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.

Thursday, March 31, 2005

Hubris 

Tom DeLie just threatened the judiciary. In a statement after Terri Schiavo died, he said that those responsible would pay. To quote: "Mrs. Schiavo's death is a moral poverty and a legal tragedy. This loss happened because our legal system did not protect the people who need protection most, and that will change. The time will come for the men responsible for this to answer for their behavior..." The righties are going after the judges. Big time. This is a test: are we a nation of laws or a nation ruled by religion, by the bible, by the interpretations of the bible by rightwing wacko men?

I think DeLie's wings may be melting. He's flown a bit too close to the sun. He ain't a real bird—he's just some guy with wax wings. Hubris gets them every time. Fortunately, at least this time, the American public is not backing these people. Most people believe death and dying is a private matter. Many of us remember the old GOP. They would be appalled at these neo-Republicans. First they're interfering with state's rights, and now they're interfering with life and death decisions—again.

I just heard the Senate stood for a couple minutes in memory of Terri Schiavo. This is DISGUSTING. Why don't they stand in honor of all the people who are dying of chronic disease every minute—chronic disease caused by the degradation of the environment, caused by the chemicals their buddies are spewing all over the planet! Why don't they stand in memory of 100,000 civilians dead in Iraq? Why don't they stand in memory of the more than 1,500 American soldiers who have died fighting an illegal war? Aarghhhhh!!!!

How Terri Schiavo lived and died is not any of my business, so I'm not going to comment on that. There has already been so much hot air. All this sturm und dang has just kept people distracted from the real problems of the day, like the report from 1,300 scientists that came out two days ago saying that 60% of the planet's resources are being used in ways that degrade them. The average child has enormous amounts of chemicals in her/his little body (POPUP). I wish our politicians would stand in silence for that reality: and then do something about it.

May all their wax wings melt soon.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 3/31/2005 10:02:00 AM
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Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Cocooning 

The clouds are lifting from the gorge. Snow dusts the tops of the trees and bunches up in crevices like discarded blankies. Rain splashes the window I am looking through, and the wind shakes the rhododendron bush that presses itself against the house. Still, the light is too bright, so I close the shades.

It has rained for days. I feel cottony. Covered in quilts. I'm in my organic cotton pajamas. I wear them like everyday clothes. Why not? Earlier, I jumped in the car with Mario (in my pjs), and we drove the short distance down to Rock Creek. The coffee-with-milk colored river was jumping, splashing, coursing over its banks. It was lower than it had been three days ago, though. We were perplexed by this, since it has been raining for days. It has also gotten colder, so it's possible the rain has turned to snow in the higher elevations: thus lessening the flooding.

We don't really know. A week ago our rivers were perilously low. Now they're in that trance dance called the flood. You can hear the sighs of relief up and down the gorge.

This morning, I awakened at 6:30 to the sound of the wind and rain. The entire house felt like a giant cocoon. I went downstairs and meditated for a bit. After ,I put a load of laundry in the washer. Then I made breakfast, something I usually do much later on Tuesdays mornings. Mario had made tofu strips last night.

(Cut a brick of tofu into 1/4 inch to 1/2 slices. Put a tablespoon or more of olive oil in a lasagne-sized pyrex dish. Add cumin, marjoram, and basil to taste—about a teaspoon each. Then drop in between a teaspoon and tablespoon of soy sauce. Mix it all together and move the mixture around to cover the bottom. Make certain both sides of the tofu slices get covered with the oil and herbs as you puzzle them into the pan. Bake at 350 for 30-40 minutes, depending upon how you like them.)

I put a few slices of the tofu in the toaster oven to heat up, along with rye toast. As I sliced up shitake mushrooms, I thought of all the times I had walked in the woods with my friends while they hunted mushrooms. I never took any home with me; I just liked being in the woods. They all thought I was crazy for not eating the mushrooms even though they all had tales of getting sick from one that turned out not to be quite what they thought it was. After I finished chopping the ‘shrooms, I went out the front door and pinched up the top of a sprig of rosemary. Back at the bamboo cutting board, I cut the rosemary into tiny pieces. Then I put olive oil in a skillet, heated it, dropped the rosemary in and stirred it around a bit, and then I added the mushrooms. I asked for their healing and nourishment as I watched the mushrooms turn dark, small, and wet.

I cracked four eggs into a pea green glass bowl. I whipped them with a fork. I thought of all the breakfasts I had had in my grandma's kitchen when I was a girl. I ate eggs I had collected from the chicken coop. For some reason this morning, I also thought of the horses who would sometimes escape the pastures after my grandfather died. We'd get the call and Dad would drive us the mile to Grandma's house, and we would run through the countryside looking for a herd of horses. Once we found them, my dad (and an uncle or two) would herd them toward us (me and a sister or cousin) and then we would have to keep them from going past us, make them turn toward home just by our presence—by the mere fact of our bodies. My heart thumped in my chest, my stomach churned, but I stayed my ground as the herd galloped toward me. They looked determined, they looked terrified, and I held up my arms. And somehow, for some reason, they turned.

I poured the sun yellow liquid of eggs into the shitakes mixture. I asked them for their healing, too. Eggs are "contracted" food. All the energy of the bird is supposedly held in that shell, so if you have "contracted" symptoms, yang symptoms, some say you shouldn't eat eggs. But I have too contracted and too expansive symptoms. I have to eat something. So this morning I am eating these eggs.

I put garlic and oil on the rye toast and then scooped half of the egg mixture onto my plate. I sat at the kitchen table looking out the window at my rosemary bush. Now that I've taken down the fence, the cats have decided the garden is a new hangout, which I wouldn't mind if that was all they were doing. However, with the fence down, I get an unobstructed view of the garden, which currently consists of the rosemary and lavender bushes. I've had this rosemary bush for about thirteen years. I grew it from a start that was 2-4 inches tall. Every time I moved, I dug this rosemary bush up and took it with me. I'd replant it, give it some rescue remedy, and hope for the best. It is a Mediterranean plant, so it was happier east of the Cascades, but it has down well here, too. It is nearly my height (five feet tall), and it spreads out to probably about six feet wide. Right now it is blooming. Small lavender-colored flowers decorate the branches. As I ate my breakfast, I watched it sway in the wind. Behind it stood the small blue house, which provided a colorful backdrop to the green (and now lavender) herb. Beyond the house, the sky was dark gray. A seagull flew overhead. Blossoms from the cherry tree floated near the rosemary, like tiny surfboards trying to catch a breeze or wave or raindrop.

Now it is time for me to go to work. The laundry is almost all dry. My father made me a beautiful quilt for my birthday. It is drying now. I may go get it and curl up on the couch. Just rest my eyes for a moment before I really start the day.

May You Cocoon (and Metamorphose) in Beauty!
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 3/29/2005 09:26:00 AM
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Sunday, March 27, 2005

Odds & Endings 

It is pouring down pissing down rain. Finally. Wispy clouds rise from the hills, like steam caused by hot rain. The ferns across the street at the church jerk in the wind. They look like short triffids trying to break from the crowd. Upstairs, Mario is shopping for clothes online. Last week someone had stolen our credit card information and was also shopping online. We're never going to know who did it, but I would like to know. I would like to face them. I have been a crime "victim" before: had my checkbook stolen—they wrote three checks from it before anyone figured it out; been mugged; been beaten up; had my car broken into. Except for the mugging and assault, I never saw the faces of the criminals. I don't know what I'd do. Slap them? Put a curse on them? Bless them?

Wait. I'm wrong. I got my purse stolen when I was in college and I saw that guy, too. He was coming out of my office (I was editor of the university's literary magazine) carrying my purse. I said, "Hey, give me back my purse." And he did! Then he turned around and ran, and I ran after him, shouting, "Stop him!" Kind of funny now.

Friday was my half century mark. My birthday. None of my other birthdays "bothered" me. This one makes me feel uncomfortable. I looked back and thought, "I've been sick for half of my life." Gawd. That realization was/is depressing. Two friends came over to celebrate with Mario and myself. Barbara said, "But you're a crone! You're such a good example of a crone." I shook my head and said, "I'd rather wait a few years to be a crone. I don't feel wise at all. I'm not ready for that. I thought I'd be a juicy crone. Instead I see so many years wasted in illness." But then Linda said her tumor markers were down by 160% and our friend with the brain tumor that got a brain tumor (he calls them Mutt and Jeff) called with the news that Jeff had disappeared! The best birthday news ever.

Isn't it strange what we celebrate these days? I remember when I was a teenager hearing apocalyptic predictions of widespread chronic and acute illness caused by environmental degradation. And here we are living that prediction.

Don't mean to be so depressing.

Mario made us dishes from a Pakistan cookbook for my birthday: biryani, dal, and aloo gobi. He also made his fabulous apple pie that I have written about here before; it has four ingredients: barley flour, olive oil, apples, and a bit of water. We watched Finding Neverland. I thought it was a movie about how J. M. Barrie came up with Peter Pan and I suppose it was—it was also about a woman dying. Not something I wanted to watch on my birthday with my friend who is fighting cancer, or with my other friend who has had cancer. Plus I looked up the facts of Barrie's life and they don't coincide with the movie. Quelle surprise. So afterward we all were crying and discussing death. Linda, who has to think of it daily, says she likes the description she read somewhere about death being like taking off too-tight shoes. I said that may be all right for the one dying, but it didn't do much for the people who are left behind. (I said this gently.) Linda is someone who is good at going with the flow and letting things and people go. I admire that. I think it has helped her stay alive longer than the average Jill with a condition like hers. I, on the other hand, am always railing against the dying of the light.

On Thursday the sun came out, so we decided to go to Falling Creek to see if the snow had melted yet. The gate wouldn't be open until April 1st, but we could still get a walk in. As we got ready to leave, we discovered one of the two hundred year old trees (an elm) across the street on the school property was down and being sawed up into pieces. I called the school to see what was happening.

"It was damaged during the ice storm so it had to come down," the woman answering the phone said.

"I didn't notice anything and I live right across the street," I said.

"You had to get close," she said.

I thought, if you have to get that close, could it be that damaged?

"We'll plant another tree there," she said. I could tell she did not care. People around here loooovvvee cutting down trees.

I laughed (ironically). "That tree is two hundred years old."

I decided to see what had happened for myself, despite my terrible experiences with this school. So I walked up the hill to where the dead tree lay. Men with chain saws moved about the broken pieces like noisy busy bees—happy busy bees. Give some men noisy destructive machinery, and they are just so happy.

I talked with the maintenance man. "Do you really think I'd cut down this tree if it didn't need it? Let me tell you if one of these kids gets hurt–."

"Don't get hostile," I said. "No one wants anyone hurt. These trees are hundreds of years old. If they're coming down, we're part of this community and we want to make certain there is a good reason."

And I assumed everything the school did was destructive or wrong.

As soon as I said that, his attitude changed. Which is surprising. Usually when I tell someone not to get hostile, s/he gets more hostile—which I understand. He started asking us what kind of tree we would plant. He was making nice. So I made nice, too. He told Mario he had read his letter to the school board, and they were going to try very hard not to use pesticides this year. Mario said I wrote the letter (two or three times), but the man wanted to talk with Mario. It was fine with me—I was just hoping what he said about not using pesticides was true.

"There's a learning curve going on," he said. "It'll take some time."

I could have jumped up and down I was so happy. I went over to the old elm, patted it, and said goodbye.

Then Mario drove us toward Falling Creek. The snow was gone, so we figured we could walk up the road even though the gate would be closed. We turned down the road, went a bit, and there was the gate: wide open! Thrilled, we continued driving down it, avoiding the blowdown from four months of weather.

Unfortunately two other cars had also discovered this early fortune. We didn't care. We put on our warm coats, hats, mittens—it was very cold—and we started down the trail. Only a few feet in, and we saw our first trillium of the year. It was closed up and drooping from the rain and cold, but it was alive. We reached the creek, looked at it, then looked at each other: it was as low as it usually was in August. Usually at this time of the year, we could hear the creek long before we got to it because it was swollen with snowmelt. Not now.

"Well, maybe the snow hasn't started to melt yet," I said.

We walked up the the path that curved along the river, like a giant boa sunning itself along the banks of the Nile before the land around it became desert. In March and April, the woods are usually all water; we have to navigate over at least three other smaller falls to get to the biggest falls. Not today. The woods were quiet. We spotted yellow woods violets, blossoms closed and sagging as though shivering in the cold.

A family passed us with two dogs. One of the dogs barked at us. The woman said to the dog, "It's all right." I thought, "You moron, I'm the one who needs comforting." She laughed as she went by. "I'm glad you find it amusing," I said.

"Interlopers," I said to Mario. "They don't deserve the gift of this day."

Feeling mean I was. Chain saws and dogs do that to me. This was the last day of the first half of my century. I needed to lighten up.

We walked to the falls without passing anyone else. The falls had half the volume of water it usually had at this time of year.

"Thank you for the blessing of this place," I thought.

We poured water on the Oregon grape near the rotted tree as usual. Then we walked out again.

The next day on my birthday, we walked the trail again. We met a friend who told us they had announced the early trial openings in the paper. (Gotta start reading that.) They close it in the winter so that the animals have space to hang out, breed, etc. when they come down from the higher elevations because the snow is too high (they can't feed, walk). This year they didn't come down.

He said that and I thought I could hear bells tolling. It is going to be a long hot summer.

It started raining Saturday, however, and it is still raining today. They've picked up another foot in the mountains which is good. I finished the first draft of Camel Jockey Saturday night, and then I read what I had written that day to Mario. (I had been reading it to him every night.) He cried and laughed. She is a wonderful girl, Nadira. Once my characters come alive for me, I let them write their stories. That's why I often write in first person. And she told her story. She is not an American girl, so her reactions and actions are different from that of an American girl. Often in stories, girls and women become heroes by acting like men; I want my girls and women to become heras by acting like women, whatever that means in the context of their lives. Nadira solves problems by using her skills from her culture—her skills as a woman. At one point she is in a camel training camp disguised as a boy in a kind of Lord of the Flies situation. It's terrifying, and I wasn't certain how she was going to get out of the violence that was coming her way. I was surprised at what she ended up doing. But it was organic—it flowed from her experience as a girl.

As you can tell, I admire her.

I was going to write more, but Mario just came in from the rain and we're going to eat at the Bombay Cricket Club to celebrate Jeff disappearing and me finishing the first draft of my novel.

I shall endeavor not to be depressing or bitter. I've decided I want to buy a scarf for my birthday. I have three ideas for new books. Two of them are Scarf Sisters and Editing Sunlight. I forget the third right this momento.

I'm a wee bit manic, as you can probably tell, so I hope this post makes sense.

Someone asked me what I thought about what's been going on in the news. I think it is obscene what the politicians have been doing about the woman in Florida. It's none of their business, and it is certainly none of mine. This is just another story to distract the masses from what the Bushies are doing. (In fact I'm sure you've heard that the Republicans sent around a memo encouraging their members to get on board the Schiavo bus so they could exploit the issue and get their base riled up again.)

Anyway, I love the book I just wrote. It is beautiful. Inspiring, I hope. Remember, once I write a story, it is no longer mine. I feel as though the people have their own...being, if you will, and they are not tied up with my ego. But I will protect them and fight for their stories to be heard! I'm off to eat and determine what is truth and what is beauty.

Wish me luck.

May You Create in Beauty!
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 3/27/2005 03:07:00 PM
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Monday, March 21, 2005

Happy Equinox...Yesterday 

It is pissing down pouring down rain here. And it's cold. Yeah! Finally. It's not that I like the cold rain, but I can look out my window and up over the blooming bushes and trees and see snow on the Gorge cliffs. I just hope it's snowing in the mountains. Perhaps it's not too late to stop the drought.

Forgive me if I repeat myself. I don't remember what I've been writing about and what I've just been thinking about writing about. (Did you get that?) Mario had a cold, so I spent several days cooking him miso and making him drink glass after glass after glass of water. The best miso is just miso and mushrooms, I think; maybe some green onions if you have them. The recipes always call for too much miso, I think, so I scale it back by about half. It's got a lot of sodium. Miso is one of those mythical mystical healing foods—supposedly. It often gives me a headache. Chamomile and ginger are supposed to sooth stomach aches. They both give me stomach aches. I often have the opposite reactions to foods or herbs which are supposed to help me. Perhaps I should eat radioactive waste. Oh wait. I live so close to the Columbia River I probably have eaten radioactive waste.

Anyway, Happy Equinox. Time of balance. I've been trying to balance work, community, and family, just like everyone else on the planet. I have moments when I don't feel so sick and I feel halfway competent and things just floooooowwwww.

Know the feeling?

Yesterday I started my new novel Camel Jockey. I love the girl, the main character already. (She's 18 years old so I guess she's technically a woman.) She's a Pakistani woman. I swear the next novel I write is not going to need a bit of research. Not one whiff. My last two novels have needed so much research, and now this one does, too. It's interesting, what I learn, but it can halt the process in a way I don't like. For instance, Nadira (my hera) and her mother had to go to a police station. But first I had to find out if there were police and police stations in Karachi, Pakistan, and learn what they were called. Or even if a woman would ever go to a police station unaccompanied by a man. The internet makes that kind of research so much easier. Before it would have taken me days, maybe even weeks, to find out that kind of information. Now I just google it (as a start) and then dig around until I find what I need. I love it. I've done about 7,000 words in the last two days (25 pages). I feel as though I've spent the last two days in the shoes of Nadira. Her world is terrifying and strangely beautiful.

Strange things have already happened in the story, although I suppose it's not strange since it happens so often. I thought the story would begin in the country and that her father would be something of a villain. The story begins in Karachi, one of the largest cities in Pakistan. Her father is not a villain. (He is dead, actually.) I never do pure villains. I always think I will, but I don't because in "real" life things are rarely that simple. People are complicated and seldom fall easily into categories like good and evil, villainous and heroic. Also, Nadira is telling the story to her youngest brother, Umar, who lives with their widowed mother in the slums of the city while Nadira works for (and lives with) a rich family.

I was asked what I thought about the Schiavo case. I said that I was disgusted by the political grandstanding. I think these conservatives who claim they want the government out of our lives should get their noses and laws out of our personal lives. This is all conservative horseshit to distract the country from what's really going on: gas prices have spiked, the war in Iraq is out of control, Bush is trying to destroy Social Security. Need I say more? What is happening to Terry Schiavo is none of my business. It is also none of DeLies' (a.k.a DeLay) business.

I had more to say, but I am suddenly very tired. Being a Pakistani woman ain't easy. In a recent case, a woman was gang-raped after her brother was accused of having an affair with another woman. The village elders ordered the gang-rape, apparently. This woman was very brave. She got the police to take these men to court, and they were sentenced to death. Other horrible things happen to women in Pakistan. Men accuse their wives of affairs and threw acid on them, or if a woman refuses a divorce the husband throws acid on her, or if parents refuse to arrange a marriage, the scorned man comes back and throws acid on the family. It's just disgusting. An honor crime. Beware if you read this this story; it is nauseating.

Mario and I were talking about this thing about honor, or disrespect. In many of these countries, people kill each other because one of them has felt disrespected by the other. We don't understand this. Our culture ain't the greatest thing since French toast or anything, but being "dissed" ain't a reason to kill someone here. (Except in some inner city neighborhoods.) I mean if someone is disrespectful to me I might get my feelings hurt, but geez louise, I'm not going to go out and kill them. It's just beyond me. Why is disrespect a reason to kill?

OK. I can no longer be coherent. I'm going to bed.

May You Sleep in Beauty!
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 3/21/2005 09:00:00 PM
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Saturday, March 19, 2005

Anniversary of Iraq War 

No, I haven't forgotten. But I am mute, relatively speaking. I have no doubt a coup d'etat has taken place in this country. I feel I have no control over what the federal government is doing, so I'm concentrating on my community, town, house, relationship, and body. In case you haven't heard, demonstrations are happening all over the country to mark the two year anniversary of the Iraqi War. Montana's governor has asked Bush to bring Montana's troops home, ostensibly to fight wildfires. I heard on either NPR or KBOO that Gregoire had asked for Washington's troops to be brought back home, too, but I haven't found any news stories on it, so I think they must be mistaken—too bad.

Over 100,000 Iraqis are dead because of this war. More than 1,500 U.S. soldiers have been killed and thousands have been wounded. Our leaders lied to get us into this war. Since then, the U.S. has lost all credibility in the world and our leaders get their way by bullying—and torturing. Yet the Congress of this U.S. of A. is holding hearings on steroid use by baseball players. Last I heard baseball was a private business, so shouldn't Congress keep their noses out of it? I don't like steroids in baseball, but I certainly don't want Congress wasting their times on this. It's a game. People are dying because of the United States. Bush is trying to gut social security, and he's already gutted our environmental laws.

History will tell the tale of Dubya—and they will include this Congress as being partners in his crimes.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 3/19/2005 11:10:00 PM
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Shouldn't Be Surprised 

The Catholic Church has (POPUP) denied a gay bar owner the right to a church funeral. Can you imagine? They hold funerals for perverted priest pedophiles but not for a gay bar owner. Gee, I guess the idea that we're all God's children doesn't hold any holy water for the Catholic Church.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 3/19/2005 11:13:00 AM
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Wednesday, March 16, 2005

Mourning... 

Mario still home sick. I drive to work in the big city. Cloudy for the first time in weeks. I didn't sleep well, so I listen to the radio, hoping it'll keep me awake. What I hear: "Bush bad, Bush, Bush bad. Bush getting away with everything." I remember that Bush has given the finger to the world again when he nominated Paul Wolfowitz to run the World Bank. He has also nominated Karen Hughes to change our image overseas. This is the same woman who equated those of us who are pro-choice to terrorists. Oh yeah, she's a diplomat.

I work. It's a relatively simple task I’m doing which will, when completed, relieve some staff stress. We're just too crowded. Too many books. Too many people. Today the internet is down, and the library is like it used to be, before internet. Every person I know who has worked in libraries before and after the internet longs for the good ol' days of before. Today the feel of the library is different, the energy calmer—less frantic, strained, and demanding. More humane. Even though one man types furiously on the keyboard that goes with the library computer catalog, then pauses and has a loud conversation with someone none of us can see. And he doesn't even have a cell phone.

For lunch, I go downstairs and walk toward the door leading outside. I see white floating by the window. Snow. Gigantic snow flakes. Only it's being blown so that it is falling on a slant, and I realize it can't be snow. I step outside and the wind is making tornadoes out of the dust in the parking lot, tornadoes out of the pink/white blossoms falling from the tree next to the library. The sky is dark. It's cold, and I run to the car, falling petals leading the way. I call Mario, then eat my lunch (tofu sandwich). On NPR they announce that the Senate has passed a measure that will allow drilling in the Alaska Wildlife Refuge. The voting is along party lines, except for a couple on either side who cross the aisle. Those voting for the drilling are so short sighted. Why can't these people see Bush only does stuff for himself and his oil buddies? What beauty will they ruin for a few years of oil—oil that probably won't even be used here. My senator Maria Cantwell fought hard. She did us proud. I need to remember to call her office and thank her. She says the fight isn't over. Still, I put my head on the steering wheel and cry. It's fitting I'm sitting in a car going nowhere.

I can't help thinking about Senator Byrd's speech, when he reminded us that the Nazis used the law to legitimize their fascism. He also said, "As long as there is a forum in which questions can be asked by men and women who do not stand in awe of a chief executive and one can speak as long as one's feet will allow one to stand, the liberties of the American people will be secure." I bet they're trying to figure out a way to put this old bird into jail—or shut him up somehow. I hope he keeps standing and speaking. I wipe my eyes and go back to work.

Later I hear a tapping on the windows and look up and see raindrops. After weeks of dry warm weather, it is raining. By the time I leave to go home, it is pouring down rain. Not Pacific Northwest pissing down rain but rain nevertheless. I stand and watch for a time before I go out into it. I remember a line from a Buddhist practice text: “subdue the demons with splendor.” My grief is momentarily gone as I breathe in the cool moist air. I hope we can figure out a way to subdue the demons with splendor—something has to give.

In the meantime, I run outside into the rain.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 3/16/2005 10:15:00 PM
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Monday, March 14, 2005

Interesting Times 

The earth shakes; the volcano blows. Sighs. Breath of the Divine, of the center of the Earth. Here, Mario and I pull out the fence around my garden. We trample over the deer hoof prints in the soft earth. Ahhhh. With the fence gone, I feel as though I can breathe—along with my rosemary, lavender, and sage plants. This year, because of the drought, I'm considering not putting in a garden. After the fence is down, I remember why I put it up in the first place: dogs and cats pooping everywhere. Ah well. I decide to wait and see.

Spend hours on the phone trying to find a place for Linda's benefit. Days. I can hear the weariness in her voice, the disappointment. I tell her it'll be fun. We'll have balloons, entertainment. It will be a festival. She is excited by this prospect. I hear her smile over the phone. I hope she remembers this conversation later. Another friend is diagnosed with breast cancer. Six people in our immediate circle either have cancer or had had cancer.

At work I wonder if I know what I'm doing. Feel dizzy and sick. Mario is with me, though. Always better with him. After, we go to the refuge. We stand in the marsh and watch the swans. In the distance is an old mill. Surrounding us is dry blond grass, rattling in the wind. Is that the right word? They sound like thousands of rattlers getting ready to strike. No. It's a more soothing sound than that. The breath of the Divine again—the dry grass is the voice box of the Divine. Or at least the voice box of this marsh. I want to stretch out on the grass, make it my bed. But Rapunzel needs it all to spin into gold. Strange thoughts as the swans drift by.

Mario is ill by morning. I make him miso soup. He sleeps and drinks water. We find out someone has been using our credit card number. Stealing from us. Lots of phone calls to figure it out. We rarely use our credit card, try to figure out how it happened. Doesn't matter. I walk around town doing errands. Wobbly. I stop at the old maple. The leaf buds appear white against the blue sky. Tiny lights on the big old tree. I find a place for Linda's benefit.

I spend the evening curled up on the couch with Mario. Wish I could heal him. Wish I could heal everyone. Including myself. We hear explosions in the distance. Sounds just like fireworks. We look outside, and the sky is full of colored spots. As though the stars in the sky had only been seeds and now they were bursting into bloom. I watch and think, of course, spring is here. It is part of the turning of the wheel of the year. I lay my head on Mario's lap again and feel his breath on my face. It is all divine.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 3/14/2005 10:04:00 PM
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Friday, March 11, 2005

Odds & Ends 

Been working, organizing a benefit for Linda, and researching the novel I hope to begin this weekend, plus I wrote a 9,000 word story (about 35 pages). Whenever I write a short story that's over 5,000 words, there's usually something wrong with it. Not always, but it often means I wasn't sure of my plot to begin with, and I need to go back and rewrite. I don't like rewriting. I want to get it right the first time.

A poet friend of mine loves rewriting. He says that's when he shapes the poem. Like a sculptor with a piece of marble. I'm not a whittler. Nothing wrong with being one. I just like my art at a fevered pitch, coming out in a flow of ecstasy. Later, to have to rewrite is like having to look at the Divine and say, "Oops, your dress is torn. Let me stitch it up before anyone sees you like that." Anyway, I stayed up two days (very sick) and wrote "Dreambacks." Mario read it and agreed it was long so I cut 3,000 words. Just like that! Still too long, so I'm working on dumping another thousand. We'll see how the stitching goes...

For you googlers, did you know there is a google cheat sheet page? Mario just found it. It has great search tips. For instance, if you wanted information on a virus but you didn't want computer viruses you'd type in "virus -computer." Or if you wanted information on sex education but you didn't want porn, you'd type in "safesearch: sex education." That one is very useful.

Once I was looking for the painting "The Women of Amphissa, but I couldn't remember the name of it. So I described the painting: women lounging. Or something like that. So I clicked on one of the URL's, and it was a porno site. When I tried to close the window, several other windows opened. This kept happening as I was trying not to look at the screen and close window after window after window of disgusting, degrading photographs of women. (I hate pornography. I think it's evil and dehumanizing, and a civilized society would not tolerate it. Which says something about our society. But that's another discussion.) I finally had to disconnect from the web and turn the computer off to get it to stop showing me pornography. Patrons would tell us at the library that this was happening, and we'd smile politely—but we really didn't believe it! We didn't think it was mechanically possible. But it was and is.

I hope that made sense.

An international group is asking for accurate numbers of Iraqi deaths. It’s about time. Sometimes it feels as though everyone is asleep—even me. Today I heard Bush has nominated John Bolton as ambassador to the U.N. This is the man who said he believes there should only be one permanent member of the U.N. Security Council: the United States. Sending Bolton to the U.N. is essentially Bush's way of giving the finger to the U.N.: to the world. He thinks he's the dictator of the world. And who can argue with that? When I heard about Bolton, I said to Mario, "I think it's time to leave." Jesse Helms said once that Bolton was the kind man he'd want next to him at Armageddon. This administration seems to be taking us closer to Armageddon. More and more I'm feeling like we're in Nazi Germany, and we're all standing around shaking ours heads saying, "This too will pass," just as so many people did back then. When it does pass, what will be left of our world?

From the obscene to the ridiculous: Margaret Atwood has invented (POPUP) something that will sign her books while she's one place and the book is in another. I kid you not. Something very odd about that. Very Jetsons. Or something.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 3/11/2005 08:07:00 PM
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Tuesday, March 08, 2005

From the Duh File 

You've heard of the dead, dying, and stranded dolphins in Florida? I've been listening to the news about this event. The 'casters keep talking about it being a mystery. What could have happened? Could it possibly be linked to sonar used by a nearby submarine? You don't need Aggie to solve this mystery. Scientists have known for some time that certain kinds of sonar are very damaging to marine life. Imagine you had to listen to screaming as loud as a space shuttle launch and tell me you wouldn't do anything to get away from it.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 3/08/2005 06:17:00 AM
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Another Reason 

If you need another reason to be outraged, the Senate voted down (POPUP) a proposed minimum wage increase. This will be the ninth year in a row that hasn't seen a minimum wage hike. The senators don't seem to have difficult giving themselves a raise: they've seen a nearly $30,000 increase during the same nine year period. (Originally I said $30,000 a year because a Hawaiian media-outlet said that, but I was skeptical so I looked it up and it was nearly $30,000 (PDF) over that period total. I meant to save this post and check later, but it got posted when I hit the wrong button. It was 4:30 a.m. when I started it, so I didn't notice; what can I say? I do apologize.)

By the way, if someone actually made $7.25 an hour (the proposed minimum wage), s/he would make about $15,000 a year.

As it is now (and shall remain), someone who is making minimum wage and works forty hours a week, s/he will bring home about $10,000 a year.

Ain't poverty grand?

And how do the Senators get away with this, you ask? Because we—the regular Joes and Jills—are not their constituency. Businesses are. Wealthy businesses. The United States is absolutely positively a busidom. And busidoms only care that they have enough workers for their corporate businesses. They aren't interested that these worker bees are happy and well-paid. In fact it's probably better that they aren't well-paid. People who have enough money might have time to think about things and long for—and fight for—a better life. Better to keep the worker bees occupied with other things (like trying to make enough money to put a roof over their heads etc.).

Do I sound cynical?
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 3/08/2005 05:56:00 AM
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Monday, March 07, 2005

Thorny Issues 

Two days ago I pulled out the last cactus thorn from my body—finally. This one had dug into my left arm, near the elbow, and I kept thinking it was gone and it would pop out again. But I think—I believe brothers and sisters—that I have extracted that pointy part of the desert from my body, and it's beginning to heal. Strange how long the little bugger hung on. About as long as my "desert sickness" (as opposed to "home sickness"). I always have withdrawal symptoms or melancholy when I return from the Southwest. Now I am firmly ensconced in the PNW again. (Although I was trying to figure out a way to go back down for my half century birthday on March 25; I’ve given up on that.)

In case you haven't heard, we are in a drought here in the Pacific Northwest (and much of the West). It is so dry that I need to water my flower beds already. This is March. I usually don't have to water until August. Let's just sit for a moment and let that factoid sink in....

Snowpack is about 25% normal. And that's where we get our water. If you live in the West, you already know that water is one of the biggest issues we've got. Who has the water, who has rights to the water, etc. Of course, throughout most of the world, clean potable water is already a problem and has been for some time. Because of the drought (and the school across the street spewing pesticides), I'm considering taking out my organic garden this year.

All around, trees are beginning to bud out. The ice storm damaged so many trees in town, so it's good to see the surviving ones putting on a bloomin' front. A huge old tree down Vancouver Ave. is tipped over on its side but it's now dressed to the nines in Easter white blossoms. Poppy greenery is up all around our yard, preparing a nice green wraparound for the orange blossoms when they finally emerge. We all watch the rhodies to see when they will begin their bloom: how did they survive the ice? In Portland, pink blossoms flutter open on cherry trees up and down every other boulevard

While we enjoy the sunshine, we all know it ain't doin’ no good. Haze already hangs in the air so that the entire Gorge feels like the inside of a smoky bar.

Speaking of bars and that good ol' sleazy feeling: I got quite the reaction from the Joe Bageant article I talked about ("Poor, White and Pissed.") I didn't agree with everything he said, but I thought it was a fascinating look at how one segment of the population might feel. Of course, it's only Bageant's view of their view. I certainly can't speak for all the people in my socioeconomic class ("Almost Poor, Pretty White and Definitely Pissed"), and he can’t be speaking for all his peers either. But I don't believe I'm a snob because I don't hang out in bars and get drunk.

Genevieve from Canada wrote a nice long reaction to the article, and she agreed to let me excerpt some of it here: "I resent the implication by Bageant that somehow the brand of poverty he sees in his area ... is somehow more holier and worth eliminating than that experienced by the liberal poor. Crap, I say, crap. Poverty is poverty wherever you find it. What poverty does not define, however, is the way the person faces life and makes choices. Does 'holy' poverty mean that one has to vote for Bush or hate those of other religious persuasions or buy into propaganda, 'swill beer', or 'pick his nose'? ....What I see is additive behaviors (alcohol, sugar, consumerism, racist, prejudice) that have been pushed by governments and corporations to make the public so concerned where their next 'fix" will come that they have no time to question the government or corporations fixation on acquiring more and more power, control and profit....What I do think is needed is a grass roots movement that demands that everyone (rich, poor, "left", "right", deserving, undeserving, urban, rural...) be treated with dignity, respect, love, worthiness, care and so on, and that those in turn look around and do the same for others and for their environment...."

Right on, Genevieve! And I still don’t understand why the Republicans are less elitist than the liberals, according to Bageant. Do you?

You've probably heard that Senator Byrd is getting a lot of crap for mentioning the Nazis in speech he gave on the Senate floor a few days ago where he was opposing filibuster rule changes. The Republicans want to end filibusters, essentially. They want to change the rules so that a filibuster can be ended with a simple majority instead of the three-fifths needed now. This would cement their takeover of our government, essentially, because they have a simple majority. Without a filibuster, the Republicans would win on everything. Byrd is concerned about this. He said, "Historian Alan Bullock writes that Hitler’s dictatorship rested on the constitutional foundation of a single law, the Enabling Law. Hitler needed a two-thirds vote to pass that law, and he cajoled his opposition in the Reichstag to support it....Hitler’s originality lay in his realization that effective revolutions, in modern conditions, are carried out with, and not against, the power of the State: the correct order of events was first to secure access to that power and then begin his revolution. Hitler never abandoned the cloak of legality; he recognized the enormous psychological value of having the law on his side. Instead, he turned the law inside out and made illegality legal."

Now the GOP is foaming at the mouth, accusing Byrd of comparing them to the Nazis. I say, "If the jack boots fit..."

Every day I am a little more perplexed by the majority of American people. Congress is getting ready to pass a bankruptcy bill which will make it more difficult for poor people to declare bankruptcy and easier for multimillionaires to hide their assets when they declare bankruptcy. Why isn't everyone standing up and screaming "Que freaking pasa?"

So I sit and try to figure out what I should do. At night I dream of spiders and water and cobra snakes. Last night I woke up sick and spent most of the night moaning on the couch. After I returned to bed, I dreamed I could heal people. Everyone but myself, it seemed, although that was still a possibility...When I finally dragged myself out of bed, feeling like crap but better than I had in the middle of the night, Mario looked up at me from the bottom of the stairs and said, "You may have been up all night sick, but geez, you look gorgeous." I laughed and glanced at myself in the mirror. "I guess you're a man in love," I said.

I spent most of the day curled up on the couch, recuperating. I feel all kinds of stories bubbling up within me. I'm ready to write, write, write. I want to write a short story tomorrow: "Dreambacks," and start a new YA novel on Friday. I'm hoping I'll get into the flow and finish it by my birthday. Mario stayed on the floor near me much of the day, putting together another poetry book. This one is called Love Life. Here's one of the poems from it:

This is the First Place I Touched You

This is the first place I touched you.
It was a wilting East Lansing summer
and this is the first place I touched you.
You wore that bare-backed dress
and this is the first place I touched you.
I was uncharacteristically bold and
this is the first place I touched you.
As I recall it now, the middle vertebra
was the the first place I touched you.
You didn’t move away when I put my hand
on the first place I touched you.
And even now I place my palm
on the first place I touched you
and it brings back that Michigan August
and the first place I touched you.

—Mario Milosevic
5 October 2001
Gooding, Idaho
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 3/07/2005 08:58:00 PM
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Saturday, March 05, 2005

Apples & Oranges 

Today Mario replied to a letter from a student in Colorado who was doing a paper on him for her class, and he told her the titles of a couple of poems he really liked. They are also poems I like, too, so I will link them here (the first two) and I'll add an additional couple of my favorites: "What He Thought" by Heather McHugh, "Snowy Egret" by Bruce Weigl, "When I Was" by Mario Milosevic, and "Wage Peace" by Judyth Hill. (This poem is often attributed to Mary Oliver.) This last one I use as a signature on my emails (which I'm sure I've quoted before in FS). It's by Elsa Gidlow:

You say I am mysterious.
Let me explain myself:
In a land of oranges
I am faithful to apples.

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Posted by: Kim Antieau / 3/05/2005 06:14:00 PM
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Another Birdwatcher 

I found this on the Orion website: birdwatching entries on the blog of Sergeant First Class Jonathan Trouern-Trend, a U.S. National Guardsman stationed in Iraq. I was struck by how ordinary it all sounded—like when Mario and I go out birdwatching. Made me cry, for some reason. And it's giving me all kinds of story ideas.
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 3/05/2005 04:19:00 PM
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Friday, March 04, 2005

Midnight Song 

This poem is by Witchhazel Wildwood, and it's from We'Moon '05. I'm up in the middle of the night and have no words of my own, so I thought I'd share these by Witchhazel, who has given her permission ahead of time for the poem to be published. Sweet dreams!

The Ridgeway Song

I walk the oldest road
the ridge to the river
above the tree line

I walk the great divide
blue sky on the one side
grey on the other
I journey through time

I walk the path of the ancestors
carved in memory
the path of the ancestors
carved in memory
carved in stone

time after time after time
layers of time gone by

step after step after step
I walk with the old ones

—Witchhazel Wildwood ©2000
Posted by: Kim Antieau / 3/04/2005 01:31:00 AM
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