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In times of old, The Furies protected Mother Right. If a mother (or any woman) was harmed, The Furies swooped down and took their vengeance. They were one of the last vestiges of a world that existed before the patriarchy. When we feel righteous anger, it is The Furies who are calling out to us to make what is wrong right again.
Friday, October 31, 2003
Interview with Scholar & Writer Patricia Monaghan
Patricia Monaghan is one of the leaders of the contemporary Earth spirituality movement and has spent more than 20 years researching and writing about alternative visions of the Earth. She is an acclaimed lecturer, a member of the Resident Faculty at DePaul University's School for New Learning where she teaches science and literature, and the author of over a dozen books of nonfiction and poetry. Her latest book is the delightful and inspiring The Red-Haired Girl on the Bog: Celtic Spiritual Geography.
K.A.: How did you get started writing about goddesses?
P.M.: My first book, Goddesses and Heroines, came about because of a class in 20th century women’s poetry that I was teaching at the community college in Fairbanks, Alaska. My students kept bumping up against mythic references they didn’t understand, as in Carolyn Kizer's “Hera, Hung from the Sky” and Denise Levertov's wonderful poem to Ishtar. I told them I’d make them up a list of goddesses to help them interpret the poems. Then for the next few weeks I was typing up the list; there were so many goddesses I couldn’t get them all down. So I thought I’d just assign them a book on the subject—only to find there WAS no book on the subject. Thus I fell into writing that book, which remains the most definitive list of goddesses ever published.
I still consider myself primarily a poet. But as a woman, I need sustaining images. We are surrounded by degrading images of women-as-midriff, woman-as-boob (both meanings). Although to some extent men’s bodies have also been recently commodified, women in our culture represent body, flesh, mortality. Reading stories of eloquent and vigorous goddesses inoculates me against taking our society’s messages too seriously.
K.A.: You work for a university. Have you been criticized, ostracized, and/or praised for your goddess studies?
P.M.: My college is extremely supportive. I’m on the interdisciplinary faculty of a major Catholic university, which may not seem at first to be a friendly place to goddess scholars. But my colleagues are great, as is the university as a whole. In some ways it’s easier to be a goddess scholar/poet at a religious college than at a state school with its “church/state separation” mandate. When I taught for the state system in Alaska, I had to disguise my work under literature. Many of the great classics are pagan—Homer, Horace, the Celtic epics—so I had no trouble finding work to teach. But in the environment of a religious school, at least one as liberal as mine, I can bring spirituality out of the closet. In fact my colleagues have encouraged me to bring goddess spirituality into the classroom. Because the disciplines I straddle academically are arts and science, I bring spirituality in through myth. Most of my classes include some mythic material, almost always about goddesses. One of my favorite classes is “Gaia: The Earth in Myth,” in which we begin by acting out creation myths. I’m in the middle of designing a class called “Myth and Life,” in which students will consider what myths they are enacting in their lives. (By the way, our B.A. program is now available online, and I have several students starting with me as advisor in the spring, doing goddess studies.)
Because my academic work is not in Religious Studies, I’ve probably had an easier time than women in that discipline. I have heard many depressing stories from women encouraged, for instance, not to pursue a topic because it would mean they might not get a job. There seems to be a tendency among some narrow-minded academics to believe that women can’t be objective about goddesses (I’m sorry: so men CAN?). I’ve heard of women being steered away from goddess topics by advisors in graduate school. Some of this may be well-meaning; in fact it might be more difficult for a woman doing goddess work to get a job than if she, for instance, became an expert in Buddhism. But this also means a woman gets set in a certain path and may find it difficult to change later.
That said, I have been widely ignored by many people in academic publishing because my Ph.D. is not in religious studies. So although I saved myself some difficulty in choosing literature as my field, I have also been silenced in other ways. My work does not appear on most bibliographies in the field, I’m not invited to participate in conferences on the subject, and so forth. It’s a hard trade-off but I follow my golden rule: “if it makes you write more, it’s good; if it makes you write less, it’s bad.” Negative personal encounters more deeply effect me than being ignored by people I don’t know. I’m not sure how I’d advise anyone else interested in goddess studies, except to say that it’s important to find peers and professors who truly support your work.
K.A.: In the past, some feminists have been uncomfortable having spirituality as part of feminist concerns. Do you link feminism and women's spirituality?
P.M.: At a recent national conference of NWSA, the National Women’s Studies Association, the first plenary session on women’s spirituality was held. About half of the organization’s board of directors boycotted the plenary, as they felt the subject was unacademic. I have never seen an opening in women’s studies that asks for a specialist in goddess religions (goddess knows, I’ve looked!). This is deeply regrettable. Arguments against women’s rights always ultimately base themselves on religion, and the religious right grows ever stronger in its opposition to women’s concerns. (I must add that the same group is virulent in its opposition to gay rights; I cannot help but think this is deeply connected to women’s issues, not only because some women are gay, but because the archetypal fear of men becoming somehow turned into women seems at play in this objection to what is, after all, private behavior.)
To me, this is a no-brainer: feminism should embrace women’s spirituality and vice versa. I have met as many women who claim to be witches but refuse to say they are feminists as I have feminists who are appalled by goddess worship. I would go further and say that ecology should be a requirement for women in both camps; the earth is defined as feminine (“Mother Earth”) and then treated as such. We’re all in danger from such behavior.
K.A.: You write a great deal about mythology. Do you think mythology influences our modern day lives?
P.M.: Absolutely. I just don’t think most people are aware of it. Our official mythology is Christian, which is partially based in the dying-resurrecting-god motifs of the eastern Mediterranean. We have many unexamined prejudices that arise from that mythos, including the image of the virgin that Britney Spears has so recently exploited. (The opposite, the Magalene, is what Madonna so brilliantly exploits.) We are never far from myth, which appears in our dreams and our movies and our music. I think it’s useful to study myth in order to understand the hidden motives and motifs in our lives.
K.A.: Are you interested in fairy tales as well as mythology? How do you define the difference?
P.M.: Academically, a distinction is made between fairy tales and mythology, with the first being typically discounted as less important. But fairy tales are often the oral remembrance of earlier mythologies. As long as mythology is defined only by what is written, codified, organized into hierarchies of power, much of women’s lived reality will be ignored and suppressed. I make no distinction between a fairy tale heroine and a goddess in my work. To me, it’s all about images of women, wherever I find them.
K.A.: Have your studies led you to believe that our ancestors once lived in peaceful egalitarian societies?
P.M.: This isn’t something I can directly address, as my work is more about image than archaeological reality. I do note the studies that have shown that revolutionary movements never claim to be inventing some new vision of human interaction, but claim to be restoring Eden, a golden age from the past. I’m an Aquarian, so I have no problem with envisioning a future that’s different from the past, but most people seem to find consolation in the idea that we’re moving “back” to some “natural” way of being. The idea that women’s spirituality is leading us back to a partnership model from the Neolithic is interesting and useful. For me personally, I don’t care if it existed in the Neolithic: such a movement towards equality should be part of our future.
K.A.: Were you an admirer of Marija Gimbutas? If so, what do you think about the current backlash against her since her death?
P.M.: I admired Marija almost inordinately. I found her work when I was living in Alaska and when she had published only Goddesses and Gods of Old Europe, before the great last books. I was so inspired by her passion and her knowledge that, when I was once speaking in California, I asked if there was any way to meet her. The sponsors arranged a dinner party at which I got to literally sit at her feet. She was a powerful intellect and a gracious spirit. I have always been grateful to have had the chance to meet her.
The backlash against her work is interesting in that it is so emotional. Academic disputes are common; people differ on ways to interpret data. But something more than academic difference seems at work here. There is widespread trashing of her work, not serious consideration and disagreement. Most appalling is the work of Cynthia Eller, who consistently misreads both Gimbutas and those who base their work on hers. The idea of a “feminist matriarchy” (from the title of one of Eller’s books) is not upheld by Marija’s work, which promoted the idea of partnership rather than “matriarchy.” The outraged and outrageous tone of Eller’s work shows that there is something beyond intellectual discussion going on. What is there to fear from the idea of cooperative membership in society? It is a testimony to the importance of Gimbutas’s work that she has roused such anger.
K.A.: Many prominent women in the field are having problems with publishing and making a living from their work. Do you think this is a publishing problem (death of the midlist) or do you think there is a backlash against women in particular when they write about feminism or write seriously about women's spirituality?
P.M.: Dale Spender’s excellent book, The Writing or the Sex (which has the wonderful subtitle “How you don’t have to read women’s writing to know it’s no good”) explores discrimination against women in publishing. She has found a one-third/two-thirds rule regarding women. One-third of books published are by women. Then one-third of the books reviewed are by women. Then one-third of those reprinted, etc., etc. Obviously this means that a very very small number of women are reprinted, studied in college classes, known widely. Spender has also found a very strange phenomenon, the “women are taking over” paranoia. When a publisher’s list was half-women, it was perceived as being ALL women. Anything more than one-third women roused a perception that no men were appearing on that list.
This is depressing and seems very true. There is also the problem that a women writing about women suffers under something of a double curse. When my book of poetry, Dancing with Chaos, came out last year, I was surprised at the response. Surprised because people assumed I was somehow very smart, because the poems are about physics. The book of poetry that came out before that, Seasons of the Witch, received a warm response, but no one said I was smart. How come I’m smart because I can do science, but I’m not smart because I can do goddesses? I think it’s because when I engage with a “male” field (a “hard” science), I associate myself with the official power structure. When I, as a woman, write about goddesses, I’ve entered the double-whammy domain.
In this regard, it’s interesting to note that the two best-selling books about goddesses are both by men: Robert Graves and Leonard Shlain.
And now add the woes of the publishing industry, which are real indeed. I hope that new technologies like print-on-demand will make it possible for women to make their works available despite the biases of society.
K.A.: People still seem to believe that if you praise women, you're knocking down men. I think this is silly, but I'm wondering if you ever get this reaction to your work?
P.M.: I remember once arriving at a women’s spirituality conference and hearing another speaker greeting me with a loud, “What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were lesbian!” As I don’t talk much about my personal life (I like to say my sexual orientation is TOWARDS), she would not have known one way or other, but I found it interesting that she would assume that my presence at a women’s spirituality gathering was proof of a specific sexual orientation.
That was several years ago. But there still seems to be an idea, repeated ad nauseum by those who declaim against the hypothesized “matriarchy,” that being pro-woman means automatically being anti-male. I think we may have here the psychological tendency towards projection: if women did to men what men have done to women, men would be in deep doo-doo indeed.
I always begin my goddess lectures by talking about monotheism. There is no historical evidence for a single monotheistic goddess religion. Put another way, all monotheisms exclude the feminine while exalting the masculine. All known goddess religions have been polytheistic; they have admitted not only the god as well as the goddess, but many versions of both. Goddess religion is not the opposite of the god religions; it’s a completely different critter.
K.A.: Tell us about your latest book and how you came to write it.
P.M.: The Red-Haired Girl from the Bog: The Landscape of Celtic Myth and Spirit started out as a gazetteer to goddess sites in Ireland. But within a short time it had morphed into a work of personal narrative scholarship, in which I not only describe Ireland’s sacred sites but also describe my adventures therein. It took seven years to write and is without question the most ambitious thing I’ve done. Every chapter was an adventure; I was led to reading Marx and Foucault as well as ancient Irish epics and folk tales. It’s also the most personal thing I’ve done, because it was impossible to describe locations without there being a body present. And that involved explaining how I came to be in that place, with whom, at what time, and so forth. The book came out in March, and the response has been enthusiastic. It’s been very encouraging given the intensity of the work that went into the book.
K.A.: What work are you seeing being done by other people in your field that you are excited by now?
P.M.: Unfortunately I’ve seen a strange warping of goddess spirituality into something like spiritual popcorn. I read an interview with a new goddess author recently who said she “liked everything about the goddess: makeup, clothes, boys.” Left me scratching my head about what had happened to feminism, women’s empowerment, and ecology. Publishers seem to be looking for books with the word “goddess” in the title that nonetheless are not at all challenging, either to reader or to society. And I think goddess literature should be both.
Some of the most interesting work I know is being published online. The journal Matrifocus has great stuff regularly. The old print journal Of A Like Mind is about to go online in revived form. There is also the terrific Cornish goddess e-zine Goddess Alive! by pagan scholars Cheryl Straffon and Sheila Bright; a more general Cornish site, in which Cheryl is also involved, is Meyn Mamvro (“Stones of our Motherland”). In print, there is also Goddessing Regenerated, a lovely publication that includes a lot of European goddess news.
K.A.: What are you working on now? You are such a wonderful poet. (You recently had a poem in Poets Against the War, right next to Mario's poem, which I got a kick out of.) Are you working on a new collection of poems?
P.M.: I have two projects underway. One is the dramatic adaptation of a book of poems I finished this summer. It’s called Homefront and is based on two things: my experience as the child of a veteran who suffered from what is so prosaically called PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) and what the Celts more poetically called “Soldier’s Heart”; and Celtic myths about war and its aftermath. Finding a publisher for poetry is always difficult, so while I undergo that delightful process I’m adapting the book for a staged reading this spring. Some of the mythic poems are available online. Obviously I have been moved by recent events to complete this work, which has been with me for more than two decades.
That we are asking young men and women to undergo horrific and mind-altering experiences of violence—as well as enforcing such experiences on the people of Iraq and Afghanistan—without acknowledging that they will live with the trauma for the rest of their lives, as will their children, disturbs me greatly. I hope Homefront offers some small voice against that madness.
The other poetic project will be many years in the making. It’s a collection of poems called Earth Oracle in which various living beings speak: wasps, birds, mushrooms, and so forth. I have about 20 poems for that book, which is some years from completion.
I’m also working on a book that represents a real change for me. It’s an historical novel about St. Augustine’s mistress. Yes, THAT St. Augustine, and yes, he had a mistress with whom he lived for 15-16 years and about whom almost nothing is known. Because of that absence of information, I’m free to invent a really interesting Carthaginian poet who becomes involved in the “happy heresy” of Pelagius and winds up in a sort of heretical penal colony on the Isles of Scilly off Cornwall. Where her daughter, Augustine’s unknown second child, is recording her mother’s final testimonial and writing her own more pagan life as well. After so many years of careful scholarship, writing a novel feels almost like omnipotence. I say she’s half-Cornish, voila! she’s half-Cornish. Beyond the enjoyment of the story, the message is about the way in which a holistic nature-affirming kind of Christianity was suppressed in order to affirm a patriarchal and dualistic version—one that afflicts us still.
K.A.: The world seems to be going to "hell in a handbasket" as of late. Sometimes it appears as if all the work done by civil rights workers, feminists, environmentalists, peace workers has gone nowhere. Our current administration seems bent on starting war after war, turning back all environmental progress, and taking away women's rights. Do you have any advice on what people can do to get through this period of time?
P.M. I can see you saved the hardest question for last. This seems to me one of the bleakest times in my life. I remember feeling frustrated during the Viet Nam conflict, but not hopeless. Now I struggle with hopelessness a lot. I cannot turn off my awareness of the suffering of people around the world, caused by our government’s decisions. Children in Afghanistan who are starving while we set up to build a pipeline there. Women in Iraq who hold the shattered bodies of their loved ones. I do not need the news to report these facts; this is what war does, this is what we are doing.
And meanwhile I hear reports that 69% of America believes Saddam Hussein was behind the attacks of 9/11. I feel like I’m living in a fun-world where nothing makes sense.
So I do what I can. I have been a Quaker for more than 30 years, so I center in that welcoming silence. I make afghans, at least one a month, as part of the afghans for Afghans project. I bring ideas of humanism into my classrooms.
And I write letters and send emails and make phone calls. I was horrified recently to talk to a friend in California who knew self-proclaimed witches who were planning to do ritual to keep Arnie out of the statehouse, but who did not plan to actually vote. HUH?? Magic is part of life, but so should voting be, in a democracy. As one commentator recently said, I would get to the polls to vote for a baloney sandwich in order to remove the current resident from the White House. I will be working on the campaign of anyone who runs against him. And I will urge all my friends to do so likewise.
K.A.: Thanks for doing this interview, Patricia, and thank you for all your great work over the years. Have a great Halloween! Best witches.
0 comments
Thursday, October 30, 2003
Whitewash, Banner Red, and Pink Slip
Molly Ivins writes about public relations and how the White House is trying to spin everything, including the fact that U.S. soldiers are dying in Iraq every day (and let us not forget Iraqis are dying, too). How do you think the Bush Administration is doing in this PR campaign when, as Molly Ivins (and the Seattle P-I) reports, "George Nethercutt, a Republican congressman from Washington state, spent four days in Iraq and told an audience at home: 'The story of what we've done in Iraq is remarkable. It is a better and more important story than losing a couple of soldiers every day.'" Hmmm. Speaking of he lied, they died. Check out Gary Olson's moving piece on CommonDreams.org.
And, of course, you've heard that as part of this administration's PR campaign, they have banned any media coverage of flag-draped coffins of returning dead American soldiers. Plus mainstream American media is not showing video or photographs of dead soldiers or dead Iraqi civilians. Why are American citizens sitting on their butts accepting all this? Where is the outrage?
CodePink is suggesting we give the so-called president a pink slip: in fact, we should give him thousands, millions of pink slips. In case you're wondering why we would want to fire him, check out the Top Ten Lies of the Bush Administration. I admire CodePink's creativity. We're gonna need that to get rid of these scoundrels.
Big Brother is here, and he's altering the historical record. Bushspeak. (Translated: lies, lies, and bigger lies.) The White House is now altering the White House web pages, so that they reflect Bushspeak. When the so-called president was on the USS Abraham Lincoln in May 2003, he declared that combat operations in Iraq had ended. We all remember that, right? Now the website says that Bush said that all major combat operations in Iraq had ended.
Bush is trying to hide from the truth. He doesn't want us to see photos of flag-draped coffins or dead soldiers in Iraq. He wants to whitewash it all. Fortunately, he does not yet have the means to censor all news. Photos of US soldiers who have died in Iraq tell the tale at CNN.com. On Tuesday, Michael Paul Barrera, 26, from Von Ormy, Texas, and Isaac Campoy, 21, of Douglas, Arizona died in Baqubah, Iraq when their tank was hit.
I'm sure their coffins will be draped in red, white, and blue, even if we don't see photographs of them.
May they rest in Peace.
The Ancestors are paying attention, Mr. Dubya. 0 comments
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Some Twisted Tales
A few years ago, I had an art show at our house celebrating Halloween. We had 38 pieces of art by 17 different artists. Mario and I created a Hallows Art Show catalog, and it is from this booklet that I've culled this post.
Hallows
The creation of Halloween was an attempt by the church to Christianize the European Pagan festival Samhain (pronounced SAH-win). Pagans celebrated Samhain as the third and final harvest festival and as the feast of the dead. During this time especially, the dead were honored and invited into the homes of their descendants. When the Christians took over Europe, they tried to suppress all Pagan festivals. They were not successful, so they incorporated them into Christianity, calling them by new names: Samhain became All Hallow's Eve, or All Soul's Day.
Many of the symbols, ceremonies, and deities of the Pagans were demonized by Christianity. During the inquisition, commonly called the Burning Times, tens of thousands of people were tortured, tried as witches, then murdered by the legal authority of the church. Most of those accused were women, usually healers, midwives, or widows who would not give up their lands to the church—some probably were magical practitioners who worshipped nature. Even today, as Starhawk says in Circle Round, "Many people still do not respect religions that say the earth is sacred." The word pagan comes from paganus which means "country dweller." The origins of the word witch are obscure, though it appears to come from wicce which may or may not mean "to bend." Many modern women (and men) have reclaimed the word witch and call themselves witches to honor those who died during the inquisition and to proclaim that they, too, believe the Earth is sacred.
Today, Halloween is celebrated by Pagans and non-Pagans. Most cultures have a day (at least) set aside to honor their dead. All over the planet, people honor their dead by creating rituals, altars, ceremonies, and special meals.
Below are some common Halloween symbols and what they may (or may not) mean today and historically:
Cats were demonized by the Catholic Church during the inquisition, probably because of their affiliation with the goddess. They were considered familiars of witches and were often killed after "their witch" was executed. Many European households did have cats, and healers probably had some awareness that cats kept down the rodent populations which were responsible for so many diseases. Sacred to the Egyptians, cats were often depicted pulling the chariot of Norse Goddess Freya.
If someone found a frog in your yard in medieval Europe that was enough cause for that someone to accuse you of witchcraft. Frogs were associated with Hecate, the Egyptian Goddess of midwives and crossroads. On her Amulet of the Frog was written the words, "I am the Resurrection." To the Egyptians the frog was a symbol of the fetus and rebirth.
No one is really sure how jack 'o lanterns came into existence. In Europe, Pagans carved out turnips and placed candles inside to protect them from wind and rain. These vegetable lanterns provided light when the country dwellers were out in the woods. Later when they had to hide their celebrations from the inquisitors and others, they may have started to carve frightening images in the vegetables to scare away any Nosy Nellies. When Europeans came to North America, they brought the vegetable lantern tradition with them, only now they used pumpkins. Some say that the light in the jack 'o lantern, whatever vegetable it came in, has always meant one thing: Spirits, you are welcome here!
People have donned masks and costumes for as long as people have been on the planet. (They've found ancient pictographs on cave walls of masked people.) Why do we dress up for Halloween? Many of those who practiced Earth-based religions considered Halloween as New Year's Eve and dressed in costumes to "inhabit"the essence of who they wanted to be the following year: a prosperous person, healthy person, etc. They also wore masks to honor the Dead or Nature Spirits. It was a great celebration! Some scholars believe that masks became so popular because the Pagans had to hide who they were from the inquisitors or meddlesome neighbors who might turn them in if they saw them dancing in the woods.
The witch was not the only one to wear a pointed hat, though she may have been the only one to wear a pointed black hat. Many believed a pointed hat helped direct powerful energies into the body of the person wearing it. A dunce hat was used not to embarrass children but to give them the "technical" means to be smarter. Popes wear pointed hats and have for millennia.
The black clothing usually associated with a witch symbolizes her Crone aspect, the waning phase of the Moon, and the end of the year. To the Earth-worshipping Celts and other Pagans, death was a part of the cycle of life and they did not fear it. They revered older women—the Crones—whom they considered wise and powerful. Darkness, blackness, and old-age were not despised.
A witch is often seen with a broom, or besom. Like the frog and cat, the broom is a symbol of Hecate, the priestess midwife. According to Barbara Walker, in The Woman's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets, the midwife used the broom to sweep the "threshold of a house after each birth to remove evil spirits that might harm the child." Jumping the broomstick was part of Pagan weddings. (After a time, of course, the church caught on and declared these "by the broom" marriages illegitimate.) Some believe the association of the witch with the broom symbolizes her true identity as a shaman, someone who "flies" to the spirit world on behalf of her community.
Happy Halloween!
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
What's Left Underneath
When we were at the Chinese Garden the other day, Mario ate three pecan cookies which rested on a piece of banana leaf, the paper of poor Chinese scholars and poets, apparently. Mario dusted the crumbs off the khaki green leaf, then wrote this poem on it:
Banana Leaves
Music of rain
falling in garden.
The bats live
where light leaks.
Words move
over stone
to still water.
—Mario Milosevic ©2003 0 comments
Monday, October 27, 2003
J'Accuse!
This sounds so familiar, doesn't it? The girls involved in the Salem witchcraft trials talked about flying around at night. (There is an amazing amount of good information now on the internet about the Salem witchcraft trials.)
During the "witch craze" that lasted at least from the mid-15th century to the 18th century, accused witches were tortured until they confessed to anything and everything. The modes of torture that were used were: first degree torture, second degree torture, and third degree torture. That's where the expression "getting the third degree" came from. Absolutely everyone who was given the third degree confessed. The accused witches often confessed to similar atrocities (for instance, flying around naked at night on a broom with their other naked women friends). This confused people who didn't necessarily believe the women (most of the accused were women) were witches. Why were they all saying the same things if they were innocent? They must be witches. Until they figured out the women were confessing to the same sins because the same inquisitors were torturing all of the accused and/or using the same manual of hate, written by those friends of women everywhere: The Malleus Maleficarum (The Witch Hammer). Talk about an evil book. It was written as a handbook to help inquisitors identify witches. It "documents," at length, how evil women are. I had this book in my house for a few hours one day and had to take it immediately back to the library. As a woman, especially, I found it chilling and revolting.
The witch burning craze is often referred to as the women's holocaust or The Burning Times. The information about that period of history is continually changing, and I can't find much on the net to pass on to you. For one thing, I can't get on many sites tonight for some reason, but also some sites say 9 million women were murdered during this time, and that figure now seems to be incorrect. Other sites argue that because 9 million isn't the correct number and that "only" 100,000 or 60,000 people were murdered (no one actually knows), that means the feminists are a bunch of liars. It's interesting in these arguments that people separate the witch burnings from the actual Spanish Inquisition where people were tried for being heretics. You know, right this minute, that feels like tomato (to-may-to) and tomato (to-mah-to). Innocents were killed by an out-of-control power system which targeted them because of their sex and religion (or lack of), their prosperity (or lack of), or their age. Lots of people died; one death was one too many. Don't want it to happen again.
The Pope apologized for the sins of Catholics in March of 2000; he included the Inquisition and the treatment of women in his apology. I don't have the text of the apology, but it was reported he apologized for the sins of Catholics, not the sins of the papacy and the Catholic church. Big difference. I don't care about the pope. I gave up on the Catholic church a long time ago, but I cried when I heard about the apology. Even though the pope may have not admitted to the complicity of the papacy in these atrocities, I was still surprisingly moved. It was about time someone stood up and said, "Gee, it's wrong to persecute people because of their differences and then torture and murder them."
There are not many "happy endings" to accused witch stories. I fantasize that there was an underground railroad of sorts to help these accused women. I hope it was true. In 1692, 75 year old Mary Bradbury was accused of witchcraft in Salem because—among other things—butter she had sold to a ship went bad. Unlike some husbands, Thomas Bradbury stood up for his wife, telling the court, "Concerning my beloved wife Mary Bradbury this is that I have to say: wee have been maried fifty five yeare: and shee hath bin a loveing & faithful wife to mee." Despite a petition signed by 110 people attesting to her virtuous nature, Mary Bradbury was found guilty and sentenced to death. Her friends and family broke the elderly woman out of jail, however, apparently not willing to allow her death. She escaped and was never recaptured. I love that story. Can you imagine it? The horror of her arrest, trial, fearing she would die along with the others who had died in jail or who had already been executed. Finally, as her execution date neared, her loved ones came and took her home.
Blessed be, Mary Bradbury, now one of our ancestors. And thanks to your friends and family for their bravery. They, too, are now our ancestors. They are heras and heroes all.
I hope someone stands up for these accused children in the Congo. Most children go flying about at night: dreaming, playing with invisible friends, drifting to the stars when in ecstasy or fear. Too bad adults have made flying a crime again.
Stand up, sisters and brothers, stand up and take these children in your arms. Fly with them in the night, then tuck them into bed and wish them sweet dreams. Shhhhh. I wish you well, sweethearts. 0 comments
Rallying...
Did you know the people of Bolivia have been mightily pissed off as of late—being the poorest country in South America and everything—so they rose up, and caused not a little bit of havoc: their president, a puppet of the United State government, resigned and got on a plane to the U.S. where he was granted asylum. What's all the fuss? As part of the U.S.'s drug war, the Bolivian government has been "encouraging" their indigenous farmers to stop growing coca. Coca, considered by the Bolivians as a mild stimulant similar to coffee, has been used in Bolivia for "medicinal, cultural, and religious purposes" for centuries. Let's hope Bush and his gang of terrorists stay out of this fight. Perhaps the U.S. should be looking in our own backyard and at our appetite for drugs rather than going into other countries and telling them what they should and should not grow.
Mario and I celebrated Halloween today, cooking up a grand feast, and inviting a friend over to join us. I danced and sang to the Visibles and Invisibles and thanked all the food that had died to nourish our bodies. When everything was boiled, cut up, shredded, baked, I read my "Invocation to the Ancestors" (see yesterday); then we ate. Between dinner and pumpkin pudding, the three of us walked down to the Columbia River and the creek, where spotted salmon moved sluggishly upstream, either on their way to spawn or to die.
Once home again, we watched The Haunting. (The original 1963 movie, adapted from Shirley Jackson's novel The Haunting of Hill House.) I first saw this film one night when I was a teenager, with my four sisters. We huddled on the couch together, actually touching each other we were so frightened. I can still see their faces: they was scared! When the movie was over, a window shade suddenly snapped up, scaring the bejeezus out of us. Isn't that a strange thing to remember for thirty years? When I first saw the film, I really related to Julie Harris' character, Eleanor, who was searching for a place to call home—and who may or may not have been demented. Tonight, I thought the sophisticated Theo (Claire Bloom ) was much more fun—and may or may not have been a lesbian. I still liked the film; it is subtle and overblown all at the same time. Made me want to read the book again. It was rumored that Shirley Jackson was a witch. I hope she's having fun wherever she is—now that she is one of the ancestors. Thanks for your stories, grandmother.
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Saturday, October 25, 2003
Lunar Halloween
Invocation to the Ancestors
O my Ancestors
Upon your ashes I walk through life
Upon your dust I shall one day rest
O my Ancestors
You who flew above the Earth
You who burned with Passion
You who made your home in the Ocean
You who burrowed deep into the Earth
O my Ancestors
I ask for your blessings
And thank you for my life
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
All my relations
O my Ancestors
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Friday, October 24, 2003
Michael Moore Rocks!
We followed the crowd into this huge stadium. I'm not usually very good in crowds—I'm five foot zero, gimme a break. But I went with the flow, literally, and we found our seats amongst the thousands, after various people shoved Howard Dean and Dennis Kucinich paraphernalia in our faces.
Gus Van Sant, Portland's premier movie director, came out and talked for a few minutes. He seemed a bit shy. He said he had never spoken in front of a crowd that big. Two movie screens beside him projected his face big time for all to see.
Then Michael Moore came out, dressed as he always is in baggy blue jeans, t-shirt, blue wind-breaker jacket, and a baseball cap. The applause was tremendous! We all roared and cheered and clapped. He told us he is on a 39 city tour in 29 days; this was day 25, and he had gotten responses (and crowds) like ours in every city.
This told him what we've all wanted to hear: Bush is doomed! He said the American people are pissed off because they don't like being lied to, and it is becoming obvious to just about everyone that this administration lied about Iraq. He said we are a liberal country. He sensed we all doubted this, so he explained that in every poll on social issues, the majority of people were liberal: on gun control, the environment, women's right to choose, etc.
He talked about the Democratic party not being a real opposition party: they are imitation Republicans. And if the American people have a choice between an imitation and the real thing, they'll vote for the real thing every time. He said not long ago the California electorate had a choice between a governor they despised and a right wing whacko candidate, and they voted for Gray Davis, so they don't really want the right wing whackos—the American people just need better choices.
He talked about Faux News and MSNBsee-you-later, those bastions of the right wing conservatives, and how they are spewing their anger and hate all day long. He said you've got to wonder what they're angry about: they've got the White House and both houses of Congress. They're angry, he said, because white men are no longer the majority: THEIR TIME IS UP, and they know it. Their whining and hate-spewing is the sound of DYING DINOSAURS!
Moore talked about Rush Limbaugh. Buying one Oxycontin is a felony. Limbaugh supposedly bought about 30,000. That's 30,000 felonies, yet he's sitting in a plush rehab center, while 2.1 million of "our fellow Americans are sitting in prison—half of these people are in on drug related offenses." Limbaugh has been a leading hate speech purveyor these last fifteen years, Moore pointed out, without any sympathy for drug dealers or takers. Moore suggested we let the druggies out and lock Limbaugh up! We cheered our agreement. Drug addiction is a medical problem, not a crime, he said.
Moore admonished us that now was not the time to be spineless, was not the time to be nice to these people, or to accept who the Democratic hacks want to give us as a candidate. Now was the time—before the primaries—to really question the candidates. Don't choose anyone yet, because then they don't have to change any of their positions. He said, "Imagine if all 10,000 of you sent letters to all the candidates pressing them on the issues." (That would be incredible!) Don't support "anyone but Bush," because we will just lose. Don't settle for a Democrat who is a Republican, he warned.
He pointed out that Howard Dean supports the death penalty and won't cut Pentagon spending, and the NRA approves of him. Send letters, emails, or call him up: press him on these issues and get him to change his mind. Moore said we know little about Wes Clark. Where does he stand? Clark needs to let us know.
He then talked about Dennis Kucinich and made a truly enlightening analogy. DK is saying all the right things, but whenever he talks publicly about abortion Moore is disturbed. DK has changed his mind about abortion, which is fine—it's good for people to change their minds. But when speaking about it even now, DK will say, "I'm personally against abortion, but I wouldn't support any legislation to restrict a woman's right to choose." Moore pointed out that if someone said, "I'm personally against interracial marriage, but I wouldn't support any legislative restrictions" we'd all be going, "Hey, wait a minute!" Yet we accept these kinds of prejudices or statements when it comes to women's rights. Why? Women are the majority, after all. We screamed, "Yes!" We need to stand up for our rights, especially given the recent eroding of those rights with the passage of the so-called partial birth abortion ban. Moore said what DK should say is, "I personally can't have an abortion so I should just shut the fuck up!"
Moore talked about how we piss on our own people, and other countries look at us and wonder what is wrong with us. Other countries don't take health care away from the weakest people, the people who need it the most, the way the U.S. does
I stopped taking notes after a while; I was having such a good time. He talked for two hours and included a bit of theater when he called local right-wing talk show host Lars Larson. (Lars mentioned it on his show today and said Moore had no right to give out his personal phone number—which happened inadvertently. Lars said he got calls all night and his wife was afraid. Poor Lars.) Moore asked that we pledge to help during the next election. Now is not the time to sit on the sidelines: Bush has got to go.
(Linda S. reminded me that one of the best parts of the night was when Moore gave this response after someone shouted from the audience, "Impeach Bush!" Moore said, "Impeach him? Impeachment is too easy. I want to see Bush and his whole administration taken out of the White House in handcuffs!")
I felt buoyed and hopeful and not a bit disappointed by the whole thing. We rode the Max back to the Lloyd's parking lot (again, no throwing up). Then we drove home listening to Neil Young singing, "Rockin' in the Free World."
The regime change is comin' to a country near you...2004. Make it happen! 0 comments
Thursday, October 23, 2003
Hurrah to Australia's Protesters!
I'm crossing my fingers that the protests here in the U.S. on Saturday will be huge. It probably won't change Bush's policies, but it may create some energy on that New Moon day which will fuel antiwar and anti-Bush sentiment. Or pro-peace. However y'all want to look at it.
Trying sleep again. Peace, all. 0 comments
Know Thyself
I went to Delphi with my boyfriend of the time. His parents lived in a beautiful hillside home outside Athens while his father worked for an American company with division headquarters in Athens. I was determined to go to Delphi even though I knew little about it. I just had to go. So the boyfriend and I boarded a bus in sunny Athens and headed for the sacred mountains. I had lived nearly my entire life in the Midwest and didn't know much about mountains or terrifying mountainous roads. The road to Delphi was barely wide enough for a bus, let alone a bus and a car coming in the other direction. It was quite a harrowing ride, but we arrived safely in the ancient city a couple of hours later.
I don't remember a great deal about the visit, and I've lost my journal from that time. It was either late December or early January, and we were the only people at the ruins, which we got to after climbing several flights of stairs. What do I remember? It was cold and sunny. The stones of the various ruins were gray, silent in a strange way, a puzzle waiting to be solved. I wished I knew more about the place at the time. The Greeks believed it was the navel of the world. And I was standing on it. I wandered around the ruins, through the Temple of Apollo, the Stadium, the Tholos Temple. I liked the Tholos Temple best. I have a photo of me leaning against one of the tall Doric columns. Now I find out it is a part of the Sanctuary of Athena, so I'm not surprised I felt settled standing there—and unsettled. Whispers all around. Boyfriend anxious to find someplace where he could get a beer. I curled up in an olive tree, my fingers poking through the "eyes" in the "holey" trunk. I have a photo of that moment, too. I look feral, otherworldly, annoyed and afraid. I didn't want to leave.
But we did. We got on a bus headed for Athens. I sat next to a tiny old woman, her babushka tied tightly under her chin. She grabbed my hand and murmured prayers as the bus dove down the mountain. I could only concur. It started snowing. The bus slipped slided around the curves and down the sacred mountains. I wished I knew what the woman was saying; even though I had never really heard of priestesses or holy women or witches (real witches), I knew this woman was our oracle—no, more than that—she was keeping our bus from sliding off the mountain. I was glad for her enchantment. Now I wonder if she passed something to me as she clutched my hand: I've never really been the same since that visit to Greece.
She got off the bus at one of the small towns we went through. We were down off the mountain by that time, safe, but the snow was piling up. The bus stopped for the driver to put chains on the tires—or something. I don't have a clear recollection of it. I only know we were in stop-and-go traffic for nearly four hours, sitting the entire time next to the back door which the driver had to open—for some strange reason—every time he slowed or stopped. I don't think I've ever been that cold for so many hours.
On the Discovery Channel they've figured out the Greeks were correct, and the Oracle probably inhaled some kind of vapors from the Earth before making her predictions. Apparently archaeologists in the early part of the last century had said the Oracle was a hoax, a show, because they hadn't found any evidence of any "vapors" at the site. I don't really see how deciding the Oracle didn't inhale vapors meant she was a fake. In any case, these new scientists have decided there were some kind of gases coming up from the Earth which got the High Priestess high.
The Delphic Oracle—the Dragon Priestess of the Earth—was the "highest religious authority in the world for over 2,000 years" according to Norma Lorre Goodrich in her book Priestesses. Long before Delphi became Apollo's temple and Pythia "his" oracle, Delphi had been an autonomous religious temple and place of learning. Delphi was, to the people of that time, the center—the navel—of the world. It was written that the Pythia priestess always went underground to make her predictions. Perhaps, as Goodrich suggests, Pythia did not go underground to inhale any particular kind of vapor but to take in the breath of Mother Earth and become the literal Oracle of the Earth. While breathing the vapors of the Earth, it was said, the Delphi Oracle heard this: Know thyself. It was the Oracle who gave us this most profound suggestion. Commandment? Know thyself.
Emperor Justinian closed the Delphi schools and banished the Oracle in 529 A.D., essentially ending women's education for many centuries to come. Some historians and scholars believe that was the end of any kind of women's power. Others believe that finality came much later, during the Inquisition when tens of thousands of women were accused of being witches, then tortured, often raped, and murdered. At this time of year especially, I remember the Pythia, the Delphic Oracle, and her descendants: all those women (and men and children) who were accused of being powerful, of conspiring with Nature, who died because of their difference, their religion, their old age, their sex. It is a good time to remember our ancestors, and to listen to their whispers which come on the wind through the old oak tree at the end of the street, through the crack in the window, in the laughter of the children on the playground, and as part of the calls of the birds gathering before migrating south for the winter: Know thyself.
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Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Barbecued Husbands & A Giant C1itoris
Before the dream, I woke up in the middle of the night, miserable because of this terrible itch on my back (long story—just imagine having an itch that never lessens no matter how much you scratch it). I picked up the book Women in Praise of the Sacred and flipped through it, looking for something to inspire me to go back to bed. My fingers stopped at a poem by Sappho. I imagined the poet on the Isle of Lesbos listening to a group of young women taking turns reading their poems. I liked that image. Unfortunately only a few scraps of Sappho's voluminous writings have survived to present day. Most of her work was burned at the instigation of Pope Gregory (380 C.E.) and Pope Gregory VII (1073 C.E.). They were not very nice men, either.
I picked up another book, Barbecued Husband and other stories from the Amazon by Betty Mindlin and indigenous storytellers. I LOVE this book! It is so funny. She's got stories in this book like stories I have never read anywhere else. Every time I pick this book up and read any part of it, I just giggle. I even get a kick out of the story titles: "Akaké, a groom with three cocks" (and she's not referring to roosters); "the ghost lover and the girl with the giant c1itoris;" "the clay pecker."
"The ghost lover and the girl with the giant c1itoris" is the first story I've read where a c1itoris is even mentioned, let alone a major character in the tale. This woman has an invisible lover, a spirit lover, who seduces her away from her husband and her lover. Each time she makes love with the spirit lover, her c1itoris gets bigger. Soon, it is so big that it drags along the ground behind her. (Are you picturing this?) She is quite miserable. The villagers decide to capture the spirit lover, so they come up with a scheme to do so. Eventually, they cut off his arm, throw it into the river, and the spirit lover never returns to the village. The woman is still in agony dragging this huge c1itoris around after her spirit lover is long gone. So the villagers cut off the c1itoris and throw it into the river. The giant c1itoris turns into an eel and swims away. The husband no longer wants his wife. No one knows if the lover takes her back. And no one lives happily ever after. Except maybe the eel.
Now that story was enough to put me to sleep. I went back up to bed and dreamed I was a man. I won't tell you what I did as a man. Just know, as I said at the beginning of this little missive, I was not very nice. And probably when I wasn't looking my wife was looking for a way to barbecue me, too.
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Seeing Red...And Wearing Red
This is only the beginning. These people want to take away the rights of women to control our bodies. I hope they don't succeed. Because I'm not going back to the dark ages when we were chattel—when legally we had no rights and men could do pretty much whatever they wanted to us. If they take away our right to choose, I do believe the streets of our country will run red. This regime has to be stopped now.
And if you don't think this is a culture war, a war for the right to do what we want with our bodies, a war against people who practice any religion that is not "their" religion you haven't been paying attention. Army Lt. General William Boykin, a deputy undersecretary of defense, has said that Islam is our "spiritual enemy." He's said much more.
I think all of us should start wearing arm bands to signify our mourning—and to signify our resolve not to let anyone take away any more of our rights! Only let's not wear black arm bands. Make them red: red for life, red for our blood, red for women's rights!
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Demonstrations & Ritual
Wish I could be there. I'd love to hear from anyone who participates. If you can't make either of these demonstrations, Poets Against the War asks if you can schedule an antiwar/pro-peace poetry reading that day.
October 25 is also Lunar Samhain (Halloween is a dark moon holiday). Hallows is traditionally a time to honor the ancestors and all those who have died during the year. It's a good time to demonstrate, dance, pray, do ritual, hope for peace. In Thailand recently, farmers sealed a photograph of George Bush in a pot and threw it in the river while reciting a mantra. This was an effort to keep Bush's spirit "down" and away from Thailand's natural resources. Very clever. I hope it works.
Now is the time to weave whatever magic we have and put it to good use—a time to work with the Visibles and Invisibles and see what creative things we can come up with to shake things up and move the aggressors off the stage.
I wish you well.
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Sunday, October 19, 2003
Interview with Michaela Roessner (Part Two)
K.A.: You have incorporated your knowledge of cooking and food into your novels in a delicious way. Can you talk about that process? Which came first? The egg or the omelet? The novel idea or the food as part of the novel?
M.R.: Wow! This is a hard one! For me it's a holistic process where everything influences everything else. Food and cooking are a part of life, so for me writing without mention of food and cooking would feel flat, lack verisimilitude. That said, I write about food and cooking far more than is necessary just to give a "lifelike" feeling to a piece of writing. I think because of my interests, I'm drawn to subjects that include food as part of their general context. For example, I chose to write about Catherine de Medici for a number of reasons: she's fascinating politically, her family was involved in the occult, the Medicis vastly influenced the art world, but also she, in particular, was a major mover and shaker on the historical food scene. Therefore I was more attracted to writing about her than any of her illustrious relatives.
K.A.: I believe that most Americans have lost touch with food, cooking, and nourishment. Most cultures celebrate—feast—and understand where their food comes from and what it means to their culture and family. I don't think Americans do that—which may (or may not) account for the skyrocketing number of eating disorders. What do you think about our relationship to food and eating?
M.R.: I find, optimistically, that this is getting better. (And this is one of the few things that I am optimistic about.)
I read a statistic a few years ago that said that gardening is far and away the number one hobby in the U.S. Now, that includes people who are lawn fetishists and arborists, and those who do general landscaping and flower growing. But it also includes more and more vegetable gardening and cultivation of fruit and nut trees. People want to eat their own fresh produce at least part of the year (depends on what section of the country you live in, of course), and they want the enriching experience of the work one must do with the land to produce your own food.
Although this is an era where we have to worry about gassed, irradiated, genetically tweaked food, and rocket fuel irrigated crops, it's also an era where people are conscious about these issues, care about these issues, as never before. Genetic biodiversity is being threatened, and at the same time fabulous efforts are going in to finding and preserving "heritage" species, establishing seed banks, and offering gardeners the opportunity to become part of the salvation of plant biodiversity.
I have a European friend who lives in the Bay Area who said that when she originally moved there, ages ago, except for San Francisco sourdough bread, there was no bread worth eating in the entire area. Now she says that when she returns for her annual visit to Europe, the breads there—though still fabulous—often don't compare to what you can get in Berkeley. In the Pacific Northwest there's been a renaissance in restaurant food preparation, with an emphasis on using fresh, locally grown produce to make dishes with a global influence but strong regional stamp—something that's been happening in Berkeley ever since Alice Waters opened Chez Panisse. This is happening all over the country. It's happening in people's kitchens, too. The Food Channel is tremendously popular. Folks sign up for cooking classes in droves. Artisan-crafted regional beer, bread, chocolate, almost-anything-you-can-think-of businesses are surviving, often thriving, and being appreciated. Organic produce, though more expensive, is selling well. The area where I live supports a lot of orchards. The one orchard that is certified organic is always sold out.
People's consciousness about food is being raised and things are changing. I think we got so far down into the processed, preservative saturated food situation that there was nowhere to go but up! I wish that the whole world could be changing along the lines of the food revolution.
K.A.: If I'm remembering correctly, you are part Italian. Does this heritage inform your cooking? Your writing about cooking? Any part of your creativity?
M.R.: No, I'm not Italian at all, though the confusion is understandable—I feel like an adopted Italian, in the food sense. When I was a little kid, all I wanted to eat was white bread, baloney, fish sticks, canned cream of mushroom soup—that sort of thing. On the first trip to Europe, when I was around 9, we stopped in Rome for a while before going on to Spain. It was eating at the restaurants in Rome that I went through a culinary epiphany. It was as though my taste buds had been dormant all my life, then suddenly came to life. I love lots of kinds of food now, but will always love Italian cooking and owe it my heart.
K.A.: Your last two books The Stars Dispose and The Stars Compel are sensuous historical fantasies rich in detail and food. Did you have to do a great deal of research? Do you enjoy that part of novel writing?
M.R.: A great deal of research? You have no idea! Several bookcases full of studies on: Renaissance art, writing, etiquette, history, literature, food history, food etiquette, historical character studies, apparel, witchcraft, architecture, and stuff I can't even remember now. Plus non-Renaissance research into things like cat's cradles.
And yes, I do like that part of novel writing. Luckily, or I'd be doomed.
K.A.: Speaking of politics, how do you feel about what is happening politically in California right now? Those of us who don't live in California have been a bit perplexed by the entire process. Is it easier to accept and understand if one is actually living in California?
M.R.: No, not at all. To me the whole thing has been the March Hare and Mad Hatter's Tea Party. The way it turned out—I don't know if it's that a majority of California voters can't connect the dots, or if Diebold has hijacked another election.
K.A.: Most of the writers I talk with these days are having a terrible time either getting published or getting their published work noticed. The publishing world has certainly changed since we started out in 1980. Have you been faring well? Are you encouraged by any trends in publishing?
M.R.: I write so slowly that I'm not the best person in the world to ask about publishing trends. The impression I have is that publishing short fiction—at least in the speculative fiction genre—is alive and well. In spite of the rising cost of paper, postage, etc., a good deal of the print magazines have hung on, and there are now a fair amount of legitimate and decently paying online venues. And your writing will always at least get glanced at, even sending it in "over the transom."
As far as books go, though, the news doesn't seem to be good. In our genre, advances for first-time and mid-list authors have stayed the same, or are even less, then advances being paid out decades ago. Then, when you calculate in rising cost-of-living factors over the years, it means they're worth less than even that! To add insult to injury . . . no, make that add injury to injury, if they don't pay you a sizable advance in the first place then they do almost none of the publicity which will help your book do well enough so that a) they'll make more money on it, and b) you can get a bigger advance on the next book and maybe even earn out your initial advance and get royalties. I think it's pretty much the same throughout the rest of the book industry.
With more and more publishing companies being taken over by huge media corporations (or other types of corporations), writers find themselves in the position of the ant who had to carry the camel. Before, money earned out from a book went to support publishing concerns like the publishing house physical plant, the editors, proof-readers, printers, binders, distributors, etc., etc. Now a good chunk of the money has to also go to an über corporation's worth of infrastructure and executives who may not be involved in publishing at all. Add on top of that that in merging most companies get rid of a sizable chunk of the merged-in employees, so that those who are left have to do twice as much forthe same wages and in the same time frame, and that results in editors who can no longer take time to edit, and so on and so forth. Writers end up getting treated like cannon fodder. It's very grim.
From what I've heard, we're in the initial stages of a writer's revolution. What this means, I have no idea.
As for me, I always took Damon Knight and Kate Wilhelm's advice to heart: don't quit your day job. I'm happy that I get published. I'm happy that most of the people who read my work seem to like it.
K.A.: Being an artist (and I include writers in this category) these days and trying to make a living is extremely difficult. Have you been able to make a living as an artist?
M.R.: No, though it has always brought in some money, and at times I've pulled in enough to count as a decent yearly income. (By "it" I'm lumping my arts together—I make money with my visual arts too.) Keep in mind, however, that as an artist I'm used to surviving fairly well on an income that falls below the poverty line for most Americans.
K.A.: Is it easier to get people to pay for visual art as opposed to getting people to buy a novel?
M.R.: Hmm, that's sort of an apples vs. oranges kind of question. I'd have to figure out how to take the process of selling a book and getting an advance and then getting or not getting eventual royalties, and then equate that with making visual artwork and having pieces in exhibits, selling or not selling there, then non-sold art work sits around, then a collector buys it eventually, but you don't have a chance to "resell" it the way you do with writing where you can sell reprint and foreign rights. The same is even more true with selling short fiction, where you have even more venues (editors) to approach, and even more of a chance of selling reprint and foreign rights.
K.A.: You get a different view of the artistic world than most writers do since you are an all-around artist! In Catherine de Medici's time (if I'm remembering right) artists had patrons who helped pay their way. Is this an avenue artists should be exploring these days?
M.R.: Visual artists do cultivate patrons, and always have. I think the differences between now and the Renaissance are a) nowadays patrons just act as collectors, instead of at times bringing artists into their homes and putting them up as they did in days of yore, and b) there are now public commercial entities called art galleries that allow individuals to be collectors without having to interact with an artist personally.
Back in the Renaissance there were no commercial art galleries—at least not in the sense that we know them today—though there were art agents. If anyone out there wants to know what the art scene was like in Renaissance times, I urge them to read a couple of fascinating books that were written at that time and that are still in print today: Giorgio Vasari's Lives of Artists, and The Autobiography of Benevenuto Cellini. Not surprisingly, both Vasari and that scalawag Cellini are characters in my "Catherine" books.
K.A.: What are you working on now? What are you excited by?
M.R.: Writing-wise, a bunch of stuff. I've never "multi-tasked" this much before. I recently finished up a novellette which has a lot to do with a quantum mechanics miniature golf course. It's being looked at right now, so I'm crossing my fingers. I'm about halfway finished with a new novel of my own, trying something rather different for me. And I'm involved with Sage Walker, Daniel Abraham, and Walter Jon Williams in turning the novella we wrote together a few years ago—"Tauromaquia"—into a Big Fat Novel. I'm also in the process of editing and retyping a book my aforementioned grandfather, Elmer, wrote about growing up in the Bay Area just after the turn of the 20th century. He was born in 1900, and the manuscript covers 1906 and 1907, including the '06 earthquake. Each project is different, andI'm excited about them all.
K.A.: Can you tell us about Brazen Hussies?
M.R.: The Brazen Hussies are myself, Pat Murphy, and Lisa Goldstein, although we believe that any benignly uppity woman can be a Brazen Hussy. We banded together a few years back to brazenly promote our writing, which is where the name comes from. We've done booksignings and other promotional events together, and maintain a conjoined website. We found it a lot easier and a lot more fun to do necessary but often humiliating publicity scutwork with like-minded friends whose work you love and admire. To check it out (it includes our manifesto), go to the Brazen Hussies website. You can also link to our individual websites from there.
K.A.: Where can people find your artwork and your novels?
M.R.: People can find out about my artwork and writing at my individual website.
The artwork that's currently on the site is from a mask exhibit at the Bakersfield Barnes and Noble store last fall, which I put up in conjuction with a book signing there. It was a nice opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.
The next artwork I'm posting will be from a series of two-dimensional pieces I've been working on from what I've been calling the "Landscape as Architecture" series. When I'm going to have an exhibit I post an announcement on my website a few months in advance.
As far as finding my writing, making a request at one's local bookstore is always a good idea, and it can also be found at Amazon.com and Powell's.
K.A.: I can't wait to savor more of your writing and feast my eyes on more of your art. Good luck with all your projects. It sounds like you're in the creative flow. And thanks for your words!
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Saturday, October 18, 2003
Interview With Writer & Artist Michaela Roessner
Michaela was born in California in the 1950's but spent much of her early years wandering about the country and other parts of the planet, including Thailand, before ending up back in California where she got a BFA in ceramics and an MFA in painting. In 1980, she attended Clarion: the science fiction and fantasy writers' workshop, which is where I met her. Since Clarion, she has continued working as an artist. She makes the most amazing masks. (We have two hanging on the walls of our home.) She has also published several sumptuous beautiful novels: The Stars Compel, The Stars Dispose, Vanishing Point, and Walkabout Woman.
Michaela Roessner Part One:
K.A.: We met at Clarion in 1980. I was always in awe of you. First, you were one of the warmest, nicest people I had ever met, plus you were so interesting and talented. You were a fabulous artist deciding to try her hand at writing.
M.R.: First off, thank you for the compliments! The impression I had of the impression that others had of me at Clarion way back when was that I was the flaky funky California artist/hippy chick who arrived by train with a string bag full of kid's toys. Not that that was an inaccurate perception.
K.A.: Funky California artist/hippy, yes; flaky, no! You were so much fun. Was writing a new creative outlet for you at the time or was it always part of your repertoire?
M.R.: Writing wasn't a spanking new creative outlet for me, but it had been very off and on, mostly off at that time. I'd done a fair amount of creative writing as a kid. College, however, signaled an end of that for me—there simply wasn't time, and I didn't take any creative writing courses. After college, earning a living, saving up money for grad school, going to grad school, and trying to survive as an artist kept me busy for years. At one point, though, I did get to sit in on a graduate class that my husband was taking with the poet Michael McClure. That was quite wonderful!
K.A.: What is your creative her-story (history)? Were you a creative child? Was that aspect of you encouraged/discouraged?
M.R.: I was always very creative. That's my forte, why I was put on this earth, for this go-round, at least. That's why I was born in the Year of the Tiger.
I started taking art classes when I was five. I was incredibly lucky because my parents were big on enrichment, especially in the arts. It worked out well because my mother was a non-nourisher, so being enrolled in classes after school meant that much less that she had to interact with me. It was a win-win situation, since I loved most of the stuff I got involved in: art, music, horse riding for a little while, dance, etc. Particularly dance, which I took for years and years. I always knew I'd be an artist, but I always wanted to be a dancer. For the longest time I thought I was taking all these dance classes because my parents believed in my grand dream. Only later did I realize that they were praying that it would finally rub off and I'd become less clunky. I was a terrible klutz as a kid.
I was always making things and teaching myself how to make things. When I was in Junior High I taught myself how to hook rugs—that kind of thing. Around then I also invented my own secret language. It was actually phonetically spelled English, but with my own symbology instead of letters. Looking back at it even now it had a very nice and workable logic to the design of the symbols. Not bad for a twelve year old.
I have to call my creative writing herstory a history because it mostly has to do with two men: my father and grandfather. Both of them were newspapermen, and both of them wrote fiction. My dad not too successfully, but my grandfather Elmer did quite well. He wrote the original "Drinking Man's Diet" for Esquire Magazine back in the day, and published quite a few humor pieces and short stories—including one that was eventually run as a reprint in F&SF. He was a wartime correspondent in Europe, and also wrote war stories for the pulps.
My very inception has a literary background. When my mother was a girl, she came down really sick at one point and had to stay out of school for a while. To cheer her up, her mother checked out a bunch of books from the library by well-known humorists of the day, including H. Allen Smith. She liked Smith's books a lot, but read through all of them quickly. Wanting something similar, she remembered that one of them had a dedication to another writer, a good friend of Smith's, one Elmer Roessner. The dedication mentioned some tome with a long, funny name that this Roessner guy had written, so my mother asked her mother to check it out for her. Alas, the library didn't have it, nor could they find any record of it.
Years later, when she was going to Mills College, she went to a college mixer where one of the young men attending was a journalist from the San Francisco Chronicle. His name was Donald Roessner. When they were introduced she mentioned that there had been a writer by the same last name that she'd always wanted to read but couldn't find his book. Donald told her that that was his dad, and that there was no book—it had been an in-joke by his buddy H. Allen Smith. That's how my parents met.
The ambiance in our house was extremely conducive for growing up in the arts, at least until my parents divorced. Up until then my mother was a musician, so there were always other kids around taking piano lessons with her, and I often went to sleep listening to her practice late into the night. When we lived in Thailand we hosted visiting musicians of all types, and when they were soloists my mother would often act as their accompanist for performances.
My father not only wrote, but also dabbled a little with painting, and did a good deal of woodworking. One Christmas in Thailand, since there were no evergreen trees, he made us a giant Christmas tree mobile.
Our house was filled with books. I was a bookaholic as a little kid. Once my homework was done, I'd hole up in my room and read and read and read. My father loved the short stories from science fiction's Golden Age, so we had a lot of the paperback anthologies lying around, which is how I got introduced to the genre. Exposure to fantasy was a little different. That was via big, old-fashioned bound volumes of fairy tales and the classics. It was a major influence artistically as well, since these were the kinds of books illustrated by Arthur Rackham, the Brandywine artists, etc.
K.A.: You do creative work in many areas: writing, mask-making, painting, etc. Is the creative flow, energy, or drive the same for each? Different? More/less satisfying?
M.R.: All satisfying, but different. Strangely, I find the creative process for writing and painting and pastels to be similar in many ways: gathering source materials, composition, balance, pacing, attention to details like texture, color (and for writing elements like taste, smell, touch, etc.). But even more, the kind of focus and mental work is almost identical. I'd bet that I use the same or related areas of the brain for both writing and painting.
Making masks and other three-dimensional work is quite different: more immediate, sensory, intuitive, less cerebral. Even the parts where I'm gluing a gadzillion little feathers into a gadzillion little holes.
K.A.: The other thing that impressed me when we first met all those years ago was your knowledge of food. I could just listen to you talk about it for hours. Then when Mario and I moved out West we stayed with you and Richard for a few days, and you are an exquisite cook. Do you see cooking as an aspect of your creativity?
M.R.: Absolutely, and as I found out later as an adult, part of my cultural heritage. I grew up not knowing how to cook at all. When my parents divorced my mother moved back to Oregon and became a high school Spanish teacher. My Catalan grandmother moved in to take care of us. On top of everything else, she did all the cooking, and no-one was allowed in her kitchen. I wanted to learn how to cook, but was shut out of the process. Not that I blame her. When you're constantly preparing food for a busy family, the last thing you have time for is conducting cooking lessons.
So I had to wait until I was on my own, in college. Then I dove into it. At that point my bed-time reading switched from novels and anthologies to recipe books. I tried everything I could, including what my husband still alludes to as my "brick bread" period. Providing you didn't break your teeth on it, it was very tasty. But so dense and hard that you could throw it at somebody's head and kill them. Fortunately I eventually discovered Irish soda bread, which was much easier, wonderfully tasty, easy to chew, and nonlethal. Nowadays I can and do bake any kind of bread because I have a bread machine.
Some years ago I had the chance to go back to Spain, which I'd visited once as a child—particularly the region my family is from: Catalonia. It was an eye-opening visit for me on many levels. Just on the subject of food alone . . . Once I'd gotten a handle on cooking in general I naturally started "arting" it up. When I was in graduate school in painting one of my final projects for a seminar was to bring a feast for the class where every dish was an art work: I made a snake sculpture out of paté with almond sliver scales and slices of pimento-stuffed green olives for the red-pupiled eyes; I sliced jicama thinly and then with a mat knife cut out stencil shapes I'd made of geese, cats, and other animal silhouettes, etc. Although of course I was aware that the Europeans do more artistic things with their food then we do (or at least did—that seems to be changing, thank heavens), I always felt that it was just an individual thing with me. Then when I went back to Catalonia, with all my relatives cooking absolutely amazing food for us, I realized it was a cultural trait, and often a whimsical one.
For example, one night cousin Florentina presented a straightforward dish of potatoes, fresh peas and hard-boiled eggs. Except the potatoes and fresh peas were arranged as a lake, and the hardboiled eggs were little boats, with their sliced-off tops stuck back on with toothpicks as sails. After my whole life of not feeling as though I quite fit in in this country, I suddenly felt I'd come home.
End of Part One of Michaela Roessner's interview. Part Two will appear tomorrow! 0 comments
Friday, October 17, 2003
Kindness of Strangers
We are sitting in front of the Celestial House of Permeating Fragrance, facing north, at the Portland Classical Chinese Garden. This is the Scholar’s Courtyard. The scholar’s study (the Celestial House) is where the scholar went to write poetry, practice calligraphy, and paint. We can hear traffic through the “leak windows” (called leak because they leak the view in from other areas) and a jet overhead. The sky is blue with different levels of clouds moving quickly by. Children's laughter in another part of the garden drifts over the walls to us, the sound muted by the walls, rocks, and foliage.
The floor of the courtyard is a mosaic arranged in a jagged pattern with a five-petaled blossom of smooth stones at the center of each arrangement. The pattern is called “plum blossoms on cracked ice.” A silk tree shades us with fronds of tiny green leaves—they look just like ferns attached to a tree. Next to it is a plum tree. According to the brochure, plums represent “simplicity and seclusion. It is the floral symbol of the first lunar month for its ability to flower in the midst of snow and ice.” Resilient little buggers.
To the left of me is what looks like an ornamental maple; its delicate five-pronged green leaves remind me of star-shaped lace coasters. Pale rose-colored seed pods hang from the leaves, waiting for a breeze to release them and send them whirling to another place, like some tiny Sufi dervish or bodiless helicopter blades.
Mario scratches words next to me. I like the sound. I like him so close.
Today we hiked Eagle Creek again. We watched the beautiful spawning and dying salmon swim and rest in the shallows of the creek before taking our hike. Then a big yellow dog barreled down the rocky bank and splashed into the salmon-swollen water. The owner apologized.
“Salmon are trying to lay eggs there,” I said.
“Yes, I know. But they’re not wild salmon.”
“Neither is your dog.”
How did she know they weren’t wild salmon? (Unless she agreed with some who said there were no true wild salmon left.) Had she gone and personally asked each salmon where their home town was?
Mario and I went up the trail away from the dog and its owner. I was pissed off. My side hurt. After I had finally gotten to sleep this morning, I awakened a couple hours later in pain—it frightened me. I hate being sick so often.
Mario and I get up and walk to the Tower of Cosmic Reflections. The teahouse. We sit at a table on the north wall. Two pale tiger lilies rise out of a delicate porcelain vase which sits on a small blue box. Mario continues writing his short story, "The Code Breaker." It is a story within a story.
I decide I will try and reflect on why I get so angry at dog owners who don’t keep control of their animals. I’ve been bitten twice by dogs. Been chased and attacked more times than I can count. Maybe that was as complicated as it got. I listen to the music coming from speakers somewhere behind me. I gaze out at the strange landscape and think about how beautiful it all is. Calm. I start to cry.
I order an organic green tea called Kaihua Longding, dumplings, and something called Lo Bo Gao, a turnip cake made from white radishes, rice—and turnips, I assume. The golden light is beginning to fall away on this warm and sunny autumn day. I leave to feed the meter while Mario writes. I turn the car's ignition to get the time from the clock, and Van Morrison croons to me, his beautiful Irish voice telling me we can work things out.
Inside the gardens again, as I go out of the Hall of Brocade Clouds and around the Painted Boat in Misty Rain, I glance toward the Hall of Brocade Clouds and think I see a tall Kuan Yin, riding the waves on her dragon. I look again, and it is just one of the Taihu stones brought to Portland from a lake near Suzhou, China, Portland’s sister city.
On the trail today, a small striped snake lay across our path, just before a mossy wet bend in the path. We stopped and watched the blue, green, and yellow reptile, and she watched us, her red tongue flicking in and out. I felt as though she had something to say, but I was not certain what. We stepped around her and continued on our way. Old growth Douglas firs sheltered us, making the sunlight seem liquid and golden-green. Yellow maple leaves shuddered in the warm breeze, as if anticipating colder times to come.
Mario spotted a huge spider web hanging off the trail between two trees. The architecture of the web was astonishing. In the middle of the web, which was backlit by sunlight, a huge brown spider waited for the simple thrumming of a string to tell her dinner had arrived. The web looked almost rectangular to me, probably because of a trick of light. At the corners, the webbing turned up like the roofing on the buildings in the Chinese Gardens.
The woman with the dog—now leashed—passed by us. Mario and I continued walking, me trying to figure out why things like that woman’s inconsideration about her dog pissed me off so much. In an hour, it wouldn’t matter that the dog had disturbed us—unless I let it matter. Why couldn’t I see that now?
A few minutes later, the woman with the dog came back by us. She didn’t want to climb the cliff trail, obviously. I got a not-so secret kick out of that. When we reached the cliff—a narrow rocky part of the trail with an iron cable drilled into the rock as a handrail—the couple ahead of us turned around, too. I was surprised. I thought I was the only one who ever got nervous at the edge of a dangerous precipice.
The path was sloppy today from four days of rain. I grasped the cable with both hands and pulled myself along. In the Art of Pilgrimage, Phil Cousineau wrote that in some cultures people believe a dangerous pilgrimage earned them more merit. I wasn’t into the “suffering makes us holy” thing, but, hey, if I gained some merit from traversing this vertiginous trail, I’d take it. (I get vertigo. Did I tell you that? Yep, just like in the movie. Only without the hokey special effects.)
Once we got on the other side of the cliff, we hurried up the path to a curve in the trail we called the "fairy spot." The roots from old conifers bulged out of the Earth, looking like black curves on the body of a giant earthy snake curling around the bedrock. Mario and I sat on the curve and breathed in all we could see, hear, and feel.
Sometimes being outdoors in a place like this, I fall in love all over again with being alive.
Now I am sitting in the teahouse. I go upstairs to use the restroom. Even this room is beautiful, peaceful. I glance at the long narrow photo over the sink of several brightly-colored blossoms with the word “serenity” printed on the left side of the flowers. I walk back out into the second story of the Tower of Cosmic Reflections. I look down at the garden. What would it be like to write a novel here? I have always wanted to do that: write a novel in a particular place. Of course, I already write my books in a particular place: my home. But what would it be like to go to a place like this and only write the novel when you were in this place—perhaps set the novel here. Would it be serene, inspiring, magical?
I go back down the stairs and sit with Mario again. He finishes his story within a story, "The Code Breaker." Sometimes I feel as though my entire life is in code, and I don’t have the key. Especially the key to my body: to health, to wholeness.
The women of the teahouse move around me, all dressed in black, all Asian. They smile each time they look at me. They seem to see me. I return their gazes, my mouth wide in a grin of recognition, with a smile that says, “Thank you for being kind.” (I hope I don’t look like one of those lions baring their teeth in the entrance courtyard.)
Kind. Barbara Walker says the words kind, county, kin, and cunt all have the same root. All these words were derived from the great Asian Goddess Cunti, or Kunda. Being "kin" meant we were all related because we came from the sacred cunt, the goddess: a woman. Why didn’t we always see this kind of relationship and treat each other appropriately?
The dog owner made me angry because she broke the connection of kindness—of kinship—I had established with the salmon, the river, Mario, the wind, the sky. The woman had felt no necessity in being considerate of her fellow beings. She was no kin of mine.
Or perhaps she was. Is. Since we are fellow travelers on this planet, I need to try and find a connection with people like her.
Here in these gardens, Mario and I are surrounded by beauty: it makes me weep, opens my heart to love again. Behind me, a ruddy gold androgynous Buddha sits languorously in front of left offerings of candles, money, and flowers.
Up the stairs, I can see a small white porcelain statue of Kuan Yin riding a white dragon. Kuan Yin is often depicted riding a dragon. Some say the dragon symbolizes the Tao—the Way. Others claim the dragon represents all the forces one must harness to get through life. White dragons supposedly represent the moon. So is this Kuan Yin riding the moon? Her name means “she who hears the cries of the world.” It is said one only has to whisper her name to be protected from harm.
Kuan Yin—the goddess of mercy and compassion—sits on a lotus, rides the dragon, or surfs serpentine waves and always seems to be going with the flow...
I watch the women in the teahouse going to and fro: bringing trays of food and tea to the tables, showing patrons how to drink the tea, pouring water into teacups. These women are definitely my kin. As I watch—for a moment—it seems as though they, too, are riding dragons, floating around the teahouse, sublime, compassionate and merciful. Flowing...
Perhaps that is the key to it all, elusive as fog: go with the flow.
I shall try it. No, not try it: do it. No. Flow with it...
Kuan Yin, Kuan Yin, Kuan Yin.
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Could It Be Satan?
Get out of the uniform, and speak for yourself, buddy. 0 comments
The Big Fat Liars Are At It Again
And the truth is:
The U.S. policy in Iraq is failing. Our troops and Iraqis are dying and demoralized. Iraqis are out of work and pissed off.
Don't get me wrong: some people are making a killing in Iraq, if you'll forgive the expression. Cheney's cronies are mopping up.
And if you haven't heard by now: this war has increased our chances of a terror attack.
So write that letter, then go out and have a good day. Really. It's better than moping around.
And speaking of Moveon.org, I heard someone from this fine organization was on the evil pretend-news channel last night and didn't do very well. Anyone see the interview? Remember what George Lakoff said: We've got to learn to be articulate. "Say what you believe and say it well."
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Thursday, October 16, 2003
Framed
Reframing, he says, "is telling the truth as we see it—telling it forcefully, straightforwardly and articulately, with moral conviction and without hesitation."
Sounds good to me. (Did I say that with enough conviction?)
Thanks for the link, Mario. 0 comments
Like Snow White, I'm Driftin'...
And speaking of big corporations, the Pope is apparently celebrating his 25th anniversary and CNN is going absolutely gaga over this event. Yuck. Who cares? He and his religion are anti-women, anti-gay, anti-choice. GET OFF MY TELEVISION SCREEN!
Yes, I'm feeling under the weather curled up on the couch watching the "regular" news. Bleck. Ain't good for the soul. I need to go wash my mind out with AlterNet.org.
On the AlterNet.org website is an article that reminded me that the Bioneers are holding their annual conference in Marin County this weekend. I support the work of the Bioneers, but I wonder why they are not walking their talk. They continue to hold their meetings in a place that regularly uses chemical pesticides (unless they somehow talked them into not using pesticides this year). Why are they continuing to give their money to an institution that is poisoning our environment? Not only does the use of pesticides harm the environment, the Bioneers are placing conference attendees in harm's way and preventing people with MCS and other immune illnesses from participating safely in the conference. I ask them every year why, and every year they either ignore my question or send me an irritated email about how they don't really have a choice. Huh? Interestingly enough, the article about the Bioneer conference is right next to an article about pesticide drift in California. Hmmm. Are you paying attention, Bioneers? Come on! You can make the connection. 0 comments
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Tower of Cosmic Reflections
Monday there was a break in the rain, so Mario and I drove up to Eagle Creek. Before we went up the trail, we paused by the side of the creek and discovered dozens of salmon in medias res—or else at the end of their journey; we couldn't be certain. Most were a deep deep almost black red. Some were white and black red: these were definitely at the end of their lives. One large salmon was maroon-colored, with a bright red spot near the fins. She (he?) was magnificent. Awesome. Gorgeous. It was difficult to imagine she was at the end of anything. While many of the salmon moved almost sluggishly, she swam strongly about the shallows, sometimes hanging out with her buds at the log floating midstream, sometimes going downstream a bit and then turning around again. Smaller salmon couples swam around her, waiting to spawn? A huge salmon, golden blond in death, lay across the bottom of the stream, looking like one of those great Roman statues that was pulled down as the empire fell.
Mario and I stood on stones in the water, in awe, and watched the salmon. Irish poets of old believed the Salmon was the wisest of creatures. They crouched down at the water's edge to be as close to the salmon as possible, hoping the mystical fish would imbue them with inspiration, creativity, the right words to make their poetry sing. So I, too, crouched at the river's edge and prayed to the salmon. "Imbue me with divine illumination, sacred fish." The salmon are considered the soul of the Pacific Northwest. As I stood on a round stone watching them, I felt surrounded by a sacredness I cannot describe. I felt hopeful. When you have been hopeless for a long while, hope feels like an elixir. Liquid joy. Like divine inspiration breathed in from an ancient wise creature...
Afterwards we drove to Food Front Coop for our Evergreen Writers' Club. (The club consists of Mario, me, and poet David Johnson, who is currently residing in Eugene. We have a mission statement and protocol and everything.) Mario and I ordered goodies from the deli thinking we would dine outside, but wasps wanted to eat with us so we returned inside. Wasn't much space to stretch out, so I suggested we go to the Portland Classical Chinese Garden: Lan Su Yuan, garden of awakening orchidsafter lunch.
We drove down Everett through Portland's Chinatown until we found the gardens. The sky was overcast now, and it felt like it could rain any moment. We parked the car, paid the entrance fee, and then stepped into the gardens. What I noticed first was the flooring, dark and light stones arranged in a yin yang pattern. I looked around. I felt a bit overwhelmed without any kind of written guide. I didn’t know the names of the plants or what any of the structures meant—I knew everything was symbolic of something in a Chinese garden. How could I decipher it all?
But I shook that anxiety off. I just needed to be here, in this place, in the middle of the city—only I couldn’t hear the city. I heard water, running water. I picked up a brochure from a basket and opened it. It didn’t say what the plants were, but it did name the structures. I was standing in Knowing the Fish Pavilion. I loved that name. I loved all the names. Most buildings in the U.S. do not have such poetic monikers. I think I’d really appreciate doing banking at, say, The Temple of Great Aspirations, rather than the First National Bank Building. Conducting business in a building with a name like that would give you a whole different attitude.
I looked down at Zither Lake. Orange and white koi swam in the murky water. I thought of the salmon we had seen swimming free at Eagle Creek. What was the life of the koi like?
Mario and I began walking separately around the gardens. We are very different in our approach to places like this. Mario walks slowly, stopping to gaze at something that interests him for long periods of time. I walk quickly through a place (a museum, garden, house), get the lay of the land, then go back and spend time in places I find interesting. Eventually, Mario and I would meet up again. So I wandered alone. I was still filled with salmon inspiration, and I loved walking through a place where everything was imbued with meaning.
For many years, I was not drawn to city gardens or manicured places: I liked natural wild nature. Naturally. I still do, but recently, I have come to appreciate what creating an oasis in the middle of human habitation accomplishes—especially on those days when I have been in battle with some idiot who wants to use pesticides or when I’m feeling otherwise besieged; having a place to go to where I could feel safe and rested would be grand.
“Most cherished in this mundane world is a place without traffic; truly in the midst of a city there can be mountain and forest.” —Wen Zhengming (1470-1559)
I continued to walk around around this garden which took up a city block. Surrounded by this beauty and peace, I began to relax. I walked through the Reflections In Clear Ripples, Flowers Bathing in Spring Rain, Celestial Hall of Permeating Fragrance, Half a Window Clustered in Green, Moon-locking Pavilion, Painted Boat in Misty Rain, and the Hall of Brocaded Clouds.
How can I describe this place? It’s difficult. I can tell you how I felt: have you ever seen one of those clock springs that are wound really really tight? And if they unwind quickly, they go every which way and can cause some damage. Or they can stay in their container, be let loose gently, and they unwind slowly, without causing any harm to the clock or anything else. That’s what I felt like. The gardens became my container, my sacred place—my tenemos—and I began to unwind. The upturned roofs resembled hats worn by Siberian horse riders; the strangely shaped Taihu stones looked like something from the moon but were actually from the bed of Lake Tai which is near Suzhou, Portland’s Chinese sister city famous for its classical gardens; the curving artificial lake reflected the buildings and sky like a mirror to another dimension; the banana trees with their huge bright green leaves and tiny dark green fruit reminded me of some exotic place far out of bounds of Portland, Oregon. I took all this in and unwound: I think I found my tick tock again.
Mario and I stopped at the Tower of Cosmic Reflections, the teahouse. Mario and I have been happy patrons of the Tao of Tea on Belmont for several years. We often dine there on dal and rice and chana chaval; we even sometimes have a cup of tea. The Tao of Tea has been an oasis of cool sanity and beauty on many afternoons. At this Tao of Tea, we were seated at the window, looking out at Zither Lake, the Moon-locking Pavilion, and the Hall of Brocade Clouds across the lake. I felt as though I was in a scene in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. As I sat staring out at the calm water and sky, I continued to rest. The agitation which had been electrifying my limbs and mind for months was stilled. Peace descended, ascended, became a part of me.
Ahhhhhhh.
I ordered organic green tea. I can’t remember the name. Mario had pecan cookies. We held hands and talked about writing. And we sat silently, listening to the murmurs of people behind us in the teahouse and watching people come and go outside in the gardens. When the waitress brought my tea, she told me how to hold the cup and sip the tea. I thanked her and let the cup sit, to brew and cool.
I decided I could sit here for a long time and reflect on the cosmos. Or watch cosmic reflections. Or just be. What a unique feeling.
Sometime later, Mario and I left and headed home. I rested my head on Mario’s shoulder as he drove us down Highway 84. I closed my eyes. I wanted to find out all I could about Chinese classical gardens. I wanted to sit in the Tower of Cosmic Reflections again and write essays about my cosmic reflections. I could see my salmon soul swimming through all of it.
It was a good day.
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Using the F Word & 100 Proof
And speaking of bombs. The U.S. government keeps saying Iran has to prove they don't have nuclear weapons (doesn't that sound familiar). How come the U.S. doesn't have to prove we don't have nuclear weapons? Just asking...
Hey, Cub fans: it's a game. Get over it. 0 comments
Monday, October 13, 2003
Heras and Heroes
I've never really celebrated Columbus Day, never really thought of him as a hero.
Short of heroes these days. Never thought of people that way. Much. A tree maybe. An ancient oak. That's my hero. Especially now, in the middle of the night, up because I'm having trouble breathing. I picture all the trees making oxygen, making clean fresh air. They are my heroes.
Barbara G. Walker says in The Woman's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets that heroes were male followers of Hera who were sacrificed in her name. I read somewhere else—and can't find the source this early morn—that a hero was a male worshippers and a hera was a female worshipper of the great ancient goddess of women, Hera—no one was killed for the honor. Hera was worshipped long before Zeus was even wet behind the ears, as Patricia Monaghan points out in The New Book of Goddesses and Heroines. Monaghan writes, "Magnificent of form and feature, ruler of the earth and its dwellers, Hera was particularly the goddess of women and their sexuality." That sounds cool. I'll be a follower of her; I'll be her hera.
The blood sacrifice thing I don't go for. I always question the fact of blood sacrifices historically. I know they were real; I know they happened, but I think they happened later, when people began losing their connection with Nature, each other, and the Earth. I have no proof of that. I just think anyone who has wiggled her toes in the dirt, anyone who has breathed the east wind into his lungs, anyone who has danced along the edge of the tidemark knows the Earth doesn't want any blood spilled in violence. In her book Shakti Woman , Vicki Noble writes that, "Professor Lawrence Durdin-Robertson, an Irish scholar of Goddess lore, reminds us that the first blood at the alter was menstrual blood, the free flow of the priestess giving back to the Earth Mother." Durdin-Robertson said that "menstrual blood is vibrationally potent and required by the earth as a 'sacrifice' that takes no life." Some believe when the men took over the rituals and ceremonies from women and women were no longer able to "sacrifice" their menstrual blood to the Earth, to the fields, the blood sacrifice of people and animals began.
Who knows. I like the idea that blood sacrifice meant women ran through fallow fields fertilizing them with their menstrual blood rather than the alternative. Those women would be my heras, too.
This weekend, I hung out in my menstrual hut, my house, sleeping and dreaming and writing. Two stories spilled out of me: Ghost Writer and There Are Monsters on Maple Street. In the first story, I employed a rather unique framing device—I call it unique, I suppose, because I usually hate framing devices. The second story, I wrote like an old B science fiction movie. Mario sat in the other room working on his poetry while I wrote. The wind and rain shook the house and rattled the windows. Mario and I loved it. It was a perfect Pacific Northwest day.
Yes, my lungs feel better. Knock on wood. (Are you listening, tree fairies?) The trees are my heras and heroes tonight. (And the drugs I took.)
I shall curl up to my husband, my hero, and try to sleep, to dream. Or think about my life if sleep alludes me.
I wonder: will I turn out to be the hera of my own life? 0 comments
Sunday, October 12, 2003
"It is as if someone cut off my hands and you asked me how much my hands were worth."
And by the way, Bush and his regime are proposing some dangerous (for the endangered animals) changes to the Endangered Species Act. Is there anything else legal we can do to get rid of this shrub? 0 comments
Saturday, October 11, 2003
Let the Mystery Be
—Isocrates (4th c. B.C.E.)
The mystery is always of a body
The mystery is always of a body of a woman
...The mystery of the mystery is being woman
...the mystery is always of the body in the body of a woman.
—Hélène Cixous
Thrice happy are those who have seen the Mysteries.
—Sophocles (496-408 B.C.E.)
Begin with the stirring,
begin with the stirring,
in your own dark center,
begin...
—Gwendolyn Endicott
I celebrate myself and sing myself,
and what I assume you shall assume,
for every atom belongs to me as good belongs to you
—Walt Whitman, from Song of Myself
Let the mystery be.
—Iris DeMent
All work is copyrighted by the authors themselves.
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Friday, October 10, 2003
Let's All Just Be Civil...While They Bring The Country Down
P.S. I LOVE Molly Ivins. Love her, love her, love her. You go, girl! (Also see link above under "the politics of personal destruction.") 0 comments
Just Say No
Librarian Cops Parody
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Thursday, October 09, 2003
Touchstones
Later, I walked down Russell Street to the Columbia River. The rains have scoured out the Gorge: the air is clean again. Every breath is filled with moisture. White clouds hang below the cliffs and above the water—drifting between worlds. Some look like far-flung pieces of cotton, freeze-framed, waiting to hitch a ride on any ol' breeze. In the far distance, the sky is all black and gray, a preview of more stormy nights, I hope.
At lunch, Mario continued reading to me from The Art of Pilgrimage by Phil Cousineau. We are in Chapter II: The Call. I listened to Mario's soothing voice read Cousineau's words of what famous people have said about The Calling. Boris Pasternak wrote, "When a moment knocks on the door of your life, it is often no louder than the beating of your heart, and it is very easy to miss it."
As Mario read, all I could think about was my friend Jeanne Hardy who had MCS (multiple chemical sensitivity), too, and who died quite suddenly last year around this time. Jeanne and I had been friends for years, well over a decade, even though we never met in person. We were both writers who knew each other during healthier times, then found ourselves as each other's soul sisters when we got ill. We would try to figure out what purpose our suffering served. Was there a reason so many people were being struck down, pushed down, tied down, with so many chronic illnesses? A reason beside the fact that the environment was deteriorating? Were we part of a great Calling? From our conversations, I wrote "The Calling," which appeared in the magazine Of A Like Mind. Later, with Jeanne's help, I cut it down and submitted it to We'Moon. It was accepted for the '02 We'Moon and became the opening piece for that year, the last year Jeanne was alive.
This is what Jeanne and I wondered outloud in "The Calling": "Sisters, what if it is true? What if there is a Calling? What if we are WAKING UP? Maybe there was once a tribe of priestesses whose oracles foretold this time of grave danger, and they made a pact. After the Goddess religion fell away, maybe the priestesses slipped into the background, promising to return if they were ever really needed again. What if we are starting to remember magic and each other? Starting to re-member our True selves? Maybe we are the Priestesses, reborn in this time, and we will make the changes needed for our survival. What if it is now our responsibility to change the world? To truly change, we must have a new vision. Really new. A change in worldwise consciousness. And how does one do THAT? Maybe one doesn't. If We are the cells of the Earth, the Goddess, we are being asked to remember ourselves, come together, create true magic and save the planet."
That was what we hoped. Then Jeanne died. She had been a touchstone of mine for such a long while. Her giggle could be heard in her words. Her strength seemed to be endless. Until she got sick. Then it was like knowing a mountain that was ill. You were certain in the end it would be all right. Phil Cousineau writes in The Art of Pilgrimage, "For centuries, a mysterious flintlike stone called the 'touchstone' has been used to test the purity of gold. Rubbing or pressing the waxlike ball over the stone leaves streaks behind that can tell the discriminating eye the true value of the gold. Hence, anything that helps us see whether something. . .is the real thing, authentic, if it is 'gold,' can be a touchstone."
Jeanne Hardy was my touchstone. She knew what was authentic and what wasn't. A clear-eyed vision, this woman had. But she died. She died the same week my friend Linda, another mountain, another woman with MCS, was told her breast cancer had migrated to her bones. Linda, our friend Lucia, and I went to Panther Creek to dance under a canopy of yellow and orange leaves that fell from the sky like tiny suns—in the sweetest of sweet light—while we danced, while we asked for healing for Linda, for safe passage for Jeanne.
A year has almost come and gone since that day, since Jeanne died, and still I feel off-balance. I have lost faith. In absolutely everything. I think I started tumbling just before 9/11, and then the spiral down has just been continuing, deeper and darker and tougher than any journey to the underworld I have ever been on before. On other journeys, I had solace: friends, television, books, food, Mario, faith. Hope. This seems to be a solitary journey—no, not a journey—a flailing about with no destination that I can discern. No message I can decipher. I wish for healing but see no evidence of it. Yet.
All I can do is listen to my heartbeat. Cousineau quotes John Berryman, "We must find our touchstones where we can." Jeanne and I thought maybe we could save the world. That's a heavy burden. Exhausting. I'm gonna put my part of that down. I can't save the world. I'm not even sure I can save myself. The other day after another exhausting fight with the school over their use of pesticides, Mario and I decided—judging from our experience in this area—that we couldn't change anyone's mind. We couldn't change anyone, period. We needed to change ourselves—learn to go with the flow more, before we ended up crazy. So we're trying to go with the flow, trying not to change anything for while. Maybe while we're flowing, we'll come across a touchstone or two. Or maybe just each other. That could be enough.
Two nights ago, I dreamed I had lost my shoes. I ran to the pharmacy where I had left them and rummaged through this huge lost and found filled with all kinds of shoes and boots, many which looked like mine. Someone found a tiny single white shoe, all furry and soft, and gave it to a tiny child. I said, "You can't do that! It has no match." The little girl didn't care. She cooed and oohed and ahhed over it as she stroked it and walked away. Last night I dreamed I had shoes and Mario and I were walking on a stone path trying to cross a lake when suddenly the path ended. We didn't know what to do. The water was shallow and filled with these same round rocks that had made up our path. I could get into the water and make it to shore quite easily. But I didn't want to get into the water—I didn't know if it was polluted or filled with disease, even though it looked clear and clean.
Now that I think about it, I suppose I dreamed about a lake filled with touchstones. Maybe that was message to me from Jeanne on this dark day. This beautiful clear dark day. Maybe there are touchstones everywhere. I just need to see them. Reach out. Get wet.
Who knows? I'm listening. I'm trying.
Ahhh, my stomach is rumbling. A good sign. It is time for lunch. Outside the sun has come out.
I'm praying for rain.
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Wednesday, October 08, 2003
—Gautama Buddha 0 comments
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Nuthin' Left to Say
Stealing Another Election
I'm always amazed when a candidate is found to have abused women (or is suspected of abusing women) that his popularity usually goes up—especially with women. What the hell does that say about our society?
Geez. 0 comments
Monday, October 06, 2003
Cubs Win!
Mario and I both played baseball when we were kids. Mario played with kids in his neighborhood in Sudbury, Ontario. I first played with my father, sisters, cousins, and uncles out in the country in a small town about 30 minutes from Ann Arbor, Michigan. At recess and lunch, a group of girls in my elementary school class played baseball, too. I was always the captain: little but bossy. My first pick was my friend Kathy, big athletic girl who could hit it out of the park—or into the horse pasture, as it were. One day, Mari Huttula was up to bat. I stood behind and off to the side of her, leaning forward and rooting for my gal. She swung at a good pitch, and the bat slammed right into my mouth. I can still feel it when I think about it. A strange jarring sensation that sent me running, blood flowing from my mouth—warm and salty—straight back into the school. I think I was screaming, too. The baseball bat chipped a tooth and left a scar on my lower lip that I have to this day. That night I had to sing in the school choir, and my lip was swollen to about the size of my head. But I went anyway. I wanted everyone to see my injury. It was a sign, after all, that I was a real baseball player.
I spent my childhood in Michigan, about an hour out of Detroit. When the Detroit Tigers were in the 1968 World Series, a year after the Detroit Riots, the principal set up a television in the school auditorium where we would gather at lunch, study hall, and recess to watch the games. I grew up hearing stories of Ty Cobb (nasty SOB, everyone said) and Al Kaline (everyone loved him) and watching Denny McLain and Mickey Lolich. The baseball players weren't my heroes or anything like that. I just enjoyed the game: playing and watching it. Baseball was part of the comforting yearly rituals of my childhood, something I did with my family and friends. I looked forward to it the way I looked forward to Christmas, summer vacations, and Thanksgiving.
After I left home, I didn't watch baseball for years, except for the playoffs. When the Seattle Mariners signed on Ichiro Suzuki a few years ago, I got more interested. So many baseball players now are on steroids that it's difficult to enjoy the game—at least it is for me. Some guy comes up to the plate looking like a football player and all I can think about is all the health problems he's going to have because of the steroids or I'll sit and wonder what prompted him to make the decision to jeopardize his health for this game. That ain't a fun way to watch baseball. Ichiro looks like a baseball player. He's small, wiry, and he moves with such grace—it's almost a mechanical kind of grace. But beautiful nonetheless. So I'm watching a bit more baseball these days. Sometimes it's fun to have someone to root for.
Mario Milosevic has written a poem which captures the feeling of what it's like to play baseball when you're a child. I've printed it below. It originally appeared in the Elysian Fields Quarterly, volume 20, #1, 2003. Thanks, Mario. I love this poem.
True Story
Look this one up:
Neighborhood pickup baseball game
circa nineteen-seventy,
the nth inning.
(We lost count at nineteen.)
None on. Nobody out.
The score long ago forgotten,
the sun long set.
So dark we might as well
have had our eyes closed.
We’re playing by ear and instinct
not wanting the game to end.
Batter hits a long fly.
We hear the ball rise,
air hissing off its stitches,
outfielder’s shoes pounding grass.
The hiss changing pitch
as the ball begins falling.
Outfielder stops. Waits.
Then the stunning slap
of ball into glove.
We all swallow,
keeping the silence
for a long swollen moment.
Some of us know
we will remember this
as the greatest catch
ever made.
Copyright © 2003 by Mario Milosevic
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Sunday, October 05, 2003
The Art of Pilgrimage
Don't get even, get odd!
—A. Nonymous, Zen Master
It's not the road ahead that wears you out—
it's the grain of sand in your shoe.
—old Arabian proverb
If you stand, stand. If you sit, sit. But don't wobble!
—Zen Master Ummon 0 comments
Friday, October 03, 2003
Power of Nourishment
In other words, they would continue to endanger my health unless I agreed to their blackmail. At least that was how I viewed the encounter. Others may have a different perspective. But needless to say—but I'll say it anyway—I was not feeling particularly safe, and I felt surrounded by people who belonged on a different planet. So Mario and I drove to Portland to In Other Words. I went inside the bookstore only to discover I was an hour early. I had been sick all day, hadn't slept in days, and was feeling rather cranky. I left the store and decided, "Screw it, I'm goin' home." Mario drove me to the Bombay Cricket Club for dinner. The waitress was so cheerful and chatty, and I wanted her to leave us alone. I looked at her wide smile, and I knew I could crush it. I thought of all the times I'd been happy or enthusiastic or talkative only to have to deal with some curmudgeon who seemed to want to take everyone with them on their Road to Misery. So I perked up and acted the role of human being. The dal and vegetable biryani were too hot, but delicious. The more I ate, the more Mario held my hand, the more the waitress was young and chirpy, the more I came into myself again. I decided to go to the We'Moon reading after all.
I first encountered We'Moon over a decade ago when I bought We'moon: an astrological moon calendar and appointment book for We'moon. That's how it was described in '91. The theme that year was Gaia: the Earth. I was thrilled to learn that this inspiring group of wimmin lived in Oregon on wimmin's land. One summer not long after, I drove from the Gorge to the Land to celebrate Lammas with the We'Mooners and SisterSpirit, a women's spirituality group based in Portland. I didn't know anyone else there, but everyone welcomed me warmly. I was amused that the lesbians all stripped from the waist up, the heteros kept all their clothes on, and then there was me: I didn't want to expose my extremely lily-white breasts to the summer sun, so I stripped down as far as I could and tucked everything up and around and under as much as I could so that I was half half-naked. Always straddling the various worlds.
I loved being around women who were so confident, so firmly in their bodies. And what I noticed throughout the day was that I began to relax: because I was safe. I didn't have to watch everything I did. I didn't have to be super-aware of everyone around me. I felt no violence. And I had no fear of violence. I was surrounded by like-minded people who loved the Earth, who honored Nature and each other. I was safe. That was a completely new experience for me. When I left late afternoon to go home, I remember being in the car, still half half-naked, realizing I had to cover up: in order to be safe, I had to cover up. I had to power down. I had to turn off part of myself. I wept as I drove away.
Over the years, I would see Beth and Musawa and other We'Mooners at various workshops and ceremonies. I always felt welcomed in their presence, and they always welcomed Mario, too. I have been rejected by women because I don't have children, because I have college degrees, because I have opinions, because I sleep with a man, etc.. I've heard all the reasons why I'm not good enough to be in the company of certain women, so I've stopped being surprised by the reasons why I am not accepted into a certain group. Mario has been shunned many times over the twenty-three years we've been together because he is a man. Anyone who shuns Mario doesn't know him. When we'd see Beth from We'Moon she always had a hug for me and Mario. I loved that kind of love. I loved knowing that a place existed where these wonderful women lived in peace and safety.
After dinner, Mario and I returned to In Other Words. I looked around but saw none of the familiar faces from We'Moon. I also looked for Coyote Cowgirl. I couldn't find it. I fumed. Why couldn't this store, a feminist bookstore no less, stock my novel? Any of my novels. I was a feminist. Every book I wrote was feminist. Why couldn't this store support me? I was so annoyed I wanted to leave. I was so tired. Tired of not fitting in anywhere. Tired of fighting every moment of my life.
But I stayed. We put chairs in a circle because there were only about ten of us. The manager of the store, Sue Burns, sat next to me. I asked her why she didn't have my book, and she told me she did but it had sold out. I went, "Oh." So much for my paranoia. "I'll get some more," she said. I smiled sheepishly and started to relax.
In Other Words Women's Books and Resources, Portland's only non-profit feminist bookstore, is one of a dwindling number of feminist bookstores in the country. According to the Feminist Bookstore Network, "Feminist bookstores and feminist presses are failing at an unprecedented rate, the prey of corporate capitalism in book publishing and bookselling. Since 1997, 30% of feminist bookstores in the U.S. and Canada have closed for good, down from 107 to 74." What this means to the average reader is there are less choices on what we can read; to writers, it means we have less opportunity to get our work published.
(If you're wondering if the question of whether women are getting published or not is still relevant, many of my feminist friends and teachers who were published in previous years are now having trouble getting published and are being told by publishers that if they toned down the "feminist stuff" maybe the publisher could work with them. Joanna Russ's book How to Suppress Women's Writing is a great read on this subject and, unfortunately, it is still timely.)
Fortunately, In Other Words will soon be celebrating their tenth anniversary. Last night, they helped celebrate We'Moon's new Gaia Rhythms for Womyn. I started off the program by reading my piece from We'Moon '04 "The Power of Nourishment." I also read a couple of pages from Coyote Cowgirl. Marna shared her piece "Soul-Stitch" with us. Another woman read her poem about her motorcycle Trixie. Margaret Hammitt-McDonald read from, among other pieces, "Reclaiming the Woman of Iron and Fire." She began with, "I am the proud female owner of muscles!" As I listened to her enthusiastic reading, I thought of all the times over the last many years when I had sat with We'Moon, felt nourished by the words and the art, felt as though maybe I did have a place in this world, maybe there were people of like-mind and that I wasn't the only one who felt the way I did. Maybe these people weren't always right next to me physically, but they were there: loving the Earth, loving each other, weaving a new world where—among other things—I could find my place.
(And in this new world, by the way, there would be no pesticides. No blackmail. No war. I believe its possible. Are those just crazy-making thoughts?)
When the reading was over, Mario and I drove home, feeling nourished by the power of the women (and two men) we had shared the evening with. Nourished by the Power of sitting together and enchanting each other with our words. I was glad I had stayed.
Blessed be! 0 comments
Thursday, October 02, 2003
A Special Prosecutor Needed & Free Speech Lives!
And yesterday a federal judge ruled that a Dearborn student had a right to wear a t-shirt that proclaimed Bush an international terrorist. The vice-principal told the student to cover up the t-shirt or go home. The student sued. The federal judge disagreed with the school's decision and instead reaffirmed the student's right to wear the t-shirt. Yes! Freedom of speech is still alive and kicking in the U.S. of A. My friend Kevin Feeney in Hawaii sent me this article yesterday to cheer me up, and it worked, Kevin. Thanks! 0 comments
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
We Have No Bananas...Tomorrow
We moved into town to get away from the pesticide spraying done by the county. While other counties in Washington state are trying to reduce their use of pesticides, our county is out nearly every working day from April through September spewing toxins into our environment. Recently, they sprayed the road leading to my friend Linda's house. Linda has metastasized breast cancer and is chemically-sensitive. The county engineer and the man who sprays know this, yet they didn't call her, and she came up behind the truck while it was spraying with her windows wide open. This kind of exposure could have killed her. Fortunately, she was all right. Mario phoned the engineer to ask why they hadn't notified Linda they were going to be in her area. The engineer said, "I'm Linda's friend, too." Three days later, he sent the spray truck back up her road to finish the spraying. With those kinds of friends...
I'm always amazed when people behave badly. The people who work for the school and the county, the people who are spraying these poisons, know it can cause me and others harm, yet they do it anyway. What kind of people act like that? What kind of community allows people to behave so badly—and instead accuses the person who is harmed of being "irrational." The deputy told me I couldn't press assault charges against the school because their intention was not to harm me. But if someone keeps repeating behavior over and over which they know is harmful to a person, isn't that intentional? Someone getting into a car drunk may not intend to hurt someone but if they do, they go to jail.
Many people where I live say they don't want to get involved in the "pesticide issue" because it's "political." I say, "Supporting the status quo is a political statement, too." Evil prevails where good people do nothing.
Recently our village had some renovations done and added flora to our downtown area. It's really lovely. I'm counting on our city leaders to be more educated and progressive than the leaders at the school and the county; I'm hoping that they will not resort to using pesticides in our town despite any pressure that might be put on them to act differently. Sometimes walking around town is the only place I feel safe from pesticides. (Did you know 60% of the air in the United States is contaminated with pesticides?)
I hope the man spraying the poisons at the school, the superintendent, and the school board are ashamed of how they have behaved. But I doubt it. They will most likely continue to put me and the children of this community in harm's way. The National Coalition Against the Misuse of Pesticide's slogan is, "Because freedom from pesticides is everyone's right." Apparently it isn't my right.
I'm tired of this fight. There must be someplace on this planet I can live in peace. In the meantime, I have my words: I can tell everyone I know how the school and the county behaves. Pass it on! If tourists know how much pesticides are spewed into our county, maybe they'll stop coming. Maybe then the good ol' boys will change their ways. But let me make my intentions clear: I want them to stop using chemical pesticides. Period. BECAUSE FREEDOM FROM PESTICIDES IS EVERYONE'S RIGHT.
There. I'm hungry. I haven't eaten since this all started.
I have a banana in the freezer. I'll try that. Did you know we probably won't have any bananas in a few years. Because of pesticides. Because of the unquestioning faith people continue to put in technology. What happened to the idea that we should question EVERYTHING?
That's all the words I have for today. You all take care of yourselves. I wish you better neighbors than I have. And check out your schools. Make certain that they are not putting your children in harm's way.
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