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.

Wednesday, June 30, 2004

Garden Variety 

It's Wednesday evening. Quiet. A slight breeze is scrubbing the heat out of the house. Even though the 4th of July is only days away, our 'hood is quiet. Often at this time of year, I join the neighborhood cats and dogs who hide and howl and temporarily develop post traumatic stress disorder. I loathe 4th of July. And I'm not kidding about the PTSD. I can understand the pretty lights, but what's with the bombs bursting midair? Can't the fireworks explode quietly?

But I digress. I can hear Mario walking around upstairs, like a giant mouse. I wonder what he's doing up there? Soon he'll come down the stairs, with a book in hand I imagine, and he'll sit on the couch and read while I write this. I hear the dresser drawers open and close. Oh, he's putting away the clothes I washed earlier in the day.

The rest of my dinner is sitting on the coffee table. I was full, so I left it there to eat later. Part of my garden is on that plate, so I can't waste it. Lettuce, thyme, rosemary, thyme flowers, snow peas. I don't like being away from home these days. I want to come home and work in my garden or gaze at my flowers. I never imagined I would like gardening so much, even though as a child I loved sitting in the dirt next to my father, planting and weeding and eating. I was all dirty and hair when I was a girl. Vines grew up my legs and twirled around my arms. Leaves unfurled in my curls, and birds tried to lay their eggs in my tiny perfect ears. But I moved around too much. Restless. My father never used a chemical on our garden. Ever. And he never noticed the roots growing out from the souls of my feet, spreading out, searching for home.

The giant mouse has ceased movement upstairs. Hmmm. Must be sitting at the computer now. Nearly right above my head. The sun is setting, and the exposed rock across the river on the gorge cliffs are slightly ruddy, almost cinammon-colored. For an instant. There. It's gone.

The Democrats are snarking at each other, have you heard? The mayor of Boston is angry that Kerry wouldn't cross a picket line to attend the mayors' conference. Or something. I didn't pay much attention because they remind me of two year olds! The Democrats and the left keep gnashing and bashing each other while the right wing runs away with our country. (If the mayor of Boston expected Kerry to cross a police picket line, he's an idiot, and if John Kerry had crossed that picket line, he would have been...wrong.) Mario had this to say about how the dems and the lefties are acting: A house is on fire—the house is the country, the fire is the right-wing. The dems and lefties are the fire fighters. We all arrive at the fire and someone yells, "Oh, look, that fence is broken over there. We better fix it." So we run over to the fence—meanwhile the house is still burning down. The fence is Nader, the mayor of Boston being pissed, Kerry not quite the man we think he should be, etc.

Speaking of idiots...my favorite gang of sexually repressed white men decided they could, indeedy, deny pro-choice candidates and their supporters communion. And before my venom and animosity toward these people curdles these pages—ether pages though they may be—I shall move on. Some of my favorite Furious Spinner readers are Catholics, after all. (If you ever want to read how I truly feel about the Catholic Church—since I'm so subtle about it here—read my novel The Jigsaw Woman. I take the institution to task for what they have done to women over the centuries. And I did it long before The DaVinci Code.)

Mario and I had a reading Tuesday night in St. John's. Our friend Dave Johnson put it together. We've known Dave since about 1982, when we moved from Michigan to Bandon, Oregon. He's a poet, dreamer, raconteur, sweetheart. We've been with and without each other through the good, bad, and ugly. He's living in St. John's now. Mario, Dave, and I read, along with Barbara Drake. We had not seen Barbara in twenty years. (She came to our writing group in Bandon a couple of times. Her first husband was the director of Clarion when Mario and I attended in 1980—in East Lansing, Michigan.) Another friend from Bandon showed up, too, storyteller Rachel Foxman. My friend, Cooky, joined us. She's been to several of my readings. We've known her since we lived in Tucson where I got my Master of Library Science. We met at library school and were instant kin.

We had dinner with other friends before the reading, Barbara, Mike, Patrick, Sara, and F.X. I've known them all (except F.X.) for 17 years. I'm telling you all this because I felt like I was looking at a tapestry—or living a tapestry—last night as I watched and listened to these people I have loved for so many years. We have come and gone and come again into each other's lives. Time has a way of smoothing past differences—or making them amusing, anecdotal—so that all that matters is that we knew each other when. I liked being with these people last night. I liked reading my work to them—most of it from this weblog. I was excruciatingly embarrassed to be in front of this small group with my nose running—having to stop reading to wipe my nose as though I was a snotty-faced little girl—but then I realized no one cared. Everyone was rooting for me, just as I was rooting for them.

Of course the best part of the evening was when Cooky first saw me, and she said, "You look great!" And I knew she meant it. I don't think anyone has said that to me in ten years or so. Because I haven't looked great. I have looked ill. I thought how wonderful it was to have a friend who would tell me when I looked wonderful and not tell me when I looked like shit.

Speaking of connections, I have been getting such great mail lately. I heard from Genevieve who heard about Furious Spinner from Patricia Lay-Dorsey, Windchime Walker, who has her own weblog. She is beautiful, a wonderful writer who talks about her activism, Nature, and living with disability. Every once in a while when I start to believe everything I'm doing is wrong, or no one is listening, or I shouldn't be writing about such personal things, I will get a letter from Patricia—as if a little birdie told her I needed her words—and she'll say exactly the right thing. Check out her 'blog.

Genevieve is an artist, living in Canada—where my sweetie comes from—and she had this to say about her own garden: "I, too, have a garden, though it is a little neglected and rumpled this year as my husband and I continue renovating our little cottage, my husband works on making flutes (our source of income) and I look after an ailing Mother with dementia (while struggling to find moments to paint). My strawberries, delicious morsels that they be, are hidden amongst the weeds and my potatoes, sprung from the loins of last years crop that managed not to get all dug up, are growing everywhere, even places that I intended other things to grow. We had so much rain this spring (good for the forest fire situation) that I put my garden in late and things have been slow to grow. Finally my beans have thrust their wee heads up through the ground and my sunflower plants are a decent 1 ft. in height. My glorious David Austin Roses are blooming and, as you state in your blog, wildflowers abound, even in the wild (for the fairies) corners of my yard. So I am satisfied even if there are more wild plants than cultivated flowers or veggies in my garden.

"I like mint amongst the daisies, raspberries obscured with long wild grasses and dill running rampant through the potato patch dug hastily out of weeds. It's okay, I reassure myself, I like things unkept and natural. We have long years ahead of us, I trust, to gradually make a little order out of this disorder. Patience, I am good at."

Thanks, Genevieve, and everyone who writes to me. Even if I don't write back immediately, I appreciate your response.

Well, I think I've gone on long enough. I'm not sure this post has any rhyme, reason, or seasoning. But it's nearly 11:00 p.m. Time to stop and finish my dinner. This weekend the Blues come to Portland. I'm hoping there is some Delta Blues—thems the blues, man. None of this pseudo blues/jazz/rock 'n roll crap. I want the aching, crying, down in the dirt I'm so miserable blues.

May You Garden In Beauty! 0 comments

Tuesday, June 29, 2004

Betwixt 

Got home after midnight last night. We have a reading in St. John's (Portland) tonight, and I'm trying to get ready for that, so I'm not really here here.

A couple of things: In Canada, the liberals managed to hang on to power—barely. This could be a good sign for us and our elections.

You all know the U.S. has turned Iraq back to the Iraqis. Uh-huh. Is Iraq in the hands of a former terrorist now?

The Republicans are now foaming at the mouth as they fear their imminent loss of power. Here's a piece on what they're doing; the article also has some good info you can use to quote to your friends and family who are still deluded about Bush.

You've all seen Tom DeLay, House Majority Leader, and I bet you shivered, didn't you? He has creeped me out forever (or thereabouts). This author thinks she knows why.

Memo? What memo? The lawyer who wrote the memo on torture (that it just might be OK for the U.S. to torture) is now a U.S. 9th Circuit Court of Appeals judge. Hmmmm.

Gotta go. Catch you , later, gator.

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Saturday, June 26, 2004

A Quick Hello 

We went to see Fahrenheit 9/11 Friday in Portland. We met four other people at the theater, which was packed. The movie may turn out to be the biggest movie of the weekend! The movie was powerful. I wept and felt so angry and disgusted with our government. I wondered if anyone who needs to see this movie will actually see it. The six of us went to dinner afterward and talked about the movie. Some of the group liked Bowling for Columbine better. I thought this movie was more powerful, but I saw Bowling when it came out on DVD, not in the theater, so that could have made a difference. (I'm sorry I'm not being more specific about the movie; it's late, and I'm a bit weary, I think.) I was glad I saw the movie, but I was more glad to be in the company of compassionate, thinking people afterward.

Here's some news from the Green Party. They are not going to endorse Ralph Nader.

We've talked here about FCC rulings which many of us believed gave too much power to the big media corporations. It appears the US appeals court agrees with us! The Bush Administration once again went too far. But it ain't over. Read on, Macbeth. (I don't know; it just popped into my brain.)

Al Gore made another great speech . I wish he was our president...although actually, he kind of is. But he isn't....If they had only counted those votes in Florida. Anyway, he warns us of the perils to Democracy when we're encouraged to be constantly afraid.

I've been getting great mail from readers lately. Thank you. I wanted to share parts of them with you, but not tonight. I need to get to sleep. We're driving to Ashland, Oregon, tomorrow, for my interview at the forensics lab on Monday (about the eagles who have bee killed). Then on Tuesday, Mario, our friend Dave Johnson, and myself are doing a reading in St. John's (which is technically part of Portland). So I'm not certain when I'll be back to Furious Spinner. Have a blast, whatever you're doing!

May You Have Fun in Beauty! 0 comments

Thursday, June 24, 2004

Things Are Happenin' Here.... 

What it is, ain't exactly clear...

I've been busy. Up at night, running around during the day. I'm doing research for what I hope will be an in-depth piece on the bald eagle killings in Oregon. Wednesday I drove to Wilsonville to the Department of Fish and Wildlife's Office of Law Enforcement and spoke with Special Agent Christopher Brong. Seventeen bald eagles have been found dead in the Willamette Valley since 1991. Most of them died from Fenthion poisoning, an organophosphate pesticide—yes, those same pesticides I have been fighting for years. What forensics has determined is that a sheep carcasses (or portions of) were laced with the pesticide. The eagles then fed on the sheep. You've heard me go on and on about these pesticides being neurotoxins, so you can imagine how the eagles died. Their nervous systems were fried—either as they flew or as they stood over the carcass. In any case, they died. Law enforcement suspects that area farmers, concerned that eagles were targeting their lambs, have killed the eagles. Eagles are opportunists, either scavenging for food or going after easy prey. It is unlikely—perhaps even physically impossible—that bald eagles have lifted the lambs to their deaths. Probably, a farmer found a bald eagle feeding on a dead lamb and assumed the eagle had killed the lamb.

Brong let me ask him questions for three hours. I am fascinated by this subject. I am always interested in how other people view situations. My grandfather was a farmer. My father said if Grandpa thought something was killing his livestock, he would go after the predator and kill it. My father said they would try to kill foxes because the government offered a bounty for every fox killed.

"Did you ever kill one?"

"Yes, I did."

"And what made you think the fox was preying on your chickens?" I asked.

"Well, when I found him he was chewing on a chicken. Can't guarantee you it was our chicken, but since he was in our chicken coop...."

On Monday, which happens to be our 23rd wedding anniversary—and 24 years to the day we meet one another—we'll be in Ashland, Oregon, looking at dead things. We're going to the Department of Fish and Wildlife's forensics lab, so I can see what work is going on there.

I told my agent I wanted to research this story and do a book, and she said no one would be interested! I've queried a few magazines and got a "nay" already from one. I'm going forward anyway. We'll see where it all goes. 0 comments

Wednesday, June 23, 2004

Freeing Elephants 

My sister Michelle sent me this article about the Detroit Zoo sending their elephants to a refuge. The director decided it was inhumane to keep the elephants in such close quarters when in the wild they usually wander about 30 miles a day. They will probably go to the Elephant Sanctuary in Tennessee. Another zoo director, when asked what he thought of this, said something like, "yeah, but, who cares if it's inhumane; it’s more important that people get to gape at them!” I am paraphrasing. Slightly. This remark reminds me of some of the reactions of people to the torture of Iraqi prisoners. "Yeah, but, we need the information." (For one thing, experts say torture does not produce good intelligence—although I wonder how they determined this factoid.) But I digress.

I went to the Detroit Zoo once almost thirty years ago. I think I was with my father, my oldest sister, and her son—but I can't remember for sure. What I do remember is seeing a tiger pacing in her cage. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. I wondered why people could not see how distressed she was. Then I went downstairs in some building to see the gorilla. He was sitting in a cage on a concrete floor. His eyes were brown, slightly watery, and they looked so much like human eyes. Because of this, I could not ignore our very real connection to these animals, and I wondered how I would feel sitting in that cage. (Not that it is any better to cage and torture an animal who is nothing like us.) I had never before seen a being who was more lost or miserable.

I've never been to a zoo since then. Years ago I wrote a book called A Vagabond for Genesis, about the end of the world due to a plague. Many homeless people survived the plague, and one of the first things they did was release the animals from the zoo in Portland. Lions, tigers, and bears wandered all over the city.

Holding any living being against its will is cruel, I believe. I have even wondered if it is cruel to have house plants. As I water mine or dust their leaves, I talk to them and ask if they like their homes. Unfortunately, I apparently don't speak their language because I haven't heard a yeah, nay, or are you nuts, girl.

Thanks for the article, Michelle.

Mario offers us this miniature poem, originally published in EDGZ #4 Summer/Fall 2002. Thanks, Mar.

Plato’s Menagerie

The ideal zoo
would be like
a certain theologian’s
concept of hell:
it exists
but it’s empty.

Copyright © 2002 by Mario Milosevic
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Tuesday, June 22, 2004

Journal of Mythic Arts  

The Summer 2004 Issue of the Journal of Mythic Arts is online. Editor Terri Windling says, "This time, we're looking at love, courtship, and marriage in myth and the mythic arts, exploring relationships between men and women, humans and animals, mortal beings and creatures of magic." The entire Endicott Studio site is great to rummage around in. You'll find fabulous myth and poetry and awesome inspiring art. Mario and I both have pieces in this issue. Mine is a poem called "Wings," and it's based on the Swan Maiden myth. Mario has one of my favorite poems by him in this issue. It's called "Bigfoot," and it's based on a real man who is nouveau legendary in these parts. 0 comments

Dear Heart 

I awaken at 5:00 a.m. after two hours of sleep. I am so irritated I want to scream. I twist and turn on the bed, trying to get back to sleep, but the twitches torture me, so I get up. It is light out, dawn light—gray and pink, at the edge of deciding whether it will be night or day—and the sky is hazy with pollution. I'm so pissed off from lack of sleep and shitty dreams. But lately, I've been trying to reframe experiences that I first perceive as unpleasant. So I put on clothes and go out into the cool morning. Getting up this early means I get to work in my garden before it is too hot out to do anything.

I walk over first to the Kuan Yin Peace Garden. I can tell the deer have visited. They gnoshed on a couple of tall yellow flowers and trampled on a few pink ones that grow close to the ground. I lean down to look more closely at the mashed flowers. Some of the wild peas are pressed down, too. Perhaps a deer even slept here last night. I have always said the deer were welcome to the flowers—even when the loss of beauty annoys me—and this morning is no exception. I reframe the experience even further: the deer came to pay their respects to Kuan Yin last night. The wild always have permission to eat the wild, so that is what they did.

In The Handbook of Tibetan Buddhist Symbols, Robert Beer writes that the deer "represent the natural harmony and fearlessness of the deity's pure realm." Deer were considered sacred to many goddesses, including Isis and Aphrodite. To me, deer represent survival. Despite the encroachment of civilization upon their territory, deer can often adapt and survive. They seem to be shapeshifters—one minute a tree trunk, the next a blur of camouflage galloping through the forest. When I first got sick, I remember someone telling me about the deer at the Grand Canyon. So many people fed the deer and left their garbage around that the deer's digestive systems got impaired. They grew so accustomed to this unnatural food that they were unable—physically—to return to a natural diet. I don't know if that part is true—I never researched it. But as recently as 2003, sixteen deer in the Grand Canyon area were put down when it was discovered they were starving to death because the plastic they had eaten had so impaired their digestion.

I want the deer to eat my flowers. I must remember to look around my yard and make certain no plastic is where the deer can get to it....

I work in my garden. The fava beans are rotting. I pick what is left, then I pull the plants up and put them on my compost pile. I stare at the lettuce. Then I decide: watched lettuce never grows. I pick a small bowl of strawberries. They're smaller now, their shapes bizarre. This happens every year. Why? Is is because I put bird netting over them? (With my strawberries, my attitude is if the bird is clever enough to go beneath the netting, the bird is welcome to the berries; otherwise they’re my berries.) I find two snow peas, and I eat them. I pull up grass, especially in my thyme and strawberry patches.

Then I go upstairs, pull off all my clothes, and get into bed. The sheets feel exquisite on my bare skin. I feel myself sinking toward sleep almost immediately. A crow calls out again and again and again. "It must be telling you it's time to get up, love," I whisper to Mario. He hugs me, then gets out of bed. It's 7:00 a.m.

I sleep until 8:30. My brain and body throb as I stumble up again, a bit dizzy and nauseated: I can't take any news. I can't try to save or change anything this morn. Need to eat and drink. It's so dry my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I get an email from a reader who gives me a recipe for lavender cookies. Her letter cheers me.

An hour later, I sit at my computer, preparing to work. Clouds must have descended while I was sleeping, or something. The air is not as hazy. Something is going on at the church across the street. It's Tuesday, so it's probably not a wedding. Choir practice is Wednesday afternoon. AA Wednesday night. Church Sunday. That must mean it's a funeral. (I know all this from living here, not because I attend the church.) I watch car after car drive up. People of all ages walk slowly into the church, looking shattered. I have seen many funerals at this church from my perspective across the street. Usually they are for older people, and most of those attending the funerals are older. When the death is unexpected, then the services are usually much more crowded.

I wonder who has died. I know many of the mourners. I start to feel nervous. Who has died? As if the death is any worse if I know the person! I remember the last time I saw a funeral like this here. It was when my friend Sheila's husband died. He had gone out hunting and never came home. He died of a heart attack next to his truck out near a duck pond. But it isn’t hunting season.

The minister comes out and waits by the curb. He is an older man, with white hair and a long white beard. He holds a blue cup in his hand and sips the contents as another man speaks with him. I have never seen the minister come out and wait for anyone before a funeral. That must mean it had not been a good death. Not an easy death.

A few minutes later I look up, and everyone has gone inside the church. One woman dressed in red comes outside. She faces away from the church and wipes her eyes with a tissue. Then she sighs, straightens herself—almost imperceptively—and returns inside.

I leave the house to meet Mario for his break. I cross the street and glance toward the open door to the foyer of the church. I see a small white Teddy bear sitting on the floor with a red heart around his neck. It takes a moment for me to realize what that means. I look above the bear and see the school portrait of a young boy.

Ohhhh. I meet Mario and ask him what has happened. Who is this boy and why haven't we heard about it? Oh yes, Mario says, he was crushed to death by an elevator or something like that in his home. That's all he knew. At the library, I ask the women what has happened. They tell me who the mother is. Ohhhhh. I know her from the peace group. I cannot imagine. A picture of the mother flashes through my brain. I see her at the church, working on the lawn and flower beds. She is smiling and leaning on her rack.

I have no coherent thoughts. No way to reframe this. I walk home slowly and go inside my cool house. I think of the deer in my flower garden. In some North American cultures, deer medicine was healing and protective. I hope the mother of the boy and all of his family are able have some kind of healing.

Death can be so unexpected. Life, too.

When Mario comes homes from work, we wrap our arms around one another. Then we eat lunch. I sprinkle flowers on my sandwich and thank the deer for the idea.

May You Love In Beauty.


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Insomnia and Shampoo 

2:00 a.m. Morning, fellow spinners. I'm awake. Want to be asleep, but there you are. I just took a long shower and washed my hair with my new shampoo. (More on that later.) I've got CNN on in the background. They had this amazing program on today—which is now being rerun—where Arab journalists talked about what is happening in Iraq and the Middle East. The moderator is terrible; he is extremely patronizing. However, the panelists are saying things on TV that I have not heard on any other mainstream media. One journalist said it was as though Bush had a handbook on how to be hated in the Arab world, and he was going through it chapter by chapter, doing exactly what it said. Another said that the American government keeps saying it is a Socratic Democracy and wishes to bring that to the Arab world, yet Bush claims he is getting commands from God. How is that different from Osama Bin Laden and the other radical Arab leaders who claim they are doing God's work?

IWe had a nice weekend. On Friday, we went hiking early. Most of the wildflowers are gone, so the few that remain stand out–especially the tiny white tinged with pink star flowers (trientalis latifolia). (I described them in "Counting on Wildflowers": Their blossom is about the size of the nail on my index finger, with seven pointed petals, white inside with pink lining on the edges. They sparkle in the sunlight, as if someone has dipped them in glitter.) Two of the waterfalls which had disappeared a couple of weeks ago reappeared! We had never seen the waterfalls dry up so early in the year, and now to see them return seemed odd, too. And wonderful. Then we came home and worked. The neighborhood was quiet, hot, and we were cool, cocooned, inside most of the day.

On Saturday, I was up early, so I worked in the garden. The lettuce is still not growing and now it is bolting. We usually don't have to buy lettuce from April through September. This is the first year my lettuce crop has failed so miserably. I'll try again next planting day. The lavender is gorgeous, but I can't eat it—generally speaking. I harvested some rosemary and lavender, then took what I had into the house and made shampoo. It was so quiet in the house. Restful. Outside it got hotter and hotter. I felt comforted and comfortable making this shampoo. It's something I've done several times a year since about 1997. I got the recipe from my dear late gal pal Jeanne Hardy, in who was publisher and editor of Birdy's Circle. I miss her, and making the shampoo always makes me feel close to her. She was one of the most independent beings I have ever known, living off the land, making all that she could herself—including shampoo, although she did that for health reasons. She had MCS and didn't want to expose herself to all the chemicals in most store-bought shampoos. Here's the recipe:

1 oz. olive or vegetable soap, grated
1 cup water heated to a boil.
Add 2 T fresh or 4 T dried herbs
For oily hair: peppermint, lemongrass
For blonde: calendula, chamomile
For dark: rosemary, lavender
For thin or limp: nettles
Simmer herbs for 5-10 minutes. Strain with cheesecloth. Add soap until melted. Add 2 T aloe vera gel.

It doesn't say what herbs to use with gray hair. (Yes, I started going gray when I was 11. I think I've almost finished the process.) I've been using rosemary and lavender because that's what I have in my garden. After the shampoo cools, I pour it into an old shampoo bottle.

Well, I had more to write about, but I am suddenly very tired, so I'm going to try to sleep.

May You All Sleep in Beauty.

1 comments

Sunday, June 20, 2004

Happy Solstice! 

Mario sent me this link which is so appropriate on the longest day of the year. Ain't it grand? 0 comments

Saturday, June 19, 2004

Who Loves Ya, Baby? 

Nights unroll, unfurl, fade to black. I am up and about, haunting my own home, wandering outside, a dispirited flower child. All the flowers have lost their color in the dark. They are gray. Only that word does not accurately describe them. It's as if they've all washed their faces and put away the color for a time when florid is required. At night we are all shades...of the same color. I stand next to Kuan Yin; both of us are like pale grave markers, only we giggle and whisper, "I'm more stoned than you are" and fan ourselves demurely with seashells dropped from the big dipper.

Who touches you and holds you quite like I do? Who makes you feel like I make you feel?

How can anyone breathe the air—sipping the broth of the universe—and not drop down onto their knees in awestruck ecstatic love?

Stars whiz by. Listen. Ahhhhh, that one says. Ain't we having fun? Ssssssss. It just sizzles, another hisses.

Soon, the pain, twitches, nausea, or whatever roused me from bed this night, exhausts itself and I crawl back into bed. My beloved curls around me, and I wrap my bare legs around his bare legs. He is cool and warm all at the same time. I clasp his hand to my heart, and I close my eyes. I am a falling star who has found my universe.
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Friday, June 18, 2004

New Moon Musings 

It's the middle of the night, and I can't sleep. I just went outside to the Kuan Yin Peace Garden. It is light out for a new moon night. Don't know why. Perhaps the stars are brighter. It's more likely I'm just noticing the star quality of our street lights: little suns up and down the road. Everything was so quiet. The sound of my dryer was a distant-sounding white noise, soothing, like wind through pine trees. I had gone out earlier, before I went to bed, and I heard someone call my name in the darkness. I immediately ran into the house, to see if Mario had called me. He hadn't. I don't know what had been whispering my name...

Yesterday I spent most of the evening preparing for my presentation to the city council tonight. I put together a packet, 53 pages long, to help the council make their decision on whether they wanted to adopt a pest policy or not. Presently, the city uses few pesticides, but I want them to be aware of alternatives in case they get too much pressure from the noxious weed board to get rid of weeds. (Isn't the minutia to being a citizen interesting? What can I say? It's often the minutia which we don't pay attention to that causes so many problems.)

For instance, I found out today that the daycare center lodged in the church across from my house has an exterminator come in regularly to spray, among other things, an insecticide called cyfluthrin. Cyfluthrin is a neurotoxin. Yes, you've figured it out: it affects the nervous system of the insect and can cause great harm to human nervous systems, among other things. I would pull my child out of that daycare in a New York minute, as they say. I can’t believe they would be so reckless as to expose children to these kinds of toxins.

Anyway, I prepared the presentation, so I was a bit wired and only slept about three hours last night. I was finally wide awake at 6:30 a.m. I got dressed and went outside to work in my garden. It was cool, the sky New Mexico blue. I was cranky from lack of sleep, but that slipped away as I sat on my butt pulling weeds. Hardly anything makes me as happy as being in my little garden. My dream is to have my own land with a huge vegetable garden that feeds Mario and me all year round. I think I would be completely content: me, Mario, home and garden.

After I weeded, I harvested strawberries, carrots, kale, rosemary, thyme, and sage. I took them to Mario, inside the house, then went back to the garden. Then I harvested the lavender. I can't smell, but I hold the stems beneath my nose anyway; they look like colorful sticks of living incense. After an hour of sheer sensual pleasure in my garden, I went in for breakfast. Mario had made a scrumptious meals of eggs scrambled with shitake mushrooms, rosemary, thyme, and sage plus hash browns, carrots, strawberries, and kale. (All organic.) It was divine! My favorite kind of meal—I am the provider, and someone else is the chef. Mmmmm!

After Mario left for work, I divided the lavender stems I had culled from the bush into vases all over the house and a couple outside beneath the overhang. Then I carried out most of my potted plants and put them on my potting table. I proceeded to transfer most of them into new pots, along with new soil. Again, I was so happy—cool and protected from the sun while I dug into the dirt and whispered sweet nothings to my plants.

When it got to be lunch time, I cleaned up the area. My Martha Stewitch mode had kicked in. I took the small table the air conditioner usually sits on (Mario put the AC in yesterday) and set it between the two chairs next to the potting table. Then I put an old window on top of the table. I got a basket full of marbles and rolled them out onto the glass of the window (which was now a table top). I put a vase of lavender in the middle of the marbles and the glass. When Mario came home for lunch, I led him out to the porch. (He liked the "marble" table.) He read his chess book, and I went inside and prepared his lunch: a burrito, baby bok choy, rainbow Swiss chard, tomato, and apple. (All organic.) I took it out to him on the "porch," then sat with him while he ate. We talked and looked out at the Kuan Yin Peace garden and my vegetable garden. Ahhhh bliss!

It got to 90 degrees today, at least.

We gave our presentation at city council tonight. I think it went well. They are open to using less pesticides. We'll keep working with them. Now maybe I'll see if we can get the school to change their policies. The superintendent is leaving. (Yes, the one you've been reading about since this weblog began.) It's a perfect time to approach the school board.

Now I'm awake. 2:00 a.m. Wired. I've got the 9/11 hearings on in the background. I was looking forward to taking a long hike in the woods tomorrow, but I don't know if I'll be able to now. It's not wise to be hoofing it through the forest with only a few hours of sleep over the last 48 hours.

I hear the train whistle above the hepa fan and Bob Kerrey's shrill voice. He certainly gets his knickers in a knot during these hearings. Didn't he admit to participating in war atrocities?

I read today that an oil executive is worried about global warming, and he's not sure we can do anything about it at this point. And Canada is this close to electing a right-winger who could be George Bush's younger twin. I guess hell has frozen over.

Enough. I need to sleep. 0 comments

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

Ex-diplomats and Military Leaders Say Bush Has to Go 

27 ex-diplomats and military leaders have issued a memo calling for a new regime here in the U.S. They said, "Deep concern about the current state of our nation's international relations compels us, 27 men and women who have served the United States in senior diplomatic, national security, and Military positions, to speak out and call for a fundamental change in the United States' approach to foreign policy." This is a bipartisan group, by the way.
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Counting on Wildflowers Redux 

Alternet has published my essay "Counting on Wildflowers" which you originally read here. My editor asked for an update, so I added an entry at the end. Check out their new design. It looks good, and they've still got all their great articles. 0 comments

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

Plotting or Plodding? 

Yesterday we tried to hike Falling Creek, but it was too rainy, so we came home, and I worked on the rewrite of Lady Liberty. For a treat we drove to our favorite restaurant of the moment, Calendula. As I told you before, we love the food, the house, and the people. I go there to plot my maybe-next novel which may take place in a house like the one the restaurant is in. We'll see. It's so cozy that I wanted to stay the night. But we came home, and I slept for ten hours, curled around my dreams of flood waters filled with living, dying, and dead salmon.

Today it wasn't raining, so I spent part of the day outside in the garden. For some reason, my lettuce just sits there, about an inch or two high. This has never happened before. Lettuce likes cooler weather, so I'm afraid with our expected heat wave, they might bolt. I've got potato plants coming up everywhere, including purple potatoes. The plants of the purple potatoes are purplish green. Normally I don't plant many potatoes because they're cheap in the store, but this year the price is double what it was last year, and potatoes are usually easy to grow. The snow peas are coming up nicely. We'll see if any of those actually make it into the house and onto our plates. The lavender plant is blooming—tiny fluorescent lavender-colored blossoms. They're so bright, in a purplish way, that they seem electrically lit. I worked in the Kuan Yin Peace Garden, too. The deer ate all my hostas blossoms. I was overdressed for all this exertion and felt like I was having heatstroke before I was finished.

About then I noticed the cherries hanging over the garden. I got a bowl from the house, thanked the cherry tree, then picked me some cherries! In between all this, I was attempting to get a hold of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Services Special Agent who is investigating the multiple killings of bald eagles in Oregon over the last 13 years. Someone has been lacing sheep carcasses with an outlawed pesticide. The eagles consume part of the carcass and die. I believe 17 eagles have died this way. 17 they know about. I finally got him on the phone and set up an appointment to talk with him next week. I'm also researching and gathering material for a presentation I'm giving Thursday to our city council about eliminating the use of pesticides in town. Plus Mario and I are working on getting our library system to do the same. It’s plodding scatterbrain work, and I’m afraid my creative brain has despaired and gone to sleep. So forgive me if I’m uninspired this evening. (I am, however, looking forward to eating the cherry pie.)

Speaking of cherries and our founding fathers....This writer has an interesting take on worshiping the past. In this piece, Paul Krugman declares John Ashcroft the worst attorney general in history. No arguments from me on this. His contempt for Congress and the people of this nation is so obvious each time he opens his mouth. This article is fascinating: “Another World is Possible.” The author, Rebecca Solnit, looks at the history of Americas, specifically Latin America, in a new light. It’s an excerpt from her book, Hope in the Dark.

I want to know why there has not been more political fallout in the Bush Administration over the torture and abuse of "prisoners" in Iraq. I'm appalled that people aren't getting fired left and right and that Bush's poll numbers haven't dropped more. Are Americans FOR torture? Karpinski, who was in charge of Abu Ghraib during the abuse scandal and who has been (essentially) fired, says she and others are being scapegoated, and that the new guy in charge told her prisoners should "be treated like dogs."

I had more to show you, but my husband beckons: and he’s got cherry pie in his hands. 0 comments

Sunday, June 13, 2004

With the Funeral of God Now Over, What Shall We Do? 

I hope you have had a good weekend. I am getting ready for bed. Winding down. I've worked almost all weekend, library stuff, and I'm tired. Saturday I was so tired and dizzy after only working three hours that I came home weepy and discouraged. All these scenarios were running through my head about becoming a bag lady because I can't work, etc., etc. Sunday was better because I figured out how to exploit the working class so I could do the intellectual part of my job and leave the heavy lifting to someone else: Mario worked with me the whole day. At first even he was overwhelmed by the amount of work and the complexity of the job (I won't bore you with the details). But, if nothing else, I'm still a good manager and can figure out how to get a thing done. Whatever that thing is.

I have nothing profound to say tonight, as you can see. No world news to report. The funeral of the god is apparently over. I didn't see even a minute of it, I'm glad to say. I saw some of the coverage—only a bit—before I had to tune it all out. I haven't seen that much bullshit shoveled since the great Manure Pitchin' Contest of 1973, and I could not bear the stench. So I moved on.

Today we heard that a woman in the county west of us brought her two young girls into this county, went out into the woods, and killed them. Helicopters flew overhead here all day long. News cameras took shots of our courthouse—which is a block from our house—where the woman is now incarcerated. It is a family tragedy, and I hope it does not turn into a "media circus."

I don't know the details of this woman's life. She was obviously troubled. She called the police immediately afterward. I keep thinking of those women who have post partum psychosis who kill their babies. Maybe she had something like that. My mother had post partum depression, before the doctors really had a name for it beyond the "baby blues." She says she had it after the births of a least two of her babies. Although I was old enough to remember it all, I don't recall many details. I know my mother called my dad one time at his work and said he better come home before she hurt someone. She ended up cowering in a corner one day and my sister called my aunt who came over to take care of her. Eventually she checked herself into a hospital. The doctors called what she was experiencing a nervous breakdown back then. I remember my mother was different after she got out of the hospital. Not worse, not better. Just different. Never the same. Years later, when she still hadn't shaken the depression that kept descending upon her like some giant demented vulture looking for road kill, she wondered outloud if she should try electroshock therapy. My grandfather had had shock therapy. He killed himself a few months later.

I was determined I would be nothing like my dear mother. I made many decisions when I was younger based on my desire to avoid my mother's life. Yet when I turned 30, or thereabouts, a switch flipped somewhere in my body, and everything changed for me, too. The doctors had different words for what was wrong with me. It was called "anxiety." I had a year long anxiety attack. I told you about it, I believe in another post. Eventually I was diagnosed with environmental illness. I was never the same. Worse. Not better. Never as fearless as I had been. Funnier. A kind of gallows humor, I suppose. I was the Henny Youngman of the loony bin set. (Actually, I can't remember who Henny Youngman is...was?) Me and that vulture are old acquaintances. I understand that I am, on occasion, interesting road kill. I have never wondered outloud or to myself if I might try electroshock therapy. I understand that I have a glitch in my body which causes all sorts of symptoms, and some of those symptoms manifest as depression and anxiety, although less and less over the years, knock on wood.

My point in bringing this up is not to air family secrets. If you've read FS enough, you know I don't consider it a secret. Mental illness is no more shameful than having a migraine, getting diabetes, etc. In other words: there is no shame. It is caused by hormones, chemicals, and environmental stress. Unfortunately, because mental illness affects our brains and our brains control how we act, when some people have a mental illness it is possible they can cause harm to themselves or other people.

I don't know why this woman killed her babies. It's possible she is an evil psycho. My guess is that it's not as simple or as simplistic as that, although the local news is already saying the crime was premeditated, and our county sheriff has already said she's a bad woman who showed no remorse. (I saw her mug shot; she was crying.) We're all wondering when Ann Rule will show up. During one of the last horrendous murders we had here, she came to town and tried to get what was left of the family to talk to her. No deal.

This topic sickens me. I will let it go. May the little girls rest in peace.

Let's imagine a world where no one kills babies, theirs or someone else's, all grown up or still babies. Imagine a world where there are no glitches in anyone's brains. Imagine a world where peace prevails in our bodies, minds, and world.

Blessed be. 0 comments

Saturday, June 12, 2004

Lettuce Knot Fourget 

It's 2:00 a.m. I've washed the dishes (speaking of unnatural cleaning urges—see earlier "Stepford" post) and I’ve got The Andromeda Strain on in the background. I first saw this movie in high school with a bunch of my girlfriends. (Or would that be a gaggle of girlfriends, a group of girlfriends, a herd of girlfriends, a band, troop, leash, business? Stop me!) Or else I saw it with my girlfriends when it was on TV, and we were having a sleepover. I may be getting two events mixed up. I remember getting drunk, and my girlfriends tried to get me to drink coffee. It's the only cup of coffee I've ever had in my life, and I only drank half of that. Yuck. Later that night, or another night, still dressed in my nightie, plus jeans, I stole my girlfriend's car keys (not to mention her car) and went for a drive. It was after 2:00 in the morning. I don't remember being drunk, so it may have been a different night. I was lonely, and I think I had broken up with my boyfriend, so I took a drive near his house. This was all out in the country on dark and deserted roads. The police stopped me. It wasn't my car, and I didn't realize there was an empty bottle of liquor on the floor in the back. Fortunately, the cops let me go. Which was a good thing, since I didn't know how I was going to explain driving this car that wasn't mine. I think I just told the police the truth, and they let me go.

Here's an post on an interesting blog. I admire these writers who are able to get up the energy to be coherent about what's happening in our world every day. Most days I can't even be coherent about what's happening in my own little corner of the universe. This post is about one of the Pentagon lawyers who is involved in "presidential torture powers." I haven't had time to check out all the facts in the blog, so I'm hoping it's credible. I'll let you know if I find out it's not.

It's 2:08 a.m. Now what? 0 comments

Friday, June 11, 2004

Has All of America Consumed Milk of Amnesia... 

...as my friend Paul suggested. History is being rewritten this week: they're talking about Reagan as though he were the new (old) messiah. It reminds me of dysfunctional families who don't want to talk about the abuser in the family. "Let's not talk about it." "Why can't you say something nice?" Blah, blah, blah. I'm sorry Nancy Reagan lost her husband, but he was not a good president, and his policies were not good for anyone but the rich in the United States. People keep saying how nice he was. So you can do any horrible thing you want as long as you're nice? I guess he was the freaking Stepford President, eh? Here's another reminder of what Reagan did in office. 0 comments

Stepforward Wives? 

After a couple of days of being sick with vertigo, I got into a car and drove to Portland. Luckily the road didn't spin too much. No, really. It was safe; I only took up two lanes. Beware! Movie ending spoiler within.

I saw the original Stepford Wives with my friend Sue in 1975. This was a few months before the Fall of Saigon. The country had recently experienced gas lines, inflation, and Watergate. Nixon had resigned, and Gerald Ford was president. Ms. Magazine was a only a few years old, and a woman’s right to have a legal abortion was even younger. I was still a teenager, just shy of my twentieth birthday.

After the movie, Sue and I decided we needed a drink. I don't think in my life up to then I had ever thought I needed a drink. But I was in shock. We shook our heads in disgust as we drank our beers. I said, “That’s what men want? Katherine Ross with bigger breasts and without a mind of her own?”

I got the Katherine Ross part. She was beautiful. Tall and thin. I’d grown up when Twiggy was the biggest thing around, and girls were just discovering anorexia. I had even gone through a short spell of anorexia bulimia myself when I was fourteen and starting high school—before the media and most doctors had heard of it. I knew what every girl knew: I could only survive
high school if I was popular and joined the right group, and that could only happen if I was skinny.

Fortunately, my brain was developing along with my body, and I decided I didn’t want to be perfect. People were going to have to love me as I was. I mean, come on, it was the end of the 60’s, going into the 70’s: peace and love, tie-dyed clothes, and really bad haircuts. We had school sit-ins to get the administration to change the dress code, and they did change it. I was allowed to wear slacks to school; boys could let their hair grow. At college campuses all over the country, students protested the war. More important things were going on than how I looked.

I was no cookie-cutter Stepford teenager, but I was on the student council, and my boyfriend was the captain of the football team. I was involved with all those school things. At football games, I sat serenely in the stands watching my man play. People congratulated me when the team won. I could see my life spinning out before me. I would marry my high school sweetheart. We would stay in this town forever. I would never travel. I would never know the world. I would suffocate, surely.

So in the fall of 1973, after graduating as one of the best and the brightest from my high school, I shocked my family and friends when I quit college after three days, started working the midnight shift at a local restaurant, broke up with my boyfriend, left home, and became homeless for several weeks before I moved in with a young man I had just met. I left him after several months of learning how the other half lived, started college at my father’s alma mater studying journalism and literature, and moved home for a few months while I saved some money for my own place. This was about the time I saw the Stepford Wives.

Although I was now a rebel without a bra, I imagined I would one day find a fella who would love and cherish me. After seeing this movie, I wondered if one of these fellas might want to kill me. It was clear in the movie that the men killed their wives and substituted them with perfect robot replicas. I might have been cute, I might have had the requisite breasts, but I was never going to keep my mouth shut, do as I was told, and cook and clean for my man. Did that mean I was going to end up all alone? This was a burning question for a twenty year old. Besides that, I didn’t understand the logic of the movie: it wouldn’t occur to me to want a man to act a particular way or else I’d have him changed into a robot.

Yes, I understood it was only a movie, but it highlighted my own fears (and the fears of other young women I knew): if I got married I could turn into a Stepford Wife without even knowing it. I had watched bright and intelligent women friends marry and lose all ambition, all desire to do anything besides cook, clean, and take care of their man. I decided I was never going to get married.

Well, I did get married, to someone who didn't expect or get perfection. I didn’t lose my ambition or my creativity, and I’ve never had an unnatural desire to cook and clean. But over the years, I’ve watched most of my friends struggle to have their own careers and their own ambitions while still doing nearly all the domestic chores and child care. I recently wrote to my friend, Sue, who saw the movie with me all those years ago to see if she remembered. She said she thought men still wanted women to be robots. And she was tired of trying to keep up and doing everything.

I rented a copy of the original movie last night, to see what I thought of it now. The Katharine Ross character seemed almost infantile. But the movie was still horrifying. (It also appeared to be a city person’s articulation of his/her fear of the country life. I’ve lived in cities, and I’ve lived in small towns. They both have their Stepford qualities.)

This morning I drove to the city to watch the remake. I thought about the times we live in now. We’re in the midst of a war. Gas prices are spiking. Unemployment is high. No one trusts the government after too many lies and scandals. Men and women are still struggling with their roles in relationships. The world feels fragile and on fire—not too different from 30 years ago. Only now we have personal computers. Email. Cell phones. Etc.

The remake is funnier than the original, but it appeared that they couldn't decide if the movie was satire, horror, or straight comedy. Whoever wrote it apparently didn’t understand the genre and/or has never read a science fiction book in his life. In the movie, Nicole Kidman sees her “robot” self, but then Christopher Walken explains that the women aren’t killed, they are reprogrammed—and later, Matthew Broderick “deprograms” the women so that they’re all normal again. So what was with the robots?

This time when I left the theater, I wasn’t horrified, terrified, or in need of a drink. I was a bit confused by the glitches in the story—i.e. the robot stuff, etc.In the original film, the men were clearly the villains, the women the victims. This time, the women had more power. The men weren’t villains—more like hapless dweebs and nerds who wanted super models as wives. The men weren’t murdering their wives. Women weren’t murdering their husbands either (with one exception).

I got a kick out of Glenn Close being the power behind everything. Even though having her essentially go insane because her husband cheated on her seems a bit dated. Nicoles Kidman's character bounced all around, coming off as shrill and bossy one minute, loving and vulnerable the next. Of course, real people do have those kinds of minutes. The main difference between the movies was that in the 2004 version, it was taken for granted that women are powerful, and men who can't handle that power are infantile and—eventually—powerless. That seems like a step forward.

Now, I've really got to go and clean something.

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Wednesday, June 09, 2004

RNC Convention Schedule of Events 

Kevin sent me this, and I laughed outloud. It is bad. Apparently there's a DNC one, too. I usually don't post anything I can't attribute. I looked all over the net and couldn't find where it had started—although I found it (and various versions) all over. Beware: this little list pushes all kinds of buttons. Have fun. If anyone does find the "original" link, let me know. I want to give credit where credit is due.

REPUBLICAN NATIONAL COMMITTEE CONVENTION SCHEDULE
New York, NY

6:00 PM Opening Prayer led by the Reverend Jerry Falwell
6:30 PM Pledge of Allegiance
6:35 PM Burning of Bill of Rights (excluding 2nd Amendment)
6:45 PM Salute to the Coalition of the Willing
6:46 PM Seminar #1: Getting Your Kid a Military Deferment
7:30 PM First Presidential Beer Bong
7:35 PM Freedom Fries served
7:40 PM EPA Address #1: Mercury: It's What's for Dinner
8:00 PM Vote on which country to invade next
8:10 PM Call EMTs to revive Rush Limbaugh
8:15 PM John Ashcroft Lecture: The Homos Are After Your Children
8:30 PM Round table discussion on reproductive rights (men only)
8:50 PM Seminar #2: Corporations: The Government of the Future
9:00 PM Condi Rice sings "Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man"
9:05 PM Second Presidential Beer Bong
9:10 PM EPA Address #2: Trees: The Real Cause of Forest Fires
9:30 PM break for secret meetings
10:00 PM Second Prayer led by Clarence Thomas
10:15 PM Carl Rove Lecture: Doublespeak Made Simple
10:30 PM Rumsfeld Lecture/Demonstration: How to Squint and Talk Macho Even When You Feel Squishy Inside
10:35 PM Bush demonstration of trademark "deer in headlights" stare
10:40 PM John Ashcroft Demonstration: New Mandatory Kevlar Chastity Belt
10:45 PM Clarence Thomas reads list of black Republicans
10:46 PM Third Presidential Beer Bong
10:50 PM Seminar #3: Education: A Drain on Our Nation's Economy
11:10 PM Hillary Clinton Pinata
11:20 PM John Ashcroft Lecture: Evolutionists: A Dangerous New Cult
11:30 PM Call EMTs to revive Rush Limbaugh again
11:35 PM Blame Clinton
11:40 PM Laura serves milk and cookies
11:50 PM Closing Prayer led by Jesus Himself
12:00 PM Nomination of George W. Bush as Holy Supreme Planetary Overlord

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Let's Get Rid of That Old Time Religion 

I'm just saying....According to this article, some ethnic communities are now "coming out" against gay marriages. It seems like all these people who are misogynist, racist, bigoted, etc. justify their prejudices with religious doctrine. So maybe we should throw out all religion and see what happens. Might just be a better world. Imagine there's no countries. It isnt hard to do. Nothing to kill or die for. No religion too. Imagine all the people living life in peace...

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Demand Accountability 

While the press is gaga over Reagan and the latest celebrity news, David Sirota tells us about five Congressional votes we should have heard about but probably haven't.

I hope you are all doing well. I've been awake since the butt crack of dawn. (Excuse my crudeness, but my true self asserts herself when I haven't had enough sleep.) Mario got up even before then. Everything seems mildly hallucinatory. The air is so clear from the rain that I swear I can see the new light green growth on the pine trees growing on the cliffs across the river on the other side of the Gorge. The kids are getting out of school—early release on Wednesday—and they're running by my house, little bursts of colorful energy. Like butterflies suddenly becoming human.

I want to get my sweetie and crawl back into bed (and sleep) and start the day all over again. I awakened calling out Mario's name because of a terrifying dream. It took enormous effort to call out to him—you know how it is when you are still dreaming and coming awake at the same time. To speak is like walking upstream in water. He was working in his study, and he heard me, answered me, but didn't come to save me. Three times I called. He kept saying, "What?" But I couldn't tell him because I was still drowning in the nightmare, could only say his name. Finally I pulled myself up out of bed and out of the dream.

How can I be this age and still have nightmares? It's so strange.

May You Dream in Beauty! 0 comments

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

Stormy Weather 

It is raining. Has been raining for days. This is unusual weather for June. Yesterday, during a break in the rain, Mario and I went to Eagle Creek for a hike. We hadn't been there since they closed it during the winter due to rock slides. Last week, a hiker fell, slipped off the trail, and was badly injured. The trail was wet, water streaming and flowing from all around, creating waterfalls every few yards. This was definitely April weather. Wild flowers bloomed everywhere, the delicate flowers nestled amongst green foliage—white, blue, pale purple, scarlet blossoms accessories to the green which grew in the rocks and at the roots of the old growth, creating a fairy-like landscape. We went up and up, winding through the huge old Doug firs, stepping over and around the temporary waterfalls. I breathed it all in. Ahhhh wilderness!

We went to lunch at Thai Noon, then to an Italian movie, I'm Not Scared. A young boy discovers another boy is being held underground near an old farmhouse by unknown kidnappers. He doesn't tell anyone. He keeps going back and visiting the boy. Mario and I decided that if we had been 10 years old and found anything like a kidnapped child, we would have run straight to our parents. This child didn't do that. Of course, it turns out his parents were part of the kidnapping scheme, but still. We wondered if this was some kind of a cultural difference. What would you have done? I'm especially curious what my overseas readers would have done.

It started pouring down rain when we got out of the movie. Huge black clouds had settled over the city. One of them looked like a giant inner tube, only it appeared as though something was in the donut hole. I waited for a tornado to snake down from that black hole. Thunder rolled through the city. Lightning kept lighting up the near-night sky. It was raining so hard, we could hardly see the road. We drove to Calendula, a vegetarian restaurant on Hawthorne in an old Victorian house. We sat at a table in the very front of the house, at the window below the stained glass, looking out at the street and the stormy sky. Every once in a while lightning flashed nearby. We had been to Calendula before. The food is very good, although it's expensive for us. Ordinarily, I don't care for Victorian houses. They are either decorated with so many frills and so much cuteness that I want to gag, or else they are too dark on the inside. I can't stand dark houses. I can't even stay in motels with wood paneling. I have nightmares. (Yes, I'm like the princess in princess and the pea. It's a pain being so sensitive.) But I am drawn to this house. Light pours in from the many windows in the dining room. The wallpaper is a deep gray, with a raised paisley pattern, but it's not dark or dingy. The first time we ate here, I immediately came up with an idea for a ghost story.

Last night, rain splattered the windows, then the sun lit them up, making the drops look like tiny diamond slugs clinging to the glass. The house seemed perfectly suited for the storm, as if it were made for this weather. It did not shake or rattle. I felt cozy and protected, sitting in this house with my sweetie, holding his hand and watching the storm and the world outside, pedestrians hurrying down the sidewalk, the wind whipping through their coats and hair, pulling them in another direction. I felt like I was a turtle and this house was my shell. My ideal shell: complete with my husband and someone to cook and serve me delicious food!

On the way home, we turned up Led Zeppelin on KGON (during their 8:00 p.m. "Get the Led Out") and watched a huge black storm cloud. I was sure a twister would come down from it and teach us a thing or two about dance.

Unfortunately we had to leave the cloud behind. The dance would have to wait.
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Reagan's True Legacy 

This article calmly and reasonably lays out what Reagan achieved during his time in office. Apparently a lot of people who voted for Reagan disagreed with him on the issues. But they voted for him anyway! He was called the great communicator. I never understood that characterization. I could not listen to Reagan. If he came on the TV, I had to turn the channel. I despised him. I despised what he stood for. I despised the reasons people liked him. I have never understood the need for people to have some patriarch tell them what to think, what to do, what to feel. Bleck! I never wished him ill, but I wish he had never become president. Our country would be much better off now. For one thing, I doubt that George W. Bush would be prez. 0 comments

Monday, June 07, 2004

Media Orgasmic over Reagan 

Pulease. Reagan is dead. I'm sorry he had Alzheimer's. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. But as my husband pointed out, let us not forget, "Catsup as a vegetable, Iran-Contra, selling arms to the Contras, and firing all the air traffic controllers." And James freaking Watts, for goodness sake! Reagan cut so many inner city programs that many blame him for the drugs, gangs, and drive-by shootings that are so much a part of LA and other American cities now. Bush and the Republicans are using Reagan's death to their advantage. They LOVE everyone all nostalgic over Reagan. The media show the same clips over and over of his funny quips, and people's eyes water, and they say and think, "Gee, he wasn't so bad. I wonder why I hated him back when." Do you remember the deficit? Well, in case you've forgotten or you want something to remind friends and family with, here are a couple of articles reminding us what was wrong with Ronald Reagan. Geez, I don't look forward to the next week as the Republicans further deify Reagan by dipping him in the gold of bullshit nostalgia. Let's all have a reality check! 0 comments

Thursday, June 03, 2004

Counting on Wildflowers 

April 5, 2004
April is the cruelest month and will be the bloodiest yet for U.S. troops in Iraq, but we don’t know that today. Our peace group is bringing Dennis Kucinich to the area tonight, and we are excited about what he’ll say. In the morning, my husband Mario and I go into the woods to try and relax after a stressful week of organizing. We are grateful some nearly wild places still exist. We know we’ll find flowers in the forest today. People are dying all over the planet, but Nature still grows flowers where she can.

My tension and depression evaporate—nearly—as I walk the Falling Creek trail deep into the Gifford Pinchot forest. I can’t be thinking of anything except where I am: lions and bears roam these woods. Trilliums—the first flowers of spring—are beginning to pop up in the dark green underbrush, white and pink three-petaled flowers, like recessed landscape lights showing us the way through the forest. Yellow violets display their pansy-shaped faces. We count 62 trillium, and eight violets.

That night, Dennis Kucinich tells us we need a “reconciliation with nature.” We need to create a world “where peace is inevitable, where the human heart dwarfs war.” He quotes Tennyson, “’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.”

April 11, 2004
British officers complain about the use of violence against Iraqis by American soldiers. One officer says the violence “is over-responsive to the threat they are facing.”

We go to Falling Creek and count 136 trilliums, 86 violets, and 15 Oregon anemones. We also find our first deer’s head orchids. These tiny purple orchids with blossoms about the size of my thumb nail look like tiny slippers lost by Barbie and stuck on the end of a six inch pole, or like the heads of a tiny deer with tiny purple antlers. Whenever I see this fragile flower growing in the wild and woolly forest, I know anything is possible. We count 38. Vanilla leaf plants have started coming up, too. They grow about a foot off the ground and have three leaves. When they first appear, they are light green—new green, what the crayon box calls sea green. They shake in the wind and look like so many green hands waving excitedly, “We’re here! We’re here!”

April 18, 2004
The 9/11 hearings are depressing. Ashcroft apparently didn’t like the way he was treated, and he had a memo declassified and released to the public which says Jamie Gorelick wanted “the wall” between agencies that everyone is complaining about. I thought information was classified or declassified according to national security, not politics. It is nearly impossible to be idealistic these days.

It has been raining. The trilliums are bent over and folded up, dripping wet, and I think of homeless people out in the rain: their bloom long ago washed away. Today the woods are filled with hope and possibility; we count 150 deer’s head orchids.

April 26, 2004
The photographer who took pictures of the flag-draped coffins of dead soldiers was fired from her job. They should show every aspect of this war. Every night on the news they should show footage of what is actually happening in Iraq: people are dying. And dying, and dying.

On the trail today, the fiddlehead ferns are beginning to uncurl. They look just like...fiddle heads. Or green arthritic fingers starting to feel the cure. The dogwood have buds. We see our first bear grass blossom. Bear grass looks like tufts of shiny green hair growing out of the forest floor—1/2” wide hair. In the middle of these tufts, a shaft emerges. Hundreds of tiny flowers eventually unfurl from this shaft. We count 168 deer’s head orchids.

May 3, 2004
The tales of torture of Iraqi prisoners are so awful. I don’t know what to do in the face of these horrors caused by my tax dollars except keep writing, keep contacting my representatives, keep talking. Flowers are blooming around our home: California poppies, rhododendrons, peonies, and hydrangeas. I stand outside and stare at the poppies. Has anything in the world ever been as orange? They flower again and again, despite rain, sleet, heat, despair.

In the woods, the trilliums are almost gone. The number of deer’s head orchids is beginning to decline. We count 129. The dogwood have tiny green blossoms surrounded by white bracts. They float amongst the trees, like lotus blossoms in a sea of old growth—or a flock of white birds suddenly stilled. They are glorious, white lights in the deep wild.

May 14, 2004
Rumsfeld testifies before Congress about the torture. He doesn’t seem to get that he was wrong all along to deny these people their civil rights. Nicholas Berg was beheaded, and his father blamed Bush and the U.S. policy of bullying other countries.

In the woods, two elk cross the road before we get to the trailhead. The bear grass blossoms are filling out. They remind me of breasts. Mario says they look like white jellyfish. The trilliums are gone. Star flowers are beginning to open. Their blossom is about the size of the nail on my index finger, with seven pointed petals, white inside with pink lining on the edges. They sparkle in the sunlight, as if someone has dipped them in glitter. Only 46 deer’s head orchids today, and most of those are faded to lavender.

May 31, 2004
I hear by email that some members of our peace group have collected photographs of the U.S. soldiers who have died in Iraq. For Memorial Day a local bookstore has agreed to put them in their window until the end of the week. Beneath the pictures, people are leaving flowers and lit candles.

Mario and I start mapping the Falling Creek trail. I love every curve of this place. People are afraid of the wild, yet we would perish without it, I believe. Barry Lopez said a bear in a zoo is a mammal, but she is no longer a bear. She has lost that wild something that makes her a bear. I wonder if people have been away from the wild so long that we have lost the essence of what it is to be human. We’ve been living in our cages for too long.

I’ve heard people say war is a natural progression for people, and war makes us crazy. I don’t believe that. We become crazy, then we go to war. War is unnatural. Senseless. A sign of failure. Give me the wild any day—it’s not safe, but it’s not chaotic. Things make sense even when they are gruesome.

The deer’s head orchid have faded into oblivion—or into the forest humus. They’ll be back next year. We find a new orchid along the side of the trail with coral-colored flowers about half the size of the nail on my littlest finger. It’s called coral leaf orchid.

June 2, 2004
Mario and I cut several stalks off the magenta peony bush and the powder blue hydrangeas in front of our house. We think about bringing some poppies, but I can’t bear to take shears to these wild things. We drive to Hood River where the war dead memorial is.

One of the two huge bookstore picture windows is nearly covered with small photographs of dead U.S. soldiers. I arrange our flowers amongst the dead flowers and candles. Then I stand next to my husband, and we try to look at each and every face of the dead. Were they all once wild and wonderful? At the bottom of the poster are casualty figures. Over 4,100 U.S. and other “coalition” forces have been killed or wounded, and as many as 11,000 Iraqi non-combatants may have been killed. I look at the faces of the dead and start counting.

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Wednesday, June 02, 2004

Ding dong! 

Ding-Dong! The neo-cons are dead
Which neo-cons?
The wicked neo-cons!
Ding-Dong! The wicked neo-cons are dead!

Wake up you liberal heads
Rub your eyes
Get out of bed
Wake up! The wicked neo-cons are dead!

They've gone where the goblins go
Below, below, below
Yo ho! Let's open up and sing
Hold that note, get out and vote!

Ding-dong! The merry-o
Sing it high
Sing it low
Neo-cons are no more! Democrats in '04!


OK, it's not as good at the original, but according to this article, the neo-cons are on their way out! The neo-cons are those wack jobs who believe the U.S. is Christ-reborn as....them, and they're going to save the entire freaking world by shoving their religion and their foreign policy down everyone's throats. Good-bye, good-bye. And please take Bush with you, and don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out!

OOOOOOeeeeeeeee! Ain't we having fun!
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Tuesday, June 01, 2004

Interview with Lisa Goldstein 

I met Lisa Goldstein in Chicago in 1982. We traveled on the train together to San Francisco. I think we talked nonstop for three days. I can't remember what we talked about, but I remember she was fascinating, and I was certain we would be friends for life. Her first novel, The Red Magician, won the American Book Award. Since then, she has had eight novels published, including The Alchemist's Door, Dream Years, and Tourists. Lisa is still fascinating. I'd take a three-day train ride with her any time.

K.A.: As you can probably tell from the previous interviews on FS, I'm interested in the creative process. How and when did you get started writing? Were you encouraged by your family?

L.G.: I always wanted to write, ever since I learned to read. I thought books were the coolest thing in the world, and writing them would be even better than reading them. I wrote a lot of short stories in college and later, got them all rejected, and then wrote one that a friend of mine said should be turned into a novel. So I did, and that became The Red Magician.


K.A.: The Red Magician was a great success with much critical acclaim. What was that experience like? Was such immediate success good for your creative process? Did it inspire you when writing your next novel or terrify you?

L.G.: Winning the American Book Award for best paperback was great. I got to go to New York and meet Alice Walker and Gloria Steinem, got lots of attention for the book, got publishers interested in the next one. It would be a truly ungrateful person who would complain about it, but ... Looking back on my career, I see that I was sort of seduced by mainstream acclaim. For a while I wrote some mainstream stuff because I thought I was supposed to, stuff that was just awful and that fortunately never saw the light of day. My true love, the place where I had my roots, was fantasy, but I moved away from that. Fortunately I realized where I was going and returned to it.

Also (and people always hate this when I say it) The Red Magician got nearly unanimous good reviews. That spoiled me very badly. When I got bad reviews later I wasn't prepared for it. It's taken me a long time to realize that not everyone is going to like the same things (that's why we have used bookstores), and that some (a few) reviewers are truly idiots and there's no reason to take what they say to heart.


K.A.: Your parents survived the Holocaust and The Red Magician was about the Holocaust, although it had fantastical elements. Did you feel as though you were fictionalizing your parents' story in some way or following a Judaica tradition of writing about the Golem, or was it just a story created from the clay of your history and creativity?

L.G.: When I wrote The Red Magician I'd been reading a lot of fantasy that came out of Celtic and Northern myths and trying to write something similar, and it suddenly occurred to me that I could write fantasy based on my own traditions. The story was based on stories my mother told me about growing up in Hungary and fantasy was added (of course), but a lot of the fantasy elements, like the golem, were there in the tradition I used.


K.A.: Your books are often about humans at odds with humans and human constructs, as opposed to being at odds with Nature. The narratives take place in the city. Is this purposeful or just a result of you writing what you know (i.e. you live in the city)?

L.G.: This is just because I don't know enough about Nature, and I do know about cities. I wish I did know the names of trees and things. (Sorry, a pretty lame answer, I know.)


K.A.: Your books, for the most part, are published as genre fiction. How do you feel about these kinds of categories? How do you feel about the state of fantasy these days? What is the significance of fantasy as part of literature? Is it escapism? Is it social commentary wrapped in magic?

L.G.: Categories seem very important these days. In the last few weeks I've had two or three people ask me how they should market their work, a question that's starting to make me very impatient. Just write the damn thing—the publisher's the one who's supposed to figure out the marketing. Having said that, though, I understand how hard it is to get published these days if you have a book that doesn't fit a marketing category.

I don't mind having my books called fantasy, though—it's such a broad topic it can include almost anything. And fantasy is being taken more seriously lately, especially since the Lord of the Rings movies. I'm really happy with the movies, and I'm even happier that so many people are going out and reading the books. All of this is very strange and wonderful when I remember going to obscure parts of the library thirty years ago to find more fantasy to read after I'd finished The Lord of the Rings. Going by the popularity of the movies, it looks as if fantasy has taken over the world. Tolkien said that he wanted to write a mythology for England, but it turns out that he'd written a myth for everyone, not just the English. (Okay, maybe for the Western world, since that's where he took his stories from.)

I guess this ties in with what I see as the significance of fantasy. Myths are tremendously important, something people need to survive and to understand the world around them. When I was growing up in the fifties and sixties none of the myths that I heard (Greek and Roman, the Bible) spoke to me the way some of the contemporary myths do. For example, look at the way Tolkien used someone who wasn't a king or hero, a little person (literally) as his protagonist—that's very modern, and yet the whole book reaches back to some of the most ancient stories. So no, I don't see fantasy as escapism—quite the opposite.

K.A.: What is your process of writing? (Do you write every day, a few months out of the year, with a cup of coffee in hand, longhand, on the computer, etc.) Do you do lots of research beforehand? Do you write an outline?

L.G.: Before I started working in the library I would try to sit down and write every morning. Now I try to write on the mornings I have free. I used to use a very cursory outline, just a few pages of what the high spots should be, and trust that things would work out along the way. Now, though, I've started doing a lot more planning in advance and writing much more detailed outlines—and liking it, much to my surprise. One reason I started doing this is that I discovered that I don't have the greatest memory in the world, and I'd been forgetting things I'd meant to put in. Also, I used to have characters that I would trust to take care of themselves, but some of them never seemed to go anywhere or ended up as loose threads, meaning I'd have to go back and write them out or figure out something for them to do. So I decided to do more serious outlines and try to figure out where everything goes beforehand. I'd resisted this for a long time because I thought it would take the spontaneity out of writing (and also because it's very hard, at least for me) but I found that if I don't have to worry about where things are going I can stretch out and enjoy the trip, and that there is still a lot of room to move around in within the outline. And also, of course, if I found out that I didn't really want to continue along the planned route, or if the characters didn't want to, I could still change it.

As for research, if I'm writing a historical novel I do a huge amount of research beforehand. (Sometimes this can be very seductive—it can be more fun to research than to actually write the damn thing.) If I'm making up the world I'm writing in, I try to know a lot about the world before I start writing. In both cases I know a lot more than what actually goes into the book.

K.A.: I've noticed when speaking with editors and agents, they often seem to be under the impression that most writers are out here making a good living. When I talk to writers, I hear about how they are struggling to make ends meet. Many writers use pseudonyms to keep getting published when novels under their names might not be selling well; some give up writing all together. Are you able to make a living as a writer? If not, what do you do? What do you think of the state of publishing these days? Your novels have been getting published for over twenty years now. What changes have you seen you seen in the publishing industry during these years? Changes for the good? Changes that are detrimental to writers, readers, literature in general?

L.G.: My editor (Beth Meacham at Tor) just told me not to quit my day job—something you really don't want to hear from your editor. Beth is one of those editors who understands the economics of publishing—not surprising, since she's the one paying the advances. She says that publishing is hurting these days, that people are getting advances that are half what they used to be.

So I went out and got a part-time job at a library, and I also do some proofreading. And I wrote two books under a pseudonym. The books are different from what I usually write—less quirky, more straight fantasy. (I don't know what you'd call them, really—epic fantasy? high fantasy? High fantasy implies a hierarchy, which I really don't want to get into.) I was inspired by the Tolkien movies, which reminded me of what I used to like about this kind of writing, and by some good fantasy of this kind that's come out recently, particularly by George R.R. Martin and Patricia McKillip. Well, McKillip's good writing isn't just recent—she's always been great. And I have to say I had a terrific time writing the books. I don't know why I didn't do it sooner—maybe because I'd been classified as a literary writer and couldn't do this sort of thing, or so I thought.

The pseudonym was Beth's idea—she thought it was necessary in order to sneak the books into the chain stores. Enormous places like Barnes & Noble and Border's keep computer records of how well an author's books sell and will stop ordering that author if the numbers fall below a certain threshold. And judging from what people have told me the books have been snuck, so that worked out okay. (Beth is very knowledgeable about these things.) I'm going to say what the pseudonym is in a few months, but for now I want people who think of me as an obscure literary writer to pick up the book with no preconceptions.

I don't know why publishing is hurting, though I'm sure ordering by computers can't be helping. What I see is definitely detrimental to writers. As I said before, publishers are leery about taking books that can't be categorized in some way, so a lot of terrific books are not getting published. (I was surprised and delighted to see your book getting a home, because it really is one of those books that are hard to classify.) I think that this caution is hurting publishers as well as authors, because they are surely missing out on something great, something that could be the next big thing. Something like Watership Down would not have been published in this climate (though I'm not a big fan of Watership Down). Or look at The Lord of the Rings—the publisher liked it so much they took it even though they thought they'd lose money.

Also, when publishers play it safe people start writing safe books—books that are written to a formula, with nothing new or fresh about them. I said earlier that there's good fantasy out there, but there's also some really really bad fantasy. I read a lot of fantasy while I was writing my books, and I was appalled at what I found—books went on and on with no editing, because people apparently want fat books these days. One of the things that really started to bug me was the language in these books—the writers used all kinds of anachronisms (like the word "lifestyle," for example) that would never have been used in the milieu they were writing about. (The "lifestyle" of most of the people in these medieval-style landscapes was that they farmed
the land for their lord and then died. They didn't really have a choice.) There were also archaic words that were used in a way that was out-and-out wrong. I kept wondering where the copy editors were, but I suppose if publishers are cutting costs the copy editors are among the first to go.

K.A.: Your novels often have political overtones—politics being a human construct. Is your writing influenced by current politics, or current world events? Do you think the present administration is inspiring writers to speak out, or terrifying them with aspects of the Patriot Act, etc.?

L.G.: A lot of the politics in my novels comes out of my parents' lives, the fact that I know people who lived under terrible dictatorships. Most people in the United States have no concept of how bad things can get. My father, for example, grew up in Nazi Germany. His father was half-owner of a company that imported auto parts from the United States. One day the co-owner of the business decided he wanted to have the entire thing, and he went to the Gestapo and told them he'd heard my grandfather making unpatriotic comments about Hitler. (This was in 1935, before things got really horrible and Jews were being rounded up for no reason.) So the Gestapo came after my grandfather—who fortunately saw them coming in time and hid in the attic. The next day the family left for Holland.

This seems frighteningly similar to today's climate—the way some people have lost a right to representation and a speedy trial and have disappeared in Guantanamo, the way we're encouraged to hate certain groups of people and to, as Bush's former press secretary said, "watch what we say." I can't help but think that it's 1935 here, and that we could lose even more freedom if we're not careful.

I definitely learned to value the rights we have from my father. He always seemed a bit amazed at the amount of freedom of speech he had in the United States, the fact that you're not only allowed to say bad things about your leaders but that every four years you're supposed to, if you believe that leader should not be reelected. He used to repeat that famous quote by Voltaire— "I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it." He wasn't even a very liberal person when it came to voting, but this was something he passionately believed in. Right now, when it's hard for me to find something to like about my country, I try to keep in mind the First Amendment, which is, if you think about it, an absolutely amazing thing for people in the eighteenth century to have written. When had they seen freedom of speech or freedom of religion put into practice? How many people of different religions did they even know? And yet they obviously thought it could work.

K.A.: Are there particular writers or creative people who inspire you, keep you going when you're discouraged?

L.G.: The person I keep coming back to and thinking about is Ursula Le Guin. There's an amazing writer who manages to be popular and yet not sell out her vision. Like I said, there's so much stale fantasy out there, so it's always wonderful to read her stuff.

K.A.: What are you working on these days that you're excited about? Anything new coming out?

L.G.: I'm excited about the new fantasy novels. I think I learned a lot while writing them, and they're different from anything I've ever done. (Though people who know I wrote them say my style is still the same—I couldn't get away from it.) One of the things people kept complaining about with my books was that they were too short, and I think I finally learned how to spread out and write bigger, at least somewhat. An editor of mine, Shawna McCarthy, once told me my books should have more scope, and I was young and foolish (and a bit full of myself after winning the award—see above) and felt sure she was wrong. Well, after twenty years I think I finally learned something about scope. Shawna, if you're reading this, I'm sorry—you were right.



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