Great Reviews Up

Oh my. Go here to read many nice words about Ruby's Imagine and Church of the Old Mermaids. Yeah!!!!

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40 Year Anniversary of Stonewall Riots

Today Mario and I have been together for twenty-nine years and married for twenty-eight of those years. We never had anyone harass us or try to keep us apart. Besides an old boyfriend, but he doesn't count. OK, my father was a bit concerned that Mario was an atheist. But those were all pretty normal things for a couple like us. We didn't have the law or much of the world condemning and judging us. On June 28th, 1969, a riot spontaneously erupted in New York city when police raided a gay bar.

Wiki quotes David Carter's book Stonewall where he quotes Michael Fader, "We all had a collective feeling like we'd had enough of this kind of shit. It wasn't anything tangible anybody said to anyone else, it was just kind of like everything over the years had come to a head on that one particular night in the one particular place, and it was not an organized demonstration.... Everyone in the crowd felt that we were never going to go back. It was like the last straw. It was time to reclaim something that had always been taken from us....

"All kinds of people, all different reasons, but mostly it was total outrage, anger, sorrow, everything combined, and everything just kind of ran its course. It was the police who were doing most of the destruction. We were really trying to get back in and break free. And we felt that we had freedom at last, or freedom to at least show that we demanded freedom. We weren't going to be walking meekly in the night and letting them shove us around—it's like standing your ground for the first time and in a really strong way, and that's what caught the police by surprise. There was something in the air, freedom a long time overdue, and we're going to fight for it. It took different forms, but the bottom line was, we weren't going to go away. And we didn't."

We don't always know what will change history.

Blessings on lovers everywhere!

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Happy Summer Solstice!

Go here for Summer Solstice Blessing.

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Besotted

A friend of mine wrote from England today to say she was reading Church of the Old Mermaids and now she was besotted with mermaids. I read her letter as I sat on my stairs wondering briefly what I was doing with my life. Why was I writing? What was the purpose of this incessant wordmongering? I laughed when I read my friend’s letter. That was the answer. I write because I am besotted by stories. I am besotted by words.

Writing is magic. I string words together so that another person imagines some thing, some one, some world, some possibility. I put words together to enchant—to create a spell that will open the door to the imagination. Only it's not a door. It's a parallel world where every possibility is...possible. Every life. Every world. My words—every storyteller’s words—help us breathe in the fog and breathe out life. My stories are the kiss that awakens Sleeping Beauty. Truly awakens.

Listen: We are not separate.

We are a part of this world. We fit in. Don't you see? We are not aliens from another planet. We are not invaders. Sometimes we act like the bully on the corner, but at his core, the bully just wants to be a part of, doesn't he? We are a part of...a part of everything.

I write because every day is a story. I write to make sense.

Go with the flow...

But watch out for waterfalls.

Sometimes when I stop writing, I look around and I am lonely: I want human beings to play with. I forget that I am a part of this world. We humans are a part of the story of this world.

But I’ll tell you this: I am a storyteller and I know instantly the truth or lies of any story. I know we belong here.

I was reminded of this yesterday.

I miss my friend Linda. Sometimes I think if I had a friend like her again, I would never feel lonely. Then I remember being about eight years old on the backyard swing, my legs pumping as I tried to get up, up, up. I was singing "yesterday, all my troubles were so far away," and I felt so alone in the world.

When I think of that girl, I want to catch her up in my arms and say, "Darlin', you are never alone. Ever. I love, love, love you."

How early does this myth of disconnection and separation come into our lives?

I don't remember what happened after I was on the swing that day. I imagine I kicked off my shoes and ran barefoot into the woods. Because that was where I lived. I lived in the branches of trees. I lived on the moss that was like velvet against my skin. I lived in the shapes of the clouds above the old oaks and maples. I lived in the muddy marsh water.

I watched for foolish fire (ignis fatuus) above the marsh and left gifts for the hawks that circled above. I lived with my bare feet pressed against the Earth, against this place where I belong.

I was besotted with the natural world despite those times of loneliness.

Yesterday I walked in the woods with a friend of mine. She invited me over to collect wild herbs. She talks to the plants, too. She thanks them. She listens for their wants and needs. I drove to her house and then she took me to a patch of nettles. It was my destiny. Yes, I had a date with destiny and her name was Stinging Nettles.

For years, decades even, people have told me to eat nettles for my allergies. For six weeks once I drank a "tea" with nettles in it. I had a headache for the entire six weeks, and my allergies did not improve one whit.

Every spring when Linda was alive, she and Serena harvested tender nettle shoots. Linda said nothing tasted better. I wouldn't eat any even when she offered, much to my regret now. I was afraid of them. I had become afraid of everything. Every green thing. Too many doctors had told me I was allergic to the world.

I definitely did not feel as though I belonged.

But even before I was told I was allergic, I was afraid: I was always looking toward the end of things. For the loss. I wanted to be prepared. And now, after years of loss, I was punch-drunk on it. Fear cut loose any moorings I had to the here and now.

A few months ago, my naturopath tried to get me to start drinking nettles. He explained from an anthroposophical view what nettles did. (I can’t remember it well enough to repeat it.) I was skeptical, but soon after a friend offered me dried nettles. I took them and put them up in the cupboard. When I went to look for them later, the cupboards were bare. So I let it go.

Last week, my naturopath urged me once again to use nettles. A few days later, I was walking out in the woods and having trouble breathing. I walked and walked. I looked to the sky for help. I looked to the Columbia River flowing toward the ocean. "Can you stop and help me?" The river flowed on. I looked to the blond marsh cane. I looked to the old oaks covered with blackberries.

Then I stepped onto a path into the woods. Mosquitoes flew all around me. My chest was heavy. I wondered again, again if I was going to have to suffer with this breathing problem for the rest of my life. Why did this particular illness plague me? I felt myself getting smaller and smaller. I couldn't connect with anything except my desperation to breathe.

Then something shifted in the woods. I can't explain exactly what. It was just a feeling. I looked ahead and a round circle of light fell through the dark forest like a spotlight. Beneath the light, a group of nettles swayed gently in an breeze I couldn't feel. I walked over to the nettles. I felt like they had called out to me. They were standing in compassion with me. I started to cry. I held out my hands to them.

We breathed together.

When I left, I said, “I’ll see you soon. It’s a date.”

Days later, I went to my friend’s house to pick nettles. We walked down the hill with her daughter whose pet rat walked back and forth on her shoulders. Their dog Biscuit came, too, followed by the cat Lily, who tried to attack every blade of grass and ankle she encountered. (Fat Boy, their big black cat, and the goat came later.) We stood on the edge of the nettle field. I had never walked amongst nettles because I knew I could get stung.

My friend said she doesn't get stung—not until the nettles have had enough of her harvesting. Then she knows it's time to stop.

I followed my friend and her daughter into the nettles. The nettles waved. They moved toward us. They moved away from us. They showed themselves. We asked. They consented. We harvested leaves and stalks. Cleavers clung to them so we harvested them, too. We were deliberate and conscious. We were aware of where we walked, what we said. It was a lovely dance.

We filled a sack and then we wandered. I made acquaintance with an elder tree. Her leafy branches reached up toward us and her trunk sunk deep into the darkest part of the woods. She felt ancient. Waiting.

Afterward we drank nettle tea and made nettle broth. My throat scratched a bit. I got a bit of a headache. It didn’t last and it didn’t matter. I was absolutely besotted with the entire day, with the green, with the humans, with the animals. I was in my element. I was elemental. Completely comfortable and happy.

Grounded.

I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this way. When I put my hands on someone for healing work, I feel present. I am completely besotted then. Completely in love. But that’s about them.

This was about me. Something was clearing.

When I drove home, I was awake.

When I walked through the door at home, I felt as though someone had whispered an enchantment. I was Sleeping Beauty. I had been pricked by stinging nettle and now it was time. I fell to sleep listening to Harlan Ellison talk about writing. I drifted.

At dusk, awake again, I walked down to the community garden. It felt strange to me, this manufactured garden, after being out in the woods. Still, it was beautiful. I was alone, human-wise. I looked out at the gorge cliffs. I felt their presence. Solid. Old. Waiting.

Waiting for us to wake up?

I began watering and talking to my wind-bedraggled plants, and the plovers began calling out noisily near the river. I looked over and saw a pickup truck parked near the river’s edge. The plovers kept crying out and diving. The pickup wasn’t supposed to be where it was. I watched. Eventually a man came up the bank and began putting fishing gear into the back of the truck. He looked over at me several times. I didn’t know if he was curious or if he was trouble. Maybe he wondered why I was watching him. I took my cue from the birds.

I turned so that I no longer had my back to him. Then I climbed up onto the bench near my garden and I held the sprayer over the bed. I made myself bigger.

Top of the world, Ma!

The man got into his truck and drove away. He kept watching me as he went. I got bigger. The truck disappeared around a corner. The birds settled down. I grinned.

I was besotted with plovers.

Later, Mario and I worked in the kitchen together. He put away dishes. I cleaned the hummingbird feeder. (I am besotted with hummingbirds.) We talked about our day. I made a nettle infusion, watched the dried leaves and hot water mix into a luxurious brown liquid. I felt like I was home. Truly. I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

It seemed like it had been weeks, months, years since I had felt at home. Still. Settled.

I brought Mario a sip of nettles before we went to sleep. I drank some too. Now we were both nettle. And nettle was us.

In the dark, Mario rubbed my back and said sleepily, "Go to sleep. Go to sleep," a mantra of touch and words. I had gotten only a few hours sleep the night before, and he wanted to soothe me into my dreams. When I closed my eyes, I saw green. I was still besotted with all the plants I had seen during the day.

I lay on my husband's shoulder and we wrapped ourselves around one another. I listened his heartbeat. "Let's fall to sleep this way," he said. I closed my eyes and felt myself sinking, sinking, sinking into dreams and into him. For once I didn't think about what I would do if I lost him, didn't think about the end of everything, I just held him and drifted again. I was completely besotted.

I am besotted with my husband.

In the middle of the night, I went downstairs and poured a bit of the nettle broth into a cup. I curled up on the couch, and I sipped the nettle.

How can I explain how in love I was at that moment? In love with the nettles. My husband. The world.

Had the stinging nettle pricked me awake?

Around dawn, I went upstairs. I put my hand on Mario’s hip, closed my eyes, and went to sleep.

I didn’t have the word for the story of my day yesterday. Today it was given to me: besotted.

When I was a girl, I thought I was put on this Earth to love. That was my gift. That was who I was. I would reach out and touch someone and love flowed from me to them. I put my arms around trees and loved them. I pressed my face against the earth and loved the earth. Then I grew up and no longer believed that. That was too sentimental.

Now I know that girl knew who she was. She knew more than I know.

I don’t know why I fell asleep way back when. I may fall asleep again—and again.

I may forget again.

But today I know I am in love.

I am love.

I am drunk on love.

Besotted.

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Medicine

As dreams are the healing songs
from the wilderness
of our unconscious—
So wild animals, wild plants, wild landscapes
are the healing dreams
from the deep singing mind of the earth."
—Dale Pendell, Living with Barbarians

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Act of Terror Against Women

I agree with Starhawk: Dr. Tiller's murder was an act of terror. It is a continuation of the "terror" and misogyny that is a part of this culture and so many cultures around the world. (Case in point: The Taliban and conservative Christians: They want women covered and completely subservient to men.)

I have been appalled at the news coverage about Dr. Tiller. They call him an abortionist and talk about whether women have a right to abortion instead of talking about the MURDER of this man.

Starhawk writes: "On the day Dr. Tiller was murdered, Governer Schwarzenneger cut funding for the Healthy Families Act, a decision which will likely cost more children's lives than all the abortions Dr. Tiller ever performed. Yet no one is calling him a murderer.

"On the day Dr. Tiller was murdered, millions of refugees in Pakistan huddled in fear of American drone bombers. The graves of children in Iraq are still fresh: mothers in Gaza continue to weep over the hundreds of children murdered in the Israeli assault. Yet the 'right-to-life' movement is not agonizing over the blood that covers all our hands.

"On the day Dr. Tiller was murdered, uncounted children died from hunger, from lack of access to medical care, from contaminated water. Young boys were dragooned into service as child soldiers; young girls sold into sexual slavery. We could use a true right-to-life movement, one that would champion these children, one that would stand against the greed, the violence, the callousness, the cowardice that murders at a safe distance and kills by hoarding the means of life.

"Witches, Pagans, Goddess worshippers have no dogma, no central body that tells us what to believe or what decisions to make. But if there is one belief we all hold in common, it is this: that we are each our own moral and spiritual authority. From women's power to conceive, profound and sometimes painful choices arise, and we must be free to make those choice for ourselves. To deny women that right is to deny our most basic human agency."

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Stymied No More!

I've been stopped in my rewriting of The Old Mermaid in a way I'd never been stopped before. I had to get (a pregnant) Sara from New Orleans to Mexico (back in the olden days). I wrote this long passage that was so gag-me boring I couldn't stand it. And then I realized I knew too much and me knowing too much was impeding the story. This was a magical tale. And so, I let the entire travelogue go and let the magic seep back in. Below is what it became. It's the last part of Chapter 14 and the beginning of Chapter 15. New stuff, so I haven't even read it a second time.

Monsieur Fontenau kicked his horse forward. The other horseback riders followed him. Juan slapped the reins and the horses jerked the wagon forward.

Sara did not look back. Those who were paying attention said later that a whole string of invisibles followed the wagon. Some recognized the good people—the faeries—and others said some of the loa followed. And they all danced. What a ruckus they made.

Those that weren’t paying attention didn’t hear or see a thing, except Irish Sara riding in the wagon with a Mexican-Indian, following two light-skinned Black people and two Frenchmen. They didn’t even see the horses or their bridles covered in faery bells.


Chapter Fifteen

At first, they encountered little more than dragons. Juan was good at steering them around these long-limbed creatures that curled up in trees, along shorelines, around hills. No one seemed to notice besides Sara and Juan, and they said nothing to one another, although Sara sometimes pointed one out to him in case he hadn't seen it, and then Juan would turn the wagon away from the dragons.

They often camped by streams or rivers. River maidens stared up at Sara from their watery homes. When Juan stood beside her and saw them, too, she knew he was a kindred spirit.

She said, “You can always tell a river or sea maiden from a real human woman after they come ashore. Some piece of a river maiden's clothing is always wet.”

Juan touched her sleeve. His fingers came away wet. “You mean like this?” he asked.

“Aye,” she answered.

After a time, the dragons gave way to wolves who ran beside them sometimes as men, sometimes as women. Sara ached to run with them. When Gabriel raised his gun to kill one once, Renaud shouted, “Don’t kill beauty, Gabriel. It will come back to haunt you.”

Later a bear man asked them to join them for dinner. Juan said it would be impolite to refuse. So they sat around the fire while the bear man told them stories.

The next morning, only Juan and Sara remembered the bear or the man.

Sometimes monsters came in the form of men with shotguns. Once they tried to buy Renaud and Madeleine. Madeleine would have killed them if a crow hadn’t called out. Gabriel made the men go away. Sara decided she needed to learn how to take care of monster men the way Gabriel did.

Gradually the land began to change. Or maybe it happened overnight. Sara was never certain. One day they were surrounded by green. And then they weren’t.

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Starbucks is Union Busting

Thanks, Will.

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Lost & Found

I re-posted a piece from the Old Mermaids Journal from last year. It seemed especially apropos this morning. Perhaps you would enjoy it too.

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Loss

This morning I went to a memorial service for three Yakama fishermen who died in the River a year ago. The families also thanked the people who had helped with the search for the fishermen and the people who had helped feed and care for the searchers. It was a beautiful day. We stood near the Columbia River beneath the tall cottonwoods as the sound of the drums reverberated through the trees.

I stood amongst dozens of people, most of them Native, and I cried. I felt grief in the air, I felt it rising up from the ground, I felt it as I looked up at the sky: grief for the families of the three fishermen and grief for my friend whose daughter was murdered yesterday.

We have seen too much death in our little community over the last few years, most of it from illnesses. This death of someone so young at the hands of someone who was supposed to love her is especially difficult. Outside, right now, everyone is going on with their lives. Next door the children are playing catch with their father. Someone a few houses down is mowing. A dog is barking.

When my mother died, I thought it was strange that everyone carried on with their lives even though she was dead and we were in pain. Yet it happened in winter, so it seemed as though the natural world mourned with us. When Linda died, it was a beautiful day. I was glad for that. I was glad she wasn't in pain any longer. I felt her presence in every flower I saw. I felt her all around me. And I was so exhausted that I didn't actually notice that another world was still turning outside our death watch.

In both cases, we gathered together as a community. I went home to my family where we were cared for by our relatives. When Linda died, we gathered together with her family and friends.

It is difficult to know what to do when someone's child has been murdered. Even when that children is an adult. We've all called. We've all offered our love, condolences, and help. Is there something else we can do?

I keep remembering the girl I knew in high school who was murdered. I can still remember in my body what it felt like when I found out. How I was alone. How I heard the act described in horrendous detail on the news. How I ran around the dark house where I was babysitting with my hand in my mouth so I wouldn't scream. I called my dad and he came and sat with me until the parents of the children I was babysitting came home.

None of us has ever forgotten that girl or her wonderful short life—or her devastating death.

Death is part of the natural cycle of our lives. Death by murder is not natural; it is not part of the cycle. It is a horrifying way to die for the victim and for the family.

And yet books and movies and television shows make entertainment out of it. It's not entertaining. It is awful. It is life-altering.

My cousin's husband was murdered. She was left widowed with three children. My brother in law's brother was murdered. He left behind a family who loved him.

No words.

It's a beautiful sunny day. I can't seem to move. Just got more information on the murder. I don't understand how someone could murder someone they loved. It has never made sense to me. If I told Mario I was leaving him, he might have a million different responses but murder would not be one of them. We need to teach our boys how to be in touch with their feelings, truly, so that when they do have a rush of emotion they don't pick of a gun to assuage it. I don't know. Is that what happens? Or is it that so many men view girlfriends and wives as....as what? Things they can rape, kill, beat?

I have no wise words today. I will go dig in the earth later with my wonderful husband. I will sit my body down. I will send my friend my love and healing energy. I will do whatever anyone asks of me during this time. Later we will drum.

Things have got to change. We need a revolution. I don't think we can wait for one person at a time to change, one family at a time. Mario and I had our own little revolutionary marriage. Our own little revolutionary lives. We thought many people would be like us. Equals. No violence. No supposedly gender-determined roles. Just two people who loved each other and committed ourselves to one another.

We don't know a lot of couples like us. Women still seem to do most of the domestic chores, women still seem to be the major caregivers for the children. The difference is now women work outside AND inside the home. (We still hardly know any men who cook for themselves. As my father said, "Come on. Grow up! How can you be X-amount of years old and still behave like a child?") Women are still considered as property, as second-class, by so many men and in so many cultures.

But I don't want to have a political discussion on this day. That takes away from this one tragedy. A man killed a woman. It was wrong. It was terrible. Two families will never be the same. Every violent death diminishes a community—changes a community.

We are all forever changed by this.

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What We Need To Do

Hello all! I know I've been gone a lot lately. With everyone tweeting and facebooking, I wonder if anyone reads blogs any more? (I do, I do!) For me, it is fun to quickly communicate with people I don't often (and sometimes never) see, but I do find this instant EVERYTHING stressful. It doesn't feel mindful. In any case, though, what I've been doing while I'm away from blogging (which I do miss) is writing. I am determined to make my living as a writer. Yes, I'm back to being a writer gal.

I have been determined to make my living for years, but then I was told by someone who worked for me that I couldn't make a living. He said what I wrote was beautiful and people didn't buy beautiful stories. And he only knew one writer who was making a living. Since I respected this person (and he said this to me soon after my mother died), I took it to heart more than I should have. And now I'm finally bouncing back from all that, I think.

What I said to him then and what I say now is this: The publisher makes a living; the editor makes a living; the printer makes a living; the agent makes a living; the cover artist makes a living. As writers, we are the creators of the stories: We should be able to make a living. Revolution comes in all forms. I've said it before and I'll say again: We need a revolution in publishing. Readers and writers need to lead the way. I'm going to keep writing the stories I want to write and hope that the readers (and publishers) will follow.

We also need a revolution in the food industry. I believe they will determine that this latest flu outbreak was be caused by or at least exacerbated by factory farming and/or the inhumane living conditions of animals. This has been true of other viruses as well. This doesn't mean you can't eat meat if you want to eat meat, but take steps to make certain the animals don't come from factory farms and that they have humane and clean living conditions. Crowded living conditions are vectors for disease. Stressed animals are more liable to get diseases. Also, write to President Obama and your congress people. Ask them to do something about factory farming.

Have you ever seen a factory farm? You can drive by them when you're going through California. They look like concentration camps for animals. Factory farms are inhumane, they're disease-ridden, and they cause an enormous amount of pollution. We get air pollution where I live from factory farms 120 miles away!

So if we're going to eat any animal products, it is up to us to make certain the animals were treated well while they were alive. This is for our own good, as well as for the good of the planet.

And during this time of hype and fear, let's all do what we can not to spread the fear. That can be the worst kind of epidemic.

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Torture is Torture

Torture is torture, I don't care who knew about it. If Nancy Pelosi knew about it, it's still torture. It was wrong. It is wrong. There should be an investigation. Our country is not about torturing. We the people do not condone torture. We are supposed to be a country of laws. Let the investigations (and prosecutions) proceed.

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Every Day is Earth Day

What are you doing? Here's a website with some good ideas. Have a good day: dance, laugh, eat, love.

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Beauty

OK. This had me weeping. First because everyone was making fun of her. It was disgusting. And then she began singing. Listen and watch here! Thanks, Melissa. Oh look! She's got a fan site. Sign me up!

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Overheard At the Little Yellow House

Man comes home from work and finds woman hunched over the computer where she has been all day writing. He goes into the kitchen and does six loads of dishes. Then he heats up dinner and eats it. He sits on couch exhausted. He asks woman for a glass of water. She goes into the kitchen and gets him one.

"I'm sorry about all the dishes," the woman says. "Where do they all come from?"

Man says, "I have no idea. You didn't eat anything today and we ate out last night."

"I promise," Woman says. "I'll wait on you all day tomorrow."

Man says, "No you won't. I'll be at work all day tomorrow."

Woman smiles. "My momma didn't raise no fools."

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WHAT I AM

Go here for lots of good information.

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Poetry is Needed Here

I heard Alec Caldiero reciting his poem Poetry is Wanted Here as I was driving down toward Ashland, after going over the Siskiyou Summit. It wasn't the best place to start crying.

(Listen to it if you can. At the top of the poem you can click to listen.)

More and more I'm thinking and wondering about how things have gotten so off-balanced. When did our society as a whole come to value $$$ over people? I was trying to talk to Mario about this today and I wasn't very articulate about it. I squirm when people start talking about "branding" and "marketing" and the "bottom line."

This isn't because I'm anti-business. Economics and busidoms are actually interesting to me. Sometimes. I almost got an MBA. But I've always believed that the best businesses are not about $$$. They have values and ideas and ideals, and they create community within and with out the actual building where the people work. They are a part of the community.

Of course there have been robber barons for almost ever. There have been the mighty rich, the royals, thems up there. But what about us? When did the goal become to make lots of money? When did the making of money become valued over EVERYTHING: including our health, our lives, our happiness, our environment?

I see it over and over again. Obviously, I didn't pick my professions based on how much money I could make. I'm a writer and I'm a librarian. But I have chosen to stay in work situations that were unhealthy for me.

At one library job, they decided to remodel the building. I asked them to use environmentally safe products. This was fifteen years ago, so it was a little more difficult to do. Still, they didn't even try. I was treated as a troublemaker. They did the remodel. I came to work and smelled the chemicals. I knew it wasn't safe. Yet I kept working. I was afraid of losing my job.

I lost it anyway. I became too ill to work.

And now I see people I admire and care about talking about themselves as "brands." Cattle are branded, not people. I know that's simplistic but that's just what I keep thinking. I wonder, "What happened to us? What about peace? What about love? What about changing the world?"

As I walked Mario to work this morning, we discussed the word "brand."

"It's just semantics," Mario said. "You don't like the word brand, but you want people to know your name so that they will buy your books. That's branding."

"No!" I said. "It's not semantics. It's something very deep and it's symbolic of all that has gone wrong. People used to be valued for who they were and what talents they had." Like a shoemaker, a tailor, farmer, seamstress, etc.

"It's just a word," Mario said. "Stephen King is a brand."

"He is not," I said. "He is a human being."

"And his name sells books," Mario said. "That's a brand."

I imagined searing flesh as Stephen King had his name branded on his backside.

"Why is everything about selling?" I said. "It's this black hole of consumption. It's never done. Never satisfied."

Mario said, "It's a big topic. And I've got to go to work now."

I nodded and left him at work. I felt even more disconcerted by it all. If Mario didn't understand what I was saying, how could I get anyone else to?

I have to figure out how to articulate it better. Form it into words.

Poetry is definitely needed here.

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Warhol & Moi

Mario just sent me this. Isn't it fun? You can go here and Warhol yourself.

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Bleck

So at the G20 summit, the spouses had their own dinner, apart from the leaders. It wasn't really the "spouses." It was a dinner for the wives. Apparently they had other "important" women at the dinner, including Naomi Campbell. Tell me: in what universe is walking up and down a runway considered important work? Bleck, bleck, bleck. Yes, I recognize this is a snarky comment. But where are the women who are scientists, teachers, economists, engineers, doctors, wise women? Don't they exist in England? What happened to our world that all this superficial crap is considered important?

The whole thing reminds me of the Stepford Wives and makes me queasy. Anyone who thinks sexism is dead and that equality between men and women has been achieved need only go as far as this to realize it ain't so.

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Wandering Under the Old Sun

Near the end of the day. Tired. Sun is down. It is interesting lately that I don't have many words, do I? Perhaps the more I'm living my life, the less words I have to spare.

Do you suppose that's true?

It's good being here with my sister. It's good being here alone. I think it does a body good to be on their own sometimes. I like hanging out with the dogs. I like walking and walking and walking. A lot of cars here. It is California. It is as big as some countries.

Today we drove along the coast for a bit. North. The wind was too strong to walk on the beach. At least for me. We walked inland for a while. We were surrounded by poison oak. I asked the poison oak to leave us walk in peace. The wind whipped up the dirt and threw it right at us. Hoped no poison oak oil took a ride on the dust.

Hoping for redwoods tomorrow, but anything is okay. I've got sun and I've got my sis.

Sometimes I wonder why I travel. It is always so disconcerting. Always takes me so long to feel comfortables. Must be I've accepted that discomfort is tolerable because travel is always a pilgrimage for me.

When I walk down my sister's road, away from the townhouses, I pass a patch of Earth that feels like magic: tall grass, dilapidated garden beds, old green pickup truck, ramshackle house—and crickets. I like standing still when I first hear the crickets chirping. I listen to the crickets and look at the one pale red rose that droops a bit, like a dejected suitor staring at his feet. The rose makes me smile. The crickets remind me of home—Michigan home. The sound is just plain comforting.

As I stand listening, I feel as though the whole world is alive. Which, of course, it is.

I see butterflies everywhere. Even in traffic.

I am glad I'm here.

I miss my sweetheart. I'll drive home Sunday or Monday.

Just in time for the sun.

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