still obsessed with Star Wars and the black arts. He wears badly drawn Slayer t-shirts of his own design.
I am patient. I remember my teen years, the struggles for independence, the crappy music and silly clothes, the arguments with my mom. I also remember that by the time I was his age I was smoking cigarettes and marijuana, drinking alcohol and having sex. It makes me shudder to think of my precious girlhood ravaged in that way, but moreso to imagine that it could be my sons' boyhoods going by the same route and it's not. It makes me believe that though I arrogantly assumed that our close-knit, homebirthing, breastfeeding, home-schooling, holistic lifestyle would allow us to breeze seamlessly through my sons' adolescent years and that is not the case, that I am still doing a good job. There are bumps in the road, and I can see on the horizon that the terrain remains rocky for some years to come, but my kids still like me. They still want to hang out with me. They still like some of the music I bring home. They still let me read to them. I am grateful.
Because I have sons instead of daughters, I am unsure how exactly to mark this transition, to honor it properly. I had always imagined that if I'd had a girl I would regale her with gifts and ceremony to mark her transition into womanhood when she reached menarche. That desire welled up in me the day I learned of L's pubic hair. I simultaneously had this freaked out, I'm-losing-my-little-baby kind of impulse to pretend it wasn't happening and a powerful pride surge in me that my little boy was becoming a man and wanted to toast him, gift him, celebrate him. I think he would have died of mortification had I suggested that. "Son, now that you are growing hair on your genitals about which you probably feel a lot of personal confusion, a mingled shame and pride of your own, I'd like to announce it to the world by inviting our friends to a sumptuous meal in your honor and offer you..." What? A new video game? A real bow and arrow? What are the proper honors our young men deserve at this transition in life? I haven't figured it out. I think I will generically mark the transition for him when he officially becomes a teen at the end of this year. I would like to do ceremony. Any ideas anyone?
In the event that my boy should come across this post, I'd like to close it with an adulation just for him:
My oldest son is going through puberty. He still seems like such a tiny, young fellow to me. I realize at 12 that I had physically fully blossomed into womanhood and furthermore was foolishly taking liberties playing at very adult games, but he is so different than I was. He is still small statured, wearing a young boy's physique, though he has grown about 3 inches in the last year. And he, thank all the gods in the heavens, is still a child, an innocent youngster who plays. He and his brother play dress up. They still put on funny outfits, capes and tunics and hoods and boots and take their toy swords and bows into the woods and play elves. They don robes and mount brooms and pretend to play quidditch in the yard with their soccer goal and a sparkly pink soccer ball, no less. Hell, I think they still play cowboys now and again. They have stick horses, OK? Stick horses that still get used, as well as legos and playmobiles and fuckin' bionicles. Less and less often these items appear, but I can fairly say they are still in use. Again, thankfully.
So I was really surprised at first to find some very physical development was occurring. He had already started to get the errant blackhead on his face, but then I found out about the pubic hair. How did I find out? Well, honestly he told me many months ago that the hair had started to grow, but I figured, prone as he is to dramaticism, that when he said he was starting to grow hair around there he just meant some light peach fuzz. But no. It so happened that a few months back we were both stricken with vicious cases of poison ivy, and in an attempt to soothe our rashy skin we got into a tub full of oatmeal and salt and baking soda together. We don't really bathe together anymore, and that was in February and we haven't again since. But that was when I realized that what he described to me was no light fuzz but honest to goodness, dark colored, growing all over his groin, pubic hair. That day I came face to face with the reality that my little son, the funny, little fellow who once had the silky, fine, long hair and the chatterbox mouth was becoming a young man complete with the physical nature of adulthood.
Then this summer his voice started changing. Honestly I have always heard about the archetypal, teenage boy voice cracking, but I don't remember it. Perhaps when I was a young woman and the young men around me had begun to change and their voices were ranging from high falsettos to deeper baritones and shrieking in every octave in between I did not notice because I was so enamored with them in my boy-crazed way. Or perhaps, since I had gone through my own changes at lightning speed that I had already discarded the boys my age by the time they were changing and had moved on to spending (unhealthy) time with older boys who had completed that phase, and I missed it altogether. In any case, now I know that that archetype is all based in reality. My son shrieks with high-pitched giggles when he laughs, but when he answers the phone my callers keep wondering aloud who the new man answering my phone is. He is often hoarse and froggy, and is very self-conscious about this animalistic transition in the way he presents himself to the world, especially because he is such a vocal character.
And now the blackheads have colonized his nose and his forehead and are making progress towards complete facial domination despite the fact that I keep insisting to this young man that he needs to wash his face more often.
I can hardly neglect to mention the attitude change. My L has been a consummate mama's boy most of his life. He listens well, he does my bidding, he adores me. Now, though he still is fairly compliant in terms of completing his chores and such, he gives me lip nearly constantly. He says mean and sardonic things. His brother and he used to get along famously, but now there is much bickering and wrestling and mockery. He wants to listen to his music, loudly, all the time, and he's on this death metal kick right now thanks to my downstairs neighbor, a 32 year old adolescent still obsessed with Star Wars and the black arts. He wears badly drawn Slayer t-shirts of his own design.
I am patient. I remember my teen years, the struggles for independence, the crappy music and silly clothes, the arguments with my mom. I also remember that by the time I was his age I was smoking cigarettes and marijuana, drinking alcohol and having sex. It makes me shudder to think of my precious girlhood ravaged in that way, but moreso to imagine that it could be my sons' boyhoods going by the same route and it's not. It makes me believe that though I arrogantly assumed that our close-knit, homebirthing, breastfeeding, home-schooling, holistic lifestyle would allow us to breeze seamlessly through my sons' adolescent years and that is not the case, that I am still doing a good job. There are bumps in the road, and I can see on the horizon that the terrain remains rocky for some years to come, but my kids still like me. They still want to hang out with me. They still like some of the music I bring home. They still let me read to them. I am grateful.
Because I have sons instead of daughters, I am unsure how exactly to mark this transition, to honor it properly. I had always imagined that if I'd had a girl I would regale her with gifts and ceremony to mark her transition into womanhood when she reached menarche. That desire welled up in me the day I learned of L's pubic hair. I simultaneously had this freaked out, I'm-losing-my-little-baby kind of impulse to pretend it wasn't happening and a powerful pride surge in me that my little boy was becoming a man and wanted to toast him, gift him, celebrate him. I think he would have died of mortification had I suggested that. "Son, now that you are growing hair on your genitals about which you probably feel a lot of personal confusion, a mingled shame and pride of your own, I'd like to announce it to the world by inviting our friends to a sumptuous meal in your honor and offer you..." What? A new video game? A real bow and arrow? What are the proper honors our young men deserve at this transition in life? I haven't figured it out. I think I will generically mark the transition for him when he officially becomes a teen at the end of this year. I would like to do ceremony. Any ideas anyone?
In the event that my boy should come across this post, I'd like to close it with an adulation just for him:
My baby, you are still everything to me, you will always be everything to me. Despite what may feel like some current awkwardness please know that you are very beautiful physically and emotionally; you are smart and strong and capable. In your long life we may not always see eye to eye on music or art or lifestyle choices or politics or partners, but I will always respect your autonomy, yet in these years ahead I want to remind you that you are still just a boy, and it is still my job to guide you through the process of discovering your own belief system by exposing you to my beliefs and the world around us and teaching you tolerance and compassion and patience. I will always be there for you despite any folly or fluster you may experience. My home will always, always be a home for you. My heart will always, always be a refuge for you. I trust you. I appreciate you. I cherish your growth process as your own. You will know love and partnership though there will be times when you feel frustrated or frightened or hurt by the work required to make it happen. You will experience inexplicable bliss and seemingly unmanageable woes, and you will be enriched for them all. I will be there for you during every personal trial, and though I will want to save you the challenge and live the hard moments for you I cannot and would disservice you by trying to do so because it is through every one of these experiences that you will become more fully yourself. I love you. I am immensely grateful your soul chose my soul to come through for this incarnation. We are gonna rock together for the rest of our days.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
worst bedtime story ever
A few years back my younger sister was visiting the boys and me. When she visits, she's totally got this "Let's get the kids on my side and gang up on mom" schtick going on, which is mostly fine. She's really just teaching them to be in-your-face radicals, of which I approve because, hey, I'm one, too. Sometimes, I feel like she's missing the point a little, though, because after all, I am actually on their side, mom or not.
So this one night, I was done with kids and ready for everybody to go to bed. I sent the boys to get ready and go to sleep. My sister pipes up, "What? No bedtime story?"
"No," I reply, "No bedtime story. Go to bed you guys."
Now they're in on it, "Awww, come on, mom. Tell us a bedtime story." She joins in, and they're all beating me down, so they think.
"Fine," I say. "Sit down. You ready? Once upon a time...Go brush your teeth."
"Awwwww! That is the worst bedtime story EVER!" my sister says emphatically. And it has stuck. Every once in a while we pull it out just for laughs. It's not in very regular rotation because it is, after all, the worst bedtime story ever.
So this one night, I was done with kids and ready for everybody to go to bed. I sent the boys to get ready and go to sleep. My sister pipes up, "What? No bedtime story?"
"No," I reply, "No bedtime story. Go to bed you guys."
Now they're in on it, "Awww, come on, mom. Tell us a bedtime story." She joins in, and they're all beating me down, so they think.
"Fine," I say. "Sit down. You ready? Once upon a time...Go brush your teeth."
"Awwwww! That is the worst bedtime story EVER!" my sister says emphatically. And it has stuck. Every once in a while we pull it out just for laughs. It's not in very regular rotation because it is, after all, the worst bedtime story ever.
Sunday, July 30, 2006
rant and rave
Last night was the third annual Rant and Rave, a spoken-word and art event created to celebrate free speech, raise consciousness on our current world situation, and raise funds to support the Poetix Arts in Education Program which takes local poets into the juvenile detention facility to teach kids writing, performing, and marketing skills so they can have the opportunity to rehabilitate and be heard through their art. It's great.
So the theme this year was Unify and I was honored to once again be asked to participate. I would like to share one of the poems I performed, even though I feel my poetry loses a lot in the translation to page. I am definitely a performance poet.
So the theme this year was Unify and I was honored to once again be asked to participate. I would like to share one of the poems I performed, even though I feel my poetry loses a lot in the translation to page. I am definitely a performance poet.
Let's break life down to some basic elements:
Earth, Sun, Wind, Rain
from which comes forth
Man, Woman
from which comes forth
Religion, Government, Art, Technology
from which comes forth
Civilization, Culture, Morality, Lifestyle
War or Peace
Famine or Feast.
We are living our lives, eating food, loving each other, watching tv, driving cars, going to church, working jobs, sleeping in beds
Precariously balanced on a precipice
that our ancestors and our contemporaries and we have
hastily slapped together.
We are going to fall-
All of us
Unless
We work together.
To avoid disintegration
DIS---INTEGRATION
We need to work together
to meticulously dismantle this unstable structure
on which every planetary life currently
T E E T E R S and T O T T E R S.
Take it apart. Build it from the ground up.
Consciously pick up every scattered component out of place and
Put it back where it belongs.
This is simple, kids.
Like a nursery floor covered in
lincoln logs, legos and blocks
just one piece at a time
Pick it up and Put it where it belongs.
Renewable Resources?
Pick it up and Put it where it belongs.
Religious Tolerance?
Pick it up and Put it where it belongs.
Non-polluting Solutions?
Pick it up and Put it where it belongs.
But we can't even start this clean up project if
Dick is still pulling Jane's hair.
To save ourselves from Annihilation
from the total Dis-integration of our current situation
will require our Cooperation
which grows from Communication and
leads to our Salvation.
Building from the bottom up starts at Home.
If we can't get along with our Brother and Sisters,
with our Lovers and Partners,
with our Neighbors and Friends and Communities
How are we going to get along as
Religious Congregations,
States and Nations,
Governments and Financial Agencies
with big agendas in mind?
Simple equations:
Man + Woman = ?
Black + White = ?
Christian + Muslim = ?
You create the answers and you create the world we live in.
The sum total of our existence is in our hands.
You think Feminism is an antiquated theory?
You think Racism is a thing of the past?
You think an ethos of Tolerance, Compassion and Forgiveness is too gentle for
these violent times?
Every concerned member of our Movement needs to take a look in the mirror.
We cannot love each other until we love ourselves and
We cannot love ourselves until we examine and unlearn society's lessons
that tell us we are:
Unattractive, Unsuccessful, Unfulfilled and Unworthy.
Unplug.
Forgive.
Everyone that ever hurt anybody anywhere was hurt by someone else themself first.
Forgive your Mother and father, and Forgive the ones before them.
Forgive your clergy, Forgive your elected officials.
Forgive Yourself and Move Forward.
Pick up a piece and Put it where it belongs.
Man + Woman = Love
Black + White = Understanding
Christian + Muslim = Tolerance
Rich + Poor = Compassion
Then suddenly we live in a culture that sustains on a planet that survives.
Let's keep it simple, kids.
Let's start our project with six simple words,
take them home and say them out loud,
Believe them and Know them all the time:
There Is No Us and Them
There Is No Us and Them
There Is No Us and Them
Sunday, July 23, 2006
why the world needs superman
I have never been a big comic book person, though in some ways I have really appreciated the genre. I wasn't a comic reader as a girl, but as a I grew older some of the men in my life shared some of their favorites with me, such as the Doom Patrol series (in particular the issues with Grant Morrison writing) and Elfquest (one of my kids' favorites).
I must make the disclaimer that as a woman, and furthermore as a feminist and a pacifist, I have definitely objected to the strongly sexist treatment of women characters (or complete lack thereof) and the focus on intense violence in the bulk of the genre. I have also read an analysis of the structure of comics that suggests that the format of comic books, a series of frames of graphics with a speech bubble or box included for each frame, is actually more difficult for most women to process than for men due to some subtle differences in the way our brains process information and deal with spatial schematics. This could possibly be why the genre has been so strongly patriarchal in nature if it is so much more easily processed and therefore utlilised by men. (I wish I had an article to reference for you, but this was years ago, and I cannot remember the source.)
However, I have seen wonderful stories come from comics and brilliant, creative ideas and characters. I love the wide and wild variety in styles of artwork and have seen everything from the sublime to the minimal work wonders for a tale. And because the genre is so accepting of different styles of art, that makes it accessible to everyone despite their artistic limitations. I also appreciate comic books as the genre of "the other" often dealing in themes of alienation and discrimination, despite its own internal prejudices. Plus, since its inception there has been a reclaiming of the comic genre by women and some awesome and fun work has come from that movement that I have really enjoyed. (Check out Strong Women In Comics and Wimmin's Comix and Friends of Lulu.)
The recent trend toward turning comic books into movies has proved interesting; I like to see the way those characters and that otherworldly action is interpreted on the big screen. I am a big fan of the X-Men stories and the movies. (Plus, I have a burning crush on Wolverine.) I haven't delved too deeply into too many other of the comic to movie trend, but yesterday the kids and I went to see Superman Returns.
Personally, I didn't even know Superman had gone anywhere, but as the story line goes, he had to travel far into another part of the universe to explore the remains of his home planet and the journey took him quite a while. I have never been much of a Superman fan. Though he certainly is an alien and must wrestle with his own demons of alienation and otherness, he always had such a good American boy feel to him: his dashing good looks, his constant quest to do good that overshadows any internal struggle, his silly, silly outfit, and his bumbly alias, Clark Kent. And it has always really bothered me that Lois Lane was so daft that she couldn't figure out that the man she loved was the same man that she worked right next to every single day. I am sorry, but anyone that is that deeply in love with someone is simply NOT going to be fooled into mistaking them for someone else by the mere presence of some spectacles on their nose.
But here we have a Superman that HAS been grappling with his darker side, the pain of the loss of his family and his entire culture, the realization that he is the ONLY one of his species left in the universe. Talk about feeling alone. Furthermore, he fucked up. He took off and left Earth and all of our human woes and frailty behind, and to top it off he didn't even tell Lois he was going. Oops. Now he needs to figure out how to re-enter his old life, and one gets the sense that it is all taking its toll on him. Yeah, so now is when I would start to dig Superman, right? When he is in pain, when he is fucking up, when he feels isolated and hurt. I am sick. (please see previous post on my codependency)
So Lois Lane has written a Pulitzer Prize winning article in Superman's absence, and amidst her own suffering from his abandonment of her in particular, an article titled "Why the World Doesn't Need Superman." Interesting concept. The article is not much expanded upon in the movie, but Lois goes so far to say that the world doesn't need a savior. By the end of the movie, of course, she feels differently.
And frankly, so did I.
How good would it feel to know that when you are in the most dangerous and bizarre of circumstances, that their just might be hope? Who or what else could you possibly conceive of to rescue you if you were about to be in a plane wreck, crushed under a toppling building, drowning deep at sea? Anything to give anyone more hope in those circumstances works for me.
But beyond that I am deeply enamored with a character who rests above the skyline utilizing his superhuman hearing to tune into the happenings below so that he may appear on the scene anywhere, anytime there is a need for help. That is truly generous. If only we were all able to offer our assistance to the world so effectively, we would each experience far fewer crises.
And you know, here is a man who could choose to fuck anyone in the world he so desired. He is 6'4," charmingly handsome with crystal blue eyes, and he can do anything. He is solar-powered for god's sake; how hip is that? Just about anybody would cast aside their derision as to how queer his super-suit is and take him to bed if he asked, if for no other reason than he's just so nice, and not particularly conceited despite his grandiose repertoire of skills. But he is devoted to the one woman he loves, he never takes advantage of her, and he fucking ADMITTED HE WAS WRONG TO HER for leaving without saying goodbye. That quality, the ability to go ahead and apologize and eat crow if it's your turn to do so, is precious and endearing coming from any man, and I laud Superman for his humility and his honesty. That in and of itself, his example of a strong, good looking, highly accomplished man admitting his own mistake to a woman makes me feel like the world needs a Superman around.
I also think that Superman would be very beneficial to the anti-globalization movement. Here's a man who has experienced genocide first hand, and I think he's pretty smart, I believe he'd be able to see the connection between the global economy and the ongoing oppression and destruction of third world culture for the profit of huge industries benefiting few people. He has already demonstrated that he absolutely opposes any one man's quest for power if it interferes with the will or well-being of others, I mean check out his track record keeping down Lex Luthor. Furthermore, he grew up in a midwestern farm town, and he's got a righteous reputation with the average, mainstream American. The people are going to follow his lead if he starts supporting rallies and protests. Just imagine the edge his powers would give to international peace and economic justice activist planning. No need to worry about big government infiltration of your affinity groups' plans to shut down the G-8 summit or the big WTO talks if he is on our side, and he can see and hear through walls, can transmit important organizing information without risk of interception by flying our messages anywhere in the world, and can keep armed police forces safely at bay with some well targeted cooling breath or laser beam eye shots, while we circle the city, any city! Yay!
With Superman's powers and his penchant for salvaging humankind I think he'd make a welcome ally to our struggle. I don't think he'd stand for large scale terrorist attacks (whether Islamic fundamentalists or the American government were the terroists in question) or nuclear holocaust. I think he'd take the School of Americas and uproot it at its foundation and send it orbiting out in space, never again to produce a graduating class of war-mongering, mass murdering militia leaders. He is apprised of excellent, advanced technology that could likely save us from our own destruction of ourselves by eliminating the need for a fossil fuel dependent economy of pollution and waste. The possibilities are endless.
So Lois, take the night off. I've gone ahead and finished your next article for you. The world does need Superman, in fact the world needs all of us to respond to our own plight as though we were bred of the same steel and sunshine composition as Kal-El, Krypton's native son. Superman sets an example for us all encouraging us to do the best we can with whatever we've got to take care of each other and to be honest and kind. He demonstrates that it's OK if we make mistakes, we just have to be willing to admit that we have and learn and move on from there. We really need us all to be saviors, and I would be really grateful if we had his help, 'cause man, our asses are nearly up against the wall.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
codependent
Some time back I wrote a post called "i like to feel" in which I talk about a lot of the things to which I am not addicted. I recently discovered something to which I am addicted. I am addicted to love, or at least the illusion of it. I am addicted to my relationship, probably a lot of my relationships. I am addicted to people, and right now painfully so to one person in particular.
It hit me tonight as I drove in the car, lamenting the difficulties we are having, worrying desperately that our relationship will soon draw to a close, that a day may come when I longer get to see him, hear him, smell him, touch him, bask in his presence. I felt like I could die. I felt what I believe is a craving. I craved to be in his presence, and this is far from the first time I have felt this way.
I have often wondered what it must feel like to crave, to truly, addictively crave one's drug of choice. I wondered how much it was visceral, how much emotional, how it must be to not be able to shut off that sensation. I am sure it is different for every different person, and for every different substance one can crave. Now I have some insight.
My craving feels like a desperate need to see him, be near him, as though everything in my world will be OK if I can simply get into his presence, into his arms, or even better into his bed. My craving starts in my mind, starts with a cycle of thoughts that involve a lot of pain and insecurity and discomfort, and then it moves into my throat which feels like it is a rough knot that I cannot possibly swallow past, then my mouth gets dry. The craving keeps moving till it gets to my heart [I had typed "hurt" instead of heart in my first draft. Talk about your freudian slip.] which feels hollow, feels a terrible vacancy aching to be filled. Then the sensation hits my stomach which flips nauseatingly. The sensation is absolutely physical and emotional in nature, and it is pressing and demanding and gives me the keen sense that nothing will quench this desire other than him.
I feel it now, a wild desperation to get into my car and leave behind all responsibilities, all logical behavior and get nearer to him. And I've done it. I have unexpectedly shown up at his door many times over the years and in different incarnations of our relationship. Sometimes it is rewarding, a good score; I reap some temporary gratification through receiving the desired response, the right words, the right reaction, the right embrace, as though a stronger version of the drug I use just hit the streets and hit my unsuspecting bloodstream for the first time. Oftentimes succumbing to that craving does not pay off; I've built up a tolerance to certain responses he may have to me and I need more, stronger, better interactions to make this hit worthwhile.
I seek his company again and again to stave off the unbearable sensation of being without him, just like junkies seek their high again and again just to save themselves from the unbearable sensation of being sober.
Now I've got another label I can tack on to myself: codependent. So what? I am not going to start going to a 12 step support group. I am glad to be aware that this behavior is not healthy. It is helping me to keep myself in check, keeping me from getting in the car and doing drive-bys just to see if he's home, what he's doing, if he's alone. It is helping me to recognize that if our relationship does end that I may not die from longing for him. There is likely to be a painful period of withdrawal and then recovery, and I will make it. Oh yeah. I remember. I have felt this way before, have felt this way everytime a relationship I am in draws to a close before I am ready for it to do so. And I do get better.
But then there is the next relationship.
I feel little hope right now for the likelihood of my getting into a healthy, successful, long-lasting partnership. I think it is common for those of us who are still single as we get older [Older is, of course, relative. Right now I feel older, having moved firmly out of my twenties.] to doubt that we'll find a mate. I think it is especially common for single mothers with half-grown children and mountains of debt and yard-length stretch marks and unfathomable responsibilities to feel that way. Who would want to walk into this mess? Nevermind that I am beautiful and strong and smart and an incredibly caring, generous and attentive partner. It would take an especially secure person to look past all of the challenging features and dive into the substance of my life. I have a hard time picturing who that person could be, especially because everytime I try to see them in my mind's eye, I see only one man, the same man whom I have adored for ten years, with whom I have shared some of my most profound experiences. The man whose mere presence acts as a balm to my soul. The man whose shirt I keep balled up next to my pillow so I can have the scent of him near me all night, every night.
I don't fucking care if I am codependent. I want him. I want only him. And the healthy, conscious, precious, loving woman part of me knows that given the proper attention and energy we can be together, healthfully.
Denial? I don't know what you are talking about.
It hit me tonight as I drove in the car, lamenting the difficulties we are having, worrying desperately that our relationship will soon draw to a close, that a day may come when I longer get to see him, hear him, smell him, touch him, bask in his presence. I felt like I could die. I felt what I believe is a craving. I craved to be in his presence, and this is far from the first time I have felt this way.
I have often wondered what it must feel like to crave, to truly, addictively crave one's drug of choice. I wondered how much it was visceral, how much emotional, how it must be to not be able to shut off that sensation. I am sure it is different for every different person, and for every different substance one can crave. Now I have some insight.
My craving feels like a desperate need to see him, be near him, as though everything in my world will be OK if I can simply get into his presence, into his arms, or even better into his bed. My craving starts in my mind, starts with a cycle of thoughts that involve a lot of pain and insecurity and discomfort, and then it moves into my throat which feels like it is a rough knot that I cannot possibly swallow past, then my mouth gets dry. The craving keeps moving till it gets to my heart [I had typed "hurt" instead of heart in my first draft. Talk about your freudian slip.] which feels hollow, feels a terrible vacancy aching to be filled. Then the sensation hits my stomach which flips nauseatingly. The sensation is absolutely physical and emotional in nature, and it is pressing and demanding and gives me the keen sense that nothing will quench this desire other than him.
I feel it now, a wild desperation to get into my car and leave behind all responsibilities, all logical behavior and get nearer to him. And I've done it. I have unexpectedly shown up at his door many times over the years and in different incarnations of our relationship. Sometimes it is rewarding, a good score; I reap some temporary gratification through receiving the desired response, the right words, the right reaction, the right embrace, as though a stronger version of the drug I use just hit the streets and hit my unsuspecting bloodstream for the first time. Oftentimes succumbing to that craving does not pay off; I've built up a tolerance to certain responses he may have to me and I need more, stronger, better interactions to make this hit worthwhile.
I seek his company again and again to stave off the unbearable sensation of being without him, just like junkies seek their high again and again just to save themselves from the unbearable sensation of being sober.
Now I've got another label I can tack on to myself: codependent. So what? I am not going to start going to a 12 step support group. I am glad to be aware that this behavior is not healthy. It is helping me to keep myself in check, keeping me from getting in the car and doing drive-bys just to see if he's home, what he's doing, if he's alone. It is helping me to recognize that if our relationship does end that I may not die from longing for him. There is likely to be a painful period of withdrawal and then recovery, and I will make it. Oh yeah. I remember. I have felt this way before, have felt this way everytime a relationship I am in draws to a close before I am ready for it to do so. And I do get better.
But then there is the next relationship.
I feel little hope right now for the likelihood of my getting into a healthy, successful, long-lasting partnership. I think it is common for those of us who are still single as we get older [Older is, of course, relative. Right now I feel older, having moved firmly out of my twenties.] to doubt that we'll find a mate. I think it is especially common for single mothers with half-grown children and mountains of debt and yard-length stretch marks and unfathomable responsibilities to feel that way. Who would want to walk into this mess? Nevermind that I am beautiful and strong and smart and an incredibly caring, generous and attentive partner. It would take an especially secure person to look past all of the challenging features and dive into the substance of my life. I have a hard time picturing who that person could be, especially because everytime I try to see them in my mind's eye, I see only one man, the same man whom I have adored for ten years, with whom I have shared some of my most profound experiences. The man whose mere presence acts as a balm to my soul. The man whose shirt I keep balled up next to my pillow so I can have the scent of him near me all night, every night.
I don't fucking care if I am codependent. I want him. I want only him. And the healthy, conscious, precious, loving woman part of me knows that given the proper attention and energy we can be together, healthfully.
Denial? I don't know what you are talking about.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
my day
A letter I sent to the Full Moon Farm volunteer crew today:
Dear FMFers,
I just wanted to write in and say that I had actually finally set aside a day for the boys and me to make it out to the farm today to help with the fencing and whatever chores we could do, and lo and behold, just a few steps into our morning walk with the critter crew here, my Aleksie began to limp as though she had hurt her foot very badly, then proceeded to go into shock. I immediately began dosing her with rescue remedy and got on the phone to the vet.
I was unaware at the time, as I could not see the bite wounds, that she had been bitten by a snake, presumably a copperhead, but fortunately I knew well enough to rush her to the vet. On my way to the vet I got stopped in a "routine license check" by the state troopers. I handed them my license, made it clear that I had a very hurt dog in the car and was on my way to the vet in a hurry and they could call if they needed for confirmation, but that they needed to let me go quickly. Apparently that was their cue to single me out and make an example of me and those f'ing SOBs (excuse me) told me to pull over as they wanted to write me up for an out of date inspection sticker. Can you imagine? What if it had been one if my children in shock in the back of my car a half hour drive from the nearest hospital? There was no way I could make them understand that to me, this was the same thing. It was awful. And I WILL be lodging a complaint.
When we finally got there the good people at Charlotte Street Animal Hospital took us in immediately and provided excellent and compassionate care (unlike the people with whom I am very annoyed at Fairview Animal Hospital who told me that they could not see my dog even though I explained that she was going into shock and they are 20 minutes closer to me than the other vet. They won't be seeing any of my business in the future...). By the time we reached the vet it was very evident that Aleksie had been bitten, as her foot had swollen voluminously and the puncture wounds had begun to bleed and ooze. They got her on IV fluids and stabilized, but were about to close for the weekend, so they sent us on to REACH for continued care.
At REACH we concluded this was not a case in which anti-venom was required (thankfully as it is $561 per dose!) and they began by treating her for pain as she was now exhibiting an extreme level of discomfort (the vet there said that she finds huskies do not tolerate pain well. what do you all think?) and she would not allow them to do anything in terms of cleaning or assessing the wound. The vet then ordered an x-ray which showed there were actually 2 separate bite wounds and she felt the leg needed physio therapy in the form of alternating hot epsom salt soak and ice. Unfortunately Aleksie would not let them do anything involving touching the injured leg, so they had to fully anesthetize her in order to carry out the therapy.
After a total of 7 hours of treatment (and a grand total of $700 in vet bills and meds for the day) they sent her home with an anti-inflammatory (Rimadyl), antibiotics and pain meds. Since she has been home she has limped around the yard, as happy to see her Lucy and her Stanley as they were to see her, eaten and drunk a little, and now she is resting.
Tomorrow our instructions are to take off her bandages and if she will allow do hot and cold compresses. If her pain is too aggravated we may need to take her back in for an additional IV dose of pain meds tomorrow to continue treating her.
The REACH vet felt that this is a severe bite wound and warned me that the skin on her leg may slough off, which sounds atrocious (does anybody have any experience with THAT?), but that ultimately her prognosis is good. She is expected to be fine, thank all the gods and goddesses as I tear up with relief.
We got home, though, exhausted and stressed and, to the boys' horror, to find our mama chicken disemboweled in the yard. This is the second chicken we lost this month (the first was to Aleksie...oh well) and in the last month all three of my dogs now have been to the vet. It has been exhausting. And we will now need to postpone, if not cancel altogether our long planned trip to visit family and attend a festival in Pennysylvania for which we were leaving Monday. I am mostly just sharing now, though, because I seek the comfort of knowing there are other animal people out there who have been through this type of stress, and I know you will all be able to relate. So please send your healing thoughts to my precious Aleksie girl who turns 1 year this month and just a little peace to the boys and me. And kiss the wolfers for me and remind them that we haven't forgotten them and we'll be back as soon as the stars shift back into an alignment that makes my work as an animal mommy flow just a little tiny bit more smoothly. Thank you so much.
Lots of love to you all and all your animal babies, too.
Justina
Dear FMFers,
I just wanted to write in and say that I had actually finally set aside a day for the boys and me to make it out to the farm today to help with the fencing and whatever chores we could do, and lo and behold, just a few steps into our morning walk with the critter crew here, my Aleksie began to limp as though she had hurt her foot very badly, then proceeded to go into shock. I immediately began dosing her with rescue remedy and got on the phone to the vet.
I was unaware at the time, as I could not see the bite wounds, that she had been bitten by a snake, presumably a copperhead, but fortunately I knew well enough to rush her to the vet. On my way to the vet I got stopped in a "routine license check" by the state troopers. I handed them my license, made it clear that I had a very hurt dog in the car and was on my way to the vet in a hurry and they could call if they needed for confirmation, but that they needed to let me go quickly. Apparently that was their cue to single me out and make an example of me and those f'ing SOBs (excuse me) told me to pull over as they wanted to write me up for an out of date inspection sticker. Can you imagine? What if it had been one if my children in shock in the back of my car a half hour drive from the nearest hospital? There was no way I could make them understand that to me, this was the same thing. It was awful. And I WILL be lodging a complaint.
When we finally got there the good people at Charlotte Street Animal Hospital took us in immediately and provided excellent and compassionate care (unlike the people with whom I am very annoyed at Fairview Animal Hospital who told me that they could not see my dog even though I explained that she was going into shock and they are 20 minutes closer to me than the other vet. They won't be seeing any of my business in the future...). By the time we reached the vet it was very evident that Aleksie had been bitten, as her foot had swollen voluminously and the puncture wounds had begun to bleed and ooze. They got her on IV fluids and stabilized, but were about to close for the weekend, so they sent us on to REACH for continued care.
At REACH we concluded this was not a case in which anti-venom was required (thankfully as it is $561 per dose!) and they began by treating her for pain as she was now exhibiting an extreme level of discomfort (the vet there said that she finds huskies do not tolerate pain well. what do you all think?) and she would not allow them to do anything in terms of cleaning or assessing the wound. The vet then ordered an x-ray which showed there were actually 2 separate bite wounds and she felt the leg needed physio therapy in the form of alternating hot epsom salt soak and ice. Unfortunately Aleksie would not let them do anything involving touching the injured leg, so they had to fully anesthetize her in order to carry out the therapy.
After a total of 7 hours of treatment (and a grand total of $700 in vet bills and meds for the day) they sent her home with an anti-inflammatory (Rimadyl), antibiotics and pain meds. Since she has been home she has limped around the yard, as happy to see her Lucy and her Stanley as they were to see her, eaten and drunk a little, and now she is resting.
Tomorrow our instructions are to take off her bandages and if she will allow do hot and cold compresses. If her pain is too aggravated we may need to take her back in for an additional IV dose of pain meds tomorrow to continue treating her.
The REACH vet felt that this is a severe bite wound and warned me that the skin on her leg may slough off, which sounds atrocious (does anybody have any experience with THAT?), but that ultimately her prognosis is good. She is expected to be fine, thank all the gods and goddesses as I tear up with relief.
We got home, though, exhausted and stressed and, to the boys' horror, to find our mama chicken disemboweled in the yard. This is the second chicken we lost this month (the first was to Aleksie...oh well) and in the last month all three of my dogs now have been to the vet. It has been exhausting. And we will now need to postpone, if not cancel altogether our long planned trip to visit family and attend a festival in Pennysylvania for which we were leaving Monday. I am mostly just sharing now, though, because I seek the comfort of knowing there are other animal people out there who have been through this type of stress, and I know you will all be able to relate. So please send your healing thoughts to my precious Aleksie girl who turns 1 year this month and just a little peace to the boys and me. And kiss the wolfers for me and remind them that we haven't forgotten them and we'll be back as soon as the stars shift back into an alignment that makes my work as an animal mommy flow just a little tiny bit more smoothly. Thank you so much.
Lots of love to you all and all your animal babies, too.
Justina
biological destiny
The other day, for the first time in many years, I had a pap smear. What a terrible name for a procedure. It sounds obscene, and while it is not exactly a rollicking good time, it is a simple diagnostic option for women who may have concerns about some aspects of their reproductive health. But, since it is a procedure that is reserved exclusively for women and it also pertains to our mysterious internal organs, I think there is a lot of mystique and misunderstanding around it, and I believe that is one of the reasons why it has such an atrocious name. Like much medical terminology, it was named by the physician (usually male) who invented it or discovered it; that is why many parts of women's bodies, aspects of pregnancy, and methods of managing childbirth have ridiculous and non-descriptive names like fallopian tubes, braxton-hicks contractions and robert's maneuver. George Papanicolaou, in case you did not know, was the inventor of the "pap" smear, hence the name.
The smear is the part of the procedure that involves literally smearing cervical cells onto a slide to be viewed under a microscope. There are many, many diagnostic procedures that involve the smearing of some manner of cells or other onto a slide, but off the top of your head how many do you know that actually use the word "smear" in the name of the procedure? Personally I cannot think of any. It's a bit of a smear campaign made to create even more uncertainty and discomfort about that natural oddity, the female body. Don't you think?
Well, I do. But I guess that is where I get my reputation as a nasty feminist. Many people still to this day do not believe or understand that the patriarchal social system in which we live considers woman other, lesser, incomprehensible and perhaps even dangerous in her difference. Society loves conformity, likes it when everyone plays by the rules society has established. So when the society, the politicians and the scientists and the clergy are all men, then men are the status quo, and woman, her brain, her body, her ways, by default are different. Granted, in the last fifty years women have made great strides toward inundating those realms of social influence, but are still not seen in equal numbers in any of the most influential aspects of modern society, and are definitely still swimming upstream against the tide of 2000 plus years of complete and total male dominance and patriarchal definition of normal.
So, while I sat in the Planned Parenthood office yesterday it was a rare and interesting moment when I realized there were only women there. I was in woman's territory, and that is pretty rare. Women exclusively comprised the patients, the practitioners, the administrators, and the staff. Wow. And though I was not exactly looking forward to having my cervix swabbed for tissue to be examined under microscope, I suddenly felt right at home. I felt like I was in an exclusive clubhouse, and then I realized that I was. Of all the many men I know, I know for sure that none of them have ever had the experience of waiting in a gender specific clinic for care that was necessary exclusively for their sex. We as women do have something men don't, and I was again reminded that that is probably why and how patriarchy took a stronghold over our culture in the first place.
Women have internal sex organs that until the last century could never be seen by the human eye (at least while the woman is alive, which is a very important part of this story). And not only are our organs inside of our bodies, furthermore the continuance of our species is contingent upon the fact that healthy human replicas periodically emerge from within those mysterious confines. And since men cannot have what our bodies have or do what our bodies do, despite the fact that the reproductive process is certainly lost without them, at some point in the deep annals of history enough men were philosophically or emotionally uncomfortable enough with that idea that they begin to place restrictions- physical, psychological, and eventually legal, on the women around them.
Yesterday I sat at the girls club surrounded by other women taking care of their bodies, controlling their destiny, exercising their reproductive choice. In that setting they felt like my sisters; I felt the bond that we share in that we alone bleed, or don't bleed, and then bear children. And with the honor and privilege of the ability to carry life in one's womb comes great responsibility. Because of the nature of our internal organs and their capacity to give life and sustain it, women are physically at greater risk for a host of infections, STD's and unique cancers. Women are also more likely to be physically, emotionally, practically, and financially burdened with pregnancy, wanted or not, and therefore have also had to assume greater responsibility for birth control, which has many of its own tolls, to assure we do not become pregnant when we wish not to become parents. And I certainly hope I do not have to mention that how, in reality, even simply through the nature of our biology as mammals, that women carry much, much more of the responsibility of the rearing of the children they may bear once that child has left her body.
But ultimately what do we get for all of this additional responsibility we must take to care for ourselves so we may bring future generations to the planet? We get vilified. We are mocked, we are looked down upon, and we are abused. Not always viciously and not by every living person, but please have no confusion about this, women are still harmed daily by the presumptions of our otherness in patriarchal society. This is called sexism, and it is still very much an active social construct in our world.
How might it look different? To me, it would make a lot more sense for men and women to work together more closely to insure that all aspects of women's (and men's!) reproductive health is maintained and fortified. This cooperation would encompass everything from the mundane and daily aspects of care to the grand ramifications that public environmental and healthcare policy have on us all.
For starters, eat together, men and women. Eat well and healthfully together. Take care of your bodies on the most basic level. Together.
Appreciate the marvel of the menstrual cycle. Yes, it can be annoying, it can be painful, it can cause emotional challenges for women and the men involved with them. But so what? It's not going anywhere. Hopefully healthy menstrual cycles will continue to be present in women's lives for many, many generations to come. Only when that phenomenon ceases will we realize how incredibly valuable it is to us all. So when she is tired or in pain or bitchy because she is about to bleed or bleeding, support her. Nurture her. Her body is doing work, fellows, that your body cannot, and that work is vital to the future of your children. And even if neither of you want children, so what? Be grateful that we as a species function effectively, and take care of that function.
Share in the responsibility of birth control. Even if you mutually decide to utilize a method of birth control in which the primary responsibility and consequences are with her, get involved. Pay for her birth control pills or her IUD or her hormone therapy. She is paying enough by altering her body and creating possible health risks so that you may benefit from methods of birth control which do not require you to wear a condom. Furthermore, pay for her yearly check ups that help insure that she is tolerating your method of birth control well, and research ways to maximize her health picture, i.e. what supplements or food or herbs or exercises will benefit her, and then provide her with those also. Please be aware, also, that methods of natural family planning that involve fertility awareness cause no harm to a woman's health, and can be extremely reliable but do require an intense level of commitment and education from BOTH partners. Keep in mind, too, that every month she is not pregnant she is bleeding which requires her to spend additional money on menstrual care products and ibuprofen and chocolate bars. Pitch in.
Respect that it is not fun to have yearly cervical exams and pap smears. Offer to come with her to her appointments and hold her hand and pet her head while some stranger sticks their instruments and their hands into her sacred body. Take time to make her feel appreciated for all she must go through. And that holds true if she needs to have diagnostics done for her breast care as well. (I recommend sonogram and/or thermogram over mammogram, just so you know.)
Certainly if your female partner actually becomes pregnant by you it is tantamount to providing unwavering support whether or not you choose to keep the pregnancy. If you opt for termination, I assure you that the emotional and possibly even the physical consequences of that procedure will be with your lady friend for many years to come. The very least you can do is to pay for the procedure, escort her to her clinic and doctor visits, and be very, very patient and understanding and supportive in the days and weeks and months to come. Help her afford a few days off work to recuperate. Do some stuff around the house so she doesn't feel pressured to resume all of her responsibilities. Give her time. Cook her a high protein meal. Brew her nourishing teas. Hold her when she cries, and hold her even if she doesn't cry and you both feel fully comfortable this was the right choice for you. Furthermore thank her for enduring the challenges of maintaining your reproductive agenda. Whether you want to believe it or not, this is harder on her than it is you.
And if you choose parenthood together, all the previous suggestions hold true, but multiply your involvement by the number of years you would like your child to thrive on the planet, and plan on carrying out your commitment to your child's mother that long as well.
Furthermore, work toward social and environmental changes that will do things like allot monies for healthcare so none are forced to pay so much to be well and to control and eventually eliminate gross environmental pollution to our air, soil and water that have caused a grave increase in infertility, miscarriage, birth defects, cancer, and the general health of us all.
Women's reproductive health is part of your life, guys. Seriously. And take care of yourselves, too. Learn what your reproductive system looks like on the inside, 'cause I know you done looked at that shit that hangs on the outside. What is your prostate gland, where is it, and what can you do to make sure it's healthy? It's worth figuring out. And eat well. Research and incorporate into your life beneficial herbs and supplements for your well-being. Get whatever routine check ups may be necessary for you. By no means am I a big proponent of going to the doctor just for the hell of it, in fact I usually recommend avoiding them, but seek out practitioners in whatever modalities seem supportive to you to assure that your hearts and circulatory systems are strong, your reproductive organs are thriving, and your emotional health is peak. It takes a strong man to stand by a strong woman, no shit. It takes a lot of patience and inner strength to excel in the challenges that relationships and parenthood can bring. And make sure that your exercise routine is a little more comprehensive than walking up a flight of stairs to work or pounding 40's and shaking your booty a little on Saturday nights. Yoga is not just for chicks and SNAG's, and there are a host of martial arts option that are cool, tough, and extremely beneficial to you physically and emotionally. And even just taking a walk with your sweetie gets that blood a-pumping enough to be good for you. Making love often is a great way to exercise together, too.
I'd like to rename the pap smear. Maybe we could call it the "Gentle View" procedure or the "Sacred Cellular Study." I could see that really changing everyone's attitude about routine gynecological care. As I once ranted in the Vagina Monologues, maybe we can also get some velvety covers for the metal stirrups so our feet don't freeze while they're flung up in the air, and definitely let's adopt a policy of ALWAYS warming the speculum prior to inserting it into anybody's warm, cozy yoni. And the next time you need to see a doc or nurse or midwife or clinic for routine care or even more so if you have a health concern, bring a friend. Bring a friend that is the same sex or not, bring your lover, your boyfriend, your girlfriend or partner. You ARE allowed supportive care in the exam room, remember it is YOUR body and YOUR experience, and you DO have autonomy over what happens to it. Having loving, caring support during a health check can help you cope with stress, help you remember to ask all the important questions, give you strength to refuse unnecessary or undesired treatments, and can ultimately help you heal better if you are ailing. We all deserve that care and support. Guys and girls, let's start giving that support to ourselves and to each other.
The smear is the part of the procedure that involves literally smearing cervical cells onto a slide to be viewed under a microscope. There are many, many diagnostic procedures that involve the smearing of some manner of cells or other onto a slide, but off the top of your head how many do you know that actually use the word "smear" in the name of the procedure? Personally I cannot think of any. It's a bit of a smear campaign made to create even more uncertainty and discomfort about that natural oddity, the female body. Don't you think?
Well, I do. But I guess that is where I get my reputation as a nasty feminist. Many people still to this day do not believe or understand that the patriarchal social system in which we live considers woman other, lesser, incomprehensible and perhaps even dangerous in her difference. Society loves conformity, likes it when everyone plays by the rules society has established. So when the society, the politicians and the scientists and the clergy are all men, then men are the status quo, and woman, her brain, her body, her ways, by default are different. Granted, in the last fifty years women have made great strides toward inundating those realms of social influence, but are still not seen in equal numbers in any of the most influential aspects of modern society, and are definitely still swimming upstream against the tide of 2000 plus years of complete and total male dominance and patriarchal definition of normal.
So, while I sat in the Planned Parenthood office yesterday it was a rare and interesting moment when I realized there were only women there. I was in woman's territory, and that is pretty rare. Women exclusively comprised the patients, the practitioners, the administrators, and the staff. Wow. And though I was not exactly looking forward to having my cervix swabbed for tissue to be examined under microscope, I suddenly felt right at home. I felt like I was in an exclusive clubhouse, and then I realized that I was. Of all the many men I know, I know for sure that none of them have ever had the experience of waiting in a gender specific clinic for care that was necessary exclusively for their sex. We as women do have something men don't, and I was again reminded that that is probably why and how patriarchy took a stronghold over our culture in the first place.
Women have internal sex organs that until the last century could never be seen by the human eye (at least while the woman is alive, which is a very important part of this story). And not only are our organs inside of our bodies, furthermore the continuance of our species is contingent upon the fact that healthy human replicas periodically emerge from within those mysterious confines. And since men cannot have what our bodies have or do what our bodies do, despite the fact that the reproductive process is certainly lost without them, at some point in the deep annals of history enough men were philosophically or emotionally uncomfortable enough with that idea that they begin to place restrictions- physical, psychological, and eventually legal, on the women around them.
Yesterday I sat at the girls club surrounded by other women taking care of their bodies, controlling their destiny, exercising their reproductive choice. In that setting they felt like my sisters; I felt the bond that we share in that we alone bleed, or don't bleed, and then bear children. And with the honor and privilege of the ability to carry life in one's womb comes great responsibility. Because of the nature of our internal organs and their capacity to give life and sustain it, women are physically at greater risk for a host of infections, STD's and unique cancers. Women are also more likely to be physically, emotionally, practically, and financially burdened with pregnancy, wanted or not, and therefore have also had to assume greater responsibility for birth control, which has many of its own tolls, to assure we do not become pregnant when we wish not to become parents. And I certainly hope I do not have to mention that how, in reality, even simply through the nature of our biology as mammals, that women carry much, much more of the responsibility of the rearing of the children they may bear once that child has left her body.
But ultimately what do we get for all of this additional responsibility we must take to care for ourselves so we may bring future generations to the planet? We get vilified. We are mocked, we are looked down upon, and we are abused. Not always viciously and not by every living person, but please have no confusion about this, women are still harmed daily by the presumptions of our otherness in patriarchal society. This is called sexism, and it is still very much an active social construct in our world.
How might it look different? To me, it would make a lot more sense for men and women to work together more closely to insure that all aspects of women's (and men's!) reproductive health is maintained and fortified. This cooperation would encompass everything from the mundane and daily aspects of care to the grand ramifications that public environmental and healthcare policy have on us all.
For starters, eat together, men and women. Eat well and healthfully together. Take care of your bodies on the most basic level. Together.
Appreciate the marvel of the menstrual cycle. Yes, it can be annoying, it can be painful, it can cause emotional challenges for women and the men involved with them. But so what? It's not going anywhere. Hopefully healthy menstrual cycles will continue to be present in women's lives for many, many generations to come. Only when that phenomenon ceases will we realize how incredibly valuable it is to us all. So when she is tired or in pain or bitchy because she is about to bleed or bleeding, support her. Nurture her. Her body is doing work, fellows, that your body cannot, and that work is vital to the future of your children. And even if neither of you want children, so what? Be grateful that we as a species function effectively, and take care of that function.
Share in the responsibility of birth control. Even if you mutually decide to utilize a method of birth control in which the primary responsibility and consequences are with her, get involved. Pay for her birth control pills or her IUD or her hormone therapy. She is paying enough by altering her body and creating possible health risks so that you may benefit from methods of birth control which do not require you to wear a condom. Furthermore, pay for her yearly check ups that help insure that she is tolerating your method of birth control well, and research ways to maximize her health picture, i.e. what supplements or food or herbs or exercises will benefit her, and then provide her with those also. Please be aware, also, that methods of natural family planning that involve fertility awareness cause no harm to a woman's health, and can be extremely reliable but do require an intense level of commitment and education from BOTH partners. Keep in mind, too, that every month she is not pregnant she is bleeding which requires her to spend additional money on menstrual care products and ibuprofen and chocolate bars. Pitch in.
Respect that it is not fun to have yearly cervical exams and pap smears. Offer to come with her to her appointments and hold her hand and pet her head while some stranger sticks their instruments and their hands into her sacred body. Take time to make her feel appreciated for all she must go through. And that holds true if she needs to have diagnostics done for her breast care as well. (I recommend sonogram and/or thermogram over mammogram, just so you know.)
Certainly if your female partner actually becomes pregnant by you it is tantamount to providing unwavering support whether or not you choose to keep the pregnancy. If you opt for termination, I assure you that the emotional and possibly even the physical consequences of that procedure will be with your lady friend for many years to come. The very least you can do is to pay for the procedure, escort her to her clinic and doctor visits, and be very, very patient and understanding and supportive in the days and weeks and months to come. Help her afford a few days off work to recuperate. Do some stuff around the house so she doesn't feel pressured to resume all of her responsibilities. Give her time. Cook her a high protein meal. Brew her nourishing teas. Hold her when she cries, and hold her even if she doesn't cry and you both feel fully comfortable this was the right choice for you. Furthermore thank her for enduring the challenges of maintaining your reproductive agenda. Whether you want to believe it or not, this is harder on her than it is you.
And if you choose parenthood together, all the previous suggestions hold true, but multiply your involvement by the number of years you would like your child to thrive on the planet, and plan on carrying out your commitment to your child's mother that long as well.
Furthermore, work toward social and environmental changes that will do things like allot monies for healthcare so none are forced to pay so much to be well and to control and eventually eliminate gross environmental pollution to our air, soil and water that have caused a grave increase in infertility, miscarriage, birth defects, cancer, and the general health of us all.
Women's reproductive health is part of your life, guys. Seriously. And take care of yourselves, too. Learn what your reproductive system looks like on the inside, 'cause I know you done looked at that shit that hangs on the outside. What is your prostate gland, where is it, and what can you do to make sure it's healthy? It's worth figuring out. And eat well. Research and incorporate into your life beneficial herbs and supplements for your well-being. Get whatever routine check ups may be necessary for you. By no means am I a big proponent of going to the doctor just for the hell of it, in fact I usually recommend avoiding them, but seek out practitioners in whatever modalities seem supportive to you to assure that your hearts and circulatory systems are strong, your reproductive organs are thriving, and your emotional health is peak. It takes a strong man to stand by a strong woman, no shit. It takes a lot of patience and inner strength to excel in the challenges that relationships and parenthood can bring. And make sure that your exercise routine is a little more comprehensive than walking up a flight of stairs to work or pounding 40's and shaking your booty a little on Saturday nights. Yoga is not just for chicks and SNAG's, and there are a host of martial arts option that are cool, tough, and extremely beneficial to you physically and emotionally. And even just taking a walk with your sweetie gets that blood a-pumping enough to be good for you. Making love often is a great way to exercise together, too.
I'd like to rename the pap smear. Maybe we could call it the "Gentle View" procedure or the "Sacred Cellular Study." I could see that really changing everyone's attitude about routine gynecological care. As I once ranted in the Vagina Monologues, maybe we can also get some velvety covers for the metal stirrups so our feet don't freeze while they're flung up in the air, and definitely let's adopt a policy of ALWAYS warming the speculum prior to inserting it into anybody's warm, cozy yoni. And the next time you need to see a doc or nurse or midwife or clinic for routine care or even more so if you have a health concern, bring a friend. Bring a friend that is the same sex or not, bring your lover, your boyfriend, your girlfriend or partner. You ARE allowed supportive care in the exam room, remember it is YOUR body and YOUR experience, and you DO have autonomy over what happens to it. Having loving, caring support during a health check can help you cope with stress, help you remember to ask all the important questions, give you strength to refuse unnecessary or undesired treatments, and can ultimately help you heal better if you are ailing. We all deserve that care and support. Guys and girls, let's start giving that support to ourselves and to each other.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
not abandoned
I think about blogging everyday. So far the blogs I have missed writing (and you have missed reading) have included a beautiful depiction of the hip-hop world as exemplified by my experience at the KRS-One show, Stanley the Rottweiler: A lesson in my own gender prejudice, Tool at 5AM: the psychedelic culmination of my recent house party, and a letter to my lover's lover, just for starters. I may still write these blogs. But I just wanted to drop a quick line for anyone who cares to know that this blog is, albeit not frequently, still active.
Thanks for looking.
Thanks for looking.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
we're writing a book! (yes, us!)
I think I would like to write a book.
This idea feels like it is a large improbability considering I can barely keep up on writing a blog post once a week, but I just spent the last two hours (literally) perusing items for sale on amazon.com, and you know, I believe I've got it in me.
What do you think? If I were to write a book, about what should I write it?
I'll tell you what. If you send me a note or a comment on a topic for my book, and I choose your topic, succeed in writing the book, and then manage to get my book published, I will mention you first in the acknowledgements, provide you with as many free copies of the book as you would like, make you dinner once a month for a year, and give you the first $100 of any profit I make.
I think this is a very generous offer, so get to work 99 monkeys, and I'll be your hundredth.
This idea feels like it is a large improbability considering I can barely keep up on writing a blog post once a week, but I just spent the last two hours (literally) perusing items for sale on amazon.com, and you know, I believe I've got it in me.
What do you think? If I were to write a book, about what should I write it?
I'll tell you what. If you send me a note or a comment on a topic for my book, and I choose your topic, succeed in writing the book, and then manage to get my book published, I will mention you first in the acknowledgements, provide you with as many free copies of the book as you would like, make you dinner once a month for a year, and give you the first $100 of any profit I make.
I think this is a very generous offer, so get to work 99 monkeys, and I'll be your hundredth.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
my life with the animals
I dedicate this post to the devoted members of the Full Moon Farm rescue team, in particular Nancy Brown, and all others, all over who take care of animals as their life's work.
I am an animal person. As a little girl I was crrr-azy about horses. I longed for my own horse desperately, and in lieu of acually being able to keep an equine companion in our backyard in suburban Pittsburgh I submerged myself in stories of fictional horses' lives; I read all of the Black Stallion series and Marguerite Henry's Chincoteague pony and horse stories.
When I was fifteen the planets magically converged to allow me to have my first dog. As unexpected as it was at the time, my mother and my grandmother, with whom we then lived, both agreed that I could bring home this shepherd-husky puppy that some young man had found himself too busy to care for. There could have been no accident to this situation because that dog was my beloved Sierra, rest her blessed soul, who was my most darling and precious canine friend for 15 1/2 years, and about whom I could write pages of stories about our mutual love and devotion. I believe that dog may have saved my life because she was a child and a friend to me during the years of my most serious emotional hardship, providing unconditional love and a reason to live when at times nothing else seemed worthwhile. I miss her dearly.
As that young girl I always imagined that as an adult I would live out in the country on lots of land where I could keep my own veritable farm and rescue shelter. Turns out, that may well be where I am heading.
My sons (and their father, ahem) just recently found a stray rottweiler in Ohio and somehow managed to beg me into submission so that this big fella could come and stay here on our land. That brought my personal dog ownership to a total of three, and with the three other dogs belonging to tenants on my land, our grand total is six dogs on this 13 acres in Bat Cave. That's not too bad, right? That's over two acres per dog, much better than the days I was trying to keep three dogs in my downtown Asheville apartment years ago. Well, throw into the mix my three cats, the three cats that belong to the tenants next door, and our two snakes (well, I think we may be down to just one snake. It seems someone wriggled their way out of their tank this week and we haven't found him yet. But that is the way with owning this many animals. They come and they go...), the tank full of mice we keep to feed the snakes, and the mama hen and her 10 chicks we are expecting later this week, and now we've really got a little sanctuary thing rolling.
But it is so much work! Yesterday alone I spent $112 at the vet on medicine for dogs and another $100 at the hardware store on materials for the chicken coop. I don't have this kind of money! And the time investment is astronomical. Because the new rottweiler is having trouble getting along with some of the other dogs on the property I have had to keep him contained or on lead for his stay here, which means my life schedule is now dictated by dogs. I wake when they are ready to wake, which is usually just after sunrise. I am forced to schedule in walks as needed around my job and other obligations, and I don't sleep until I know everyone has been fed and watered and petted and securely bedded down for the night, then I go to sleep and dream about all of them, and wake to the sound of "Get up, Mommy!" yips in the morning and start it all over again. Oh, and then there is all of the shit shovelling, too. Sigh.
And yet it is so rewarding. When I see Aleksie, my new husky-shepherd puppy that we adopted out of rescue last year, running all over this mountain and sweetly adoring Lucy, my now aging 10 year old lab mix, and all the other dogs in her pack, my heart swells with joy. She is so beautiful and so happy, and I made this life possible for her. And despite the rottweiler's challenging disposition toward some of the other dogs, he is very loving to all of us humans, humble almost as if he knows the sacrifice we've made for him, and by the way I see that he is very good to Lucy and Aleksie with whom he shares his home, I believe his other animal aggression is rooted in his desire to protect us from the perceived threat these other dogs on his property pose to him. Plus, his stay here has forced me into a more active role, literally, with the dogs, as I am now obligated to get my butt out and walking every day so I can be sure that he is getting his exercise. This new walking plan has become a source of great adventure for the kids and me, and certainly has provided me with some much needed daily exercise.
And though my thoughts seem constantly dominated by who needs feeding what and when and whether there is enough money in the bank to get it, whose health is challenged and why and how to fix it, who has been out or needs to come in, and what time they are going to get me up tomorrow morning, I am feeling good. I am successfully juggling this crazy mess of animal responsiblity, and I am really grateful to some of the other people who have made that possible. This week I managed to cajole a friend into picking up an awesome, big, sturdy doghouse I found through the used newspaper from way the other side of town and delivering it all the way out to Bat Cave. Another friend, one of my tenants, picked up the chicken house in his truck and brought it home for me, and a third friend is on the schedule for pick up and delivery of an outdoor kennel enclosure that I also found used. Thanks to all of these folks, as they have saved me hundreds of dollars and have helped improve the life situation of a number of animals in the process. It takes a village to do EVERYTHING!
I don't know yet whether the rottweiler will be able to stay. He is a sweet boy and I would like to be able to continue to care for him, but this is new territory for me. I have never had a male dog, and I have never had a "difficult" dog before, so I am willing to give it my best attempt to see what comes of it. I suppose once he's neutered he may chill out a little bit, and I am even willing to give some sort of obedience training a try. I truly feel obligated. After checking out the NC rottweiler rescue website my commitment to him is galvanized. I checked the site to investigate what my options might be for safely pawning him off if we found him too difficult to deal with and what I found was a rescue operation in desperate need of MORE homes, MORE volunteers, MORE money and space and time. Duh! Is there any other kind of rescue? After viewing pages and pages of dogs in kill shelters in need of fostering before they reach their already scheduled execution date followed by pages of dogs that had been featured on the site then died anyhow because there aren't enough homes, I realized that the inconvenience this dog poses to me is nothing if it means I can save a life and keep another animal at my home thereby freeing up space for the rescue and other possible foster homes.
So here I am, sore from walking, tired from not sleeping enough, broke from buying food and medicine and shelter materials, and content. This is what I had always wanted, right? I pray it keeps going well. I pray we keep having enough. I pray the chickens don't break me, 'cause next year I wanna get goats! And maybe someday we will get horses. And llama. And alpaca...
I miss the wolfdogs at Full Moon Farm since I've been so busy taking care of my own brood, but my commitment to them is also solid. When we're not feeding, watering, and scooping poop here, my boys and I plan to try to go do it some there, too. To folks who aren't aware: wolfdogs and rottweilers are animals that are routinely killed in shelters without ever even being given the chance to get adopted, so I feel even more strongly about doing whatever small amount I can to help their plight. Of course there are other dogs and animals for whom this is true also, and there are many, many good causes to support human well-being on the planet also, so I figure do what your heart moves you to do. If you can alleviate any suffering on the planet at all, human or animal, then you have done good, loving work. Thanks.
P.S. I figured out how to insert links! Yay!
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
what the fuck is up with wahoo?
So the most oddly synchronistic thing happened yesterday.
Backstory: My kids' father is from Cleveland, Ohio. He's a big sports fan, mostly football, but nevertheless I've been exposed to far more Brown's and Indian's events, history, and lore in this lifetime that I ever thought possible. Last week I was having a conversation with him and we got on the topic of the Cleveland Indians and I inquired about the current whereabouts of the infamous Chief Wahoo, the ugly and incredibly offensive team mascot who is a red-faced, big-nosed, half naked, loud, obnoxious Indian dude. My hope was that he had finally met a long overdue death and was no longer embarrassing the American Public by demonstrating clearly that we are, after all, the nasty bunch of self-centered, eurocentric, indigenous culture-hating bigots that we appear to be. (Hyperbole intended.)
A (their dad guy) told me that unfortunately one still runs into vestiges of the mascot's reign of terror, meaning that while his face appears occasionally on some sports insignia, the stadium at least no longer features him animated or alive. Progress, right? We had a long discussion about whether or not it was even appropriate for the baseball team to continue calling themselves Indians. I was leaning more toward the idea that it is not appropriate to name a sports team after a race of people (especially if the name you are using is not even the name that most clearly identifies that race respectfully), while he was leaning more toward the idea that as long as the race of people after whom the team is named are OK with it, then so be it. We both agreed wholeheartedly, though, that Wahoo was gross and unacceptable by anyone's standards.
That said, I want to make it clear that Chief Wahoo has not occupied my thoughts with any regularity in the last decade. I mostly did not think about his existence until I would become faced with his ugly mug again, and every time I was newly shocked that anyone ever could have thought it would be acceptable to publicly demonstrate their racial hatred in such a jovial manner. But then I would remember things like slavery, or the entire genocide of the Native american population, Apartheid in South Africa, the Holocaust, hell, the 1950's in America and be brought back to my senses. Of course we could make fun of a race of people whom we've already decimated, humiliated, and destroyed...it's our birthright! (Again, hyperbole intended. I recognize that when I say "we" I am perpetuating some sort of white guilt motif. I am well aware that it was not me, per se, who committed atrocities towards people of other races, in fact I have tried very hard to consciously respect people of other races in this lifetime, and I do not walk around lamenting the fact that I am indeed a white person. However, that does not change the fact that it was largely the portion of my ancestry that was light-skinned and European who did commit such atrocities. While I know that I am in no way responsible for their behavior, I sure want to acknowledge that they did behave reprehensibly, that I do not condone such behavior, and hope to do everything in my power not to perpetuate such racist and hateful acts in the future. Plus, I really like to shit talk on white people...we're such easy targets.)
So, lo and behold, yesterday morning I am taking a morning walk with my kids and dogs. It is a gorgeous and sunny day on our beloved mountain. The wind was crisp but the sky was wide and bright and we were enjoying each other's company, the exercise, the blessing of living in such a beautiful place when what to my wandering eye should appear but an unnaturally red blob on the ground before me. Suspiciously shaped, oddly familiar, it looked like a red foam finger. As I got closer I could read in bold, blue letters, "GO INDIANS!" I stepped toward it, picked it up from the ground and turned it over to find THAT HATED FACE staring back at me!!! What the fuck?! What the fuck is Chief Wahoo doing brazenly laying on the ground in the mountains of Bat Cave, North Carolina? What is going on here? Into what twilight zone episode have I just stepped?
For a moment it felt as if by simply mentioning his name that I had somehow summoned the unholy figure to my home.
So, I was inspired to write about it in part for the sheer absurdity of finding the Cleveland Indian's mascot whom I so despise laying face down on the ground a few hundred yards from my home so very far from Cleveland, OH, but also because I wanted to take this moment to ponder what the fuck we are doing as a species sometimes. How can we be so ignorant? Isn't it amazing how that question is applicable to almost everything we do in regard to our relationship with everything, including each other, on the planet?
But, when cities like Cleveland, however gradually, do make the effort to phase out offensive characters like Wahoo, it does feel like we are making some progress. We are, perhaps, evolving to recognize that at any given moment we, whoever that we may be, either humans in general (as opposed to animals or plants), or humans of a particular gender, humans of a particular color, humans of a particular religion, etc. are NOT so important that we can neglect to notice how our actions toward others affect them. At least I hope so.
I'm waxing conviluted...distracted by my life outside of the internet. Thanks for being there for me to share this weird story.
Backstory: My kids' father is from Cleveland, Ohio. He's a big sports fan, mostly football, but nevertheless I've been exposed to far more Brown's and Indian's events, history, and lore in this lifetime that I ever thought possible. Last week I was having a conversation with him and we got on the topic of the Cleveland Indians and I inquired about the current whereabouts of the infamous Chief Wahoo, the ugly and incredibly offensive team mascot who is a red-faced, big-nosed, half naked, loud, obnoxious Indian dude. My hope was that he had finally met a long overdue death and was no longer embarrassing the American Public by demonstrating clearly that we are, after all, the nasty bunch of self-centered, eurocentric, indigenous culture-hating bigots that we appear to be. (Hyperbole intended.)
A (their dad guy) told me that unfortunately one still runs into vestiges of the mascot's reign of terror, meaning that while his face appears occasionally on some sports insignia, the stadium at least no longer features him animated or alive. Progress, right? We had a long discussion about whether or not it was even appropriate for the baseball team to continue calling themselves Indians. I was leaning more toward the idea that it is not appropriate to name a sports team after a race of people (especially if the name you are using is not even the name that most clearly identifies that race respectfully), while he was leaning more toward the idea that as long as the race of people after whom the team is named are OK with it, then so be it. We both agreed wholeheartedly, though, that Wahoo was gross and unacceptable by anyone's standards.
That said, I want to make it clear that Chief Wahoo has not occupied my thoughts with any regularity in the last decade. I mostly did not think about his existence until I would become faced with his ugly mug again, and every time I was newly shocked that anyone ever could have thought it would be acceptable to publicly demonstrate their racial hatred in such a jovial manner. But then I would remember things like slavery, or the entire genocide of the Native american population, Apartheid in South Africa, the Holocaust, hell, the 1950's in America and be brought back to my senses. Of course we could make fun of a race of people whom we've already decimated, humiliated, and destroyed...it's our birthright! (Again, hyperbole intended. I recognize that when I say "we" I am perpetuating some sort of white guilt motif. I am well aware that it was not me, per se, who committed atrocities towards people of other races, in fact I have tried very hard to consciously respect people of other races in this lifetime, and I do not walk around lamenting the fact that I am indeed a white person. However, that does not change the fact that it was largely the portion of my ancestry that was light-skinned and European who did commit such atrocities. While I know that I am in no way responsible for their behavior, I sure want to acknowledge that they did behave reprehensibly, that I do not condone such behavior, and hope to do everything in my power not to perpetuate such racist and hateful acts in the future. Plus, I really like to shit talk on white people...we're such easy targets.)
So, lo and behold, yesterday morning I am taking a morning walk with my kids and dogs. It is a gorgeous and sunny day on our beloved mountain. The wind was crisp but the sky was wide and bright and we were enjoying each other's company, the exercise, the blessing of living in such a beautiful place when what to my wandering eye should appear but an unnaturally red blob on the ground before me. Suspiciously shaped, oddly familiar, it looked like a red foam finger. As I got closer I could read in bold, blue letters, "GO INDIANS!" I stepped toward it, picked it up from the ground and turned it over to find THAT HATED FACE staring back at me!!! What the fuck?! What the fuck is Chief Wahoo doing brazenly laying on the ground in the mountains of Bat Cave, North Carolina? What is going on here? Into what twilight zone episode have I just stepped?
For a moment it felt as if by simply mentioning his name that I had somehow summoned the unholy figure to my home.
So, I was inspired to write about it in part for the sheer absurdity of finding the Cleveland Indian's mascot whom I so despise laying face down on the ground a few hundred yards from my home so very far from Cleveland, OH, but also because I wanted to take this moment to ponder what the fuck we are doing as a species sometimes. How can we be so ignorant? Isn't it amazing how that question is applicable to almost everything we do in regard to our relationship with everything, including each other, on the planet?
But, when cities like Cleveland, however gradually, do make the effort to phase out offensive characters like Wahoo, it does feel like we are making some progress. We are, perhaps, evolving to recognize that at any given moment we, whoever that we may be, either humans in general (as opposed to animals or plants), or humans of a particular gender, humans of a particular color, humans of a particular religion, etc. are NOT so important that we can neglect to notice how our actions toward others affect them. At least I hope so.
I'm waxing conviluted...distracted by my life outside of the internet. Thanks for being there for me to share this weird story.
Monday, April 03, 2006
poem
Last week there was a Poetix Lounge in Asheville, an event that has become one of my favorite outings. It's a gathering of local poets and DJ's mixing it up and inspiring each other by putting out there insightful words, groove-you music and a lot of passion. It has consistently proved to be a hotbed of raw talent and moving performances. I have been lucky to have been invited to participate in several of these events and last week I wrote a couple of new pieces specifically for this edition of the Lounge.
The theme was "gourmet soul food for thought" and I wrote this and am publishing it today in honor of my lovely sons' return home this weekend. I rejoice everytime they make it safely back by my side. Hallelujah!
at my breast
chunky little milk monkey with big eyes and fat legs
gazing up at my face, nipple on tongue
nipple stretched beyond reason by an eager mouth
sucking with the force of a rocket escaping the stratosphere
I feed you, body and soul
on my milky emulsion
on my heart strings and hope
on my love affair
larger than anything ever known
with every gulp you suck my essence into your gut
we are one
my love
I am you and you are me
you who grew in my temple's core
you who today are long and smart and
becoming adolescently independent
I feed you still
hours upon hours spent
shopping, washing, chopping, mixing, seasoning, cooking, serving
then over and over and over again
gone from my breast I am stretched beyond reason
to nourish from an external source
a bounty of wholesome ingredients
transformed by my love
nipples long and soft and low on my chest
breasts empty
everyday you grow taller
further from my arms
which open wider
everyday
to let you go
with your heart and your belly full
of me
The theme was "gourmet soul food for thought" and I wrote this and am publishing it today in honor of my lovely sons' return home this weekend. I rejoice everytime they make it safely back by my side. Hallelujah!
at my breast
chunky little milk monkey with big eyes and fat legs
gazing up at my face, nipple on tongue
nipple stretched beyond reason by an eager mouth
sucking with the force of a rocket escaping the stratosphere
I feed you, body and soul
on my milky emulsion
on my heart strings and hope
on my love affair
larger than anything ever known
with every gulp you suck my essence into your gut
we are one
my love
I am you and you are me
you who grew in my temple's core
you who today are long and smart and
becoming adolescently independent
I feed you still
hours upon hours spent
shopping, washing, chopping, mixing, seasoning, cooking, serving
then over and over and over again
gone from my breast I am stretched beyond reason
to nourish from an external source
a bounty of wholesome ingredients
transformed by my love
nipples long and soft and low on my chest
breasts empty
everyday you grow taller
further from my arms
which open wider
everyday
to let you go
with your heart and your belly full
of me
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
two days in a row?
No fucking way. I cheated. I just finished the other post an hour ago, then I sat here looking at naked girls on the internet for a while and figured I'd come back and say some more stuff. Yes, I was actually looking at naked girls on the internet. No, I am not impervious to my culture's weird fascination with pornography. Sorry.
Mostly what I wanted to say is that I am striving towards some discipline, and I find it delightfully ironic that I chose to divulge my temporary porn indulgence at the beginning of my post on discipline. What the hell kind of feminist am I? The voyeuristic, bisexual kind! But truthfully, I don't look at porn all that often...
Anyhow, the week before last I went outside and stretched and took a vigorous walk 5 DAYS IN A ROW. It was a feat. Last week, I walked twice. This week zero, but I have posted to my blog twice. Last week I exercised. This week I blogged. Hey, hey! In a perfect universe there would be ample time for exercise and blogging all in one day. Or if I were as hardcore as Bored Housewife, I might pull off both. She even goes to the fucking gym. (see her blog, just do a google search since I am apparently too stupid to post links in my blog.)
Alas, I am neither a housewife nor bored, though honestly I don't think she is either. And she even posts braless and half-nekkid pictures of herself on her blog. So we've come full circle...back to the naked girls on the internet!!!
I'll let you know on the day I blog and exercise and don't eat sugar or wheat or look at pornography. We'll have us a healthy, little party with no sex and no desserts, mmmhmmm.
Mostly what I wanted to say is that I am striving towards some discipline, and I find it delightfully ironic that I chose to divulge my temporary porn indulgence at the beginning of my post on discipline. What the hell kind of feminist am I? The voyeuristic, bisexual kind! But truthfully, I don't look at porn all that often...
Anyhow, the week before last I went outside and stretched and took a vigorous walk 5 DAYS IN A ROW. It was a feat. Last week, I walked twice. This week zero, but I have posted to my blog twice. Last week I exercised. This week I blogged. Hey, hey! In a perfect universe there would be ample time for exercise and blogging all in one day. Or if I were as hardcore as Bored Housewife, I might pull off both. She even goes to the fucking gym. (see her blog, just do a google search since I am apparently too stupid to post links in my blog.)
Alas, I am neither a housewife nor bored, though honestly I don't think she is either. And she even posts braless and half-nekkid pictures of herself on her blog. So we've come full circle...back to the naked girls on the internet!!!
I'll let you know on the day I blog and exercise and don't eat sugar or wheat or look at pornography. We'll have us a healthy, little party with no sex and no desserts, mmmhmmm.
Monday, March 20, 2006
snowy, rainy monday morning: the first day of spring...for alan
Today, for the first time ever, I was chastised for not updating my blog more often. Granted, it was my children's father who did the chastising and I am sure he did it more because he desired a reason to chastise me than that he so missed reading my ramblings, but it was all the prompting I needed. Trust me, I was already chastising myself plenty for not writing sooner.
You see, it’s not so much that I haven’t written anything, I just haven’t made it a point to write it here. Just this morning I was driven to ranting after receiving a well-intended e-mail forward. Meant simply to remind us to not blow our tops when faced with life’s little frustrations, the content of this message instead set me on the path of exploring the deeper meanings of what it means to be alive and believe in god.
This e-mail was simply titled “Divinity,” and here is how it read:
And this was my response:
While this is a lovely sentiment and I appreciate you sending it on, it feels to me like a good opportunity to explore the idea of divinity, however you choose to define *what* is *divine.*
If we believe that it is true that some divine force intervened the morning of 9/11 to save a handful of ordinary folk by fairly pedantic means then what does that suggest divinity had up its sleeve for the thousands of other folks that morning who were consumed by flames, crushed under tons of fallen high rise infrastructure, or had to choose between one of those possible fates or leaping 100 stories to their inevitable doom on the concrete below? Were the people that died the sinners? Were the people that were saved some sort of saints pre-ordained to continue to walk their days on planet earth doing good unto others? Was there a karmic drama unfolding that morning in which those who had somehow done "right" in this lifetime or the previous being rewarded for their good behavior, while those who had erred were forced to face the consequence on this spin around the globe?
Personally, I think not. The idea that some divine force will step in mysteriously just at the critical moment to take care of you when you least expect it can be comforting, but it is false, and it is unfair to the rest of the world that is left suffering staggering losses at the hands of war, crime, disease, natural disaster, accident, or intention because what does that tell THEM about the nature of the divine? It is also a strictly western notion based in the concept of duality: there is good and there is bad; there is right and there is wrong; there is light and there is dark, and so on.
If I choose to believe that there is some divine will gently guiding the hand of how each day unfolds for me and the rest of the planet, and I do make the choice to believe that, then I find myself in the position of wanting to believe that everything that happens, however "good" or "bad" is all meant to be in the universal scheme of things. In those moments when I am stuck in traffic or nursing a blister or wrestling with a struggling child hell-bent on wrecking my schedule for the day I find greater peace in knowing that whether that minor incident somehow kept me from a derailing train or massive car accident or act of terror or was precisely the thing that put me in harm’s way that that is simply the tune of my life at that moment. I might hear it as a good song, and you might think that the melody of my day is depressing or boring or poorly played. It is subjective. All of our experiences are subjective; it is we who apply judgment to each experience and interpret it as a "good" experience or a "bad" experience.
And while I also think that it is nearly impossible to escape the pattern of judging and interpreting our experiences so subjectively, I have found that I have greater compassion for myself and others by accepting that we are all, every minute precisely where we need to be whether that means we are suffering from cancer, enjoying successful relationships, dying in car crashes, purchasing our dream home, burning down rainforests, feeding the poor, voting for Bush, or wiping the brow of a child sick with AIDS. That does not mean that my goal in this lifetime is not to ease suffering whenever possible, to work for justice and human rights and animal rights, and it certainly does not mean that I do not get angry when I see others taking actions that I think are harmful and that I do not feel pain when I suffer a loss and that I do not get frustrated when my life feels like it is going nowhere. It simply means that when I have the clarity of mind to take an emotional step back and review my life and life in general that I work very hard at being fine with what I see. It is a tool that has served me well in being able to continue to live and to thrive despite the suffering others and I experience.
So this morning while I am awake too early feeling the discomfort of my body's struggle to breathe through asthmatic bronchioles and to fight off an ongoing viral infection not knowing how to pay my bills this week and dreading the bounced check fees, I am surrounded by delightful beauty as the hazy, early spring sunlight makes its way over the mountain ridge to the east and my gorgeous sons sleep contentedly dreaming of the basket of goodies the imaginary bunny has delivered for them to celebrate the vernal equinox on this day. I am grateful for my bounty of love and life and land as tenuous as it sometimes seems, and I am trying to be grateful for whatever purpose it serves to be physically ill so often and constantly working to make sure there are enough dollars in the bank to meet all the required expenditures. And I am grateful that some lives were spared the morning of 9/11 and trying to be grateful that sometimes lives are taken from us unexpectedly and unpleasantly for apparently no good reason at all. I am trying to believe that no matter where I am and what is happening that it is an acceptable experience in the realm of this lifetime. I am trying to be.
I am grateful to have you all with whom to share my thoughts, also, and I hope that your subjective experiences wax pleasant today. Another blessed spring arrives.
My addendum:
The theme song for this post is “Family Snapshot” by Peter Gabriel. What a gift to be able to create a musical moment that sounds and feels so much like a love song, but is actually the story of an assassin moving in for the kill. Love and murder, sometimes flip sides of the same coin, and this song such an eloquent example of my point.
P.P.S. Another friend responded to the original "Divinity" e-mail to say that his favorite how-I-avoided-death-on-9/11 story came from a man, now divorced, who fielded his wife's panicked phone call on his cell phone from his mistress's bed the morning of the event, and hushed her, "Don't worry, honey, I'm fine...I'm here at my office." Divinity (and debauchery) at work, indeed.
You see, it’s not so much that I haven’t written anything, I just haven’t made it a point to write it here. Just this morning I was driven to ranting after receiving a well-intended e-mail forward. Meant simply to remind us to not blow our tops when faced with life’s little frustrations, the content of this message instead set me on the path of exploring the deeper meanings of what it means to be alive and believe in god.
This e-mail was simply titled “Divinity,” and here is how it read:
As you might know, the head of a company survived 9/11 because his son started kindergarten.
Another fellow was alive because it was his turn to bring donuts.
One woman was late because her alarm clock didn't go off in time.
One was late because of being stuck on the NJ Turnpike because of an auto accident.
One of them missed his bus.
One spilled food on her clothes and had to take time to change.
One's car wouldn't start.
One went back to answer the telephone.
One had a child that dawdled and didn't get ready as soon as he should have.
One couldn't get a taxi.
The one that struck me was the man who put on a new pair of shoes that morning, took the various means to get to work, but before he got there, he developed a blister on his foot. He stopped at a drugstore to buy a Band-Aid. That is why he is alive today.
Now when I am stuck in traffic, miss an elevator, turn back to answer a ringing telephone…all the little things that annoy me...I think to myself: this is exactly where Divinity wants me to be at this very moment!
Next time your morning seems to be going wrong, the children are slow getting dressed, you can't seem to find the car keys, you hit every traffic light... don't get mad or frustrated;
Divinity is at work watching over you.
May Divinity continue to bless you with all those annoying little things and may you remember their possible purpose.
And this was my response:
While this is a lovely sentiment and I appreciate you sending it on, it feels to me like a good opportunity to explore the idea of divinity, however you choose to define *what* is *divine.*
If we believe that it is true that some divine force intervened the morning of 9/11 to save a handful of ordinary folk by fairly pedantic means then what does that suggest divinity had up its sleeve for the thousands of other folks that morning who were consumed by flames, crushed under tons of fallen high rise infrastructure, or had to choose between one of those possible fates or leaping 100 stories to their inevitable doom on the concrete below? Were the people that died the sinners? Were the people that were saved some sort of saints pre-ordained to continue to walk their days on planet earth doing good unto others? Was there a karmic drama unfolding that morning in which those who had somehow done "right" in this lifetime or the previous being rewarded for their good behavior, while those who had erred were forced to face the consequence on this spin around the globe?
Personally, I think not. The idea that some divine force will step in mysteriously just at the critical moment to take care of you when you least expect it can be comforting, but it is false, and it is unfair to the rest of the world that is left suffering staggering losses at the hands of war, crime, disease, natural disaster, accident, or intention because what does that tell THEM about the nature of the divine? It is also a strictly western notion based in the concept of duality: there is good and there is bad; there is right and there is wrong; there is light and there is dark, and so on.
If I choose to believe that there is some divine will gently guiding the hand of how each day unfolds for me and the rest of the planet, and I do make the choice to believe that, then I find myself in the position of wanting to believe that everything that happens, however "good" or "bad" is all meant to be in the universal scheme of things. In those moments when I am stuck in traffic or nursing a blister or wrestling with a struggling child hell-bent on wrecking my schedule for the day I find greater peace in knowing that whether that minor incident somehow kept me from a derailing train or massive car accident or act of terror or was precisely the thing that put me in harm’s way that that is simply the tune of my life at that moment. I might hear it as a good song, and you might think that the melody of my day is depressing or boring or poorly played. It is subjective. All of our experiences are subjective; it is we who apply judgment to each experience and interpret it as a "good" experience or a "bad" experience.
And while I also think that it is nearly impossible to escape the pattern of judging and interpreting our experiences so subjectively, I have found that I have greater compassion for myself and others by accepting that we are all, every minute precisely where we need to be whether that means we are suffering from cancer, enjoying successful relationships, dying in car crashes, purchasing our dream home, burning down rainforests, feeding the poor, voting for Bush, or wiping the brow of a child sick with AIDS. That does not mean that my goal in this lifetime is not to ease suffering whenever possible, to work for justice and human rights and animal rights, and it certainly does not mean that I do not get angry when I see others taking actions that I think are harmful and that I do not feel pain when I suffer a loss and that I do not get frustrated when my life feels like it is going nowhere. It simply means that when I have the clarity of mind to take an emotional step back and review my life and life in general that I work very hard at being fine with what I see. It is a tool that has served me well in being able to continue to live and to thrive despite the suffering others and I experience.
So this morning while I am awake too early feeling the discomfort of my body's struggle to breathe through asthmatic bronchioles and to fight off an ongoing viral infection not knowing how to pay my bills this week and dreading the bounced check fees, I am surrounded by delightful beauty as the hazy, early spring sunlight makes its way over the mountain ridge to the east and my gorgeous sons sleep contentedly dreaming of the basket of goodies the imaginary bunny has delivered for them to celebrate the vernal equinox on this day. I am grateful for my bounty of love and life and land as tenuous as it sometimes seems, and I am trying to be grateful for whatever purpose it serves to be physically ill so often and constantly working to make sure there are enough dollars in the bank to meet all the required expenditures. And I am grateful that some lives were spared the morning of 9/11 and trying to be grateful that sometimes lives are taken from us unexpectedly and unpleasantly for apparently no good reason at all. I am trying to believe that no matter where I am and what is happening that it is an acceptable experience in the realm of this lifetime. I am trying to be.
I am grateful to have you all with whom to share my thoughts, also, and I hope that your subjective experiences wax pleasant today. Another blessed spring arrives.
My addendum:
The theme song for this post is “Family Snapshot” by Peter Gabriel. What a gift to be able to create a musical moment that sounds and feels so much like a love song, but is actually the story of an assassin moving in for the kill. Love and murder, sometimes flip sides of the same coin, and this song such an eloquent example of my point.
P.P.S. Another friend responded to the original "Divinity" e-mail to say that his favorite how-I-avoided-death-on-9/11 story came from a man, now divorced, who fielded his wife's panicked phone call on his cell phone from his mistress's bed the morning of the event, and hushed her, "Don't worry, honey, I'm fine...I'm here at my office." Divinity (and debauchery) at work, indeed.
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