The Furious Spinner

We aren't getting many children this year for Halloween. I want to send them on their way with something sweet for the new year. This is the Witch's New Year, after all. Mario is doing the dishes. I am somewhat numb. We have a family medical crisis. This time of year used to be my favorite. I'm starting to have second thoughts. You can go here if you want to read what I wrote last year about Hallows.

As you may have noticed, I haven't been writing many political pieces. I've been frayed by watching the fray. And shocked. I don't want Bush to win, but I'm not out in the streets trying to prevent people from voting. I want as many people as possible voting, so that we can truly see what the people of our country are like. Yet the Republicans are ripping up ballots, intimidating people, and challenging new registrations. They don't want people to vote. It is common wisdom that more people voting means victory for the Democrats; less people voting is good for the Republicans. I've heard that all my life. Now I'm hearing that people in the Republican party are saying they only care about one vote count: the Supreme Court. I don't want this to be the way our country goes now. I don't want each election tied up in the partisan courts so that our votes really don't count. It needs to be a landslide—a landslide for Kerry.

I've been trying to spend as much time in the forest as possible; although with all the rain, that's been a bit difficult. Falling Creek is so beautiful now. I came around one corner where the Earth slopes for a few hundred feet and I saw gold. "I've found treasure," I whispered to Mario. It looked as though a giant had tossed coins up into the air and they remained there, frozen for a few moments before shapechanging into stilled birds and then leaves again.

Water pours over the falls now: white and dirty green. Rain, rain, and more rain. This morning, the Gorge cliffs had snow. It looked as though someone had poured cream on the tops of the slopes. This seems early for snow.

After Falling Creek today, we drove to Maryhill Museum for their Day of the Dead celebration. Someone had put together a moving and beautiful ancestor altar. Then the artist of a retablo on display explained her art. She was raised in California but her father was from Los Angeles. They had a grotto in the back yard to the Madonna with corn growing all around it—for the corn maiden. As she spoke, I sat there trying not to cry. I don't know why I was crying. For once I was grateful for my allergies—since everyone would think that was why my nose and eyes were running.

When I was a child, I often passed out when I cried. I cried so hard that I couldn't catch my breath and boom! I was on the floor unconscious. My father said it started when I was about two—I think that was around the time we lived in Texas. I was a very sensitive child. My parents called these episodes "fits" and took me to the doctors. They didn't know what to do. If I started to cry, my dad would take me by the arms and shake me angrily, trying to get me to stop crying. Well, that just scared me, so I cried more. When I passed out, I would come to, gasping, after they threw a glass of cold water in my face. After one of these traumatizing episodes, my mother knelt beside me and said, "Daddy is just worried; that's why he gets so angry." I nodded and was grateful she told me this. It explained so much that I hadn't understood. Why is Daddy so angry with me when I'm the one gasping for breath? Now I knew: he covered up with fear with anger. (Something his daughter does to this day.)

Now as an adult, I rarely cry. If I do, I often feel like I can't breathe. My asthma gets aggravated; my nose swells even worse. It ain't pretty and it ain't fun. Yet, some days, like today, the tears just come.

I thought of all this while we listened to a Mariachi band—eleven musicians.

Three storytellers came on after them. They told a Spanish ghost story and did a Flamenco dance. Then one of the storytellers pretended she was La Llorona, crying (from off stage), "O hijos mios!" When she finally came into the room, the other storyteller said, "Are these your children?" "No," she said, looking at us. "And I know I didn't have this many." Then they went on to another story without telling the La Llorona tale. It was amusing, but the story of La Llorona (the Weeping Woman) is not amusing—which is probably why they didn't tell the story. La Llorona supposedly killed her children when her lover got married to someone else. (She may have gotten a bad rap. I won't go into depth about it now, because I intend to write more about her later, maybe this winter.)

We drove home in the sunshine and got back just as the children started arriving on our doorstep. I also had four phone messages, which is never a good sign. Last time I had four messages was 9/11. My mother is in the hospital. The details are hers and are private but needless to say it is quite distressing. As soon as I got off the phone with one of my sisters, I stepped outside and two deer stood on our front lawn, watching me. They didn't run; they watched me. A doe and a fawn, probably. I whispered, "All that noise is just the kids. You're OK." I thought of my mother and me. She has had such a difficult life. I wondered if she ever had a time when she felt free and happy—and healthy.

After a bit, the deer tiptoed away. Or so it seemed.

I came into the house and read an email from a friend. He was forwarding a letter from his friend. The letter was all about how this friend of his, this woman, who had not voted before because we live in such a corrupt system that she couldn't participate. She went on for paragraph after paragraph saying how terrible both candidates were but she was going to vote anyway. I couldn't tell who she was voting for. My friend thought her letter was amazing and inspiring. It just pissed me off. So I wrote this back to him:

"Sorry, D*****. Given what has happened to our country, it is difficult for me not to feel anger toward people like your friend who have been so disengaged. Voting is something men and women fought and died for. I'm glad she's finally stepping up—unless, of course, she's voting for Nader—it seemed a bit vague. Medea Benjamin and Daniel Ellsberg recently spoke in Portland and they said they were voting for Kerry, even though they had both supported Nader last time. And people in the audience were giving them a hard time. Ellsberg said something along the lines that Liberals are such purists. He said it's nice to hold onto your ideals but you should look at what you're actually accomplishing. For instance, and this is me now, these people who say they can't stomach voting for Kerry, and I say, OK, look at what the result will be then: you'll be voting for Bush. And for people like your friend who say they just can't be a part of this horrible system. Well, then I say it will remain this horrible system as long as people decide to sit it out. The right-wing decided they weren't going to sit it out and they've essentially taken over our government. Maybe I'll feel more compassionate toward your friend and others like her on Wednesday. Right now, I hold them partially responsible for the mess we're in now."

I wonder how I'll feel about that letter tomorrow.

I hope we will all be celebrating soon. If you don't hear from me, it's just because I hurt my arm again and it's difficult to type.

Take care.

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