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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Sunshine

Off to one of the sunshine states tomorrow. I need the Vitamin D. This is the longest winter in the history of winters. Will twitter and/or blog during the trip. At least that's the plan, Stans.

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Earth Hour

Today at 8.30 p.m. you can vote Earth by switching off your lights for one hour: Earth Hour. The organizers write, "For the first time in history, people of all ages, nationalities, race and background have the opportunity to use their light switch as their vote – Switching off your lights is a vote for Earth, or leaving them on is a vote for global warming. WWF are urging the world to VOTE EARTH and reach the target of 1 billion votes, which will be presented to world leaders at the Global Climate Change Conference in Copenhagen 2009." You can sign up to have your vote counted here.

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Overheard at the Post Office

Man says, "I'll be happy when this rain stops."

Mario says, "So you'll be happy in June?"

Man says, "Optimist."

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Blue-Eyed Baby

I'm tired. I don't know if what follows will make sense. It is vague, I know. It's just a postscript at the end of a long day.

I'm thinking about mobs.

I don't like mobs.

Mob mentality concerns me. I am a student of history. Generally speaking, mobs are not good things. And the powers that be should be aware of that when attempting to use mobs for their purposes. The word "mob" comes from "mobile vulgus," or excitable crowd. It's the common people on the move. And usually this mobile crowd ain't movin' for good.

What happens is usually the other "suddenly" appears on the scene and that other is demonized and accused of causing all that is wrong in the neighborhood, state, country, or world. For a long while in Europe and parts of Asia (primarily Russia), Jews were the other and they were deemed the cause of all the ills of the world. Not enough food to eat? The government or some other wily organizer would point to the Jews and soon a pogrom was in the works.

In other places, you became the other if you were the "wrong" color, religion, or sex. In Russia, if the government thought you were an intellectual, you could be sent to the gulag. In China, if the government suspected you had any Western ideas you could be imprisoned. In the early years of the Americas, any Native people were considered the other so they could be enslaved and/or killed on a whim. During the French Revolution, any affiliation with royalty got you a trip to the guillotine.

In most organized religions, women were (and are) the other. In many parts of the world, women still are the other. All sorts of horrors have been meted out to women because they were looked upon as the other.

Lynching by definition and nature was a mob activity.

Immigrants, legal or "illegal," in most countries have been looked upon as the other whenever the economy tanks.

After 9/11, Muslims were demonized in this country by many.

I have been as appalled as the average Jill about the AIG bonuses. I wrote about it. But now the mob seems to be shouting for their heads—and their names and addresses. All rich people are not evil. By many definitions, most Americans are rich, including me and you, because we have food, clothing, jobs (at least for now), and a roof over our heads. Are they going to be calling for our heads next?

This is just a long-winded way of me saying—at the end of a long day—that I heard the Brazilian prez say that all the problems of the world have been caused by the white blue-eyed people.

*sigh*

Oh yes, let us make eye-color the determinant of the demon.

Scientists now believe that all blue-eyed people share the same ancestor. This blue-eyed monster probably came from northern Europe or southern Russia. I wonder what people thought when she was born. Had they ever seen a blue-eyed baby before? Did they demonize her? Did they think she was a medicine woman? She lived long enough to bear children: thus me and some of youse.

Maybe tonight I will try to swim to her in my dreams and say, "Hey, Grandma, the prez of Brazil blames all us blue-eyed people for everything that has gone wrong in the world." I imagine she'd say, "What is Brazil and what is a prez?" Then she'd look into my eyes and say, "You call that blue? Let me tell you about blue." And then I'd listen to her stories all night long.

I'm tired of people struggling to be separate and unequal just for the sake of blaming everyone else for these old troubles we've got. Go ahead and blame and then get going and do something constructive. I hope the president of Brazil goes to his meeting with world leaders and sticks up for his people, especially the poor, and does some good!

Me? I used to strive for separateness. No more.

Now I strive for connectedness. Community.

I wish Karl Marx had not called his movement communism. I have not seen communism work well anywhere. But I love the word community and wish there was another word that conveyed the idea that we are all in this together and that we should work and play together in our communities. Connectedism. Doesn't really have a ring to it, does it? Besides, isms ain't good for much.

Ah well.

I bet the president of Brazil has a blue-eyed baby in his family tree, too. Shhhh. Don't tell anyone. He might have to throw it out with the blaming water. No worries. I'll reach out my arms and catch her. I won't even look first to see what color her eyes are.

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Found on Hilaria Day

I found this wonderful verse this morning on my pillow. So far today I've gotten a massage and a Reiki treatment from Mario, and I've given him a massage and a Reiki treatment. Now Mar is making spring rolls! Then it's off to Portland for a museum trip and dinner. I was going to write today, too, but the day has unfolded in such a lovely way that what will be will be. And maybe that means there will be no writing! In any case, I am a lucky Old Gal. (Drawing is by me: Spurred on By Flowers.)

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New Posts

I've got a couple new & short posts at the Old Mermaids Journal.

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