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.

Monday, May 31, 2004

Remembering 

Mario and I have been watching documentaries, most of them about past wars and the anti-war movement. Recently we've seen Fog of War, Weather Underground, Power and Terror, and War at Home. What I've gotten from all these movies is that people don't seem to learn from history. (1) During all wars—including World War II—the government lies to the people about the truth of the situation and what they are doing. (2) For some bizarre reason, people trust the government's reason for sending their children to die in war. (3) The anti-war movements are despised by the general populace, even though they are the ones telling the truth. (Later history always verifies the veracity of their claims.) (4) The government pays no attention to the anti-war movement, or at least, they do not change their policies because of growing opposition. (5) The government and the people always claim they "can not pull out now or all those who have died will have died for nothing," so thousands more die. (This is so illogical it makes me want to pull my hair out.)

I could sum that up more succinctly: Governments always lie; citizens trust their government; people die.

I say question everything!

If you didn't see Sunday's Doonesbury, here it is.

People have put up all kinds of memorials in honor of the war dead. Some members of our peace group made a poster with photographs of all of the American soldiers who have died in Iraq along with photographs to honor the other soldiers and all the Iraqi citizens who had been killed. A local bookstore has it in their window, and people have left flowers and lit candles on the sidewalk below. I hope nothing bad happens to the store. In San Francisco, an art gallery closed after the owner was attacked(POPUP) when she showed a painting that depicted the torture of Iraqis by American soldiers. One veteran says that war memorials "honor failure." Instead, let's create a Peace Department. This author says we too easily accept war and its horrors.

Let us not forget how many thousands of Iraqis have been killed in our name with soldiers and weapons and bombs paid for with our tax dollars–with our hard-earned money. The government takes my money and uses it to kill. It is an understatement to say that I don't like that.

May the dead rest in peace.

May you walk in Beauty...and Peace.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/31/2004 04:21:00 PM
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Sunday, May 30, 2004

To Quote Pogo... 

"We have met the enemy...and he is us." I am so ashamed of our government and the military. I haven't the words presently to articulate how disgusted I am. We must rise up and meet this challenge–we must rise up and demand an accounting. We were meant to be better than this. As part of the privileged (because we live in the U.S. we are by default privileged), it is up to us to stop the government from what they're doing. Talk to everyone you know. Tell them what is happening. (What in particular am I talking about? The war in Iraq and the killing of Iraqi prisoners; see link above.)

I have spent many days immersed in 1796, so I'm feeling a bit of culture shock being back in the 21st century. Gotta get my sea legs again, so to speak. Am I babbling? I wrote more than fifty pages yesterday. Less today, but I've finished the first draft of Lady Liberty. Now I shall go eat lunch.

May you remember in Beauty.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/30/2004 12:37:00 PM
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Saturday, May 29, 2004

Odds and Happy Ends 

Looks like Miramax has bought back the rights from Disney for Michael Moore's film Fahrenheit 9/11. We should see it in the theaters this summer. Yeah!

Speaking of films, we went to see The Day After Tomorrow. The right has declared this movie garbage and is telling people not to go see it. The left has said it's Hollywood hokum but see it because the administration doesn't want you to see it. OK, I saw it. I can't imagine why anyone would care one way or another. Yes, it's about global warming, but it's not really about global warming. Some of the science is wrong from the beginning. They say global warming won't have an impact for 100 years. It's having an impact right now. The movie was fun—kind of like watching those old seventies disaster movies. I told Mario when it was over that the only part I didn't believe was when the Cheney-like guy changed his ways in the end and became a good guy. But I was kidding. I didn't really believe any of it, but it was enjoyable anyway. In real life, global warming is happening right now. Anyone who has spent any time outdoors in the last twenty years knows that something is happening with the climate. The good thing about the film is that is does say global warming is happening now, and perhaps it'll get people talking and doing something about the problem. Stranger things have happened.

I'm in the home stretch of the first draft of my novel, so I need to get back. Mario found this site with photos of the most amazing ice sculptures. Enjoy!
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/29/2004 11:54:00 AM
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Wednesday, May 26, 2004

Keeps Rolling On 

And the world keeps rolling on without me. Without my interference. Without my grief and tears. Halle-freaking-lujah!

Been communing with my garden when not writing. We've got strawberries. Have you ever had strawberries fresh from the garden? I mean right there standing in your garden, your soles flat against the Earth—the dirt—with a fat juicy red strawberry in your fingers and then in your mouth. Melts. Like sugar. Only better. Sweet, juicy, and tart all in the same moment. It leaves blood stains on your hands. Evidence of a sensual life. Mmmmm. Succ-u-lent. Strawberries from the garden taste completely different from those you buy in the stores. How different? Have you ever seen a print or a picture of Georgia O'Keeffe's paintings? Vivid, bright, provocative, meta-real. Those prints and pictures are like what ghosts are to living human beings. In true life, her paintings are surreal, mystical, supernatural in that they are extremely natural. As if she saw what color the soul of a thing was, and then she painted it for us to see. That, my friends, is the difference between a store bought strawberry and one plucked from the garden with cloud spit and deer's breath still clinging to it. Those strawberries let you taste their soul and heart.

So it won't surprise you to know that strawberries were considered love food by many cultures, although the Greeks didn't want people eating red food. (I have a theory about that; since they feared and hated women so much they probably associated red food with the power of women's blood. They didn't want anyone feeling that power, thus the taboo.) It's also considered a fairy food. I shouldn't wonder.

I've written 8,000 words in two days. I've realized again what I knew before: when writing fiction, that's all I can do. So I'm doing it.

Have a great week!

Ta! May you all create with Beauty!
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/26/2004 05:41:00 PM
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Amnesty International Report 

Have you heard what Amnesty says about the U.S.? Not pretty. Amnesty said, among other things, "The global security agenda promulgated by the US administration is bankrupt of vision and bereft of principle....Sacrificing human rights in the name of security at home, turning a blind eye to abuses abroad and using pre-emptive military force where and when it chooses have neither increased security nor ensured liberty." Here's the annual report.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/26/2004 04:12:00 PM
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Tuesday, May 25, 2004

Roots 

I'm hoping to get work done on my novel this week, so here's an essay from Falling: A Memoir in Nature. This one is from April 2002, and it's the first time we've seen a deer's head orchid. Enjoy!

April 22, 2002

Monday Mario and I walked the upper falls trail at Falling Creek. We followed the path into the quiet tangled woods. Mario stopped at a fallen Douglas fir and counted the rings.

Two hundred and sixteen rings.

I looked up at a fir next to me. Its girth was nearly twice that of the fallen tree. Was it then 400, 500 years old? I could not see the end of it—or was it the beginning? I supposed the end of it was beneath my feet. How deep did the roots go? Did they spread out and meet with the roots of other trees, wrap around each other and exchange information and nutrition like some species of trees did? A close-knit community underneath it all.

This Douglas fir had weathered all kinds of...storms.

“How do you do it?” I asked the tree. “How do you make a life?”

Put down roots.

“Find a place and stick with it,” Mario said outloud.

Mario and I looked at each other.

We had gotten the same answer.

Mario gave me a look that seemed to say, “What else would a tree say?”

I had tried to feel at home here—at home anywhere—but I most often felt uprooted. Root-less.

We continued our walk. Mario spotted a lone fuschia-colored flower. Five petals grew straight up and a pale red pouch drooped from the midst of the petals. I wondered what kind of tiny magic was hidden in that flowery pouch. Yellow violets began popping up. Flowers of the fairies. They looked delicious. On occasion, I had sipped a cup or two of fresh violet tea and noshed on violet leaves and flowers.

Perhaps we were in Fairy Country. Bigfoot country for certain. Some people believed Bigfoot was the Northwest equivalent of an Irish fairy. Others thought s/he was an “undiscovered” animal species. Some Native American tribes believed s/he was a spirit and if you saw her, it was not good news: it meant things were out of balance and the proverbial shit was about to hit the fan.

When I mentioned Bigfoot to people who did not live in the Pacific Northwest, they looked at me as though I were a crazy person. Was I really seriously discussing Bigfoot?

Yes.

The United States was one of the few places on the planet where a belief in fairies—or pixies, hobgoblins, spirits, invisibles—was not prevalent.

At least in the Pacific Northwest, we had Bigfoot—whether s/he was a monster, spirits, fairy, or unclassified ape. S/he was part of the real.

It was illegal in the county where I lived to kill Bigfoot. It was an actual law. I wanted to feel at home in a place where it was a crime to harm Bigfoot.

The following day I returned to Falling Creek—this time to the lower falls trail—with my friend Linda. Neither of us had slept much the night before, and we moved (and felt) like slugs coming out of a drunk. But the cold morning air was refreshing, it was sunny, and I wanted to take some photos.

As we were about to step onto the trail, a lone woman walked out of the woods. We greeted one another and talked about the beauty of the place, invoking the word “sacred” in hushed tones.

Wasn't all of Nature sacred?

Something about this place...

Listen.

“I never tell people about this place,” I said.

“You don’t?” the woman said.

“It may be selfish, but too many places I know have been spoiled by fame,” I said.

She nodded. “I agree. Have you walked the upper falls trail?”

“I’ve walked it a couple of times,” I said, “but never to the end. We went there yesterday, actually, walked about an hour and turned back. We weren’t sure how long it was.”

“I can tell you that,” she said. She went to her car and pulled out a booklet and flipped through it until she got to the section on Falling Creek.

“Upper falls. 8.7 miles,” she said. “One way.”

Good thing we had turned back yesterday.

We said good-bye to the woman, and Linda and I started down our 1.7 mile trail.

Linda touched nearly everything in the woods. Every leaf, trunk, flower, lichen, fungus, blob of guck. She was fearless. She plucked, too. If she wanted a cutting for home, she took it. She knew what was rare and shouldn’t be transplanted. Still, I sometimes cringed. I rarely took anything from the woods.

Linda began naming the various plants for me as we walked past them. I asked about the conifers; I had trouble distinguishing many of them from each other. Apparently it was something that frustrated many naturalists and botanists. Linda started pointing out which were which, then hesitated, laughed, and said she wasn’t sure either.

We walked slowly. No destination. We wanted to be on the trail. To be in this place. Linda stopped every few feet sometimes, pointing flora out to me. I was grateful for the leisurely pace. I began to take notice of things I didn’t usually see as I hurried to the end of the trail.

We stopped to touch the strips of gray bark peeling from a red cedar.

“I wish you could smell this,” Linda said. “It’s wonderful.”

We pet the flat green sprays of cedar leaves. Most Northwest totem poles were carved from these great cedars.

Linda and I had become friends several years ago when we formed a group to fight the county’s pesticide spraying policies. She was getting chemotherapy at the time for breast cancer and often stopped at our house with her then-preadolescent daughter, Serena, on the way back from her treatments in Portland. We had not succeeded in changing much of what the county did. Both of us became disillusioned by the entrenchment and idiocy of the good ol’ boy network, but we became close friends.

Unlike many of my acquaintances, Linda never had to work me into her busy schedule or pencil me into her datebook. She enjoyed my company and liked doing things on the spur of the moment, as I did. Our views of the world were similar, although she believed illnesses were great lessons we asked to learn. I definitely disagreed with that view, so we kept mum on that particular subject with each other.

Mario had a friend who said he had too many friends. His biggest complaint was that he did not have enough time to do what he really wanted to do because he felt he had to attend to the needs of his friends. Every time he told us this I wondered what it was like to have too many friends. A bushel of friends. A ton of friends. I tried to imagine letting go of any of my friends. My friends were hard-won, deeply loved, and few and far between. Some of my closest friends irritated me a good percentage of the time, but I figured I irritated them at least as much so it was a wash. When I finally considered someone a friend, I held onto them. We held onto each other.

Linda and I walked until we reached the log with the pumpkin-colored wedding bell mushrooms on it. Sunlight poured into the spot. Linda sat on a sun-soaked log and began looking through her flora identification books while I took macro photographs. The bells had already started to dry out even though only four days had passed since Mario and I had first seen them.

I sat next to Linda and drank some water. She showed me photographs of flowers in her book.

“We should see this,” she said.

She pointed to a photo of the fuchsia-colored pouch flower we had seen yesterday. Deer’s-head orchid, or Fairy Slipper.

“We saw that yesterday,” I told her. “Just one.”

“Where there’s one there’s more. You have to keep looking.”

Eventually we got up from our sunny spot and headed back toward the car. Linda looked tired. She was still recovering from a broken wrist. She lived on a farm with Serena where they raised sheep, chickens, geese, rabbits, and dogs, and grew much of their own food.

I slowed my pace to match hers.

“Wouldn’t it be great to come out here during the full moon?” I said. “Do cougars hunt at night?”

“Yes,” she said, “but you don’t ever have to worry about a cougar hurting you. If you come face to face with one, say hello and carry on.”

I wasn’t sure I could actually do that, but I nodded. Linda touched an old growth as she passed it.

I often thought of leaving this area, finding a place that was more pristine, less troublesome, with more culture and diversity. Someplace where I felt more at home.

If I moved away, I would have to leave behind this creek, the falls, Linda, Serena, pikas, and Bigfoot.

I didn’t know if I could live again in a place where the people didn’t believe in fairies. Or Bigfoot.

Linda gave the old Douglas fir a hug.

It had taken me all my life to find another person who hugged trees.

Yesterday the old Doug had told me to put down roots and find home.

Perhaps I already had.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/25/2004 07:20:00 AM
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Sunday, May 23, 2004

Giggle 

Here's something to help you start (or end) your day with a giggle. Explore the site. It goes on and on. It's soooo bad!
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/23/2004 05:13:00 PM
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Saturday, May 22, 2004

What's Happening 

If you've written to me and I haven't responded, please don't take it personally. I am way behind in my library work and my work on the novel. I'll try to catch up with correspondence next week. Have a good weekend!
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/22/2004 11:00:00 AM
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Friday, May 21, 2004

Family 

Have you heard about the father and daughter found living in Forest Park in Portland? They had been living in the heavily forested park for four years. A jogger found them and reported it to the police. The story appears to have a "happy" ending. The police didn't turn them over to the state or split them up. Although it looks like they were perfectly contented living in the forest, they are now living on a farm, in a trailer, with electricity and heat, and the father has a job of sorts. Thanks for the link, Mario.

Bernadette sent me a link to a piece in the Guardian by Michael Berg, the father of Nick Berg who was murdered in Iraq. He is angry at the death of his son, but he is furious at the Bush administration. And he asks the question we should all be asking: why does the U.S. continue to threaten the world with its brand of "peace?" Why don't we listen to the rest of the world instead of threatening it? I'm wondering why this piece is in a British newspaper and not in an American one? Would no one else publish it?

May You Walk in Beauty.

Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/21/2004 01:30:00 PM
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Thursday, May 20, 2004

Worth a Thousand Words 

This is a photo of an Iraqi who was a prisoner in Abu Ghraib. Just about broke my heart when I saw it. Felt like I would melt from the grief. Went out and sat in my garden.

Then I walked over to the Kuan Yin Peace Garden, a few yards away. The deer had eaten my red ornamental poppies. In some versions of the story of Demeter and Kore, the daughter picks the poppy which represents the Earth and her mother—trapped in the underworld, the flower of deep sleep connects her to Nature, her mother, and rebirth. The leaves of the poppy were sacred to Hera, the ancient goddess of sexuality and fertility before the Greeks kidnapped her and made her part of their pantheon, turning her into the shrewish wife of Zeus.

For me, the ornamental poppies looked like flowers made from that crinkly paper—crepe? A mixture of nature and culture. Truth, beauty, and artifice. All wrapped up in this reddish orange flower swaying in the wind next to Kuan Yin. I smiled every time I looked out the window and saw them. Now the deer had consumed them. I was annoyed and charmed all in the same breath. My neighbor shot at the deer if he saw any, along with the raccoons and coyotes, even though we lived in town. Many people considered deer to be pests—varmints, if you will. They reminded me of coyotes, actually. Regal tricksters who looked fey, elegant, and ready to break apart at any sound but who could leap ten foot fences at a single bound just to get to your roses. Or ornamental poppies. Deer drifted in and out of sight, at dawn and dusk, part of mist and memory. Today I smiled as I looked at the place where the poppies had been. "You are welcome," I whispered. Then went back to the wars...
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/20/2004 11:16:00 PM
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Animal Farm 

John Kerry did not mention choice.

I went to see John Kerry and Howard Dean at a rally in Portland this week, and he didn’t once mention women or choice. I thought this was odd, especially since every other person seemed to be wearing an “I vote pro-choice” or “this is the face of feminism” sticker.

We waited out in the rain for Mr. Kerry. Two hours. But what’s two hours in the grand scheme of things? We were going to be inspired. A local band entertained us while we waited. We watched for signs of electrocution while the drops fell, helicopters hovered overhead, and a huge American flag undulated in the wind. Spectators hung out the windows of the highrises on two sides of the square; some of them displayed signs. “Kerry ‘04” and “Bush sucks.”

Finally, after some introductory speakers, Howard Dean began talking. I waited to see and hear the man who had inspired millions, but the Howard Dean we had all gotten to know during the campaign was not on that Portland stage. He introduced a man whose life Kerry had saved during the war. My husband and I glanced at each other as the talk of war and honor and blood and guts seemed to go and on. What was it with these people and their glorification of war? Ah well. Kerry was due up next.

The crowd roared. Kerry began speaking. He talked about the war in Iraq, the environment, stem cell research, health care, and education. Several times. In a kind of list.

But he didn’t mention choice even once.

He mentioned God too many times.

John Kerry got the biggest applause of the day when he said, “Let’s take back the American flag. It doesn’t belong to just the Republicans.” Or something like that. People cheered, threw things in the air, waved flags. Americans want to believe in America again, I thought, and that is the story John Kerry should tell. Yes, that was the problem here: we didn’t know John Kerry’s story.

All great leaders and politicians have a narrative—they’ve got a story to tell. They are superb storytellers, making the television, the amphitheater, the cafeteria the campfire we’re all sitting around.

Once I figured out it was John Kerry’s story we weren’t hearing, I felt better. It was true: I didn’t like all his war talk. And yes, I didn’t like him mentioning God all the time. Yes, I was uncomfortable with his stand on Iraq. I wanted us out of Iraq; we had, after all, invaded a sovereign nation who hadn’t done anything to us. He wants to stay and work with NATO. OK, we disagreed on that, but he was not Bush, so I would just grin and bear it.

Then I heard that on Meet the Press Kerry was asked about Israel’s recent assassination of a Hamas leader. He seemed to say he agreed with their actions. Kerry said, "I believe Israel has every right in the world to respond to any act of terror against it. Hamas is a terrorist, brutal organization. It has had ten years to make up its mind to take part in a peaceful process. They refuse to. Arafat refuses to. And I support Israel's efforts to try and separate itself and try to be secure."

OK, I didn’t agree with that at all, but Kerry was not Bush. I had to remember that. I wrote to our local peace group saying just that: Yes, Kerry isn’t perfect; yes, I voted for Nader last election--when I knew it wouldn’t impact the number of electoral votes going to Gore, but Kerry had voted correctly on environmental issues, and he supported women’s rights. I wasn’t going to do anything that might help George Bush get reelected.

Then someone sent me an article from the Guardian. Kerry appeared to be “striking a moderate tone” when it came to pro-choice judges. Was this why Kerry had not mentioned choice at the rally in Portland? According to the Guardian, Kerry said “he's open to nominating anti-abortion judges as long as that doesn't lead to the Supreme Court overturning the landmark 1973 ruling that made abortion legal.”

WHAT?

That was it. That was the straw that broke my accommodating back. Suddenly I felt as though I did know John Kerry’s story. Animal Farm flashed through my brain. Remember how the animals were trying to negotiate with the humans for their rights? They sent the pigs as their representatives. In the end, the pigs looked just like the humans—the other animals couldn’t tell the difference between the humans and the pigs.

I was one of those people who had been arguing that there is a difference between the Democrats and Republicans. After three years of Bush, I had seen an amazing and horrifying difference. Now I felt like throwing in the towel, packing it in a bag, and heading for Canada.

What was it with these politicians? Why did they all start sounding and acting alike?

Maybe Animal Farm wasn’t Kerry’s story. Maybe it was the Stepford Wives. Maybe politicians believed they had to become Stepford Politicians in order to please Americans. Remember Invasion of the Body Snatchers? Seeing Howard Dean all calm and ordinary, I was tempted to start looking for pods. Now Kerry was talking moderation when appointing the judges who could determine women’s rights to control our own bodies. Moderation was not in order here!

I don’t like the stories of the two main candidates for president. And I’m not the only one. Maybe we will start telling another story, a better story. It could begin with a sentence from the Declaration of Independence: That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

I still believe in happy endings.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/20/2004 12:22:00 PM
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Wednesday, May 19, 2004

Free Speech Victory! 

Today a U.S. judge in Miami dismissed charges against Greenpeace. (Previously reported in Furious Spinner.) This case was an example of John Ashcroft's So-called Justice Department's campaign to completely dismantle our civil right to protest. Well, they failed! Rock on, GP!
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/19/2004 05:35:00 PM
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Undue Influence 

I told you I'd have more to say about this topic. I took my earlier post and expanded it into this essay.

In a letter to his parishioners, Colorado Springs Bishop Michael Sheridan recently wrote, “Any Catholic politicians who advocate for abortion, for illicit stem cell research or for any form of euthanasia ipso facto place themselves outside full communion with the Church and so jeopardize their salvation. Any Catholics who vote for candidates who stand for abortion, illicit stem cell research or euthanasia suffer the same fateful consequences.”

In other words: if you’re Catholic and you vote for John Kerry, you’re a sinner, and you’ll go to hell if you don’t repent.

When I heard about this, I was stunned. Furious. The Catholic Church, which is in the middle of a molestation scandal involving over 4,000 of its priests, is trying to influence the course of an American election? The Catholic Church which moved these predatory sexual abusers from parish to parish for years—abusers who gave and received communion—is now telling Catholics they would be committing a sin if they voted for a pro-choice candidate?

I was raised Catholic in a rural town in Michigan. St. Patrick’s Church. Father McCann married my parents in the small stone church which stood on the edge of town. My older sister attended the school across the street from the church. She was left-handed and the nuns used to whack her left-hand with a ruler and tell her she was on the side of the devil. Fortunately by the time I entered school, the county had built a public school near my house, and I was spared the Catholic school. I was left-handed, too.

They tore down the stone church and built a newer church. It was there I spent part of my Sunday every week until I was an adult. It was there I took my first communion and had my confirmation. I attended mass there for nearly every holiday, went there for weddings and funerals. I knew practically every nook and cranny of the building, and nearly everyone I knew was Catholic and a Democrat—although I never heard a priest talking politics.

In high school, the rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar came out. I was enthralled. I put a poster of Jesus on the back of my door. My good Catholics parents worried I was becoming a Jesus freak. My father bought me a blue laughing Buddha along with some incense. Later, for good measure, he got me a Pennsylvania hex sign to hang over my door.

About the same time, I went to the town mall and was confronted with huge displays of photographs of aborted fetuses. (Abortion was still illegal.) These photographs were probably 12’ x 12’. When I tried to walk away from one, I ran into another. They were arranged like a maze, so if you went to the mall, you had to look at them. I remember thinking I didn’t like the photographs, but I was even more disturbed wondering what kind of people would take the photos, blow them up, and force others to look at them.

In college, I studied various religions. As far as I could tell, not one of the organized religions respected women or held them equal to men—including and especially Catholicism. I decided I did not want anything to do with any religion where women were not full participants, equal with men.

I was even more appalled when I learned about the Inquisition and those times when women (and some men and children) were hunted down and murdered by the Catholic Church. The church even had a manual to help them find these heretics and witches. It was called the Malleus Maleficarum. If anyone ever had any doubt about how the Catholic Church felt about women, they had only to read this thing. Not only do the writers talk about how to spot the witch, they describe in gruesome detail all the ways to torture her. You’ve heard of the getting the third degree? It was a method of torture used during the inquisitions. Some people could resist the first degree of torture; some could even resist the second degree of torture, but everyone confessed to being a witch once they were given the third degree.

The last time I went to a full mass was nearly twenty years ago when my parents were visiting. The priest’s sermon was about how women were the fault of everything wrong in the world. I wanted to get up and leave but stayed out of respect for my parents. I was so angry. He went on and on about the state of the world: it was because women weren’t better mothers, weren’t better wives, weren’t better Catholics.

When mass was over, I said, “Mom, how could you sit there and listen to this man who has never been married and probably never even had a relationship with a women tell you that you are the cause of all the evil in the world?” My mother said, “Is that what he said? I wasn’t paying attention.” That explained a lot. I realized people were able to tolerate the misogyny and other problems with their religion because they weren’t paying attention. That is not my way.

I wonder if people are paying attention now? It is one thing for an institution to recommend a candidate to its members; it is quite another to tell people they would be sinning if they voted for a particular candidate.

The Catholic Church is a non-profit organization. This designation gives them huge tax benefits. But they are not allowed to tell people who to vote for. In fact, this Colorado bishop says in the letter that he cannot tell them who to vote for: wink, wink. Isn’t that the same as saying, “We mustn’t tell you who to vote for, but if you vote for candidate x, you WILL burn in hell for eternity.”

I called my father after I heard about the Colorado bishop. He has been Catholic all his life and has attended church nearly every Sunday of his life. I told him what the bishop had said.

“Remember when Kennedy was running,” my father said, “and they were worried he was too Catholic. Now they’re worried that Kerry isn’t Catholic enough. Kennedy said, ‘I won’t be a Catholic president; I’ll be a president who is Catholic.’ Kerry tried to say that, but they’re not letting it go.”

My father went on to tell me that it makes no difference to him what the pope or any bishop says. It is none of their business how he votes.

I asked, “This bishop says if a Catholic votes for a pro-choice candidate or a candidate who is for gay marriages, that person is a sinner and must go to confession and repent. If you vote for Kerry, will you feel like you’ve sinned?”

My father paused, then said, “If I thought anything, I’d think it would be a greater sin to vote for Bush.”

Amen to that, Dad.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/19/2004 01:42:00 PM
0 comments

Truth or Immortality Soup 

Last night, I attended a book discussion at the White Salmon Community Library. This was special to me because they were discussing my novel, Coyote Cowgirl. I was nervous ahead of time. It seemed two things could happen. (1) No one would want to talk because they would be afraid of offending me. (2) Everyone would talk and tell me what was wrong with the novel. I hadn't done much all day. My allergies have been so bad I've been nearly incapacitated, so it was with some effort that I actually got dressed. When I looked in the mirror, I just groaned. I'd be lucky if they didn't all run from me, fearing the plague.

Mario got out of work early, and we drove down the Gorge to the library. Participants in the book discussion had made dishes from the recipes in the book. They had given the deli the recipe for the Truth or Immortality Soup, and they made a huge jar of it. I got a bowl of it, then sat at the tables with about 15 other people. They went around the circle telling me what they thought of the book. Everyone had something to say—none of it was negative. My guess is they were too polite to say anything negative. It was a great experience for me. Mario said I got what every writer wants: intelligent reasoned...praise.

Actually, it was helpful. Writers work alone and often have no idea what succeeds and what fails in a novel. I got to hear what worked, and it often varied from person to person. Everyone loved Crane, the talking crystal skull, even though a couple people admitted it seemed rather weird that they adored this skull and missed him when he was gone. One man who said he usually doesn't like the books they pick liked Crane because he had had an imaginary friend when he was a boy. One woman enjoyed the descriptions of the desert. Another woman said I had accurately captured the feelings of the youngest child and how no one has any expectations of her.

It was heartening that so much of what I had been trying to accomplish with the book actually worked: they got it. I answered their questions. And ate the soup. It was delicious.

I had so much fun. And that's the truth.

Here's the recipe of the soup from the book. Enjoy!

TRUTH OR IMMORTALITY SQUASH AND CORN SOUP

Ingredients:
3 tart apples, peeled, cored, finely chopped
3 medium leeks, sliced
1 clove garlic, put through the press
1 1/2 cups frozen corn or the corn from one cob
1 pound acorn or butternut squash, peeled, seeded, and finely chopped (about three cups)
2 tablespoons olive oil
4 cups vegetable broth (or water)
4 to 6 scallions, minced
Directions:
Saute squash and apples in olive oil for about 5 minutes. Add leeks and garlic and saute 5 minutes. Add leeks and garlic. Add corn and broth. Simmer about 20 minutes. Garnish with minced scallions.

May You Sip Soup in Beauty!
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/19/2004 10:20:00 AM
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Tuesday, May 18, 2004

Take These People, Please! 

I gotta tell ya. I'm starting to hope for the rapture myself to get these fruitcakes off my planet! If you can read the entire article, do. It is amazing. One of these people talks about converting Jews to Christianity as a "circumcision of the heart." Jesus H. Christ is all I can say.

Pass it on. People should know who we're dealing with in this White House.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/18/2004 04:07:00 PM
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Don't Let Ashcroft Find Out 

This Sunday someone hooded a sculpture in Seattle, making it a vivid reminder of the abused prisoners in Iraq. I heard someone took the hoods off later, but the article has a photograph, so you can see what it looked like. It is a powerful statement. Don't cha just luv art?

In a daze. Haven't slept much for a few days. Saw Kerry and Howard Dean yesterday at a rally in Portland. I'll write about it later.

A friend of mine just send me a bunch of jokes. You know the kind. I can tell I'm in a sleep-deprived frame of mind. I just kept giggling when I read one of the jokes she sent: "I gave up jogging for my health when my thighs kept rubbing together and
setting my pantyhose on fire."

Speaking of fire, Michael Moore's movie Fahrenheit 9/11 did well at Cannes. I hope this means we'll get to see the movie this summer.

Ta!
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/18/2004 01:59:00 PM
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Monday, May 17, 2004

Look to This Day... 

Look to this day for it is life,
the very life of life.
Yesterday is but a dream,
and tomorrow is only a vision,
but today well spent makes every yesterday
a dream of happiness,
and every tomorrow a vision of hope.
—from Sanskrit Salutation to the dawn

To live sacred lives
requires that we live
at the edge of what
we do not know.
—Anne Hillman

...in precious moments I have felt what it means to be wild and free.
—Susanna Moodie

I pledge allegiance to the Earth,
and to the flora, fauna
and human life that she supports,
one planet, indivisible,
with safe air, water and soil,
economic justice, equal rights
and peace for all
—Women's Environment and Development Organization

We have the same
oceans in our veins,
are sisters to the trees
and rocks and stars,
hold their identical
minerals in our bones.
One family.
—Elsa Gidlow

May earth spinning
be my dance
—Karen Zeiders

May You Dance in Beauty!

(Copyright in the names of the authors.)
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/17/2004 03:04:00 AM
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Sunday, May 16, 2004

Is This a Joke? 

Mario was sitting on the couch reading about tricksters. I was cleaning up a few things on my 'puter when I got a message from TrueMajority.org. I read it outloud to Mario, "President Bush wants to spend $10 billion on Star Wars this year. That's enough to provide health insurance to all uninsured kids in our country." Mario said, "Is this a set-up for a joke?"

Ah, if only.

If you would like to learn more about this Wish Upon a Star Wars program, click here, m'dears.

Ain't it grand?
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/16/2004 09:30:00 PM
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Coming Down the Mountain... 

So I was winding through the orchards of Hood River, coming off the foothills of the foothills of the toenails of Mount Hood after my interview with Mr. Concannon, listening to NPR, when I hear this report about some Bishop in Colorado who is now saying that not only will he refuse to give communion to any politician who is pro-choice, pro-stem cell research, pro-gay marriage, but anyone who VOTES for a politician who is any of those things is a sinner and cannot receive communion until s/he goes to confession and repents. I just about lost my mind right then and there. The Catholic Church, which is in medias res of a sexual abuse scandal, is trying to influence an American election? When I told my husband this story, he said, "So if you're raping children you can get communion but not if you vote for Kerry?" Apparently. I called my father who has probably gone to church—a Catholic church—nearly every Sunday of his life. We talked about this subject for a long time. Finally, I said, "The Catholic Church is essentially saying it's a sin to vote for John Kerry. If you vote for John Kerry, will you feel like you've sinned?" He paused for a moment, then said, "If I thought anything about, I'd think it would be a bigger sin to vote for George Bush."

I'm with you there, Dad.

I shall write more on this later.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/16/2004 06:18:00 PM
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Saturday, May 15, 2004

Interview with Human Rights Lawyer Brian Concannon, jr. 

“The Haitian people believe Americans are good people,” human rights lawyer Brian Concannon says, “and they want to know where we are.”

Concannon was in Hood River this weekend to kick off Haiti Solidarity Week 2004 (May 15-23). Until the recent coup d’etat, Concannon worked in Haiti with the Bureau des Avocats Internationaux (BAI), a group of lawyers assisting the Haitian judiciary with human rights cases. Many of the people the BAI prosecuted are now in positions of power in the new government, so Concannon will not be returning to Haiti any time soon.

Concannon left Haiti February 10, 2004 about the time Aristide asked the international community for help with a grassroots rebellion in his country. The U.S. and the U.N. both refused.

“No one else would help Haiti’s democratic government,” Concannon said, “even though there are OAS (Organization of American States) agreements to help out other OAS members.”

“A few days before the coup, Colin Powell was still saying things like, ‘We won’t deal with thugs and we want change in Haiti that is both constitutional and peaceful,’” Concannon said. But that was not what happened.

On February 28, a South African plane carrying police supplies for the Haitian police was en route to Haiti. According to Concannon, the U.S. wanted Aristide gone before any help came.

“The U.S. went repeatedly to Aristide’s house and said, ‘You’ve got to go, you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go.’ They knew they had to get Aristide out before the ammunition arrived,” Concannon said. “The chargé d’affaires went to Aristide’s house with about twenty-five heavily armed guys. They started pressuring Aristide really hard to leave.

“Finally Aristide said, ‘Can I at least do a press conference?’ The U.S diplomats said ‘Sure, get in the car and we’ll take you to the embassy and we’ll have a press conference.’ Instead they took him to the airport where a U.S. plane was waiting. They put him on the plane. All his Haitian security had been left behind. They said ‘We are going to leave you and your wife at the airport and the rebels are going to come and kill you if you don’t sign this piece of paper.’ And he signed a piece of paper, but it wasn’t a resignation, and he did it under duress.”

On February 29, the U.S. plane took off with Aristide and his wife. They traveled for more than nineteen hours, and Aristide was not allowed to contact anyone. They eventually landed in the Central African Republic.

“While Aristide was in the air, the U.S. kept making things up about what was happening,” Concannon said. “They’d say, ‘Oh Aristide is going to Panama, he’s going to Taiwan,’ places where dictators go because they wanted to make him look like a dictator going to these places when they were in control all the time. So they parked him in the Central African Republic, and he wasn’t allowed to talk to people--until we got there.”

Concannon traveled to the CAR in March. “The Central African Republic has got to be the most remote place in the world,” Concannon said. “Haiti is the poorest nation in the Western hemisphere, and it looks rich compared with the CAR.”

“We brought Aristide a satellite phone and that allowed him to do a few interviews,” Concannon said. “Then Maxine Waters came and because of her prestige and because there’d been enough stink raised from our trip to the CAR, Aristide was sprung and sent to Jamaica where he is much safer, but he is not allowed to talk. Jamaica is under extreme pressure to keep him quiet.”

The U.S. claimed Aristide asked to be taken out of the country and said he signed a paper saying he resigned. Aristide says he never agreed to step down, and he did not resign.

The U.S. Department of States asked Bryant Freeman, director of the Institute of Haitian Studies at the University of Kansas, to translate the so-called “resignation” letter. The U.S. Embassy claimed the letter read, “Tonight I am resigning in order to avoid a bloodbath. I accept to leave, with the hope that there will be life and not death.” Freeman translated the same passage as, “If this evening it is my resignation which can prevent a bloodbath, I agree to leave in the hope that there will be life and not death.”

The United States has a long history of interfering in Haiti. In 1791, slave-owners in the United States watched nervously from afar as 400,000 African slaves in Haiti revolted against French colonial rule. Thomas Jefferson, a major slave-holder himself, “slapped an embargo on arms to Haiti and trading with the freed slaves and gave a ton of money to the slave owners to help them fight the revolt,” Concannon pointed out. The United States did not recognize Haiti until 1864.

According to the Haiti Action Committee the United States has “moved to sabotage Haiti’s fledgling democracy through an economic aid embargo, massive funding of elite opposition groups, support for paramilitary coup attempts, and a propaganda offensive against the Aristide government.”

The United States claimed the economic aid embargo was because of the contested 2000 election, although the U.S. appeared to be the only one contesting. Polling results before and after the election coincided with the election results, Concannon said.

“The journalists believed what the state department said,” Concannon said. “It became like a mantra that the elections were fixed; it was said enough times that people started to believe it. Even though the U.S. had done polls that showed that wasn’t true. Those polls were classified so that even Congress couldn’t look at them.”

Haiti has had 350 years of dictatorship (if you count the 150 years of slavery), Concannon said, and “they know it does not work.” While the Haitians may have complained about the government, they did not want a violent overthrow. Although the Aristide government was not perfect, Concannon said he saw no evidence that Aristide himself or the upper levels of the government participated in violence or human rights violations. During Aristide’s administration, he disbanded the military; the government supported the work of the BAI; over 200 radio stations operated in Haiti; and the opposition dominated the media.

Aristide was first elected to the presidency in 1991. Eight months after he took office, a U.S.-backed military junta took over the government and Aristide went into exile. Upon Aristide’s request, the United Nations (and United States) eventually brought military action against the junta, and Aristide returned to office. In 1996, René Preval became president. He served out his term, becoming the first democratically elected Haitian president to do so. In November 2000 Aristide was reelected with 92% of the vote.

Concannon is often asked why the United States would care enough about Haiti to interfere in its government. After all, Haiti is the poorest country in the Western hemisphere; it has no oil reserves or any other resources the U.S. is interested in; it’s not a particularly strategic area; and it’s environmentally devastated.

Concannon cites a history of interference. The slave-owners of the United States thought Haiti was a “bad example.” The slave uprising was the only successful slave revolt in the known history of the world. He recounted what a member of the U.S. military intelligence in charge of political prisoners told him. He said they were told that the prime enemy of the United States was not communism or Cuba or anything like that; they were told that the prime enemy was “liberation theology: priests walking around the countryside telling peasants the world wasn’t fair; the rich should share with the poor,” Concannon said. The U.S. sees liberation theology as a threat in Haiti.

According to Concannon and the Haiti Action Committee, the new Haitian government is run by the elite with no peasant or union representation; members of the Fanmi Lavalas political party have become targets in a terror campaign; names of “blacklisted” people are read every day on the radio; hundreds of bodies are arriving at the morgue, their hands tied behind their backs with a gunshot wound to the head.

Concannon believes the American people can help the Haitians. He said Americans often claim they are disempowered, but “disempowered is my clients. It’s poor women who can’t write because they don’t know how to write, can’t afford pen or paper if they did, don’t have a telephone, don’t have a fax machine, never turned on a computer, certainly can’t send email. If all the Americans who believed in democracy and believed this was wrong responded, our government would cave in and do something.”

He encouraged Americans to pressure Congress to (a) do an investigation of U.S. involvement in the coup d’état and (b) to make sure the almost 2,000 U.S. Marines in Haiti are not committing any violations.

“It’s not Iraq,” Concannon said, “but the Marines are doing a lot of illegal arrests involving excessive force.”

“I talk with people from Haiti and these poor, disempowered people who are hiding in the dark corners of their houses hoping no one comes, and one of the things they’re thinking is they believe most Americans are good and they’re wondering 'when are Americans going to stop this from happening?' Americans are the only ones who can stop this. Americans have to stand up and tell their government to stop this.”

For more information, click here.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/15/2004 02:12:00 PM
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Friday, May 14, 2004

Bush Fatigue 

I don't think Donald Rumsfeld, George Bush, Cheney, and their minions really get it. I've watched them, and I've listened to Rumsfeld and his people answer questions about the use of torture. You can see it in their eyes: they don't understand the uproar. Of course, they don't. The American people sat idly by while Bush and his cohorts said they weren't going to follow the Geneva convention when it came to Al Qaeda prisoners. The American people sat idly by while Bush and his cohorts got the Patriot Act enacted into law. Anyone protesting these things was accused of being a terrorist or of not being patriotic. The majority of the American people saw what Bush was doing and what he was saying, and they shrugged and said, "So what? They're terrorists. I don't care what happens to them." They have forgotten that due process must apply to everyone if it is going to apply to anyone. Why can't people realize ahead of time that some day they might be the ones who are in need of due process? Bush and his people believe they have the consent of the American people to behave inhumanely because they haven't heard anything to the contrary.

This story from The Guardian talks about how U.S. soldiers are routinely taught to torture; Abu Ghraib was not an anomaly. (Did any of us really think it would end there?) According to this story, the right wing is already saying, "Let's move on, kids. Torture ain't that bad of a thing."

Part of the problem is that Americans often believe they're a kind of chosen people: they think they are the best, the brightest, the mostest, and that our way of life is the only "right" way to live. With a mindset like that, anything can be rationalized. "We're bringing Democracy to their country, so in the long run they'll be grateful." "We got rid of Saddam Hussein, so of course they're grateful we invaded their country to save them." "It's for their own good." It's a kind of religious fanaticism tacked onto politics and foreign policy. It is definitely not a good thing.

The right wing is waiting for us all to have "torture fatigue" and start ignoring what's happening overseas? Well, I'm waiting for everyone to have "Bush fatigue." I know I've got it bad.



Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/14/2004 01:44:00 PM
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Father Blames the Patriot Act 

Michael Berg, Nicholas Berg's father, is blaming the U.S. and the Patriot Act for his son's death. When asked if he held Rumsfeld responsible, Mr. Berg said, "It goes further than Donald Rumsfeld. It's the whole Patriot Act, it's the whole feeling of this country that rights don't matter anymore because there are terrorists about. Well, in my opinion 'terrorist' is just another word like 'communist' or 'witch,' and it's a witch hunt, and this whole administration is just representing something that is not America, not the America I grew up in."

Thanks for the link, Bernadette.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/14/2004 01:35:00 PM
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Thursday, May 13, 2004

The Final Pages of Her Frozen Wild  

For those of you who have been reading my novel Her Frozen Wild on my website, I just posted the final forty pages. Let me know what you think.

I might post another novel, either a romance I wrote in three days twenty years ago (and then rewrote it and updated it last year) called The Ryan Pearl which takes place in 1900 Australia, or a modern romance, Swans in Winter, about a middle-aged woman who falls in love at the same time she is trying to save the land she loves. (What a sentence; my only excuse is I'm writing this quickly so I can get to bed!) Let me know which you'd prefer.

I have a fondness for The Ryan Pearl since I wrote it in one weekend when Mario and I were challenging each other to write quickly. I pulled it out to rewrite it last year when Mario asked me to; he's always liked it. I'm a different writer now—a better one I hope—but also I was interested in different things than I am interested in today. I liked Swans, too, because I set it here where I live, but it is completely fictional—except the part about the hera of the piece always struggling with the people in power who want to destroy the land. Both of the novels are very sensual and sexually graphic, which is kind of weird to reread. Sometimes I wonder, "What was I thinking? Someone I know might read this."

Anyway, I like knowing what works in my books for people and what doesn't. These books are not great literature, but I hope they are entertaining, inspiring, or moving. (When Mario reads this post later, he's going to say, "Don't tell them it's not great literature!" "I think they'll figure that out on their own," I'll say. "Just post it or don't. Don't apologize." "I'm not apologizing. I'm just letting them know I know it's not the greatest thing ever written." "I think you're apologizing." "Maybe. It's because I was an English major. You know the old saying: once an English major, always an English major." "I thought that was: once a Catholic always a Catholic." "Tomato, potato. They're all part of the nightshade family.")

I think the mania has set in. Time to dampen it with sleep. Last night I dreamed the biggest tidal wave the world has ever seen came right at me while I was talking on a cell phone. (I don't own a cell phone; I don't think I've ever talked on a cell phone.) I rode the tidal wave, which surprised me because when I saw it, I knew I was going to die. I rode it to an outcropping, then hung on to the rocks for dear life while waiting for the next wave—and the person I was talking to was still on the phone. It was absolutely terrifying (I awakened gasping) and exciting: I had actually kept my head above the water. I survived and stayed connected. I wish that for everyone.

Good night.

May You Surf in Beauty...
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/13/2004 11:14:00 PM
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Genesis 

Good morning! I have been gone. After seeing the horror unfold about torture and beheading, I had nothing to say. Yesterday I sat in my garden. Next to me was my rosemary bush which I grew from a seedling of about two inches tall more than ten years ago. Now it is nearly as tall as I am and as wide as I am tall. Next to the rosemary bush is the small strawberry field. The strawberries are fat and green, their weight pulling them down to the coriander-colored dirt. The fava beans are getting fat, too. I have never grown fava beans before, so I'm not certain when to pick them. Growing at their feet are tiny dark green leaves which will grow into lettuce. Beets going to seed tower over the lettuce bits. Hills of potatoes roll next to the beets. The deep green nightshade leaves push up through the tops of the hills, like slow green lava. Overwintered kale and carrots stand side by side. The kale is as tall as I am, thin stalks reaching up, popping out tender yellow flowers at their ends. I sit in the stillness and put my fingers in the Earth and am grateful for this place and time.

This morning while I ate breakfast, I watched the Ken Burns film on Thomas Jefferson. I have mixed feelings about Mr. Jefferson, but I was interested to learn that early on he wrote legislation to separate church from state. This was exciting to me. Nowadays the conservatives claim we have always been a Christian nation, and here's proof that at the very conception of our nation, our founding fathers wanted separation.

The statute reads: “Be it enacted by the General assembly, that no man shall be compelled to frequent or support any religious worship, place, or ministry whatsoever, nor shall be enforced, restrained, molested, or burthened in his body or goods, not shall otherwise suffer on account of his religious opinions or belief; but that all men shall be free to profess, and by argument to maintain, their opinion in matters of religion, that that the same shall in no wise diminish, enlarge, or affect their civil capacities....”

This was legislation for Virginia which took ten years to enact. Nevertheless, there it is. When Madison was fussing about how they were going to write this separation of church and state into the Constitution—pointing out that the statute in Virginia was not enforced, Jefferson wrote, "Put it in the law, and then judges in the future will apply it and begin to enforce it." They did not want an official chaplain, did not want the commandments anywhere in public life. Jefferson wrote that there would be no infidel if there were no priests.

The sun is out. The rhododendron outside my window has bloomed. Scarlet blossoms shiver as a bee flits from one tongue to another. I love these flowers. Their colors are so vibrant, gaudy, even when they are white. They line the streets of my town now, like hookers on street corners of big cities, showy and gregarious. "Hiya, sailor." On one petal of every blossom is a patch of dots which somehow remind me of a tongue—a reaching longing tongue. I think I'll go outside and see what the girls are up to. Celebrate a bit of life.

May you Walk in Beauty.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/13/2004 09:06:00 AM
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Tuesday, May 11, 2004

Pentagon Email Warning? 

Time.com has published an email(POPUP) supposedly coming from the Office of the Under Secretary of the Defense telling(POPUP) military personnel not to read what is being called the Taguba Report about the abuses of prisoners at Abu Ghraib Prison. The email specifically mentions Faux News; this mention sent up a red flag for me since I didn't even know the report was on Faux News. (So the email seemed almost like an advertisement to get all these people to go to Faux News and download this report—a reverse psychology thing.) We downloaded a copy(PDF) of the report from NPR, although I haven't had a chance to read it yet. On the first page it reads, "ARTICLE 15-6 INVESTIGATION OF THE 800TH MILITARY POLICE BRIGADE. SECRET/NO FOREIGN DISSEMINATION."

I wondered, "If it's secret, how come I've got a copy of it?"

I haven't been able to verify if warning email is a legitimate email from the Office of the Under Secretary. I'm suspicious of it because of the Faux News reference and because they misspell Taguba's name. We'll see.

Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/11/2004 05:19:00 PM
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Monday, May 10, 2004

Fahrenheit 9/11 

You've probably heard by now that Disney has refused to distribute Michael Moore's latest film Fahrenheit 9/11. In this piece, Moore disputes what the spinmeisters at Disney have been saying. Here's a NYTimes editorial about it and an article (POPUP) from the Washington Post.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/10/2004 11:22:00 AM
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The Report 

If you're interested in the 53 page report (PDF) that revealed the abuse to the military brass, NPR has a PDF of it. NPR has lots of good stories on their site about Iraq.

Don't you find it rather disconcerting that the politicians keep talking about how terrible these photographs are, and they're upset they didn't know about the photographs. Shouldn't they be upset about the abuse?

I'm sure you've heard there are more photographs, but most of the Republicans are saying they're not going to release the rest of the photographs. Perhaps these people should go back and read their history. The founding fathers (for all their flaws) knew that power corrupted, and they knew that secrecy bred abuse. We are supposed to be an open society. Everything about this abuse scandal, as repulsive as it is, needs to be aired publicly.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/10/2004 09:23:00 AM
0 comments

Saturday, May 08, 2004

In a Charmed Pot 

We just went for a drive down the Gorge. Huge glorious thunderclouds cushioned the sky from nightfall, taking the last rays of sunshine and bouncing them from here to there so that the clouds took on colors exotic to them during daylight—faded curtain-yellow and deep depression blue. The further we drove East, the more the cushions looked like giant inverted bubbles in an upside down cauldron, getting ready to burst and spill the brew all over the Gorge.

...Sweated venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first in the charmed pot.
Double,double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

I watched old Rummy testify Friday. The testimony before the Senators was relatively dignified: I couldn't always tell who was Republican and who was Democrat by their remarks. It was a different story in the House. They kissed Rummy's...everything. He said he couldn't imagine anyone thought abusing and torturing the prisoners was the right thing to do. Huh? Wasn't Rumsfeld the one who said that the US wasn't really going to worry about the Geneva convention when it came to detainees? He set the stage. He's the head honcho, and he essentially said it was all right to be abusive.

All these politicians (and others) are in an uproar over the abuse of these prisoners (as well they should be), but here's the question: so it's OK for the US to go over there and invade the country, kill thousands of Iraqis, destroy their government and infrastructure, but it's a no-no to abuse and torture them? ISN'T IT ALL WRONG? And who are these thousands of people they are "detaining?" No one seems to be asking that question either. Are they just poor schmoes the US decided to put in prison? Any due process happening there?

Everyone keeps saying how surprised they are that this happened. Were you surprised? I wasn't. War is an atrocity. It ain't civilized, and people are not going to act in a civilized way.

OK. Nuff. Have a good weekend!
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/08/2004 09:09:00 PM
0 comments

Friday, May 07, 2004

The Magdalene Sisters 

We watched the movie The Magdalene Sisters(POP UP) tonight. It's about the Magdalene Asylums in Ireland where girls were sent to live with the Magdalene nuns and work in their laundry. If a girl had been raped, gave birth to a baby out of wedlock, or was considered "too" pretty, she could be sent to these houses of horror. I felt angrier and angrier as I watched this film. When I was thinking women were better than men and wouldn't torture others, how could I have forgotten about nuns? The girls in the asylums were beaten, humiliated, molested—and treated as slaves.

I was raised Catholic and had limited exposure to nuns. The experiences I did have were positive. My sister who is four years older than I am had to go to a Catholic elementary school because there was no public school close to us when she started. She is lefthanded (as am I), and the nuns used to hit her hand with a ruler and tell her being lefthanded meant she was on the side of the devil! Fortunately, an elementary school was built and opened the year I started school.

The Catholic Church does not have a good record regarding women. It was the Catholic Church who sent out The Malleus Maleficarum, a manual for the Inquisitors to help them find witches and torture them. It is a hideous book that clearly shows the misogyny that permeated the church. (I wrote about all this fictionally in The Jigsaw Woman.)

I don't understand how women can belong to the Catholic Church—or any other organized religion that I know about. (Disorganized spirituality has a little better track record.) But then I don't need to understand. Just keep it away from me.

And those religions need to keep away from me and their hands off my body—and off my political candidates. The church is now making noise about not giving communion to any politicians who are prochoice. I say to the church, "Go ahead and do it. In fact, refuse to give communion to anyone who is prochoice or believes in or uses birth control. Let's see how many Catholics you have left then? How many pockets remain for you to pick so you can run your church?"

I've probably already told you the story of the last time I went to church. It was with my parents when they were visiting us in Tucson in 1986, I think. We went to this beautiful gory little church in the desert. White on the outside, bloody crucifixes on the inside. The sermon was about how women are the cause of all the problems in the world. If women were better mothers and wives, the world would be a better place. I was so angry. I forced myself to stay, out of respect for my parents. When it was over, I asked my mother how she could allow herself to be chided and blamed for the world's problems by a man who had never been married and who had probably never had sex with a grown woman. She said she hadn't been paying any attention to him. That's how my mother was able to remain as a member of a religion that tried to excommunicate her and declare her first child a bastard because she got a divorce from her first husband. But wait, she was not married in the church the first time, so that was OK, but her child was still a bastard. In the eyes of the church.

Hey, don't look at me. Keep your eyes to yourself!

It's 3:12 a.m. I'm not sure I'm coherent. I'll stop being pissed off and try to sleep. Oh what the hell. I'll just try to sleep. I've spent 40 plus years trying not to be pissed off. Being able to sleep seems like a more possible goal.

Ta!
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/07/2004 02:20:00 AM
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Thursday, May 06, 2004

The Writing of Lady Liberty, Part 5 

Wednesday, April 28, 2004: I wrote the Writing of Lady Liberty twice. The computer crashed, and when I got it working again, I couldn’t find the post. So I rewrote it. That was my entire morning. I can remember little else about the day.

Yesterday I wrote the essay “Brave New World,” about my weariness, activism, and Kuan Yin Peace Garden. It ended up to be totally different from what I started with. After I wrote about 1,300 words, I read it, and it was wasn’t working. So I did what Michelangelo did when he was creating David. Have you heard that story? (It’s probably apocryphal). Someone asked Michelangelo, “How did you create such a gorgeous statue?” and Michelangelo said, “That was easy. I just chipped away everything that wasn’t David.” That anecdote sums up creative work, doesn’t it? Especially rewriting. I chipped away everything that wasn’t my essay. In the end, I didn’t have David or anything close, but I did have an essay written from my heart. I sent it off to Common Dreams and Alternet.org. Today, Wednesday, Common Dreams picked it up. I started getting emails about it immediately. Other people are tired, too, and they seemed relieved to discover it wasn’t just them.

Thursday, April 29, 2004: My allergies are so flared. I can hardly think or feel anything else. The book is not progressing the way I like. I keep thinking of other book ideas I would rather be doing. I drove to Vancouver for a meeting I had at 1:00 at the library. On the way, I listened to a Book on Tape about the Declaration of Independence and another tape on Thomas Paine’s Common Sense. The more I learn, the more I am coming to believe that it is amazing this country ever came into being. Also, I’m appalled at these people (Jefferson, Washington, Patrick Henry) who owned slaves talking about liberty and freedom! Had they no sense of irony?

At the library, we talked about the fiction collection which I am responsible for. I forgot to bring anything for lunch. I felt a bit woozy, but I sloshed my way through the two hour meeting. Then I talked with Sandy from the office for a while about politics and those pictures of U.S. soldiers torturing Iraqi prisoners. We were both surprised by the women who had participated in the abuse. Maybe the sexes are the same, which is what I believed when I was younger; the only difference is that half of us have outies and half of us have innies.

Afterward, I drove to Wild Oats, bought potato chips (for lunch); then I went to Blockbuster and got five movies. The day was cloudless, so my windshield framed the mountain for part of the way home. It has not rained in ages, it seems, but Mount Hood was downright cheeky, covered completely in albino white snow; maybe we won’t have a drought after all.

Alternet picked up my essay “Brave New World” but renamed it “Beauty Mark.” Lots of email on it, too.

Friday, April 30, 2004: Mario and I got up early and went to Falling Creek for a hike. This morning we tried to create a map of the trail. We counted how many steps we took to particular landmarks along the trail. I have wanted to do this for years. We got about a third of the trail finished. It took a long time. Walk and count, stop, write it all down, make a drawing. Walk and count, walk and count.

We came home and drove to Portland and Thai Noon. I jotted down some notes for the novel while we waited for lunch.

We went to the Chinese Gardens afterward. We sat in the boat pavilion, me with my yellow pad and Mario with his journal. We had not been here since winter, before I got sick. It was a warm clear day, and the Garden was crowded. I looked down at the small red carp that swam around in the pond, then wrote a couple of pages on Lady Liberty.

I was in a fake boat in the middle of the Chinese Gardens in the middle of Portland, Oregon, while I wrote about Lafayette and Oney in a bookstore in Philadelphia, talking about birds. (Yes, there were bookstores in Philadelphia in 1796.)

After a while Mario and I drove to the Tao of Tea on Belmont. We had not been here for probably half a year. I got a pear smoothie made with organic yogurt and red tea from Africa. We sat silently in the cool dark quiet of the restaurant, writing. I sucked on my smoothie and discovered Martha’s nephew, who worked as a secretary for George, had a crush on Oney. I discovered this by writing it. I hoped he wouldn’t mind.

On the way home we listened to Stephen King’s On Writing. Mario and I admire him. He started out poor and made it big. He loves his wife, and he’s not snotty about genre. (I think it’s so funny that Margaret Atwood shouts from the rooftops that she does not write science fiction. Thou doth protest too much, M. Atwood. You write about the future and horrifying future societies. What would you call that?) I don’t agree with him on all his writing advice, of course. For instance, he said you should get your own room, your own spot, where you can go and close the door. This may be a male thing. (Oh, wait; I forgot, there isn’t any difference between us...) Mario really likes to have his own room to write. When I was very young—I might not even have been twenty—but I remember deciding that I needed to be able to write any place, any time, under any circumstances. I used to drive to Detroit and sit in the Renaissance Center where I was surrounded by people and noise with my yellow pad and write. I wrote during class. I wrote when I didn’t feel well. I wrote outside. I wrote inside. I wrote when I was pissed off. I wrote when I was happy. I wrote. I think that’s one of the smartest things I ever decided for myself. Because of that, knock on wood, I have nearly always been able to write.

When we got home, we made apple pie. While we waited for the pie to bake, I got on the computer and volunteered to help with a program the peace group is putting on. Brian Concannon, an attorney who has been working on civil rights in Haiti, is coming to our area. I asked the organizer if I could interview Concannon. Haiti actually figures into Lady Liberty, at least historically. When the Haitians (although they weren’t called that then) revolted in the 1790s, the slave holders in America were shaking in their boots. The revolution in Haiti was the only successful slave revolution in history, as far as we know. During the revolutionary years (1791-1804), 100,000 Haitians were killed. The inhabitants of Haiti have not had an easy time of it since.

Saturday, May 1, 2004: On this sacred day, Beltane, the day where we celebrate fertility and love, I was sick.

Sunday, May 2, 2004: We decided to stay home today. We had been doing too much running around. I spent most of the morning writing on the novel. It’s extremely frustrating. I have a group of young men in a tavern, and I have to look up every other thing they say. I hadn’t realized how many figures of speech we use in dialogue. I couldn’t say “cracking up” when referring to someone going crazy. I couldn’t say “playing hooky” when someone skipped classes. But they could say “God-damn” and “fuck.” Some words are eternal.

Monday, May 3, 2004: We went to Falling Creek for a hike. Today we counted deer’s head orchids. This was the first time that we counted less than we had the week before. When I got home, a former editor who is now an agent called to discuss my career. Not sure what came of the conversation. Mario was depressed afterward. He gets his hopes up for my writing, and then he is constantly disappointed. Ah well. We went to Portland to Thai Noon again. On the way we listened to more of Stephen King’s On Writing. I can’t remember much about it, but I was inspired. He says he never wrote for the money. Hmmm. I never wrote for the money either, but I certainly would have if I knew how!

While we waited for dinner at Thai Noon we decided to do some writing exercises. Our first exercise was to describe the restaurant poetically in 25 words. We gave ourselves only a few minutes.

I wrote: Assaulted by ricer cars, diesel fumes, the Rolling Stones, we sit inside an orange crate, open to the world, waiting for Thai, gathering no moss.

Mario wrote: Orange walled garage, old incubator of oil stains and hissing air hose, now home to tofu stir-fry and couples at tables waiting for sustenance.

Then we decided to describe people or a person in the restaurant as an animal in 25 words. We called it “Asphalt Jungle.”

I wrote: Zebra foal, striped red and white, plays with animal crackers, unaware that zebras are herbivores. One slips her grasp, makes a noise. Uh-oh, she whinnies.

Mario wrote: Hippo grace crossing the street, grazing giraffe pulling at leaves, ponderous elk struggling against air, happy seal lolling on beach, busy cub reaching for fish.

I was describing a toddler eating with her doting parents. Mario described five different patrons. The final exercise was that we had to describe our meal, or parts of our meal, in 25 words.

I wrote: White rice in a white bowl, leaves on the rim in white relief. I pick out a bit of black—a bug—and continue eating.

Mario wrote: White wheels, their spin frozen, clogged with scrubbed grain and a motionless kaleidoscope snapshot, lubricated with garlic and ginger sauce, spoon cradled and trident speared.

Yes, there was a bug in my rice, and yes, I did continue to eat. This tells you how good the food was. It was fun doing the exercises. We hadn’t done anything like that for a while. I felt as though it got my writing juices going.

Tuesday, May 4, 2004: My allergies are so flared. Perhaps I’m allergic to Thai Noon food? I was miserable. Didn’t feel like writing. I was so exhausted. Got an email from Endicott Studio reminding us they could still use some poetry. The theme was sacred love, marriage, animal bride/bridegroom. I was not feeling loving or sacred. I thought of Isis and Osiris, but I didn’t want to write anything about a wife losing her husband.

Wednesday, May 5, 2004: Kept thinking of fairy tales. I want to write modern fairy tales. I want to write something sensual. Something with sex. Writing about Martha Washington in 1796 is not very sexy–aren’t you glad? I don’t want to imagine the mother of our country doing it either. But I am longing to write about modern times. Or any times where I can use modern dialogue and lots of people are doing the wild thing.

I thought of the “Swan Maidens” fairy tale. Maybe I could write a poem for Endicott. I sat at the computer at 9:00 a.m. and wrote:

Wings

I dream of wings.
White wings. Black.
Whispers of wings.
Shhhhh.
What does it mean?
Shhhhh.
That is all you can ever say, my love, my only?
I can’t remember how we first met.
Tell me again.
In college. A writing class.
You were the star.
Always falling, falling, falling?
I remember a lake. Mist rising.
Or a foggy memory.
And my sisters.
Shhhhh. You have no sisters.
I wish I could fly.
Doesn’t everyone?

I don’t remember who I am.
No one knows who they are.
In the morning after you are gone
I listen for...
I listen for...
I listen. The world has a heartbeat.
It sounds just like my daughter’s.
Her hand on my cheek is softer
Than a bird’s wing.

I never forced you. You wanted me.
I remember that. Wanted you until
All else disappeared. But you know
I can’t remember why.
The door slams. Was that what I listened for?
Or was it my daughter’s sleep breathing.
Like the wings of birds against the wind.
Why am I the only one who hears it?

I want to feel my love for you again.
Are you gone from my heart?
Then I hear what I have been waiting for.
My daughter calls my name.
I hear it. It is the sound of wings.
Distinct wings. Particular wings.
She holds up a dirty white cloak.
Made of feathers. It is singing.
Winging. The wings of my soul.

Is this what you’ve been looking for?
My daughter smiles. I loved you to get her.
I know the end to this story. I take
My wings and fly away. Nothing
Else matters but that.
Only—
Only she is the heart of the world.
And you did not steal my wings.
I gave them to you.
How could I have forgotten that?

I tell her to hide the cloak
Under her bed for now; I do not touch
it. I work day and night. You do not
Speak. Or see. She sleeps and plays. I find
feathers wherever I can. In the woods.
Along the trail. Inside pillows.
Those are the best. They are filled with
dreams. The ones in the forest are wild
and desperate to fly again. They will hold us up.

When I am finished I awaken my daughter.
She puts on her cloak sleepily, smiling.
She waits for me on the lawn, stretching out
her arms to yawn, laughing as she flaps her
wings. I laugh, too, but don’t touch my cloak yet.

Our laughter awakens you. You smile
forgetting your anger. Your fear.
You see your daughter.
You see me. You always have.
With wings.

I throw my cloak across my back.
I am airborne instantly,
my daughter next to me.
We fly toward the moon,
back to my sisters.

I have left another cloak,
folded into a square
on the kitchen table.
Next to the salt and pepper shakers.

The wind tips my wings.
I hear the heartbeat of the world
And listen for the sound
Of your wings.


I sent the poem off about 10:00 a.m. A couple hours later, Terri
accepted it for publication. I wrote on the novel. It still feels as though I’m slogging through it; every sentence is difficult. This is not the way I usually work. Writing the poem was so much fun. Not only am I having trouble with LL, but this vision of a young girl keeps coming to mind. I’ve seen her for a few, but now she keeps popping into my mind more and more. I want to write about her. Lately when she appears, she is looking at her arm, twirling her hand around, as if she were in a car with her hand stuck out the window playing with the wind, only she’s on the ground, on a dirt path, fascinated with her own arm and skin and the way it looks and moves up against the blue sky...

I need to keep working on Lady Liberty. I need to get more comfortable. When I get to page 100, I’ll read it and see what I think. That’s two more pages.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/06/2004 11:56:00 PM
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Wednesday, May 05, 2004

The Emperor Ain't Got No Clothes 

Kevin emailed me this little tidbit, "I saw a blurb in the paper tonight that said in a recent poll about half of adults polled believed oatmeal was made from wheat. For some strange reason I immediately thought of the last presidential election. I guess the majority of those people voted. About half of the people you ask today are convinced the emperor has clothes, too..." I laughed outloud when I read this. It explains so much, doesn't it? Kevin lives in Hawaii and is recovering from a cold. I tell you this because it startles me. People in Hawaii get colds? In my imagination, I picture the inhabitants of Pele's world walking around hot, happy, and volcanic. (Hey, it's my imagination: I can imagine whatever I like.)

Can you hear Pele's belly laugh at that?

I like Polynesian mythology. The stories make such little sense to me, like most mythology I did not grow up with. And this no-sense makes total sense to me. Mythology should be alien to those who did not live it. It is a code, and it should not be easily cracked. The stories themselves act as tricksters: stirring you up, showing you another world view.

Remember I told you the tale of Maui, the trickster? I giggle every time I think of him, trying to become immortal by crawling into the vulva of the sleeping death goddess. (That's something you want to be doing: waking up a death goddess.) Naturally, she crushed him to death and cursed humans to be mortal from then on.

Can you picture Maui trying to be reborn immortal by crawling into the womb?

May you laugh in Beauty!

Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/05/2004 10:15:00 PM
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Tuesday, May 04, 2004

Pro-Choice? Terrorist! 

Remember I told you about Karen Hughes equating people who believed in pro-choice with terrorists? This link will take you to a place where you can see the clip from CNN. NARAL Pro-Choice America has demanded an apology from Hughes.

Here's an interesting article about Lynne Cheney, another right-wing whacko woman who is a part of the Bush administration, albeit by marriage.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/04/2004 10:40:00 AM
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Suffering and Song 

Awaken ill, longing for moonlight. I look outside. The moon is there, between patches of black clouds. I put on slacks and a shirt, go downstairs, and walk outside into the moon lit night. Kuan Yin stands in the Peace Garden, a stone-faced ghost. I walk up the short path to her and touch the top of her head. Cool. Behind her, red blossoms from a tree whose name I don't know have turned black. They move slightly in a breeze I barely feel. I listen for Coyote. Silence.

I look straight above my head. A satellite lurches overhead. Yes, lurches. Doesn't seem as smooth and steady as I would think it needs to be. I remember nights when I was a girl searching the skies for signs of the space ship that would take me away from it all. I was ready to go.

Back inside again, I want to sleep. I long for a good night's sleep the way lonely hearts long for their one true love.

Mario and I have been listening to Stephen King's On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. Makes me think of my own process. Why I write. I write because I always have. I write because I define the world in stories. I write because there is so much I do not understand. I write because I have this intense insatiable need to communicate.

The nearly full moon has slid through the open space in my blinds. As I gaze at it, I feel as though I am missing something about this night. What is it? The moon is gone. Eaten by the clouds. Covered by the clouds. Disappeared by the clouds.

I often write about things which make others uncomfortable. I don't do it on purpose. I just don't believe in shame. I'm not saying I don't have shame, don't feel shame. I'm saying I don't believe in shame as a working principle in our lives. Why be ashamed of the way I feel? Why be ashamed of my failings? Why should we pretend we are anything but human? It doesn't mean I expose every part of myself in my writing. I don't. What is most intimate to me is kept intimate: even my husband does not know what I think about on these nights I cannot sleep or in those moments when fear takes over. Even my closest friends have sometimes commented that they know little about my deepest darkest feelings. That's personal, I say. You can't really know me by only reading what I write, but you can't really know me without reading what I write.

I was talking to a former editor today, and we were trying to figure out a plan for my writing career. I said, I write to figure out why we do the things we do. She had started to read my uncompleted novel Forks in the Road. I couldn't connect with it, she said; it's too in your face. Exactly, I said. That's who I am. That's what I want to write.

The book is about a woman returning home when her father is ill. On the trip across country, she remembers her childhood and her college years. Once home, she feels the distance and disdain of her family and can barely stand it, so she does what most Americans do well: avoidance. She begins thinking about past boyfriends instead of trying to deal with her family. She picks through her former lovers like a child digging through a box trying to find just the right doll to dress up and fling around the room. Through her trip down memory lane, she exposes the sexual eccentricities of her former loves. She does so gleefully, while understanding this information also reveals a great deal about herself.

Go figure.

Sex. That's another thing we're not supposed to talk about. Don't worry. I'm not going to talk about sex here. I only do that in fiction.

Illness. You're not supposed to talk about illness either. Grin and bear it. Screw that. I do not suffer in silence. The other day someone wrote to me and said, "Life is a chronic illness." I wanted to shake him. Life is glorious, filled with suffering and almost unbearable beauty. Sickness and hummingbirds. War and orchids. Suffering and song.

Now I long for song instead of sleep. I step outside again and listen for the song of Coyote. They are silent tonight. But I hear the west wind, feel it on my face, hear it rattling the now-dry flowers I never deadheaded from last year. The wind is softer sounding coming through the evergreens across the street. My song for the night. A lullaby.

I don't want to talk any longer. I want to dream. In my dreams, I am well. In my dreams, war does not exist.

That's not true. In my dreams, I am usually ill. In my dreams, war most definitely exists.

Nevertheless, I am tired. Perhaps I can try and coax the Sandman to my bed again. Bring sweet dreams.

May you sleep in Beauty. Shhhhh.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/04/2004 03:24:00 AM
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Monday, May 03, 2004

Torture 

I'm a little slow sometimes. When I heard the soldier on 60 Minutes complain that his superiors knew what he was doing, I thought he was trying to pass the blame—and maybe he was. However, his point may have been that he was encouraged to torture the prisoners to get them ready for interrogation. Sick. In any case, it seems those tortured prefer Saddam's brand of torture.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/03/2004 08:37:00 AM
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Sunday, May 02, 2004

New Thang 

You can now email me directly from The Furious Spinner instead of having to go to my website first. Just click on "My email" at the right, and there you go. I'll keep this up for as long as I like it. If it doesn't work out, I'll just dismantle it.

Hope you're having a great weekend!

Ta!
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/02/2004 06:27:00 PM
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Saturday, May 01, 2004

Happy Beltane! SWAK! 

Wishing you all the love, creativity, and passion you need, want, desire.

P.S. I've gotten a few letters lately about my essays on Common Dreams and Alternet where the letter writers seem very angry. I'm a pretty angry broad myself, but I've been a bit perplexed. If I express doubt or wonder or confusion or anything positive, the uproar begins; apparently because I'm an American, I should suffer as much as possible. And I'm often accused in these letters of being naive. Mario says he thinks people confuse my idealism with naivete. Although I am ignorant about many things, I don't think I'm particularly naive. This is what I believe, as I'm sure I told you before: there is nothing holy about suffering. Suffering because others are suffering if you don't have to seems ridiculous—almost sacrilegious if I were a different-thinking person. I say we do our work, we try to create and participate in peace and justice rather than in war, and we try to live lives of joy! Because our government may be full of shitheads spewing their crap all over the planet doesn't mean we eschew joy when it is offered and available to us. Joy is always a gift. Cherish it, roll around in it, kiss it wildly.

OK?

So here's a big sloppy joyful one from me to you.

Live it up!
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 5/01/2004 10:30:00 PM
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