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In times of old, The Furies protected Mother Right. If a mother (or any woman) was harmed, The Furies swooped down and took their vengeance. They were one of the last vestiges of a world that existed before the patriarchy. When we feel righteous anger, it is The Furies who are calling out to us to make what is wrong right again.
Friday, March 31, 2006
911 Calls
I just wept reading this story about the newly released 911 calls from people in the Twin Towers on 9/11. I feel for the terrified people waiting for help. I feel for the operators. I don't know what I would have done if they had told me to wait, that help was on the way. I think I would have believed them (and they certainly believed what they were saying). I think I would have waited. I don't really understand why they aren't releasing the complete recordings. (They've blocked the voice of the callers.) I would think the families would want that, although I certainly don't know.
Here's one exchange reported in the New York Times: "The dispatcher tried to soothe the man, finally saying, 'O.K. Listen, calm yourself down. We've got everybody outside. O.K.?'
"The man spoke and the dispatcher assured him help was on the way.
"'We are,' the dispatcher said. 'We're trying to get up there, sir. Like you said, the stairs are collapsed. O.K.? Everybody wet the towels and lie on the floor. O.K.? Put the wet towels over your head and lie down; O.K.? I know it's hard to breathe. I know it is.'"
Of course we know the towers collapsed not long after.
Here's one exchange reported in the New York Times: "The dispatcher tried to soothe the man, finally saying, 'O.K. Listen, calm yourself down. We've got everybody outside. O.K.?'
"The man spoke and the dispatcher assured him help was on the way.
"'We are,' the dispatcher said. 'We're trying to get up there, sir. Like you said, the stairs are collapsed. O.K.? Everybody wet the towels and lie on the floor. O.K.? Put the wet towels over your head and lie down; O.K.? I know it's hard to breathe. I know it is.'"
Of course we know the towers collapsed not long after.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
It Is To Laugh
Have you heard the one about Harry Kaloogian, the GOP candidate who is running for a congressional seat that had recently been vacated by one of the many "newly" disgraced GOP reps? On his website, they posted a photo of a peaceful-looking street which he said was taken during his "Truth Tour" in Baghdad, only the photo was actually taken in TURKEY. Geez Louise. Are they becoming more and more brazen in their dishonesty or is it that, finally, the truth will out?
Party for One
First half 'n hour: Listened to a hypnotherapy CD. Not to sleep. To get me in a healing mode. Also listened to Mario snore until I gently nudged him to turn over. (Hope he doesn't have a bruise in the morning.) Awake.
Two & a half hours after that: Lay in the dark in bed trying different positions to get to sleep. Little toe itched. Told myself how lucky I am. Many people don't have a bed to be sleepless in. (What kind of sentence is that? Don’t ask me. I’m supposed to be sleeping.)
Three hours after going to bed: Got up and wandered around downstairs. Really wished I had TV. Went back upstairs with some pages of Church of the Old Mermaids and took a bath. Thought of something I needed to do to make the book better. Too tired to write it down. Have now forgotten it.
Half 'n hour later: Came back downstairs and watched various segments from The Daily Show with Jon Stewart on the internet. Felt proud I was roughing it. Just like the pioneers coming across the continent in covered wagons. They didn't have TV either. Hoped I didn’t have to eat anyone. Speaking of eating. I took the computer into the kitchen and listened to Stewart's sketches etc. while I cut up and sautéed shitake mushrooms. I scrambled a couple of eggs in with the mushrooms. Toasted a piece of rye bread. Pressed a couple of garlic cloves. Ate it all up.
Four hours after I first went to bed: I write this. Now I'll go to bed. If I fall to sleep, odds are I'll wake up with heartburn soon after. Can't eat and then go right to sleep. Especially fried food. Wonder if the Donner party ever got heartburn.
Sweet dreams. Literally? I don't know. Can you eat dreams?
Sweet dreams are made of this...
Two & a half hours after that: Lay in the dark in bed trying different positions to get to sleep. Little toe itched. Told myself how lucky I am. Many people don't have a bed to be sleepless in. (What kind of sentence is that? Don’t ask me. I’m supposed to be sleeping.)
Three hours after going to bed: Got up and wandered around downstairs. Really wished I had TV. Went back upstairs with some pages of Church of the Old Mermaids and took a bath. Thought of something I needed to do to make the book better. Too tired to write it down. Have now forgotten it.
Half 'n hour later: Came back downstairs and watched various segments from The Daily Show with Jon Stewart on the internet. Felt proud I was roughing it. Just like the pioneers coming across the continent in covered wagons. They didn't have TV either. Hoped I didn’t have to eat anyone. Speaking of eating. I took the computer into the kitchen and listened to Stewart's sketches etc. while I cut up and sautéed shitake mushrooms. I scrambled a couple of eggs in with the mushrooms. Toasted a piece of rye bread. Pressed a couple of garlic cloves. Ate it all up.
Four hours after I first went to bed: I write this. Now I'll go to bed. If I fall to sleep, odds are I'll wake up with heartburn soon after. Can't eat and then go right to sleep. Especially fried food. Wonder if the Donner party ever got heartburn.
Sweet dreams. Literally? I don't know. Can you eat dreams?
Sweet dreams are made of this...
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
"Tyranny is your creation"
Great piece by Jane Smiley. She rips into those who are newly outraged by the Emperor (including Sandra Day O'Connor). I share Smiley's outrage but she articulates it so much better than I have. She writes, "...and all the rest of you newly-minted dissenters from Bush's faith-based reality seem, right now, to be glorying in your outrage, which is always a pleasure and feels, at the time, as if it is having an effect, but those of us who have been anti-Bush from day 1 (defined as the day after the stolen 2000 election) have a few pointers for you that should make your transition more realistic.
"1. Bush doesn't know you disagree with him. Nothing about you makes you of interest to George W. Bush once you no longer agree with and support him...2. Bush doesn't care whether you disagree with him...4. President Bush is your creation. When the US Supreme Court humiliated itself in 2000 by handing the presidency to Bush even though two of the justices (Scalia and Thomas) had open conflicts of interest, you did not object...5. Tyranny is your creation. What we have today is the natural and inevitable outcome of ideas and policies you have promoted for the last generation...the ideology of the unregulated free market has created the world we live in today...The unregulated free market has operated to produce a government in its own image."
Well worth the read.
"1. Bush doesn't know you disagree with him. Nothing about you makes you of interest to George W. Bush once you no longer agree with and support him...2. Bush doesn't care whether you disagree with him...4. President Bush is your creation. When the US Supreme Court humiliated itself in 2000 by handing the presidency to Bush even though two of the justices (Scalia and Thomas) had open conflicts of interest, you did not object...5. Tyranny is your creation. What we have today is the natural and inevitable outcome of ideas and policies you have promoted for the last generation...the ideology of the unregulated free market has created the world we live in today...The unregulated free market has operated to produce a government in its own image."
Well worth the read.
Real Work
It may be when we no longer know what to do,
we have come to our real work,
and that when we no longer know which way to go,
we have begun our real journey.
—Wendell Berry
we have come to our real work,
and that when we no longer know which way to go,
we have begun our real journey.
—Wendell Berry
Monday, March 27, 2006
Great Days
I've been having some very nice days, thank you very much. I wish you the same. Sunday Mario and I went to see The Inside Man, had dinner at Tao of Tea, then went to see the Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada. (The first movie had some good moments but mostly I was not impressed; the dal and rice was great; the second movie had some flaws, was definitely one of the weirdest movies I've ever seen, but in the end I was glad I saw it. I won't get into it because I'm supposed to be going to sleep now.)
Today we went hiking first in the rainforest (or a place much like it) and then in the high desert (or in a place much like it). I'm going to mix up the pics because some are bigger than others and will get squished but I'm betting you'll figure out which were in the rainforest and which were in the desert. (Hint: all the flowers were actually in the desert.) Enjoy the pics!
Grass widow
Braid by nature
Shooting star
Water Salmon
Moss on glacier rock
Good night!
Today we went hiking first in the rainforest (or a place much like it) and then in the high desert (or in a place much like it). I'm going to mix up the pics because some are bigger than others and will get squished but I'm betting you'll figure out which were in the rainforest and which were in the desert. (Hint: all the flowers were actually in the desert.) Enjoy the pics!
Grass widow
Braid by nature
Shooting star
Water Salmon
Moss on glacier rock
Good night!
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Food, Film, & Friends
My b-day is over. It was a fine day, thank you very much. Mario is the hero of the day as usual. This is what Mario cooked today: eggs with shitake mushrooms, lemon cake with white icing, cherry tart, quinoa and peas, wild salmon, lightly steamed vegetables. He also ran to Hood River (30 minutes away) and went grocery shopping and got a movie. He cleaned the house, including the downstairs bathroom. He tied my tie.
I was sick to my stomach for about half the day, so I lay on the couch and worked on Church of the Old Mermaids. I felt better after lunch and a bath. A friend from Nevada called and sang me happy birthday. (Thanks, Steve.) Around six o'clock our friends started to arrive. By 7:00 eight of us sat in the living room eating and watching Network. It was better than I remembered. We paused it after the "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take this" speech and got dessert. About this time, two more people came.
After the movie, half of my friends left, the other half sat around talking about local politics. My friend Mary goes to nearly every city and county meeting. She's so knowledgeable about everything going on in this county, yet she can't get appointed or elected to anything. It is a veritable feast of good ol' boys. Recently the county prosecutor sued her and several other people and their spouses for challenging a proposed clearcut on county land. Sued her. It's vindictive. She calls these good ol' boys on their stuff, and they get pissed off. I admire all the work she does: It's all volunteer.
We ended the conversation with news of the 500,000 demonstrators in Los Angeles today. As far as I know the police essentially let them alone. Why can't they do that with peace demonstrators? Anyway, it was a nice evening. Everyone left at 11:00 p.m. when I said, "Get out." Now mounds of dishes await us. Mañana, man.
I wore my rock star shirt tonight. The photograph is blurry, but you can see the important part. No, not my bosom, the words ROCK STAR.
Here's a pic of Barbara, Mary, me, and Linda. Doesn't Linda look so beautiful? She's feeling good. She was walking around barely using her walker. She even went up and down our stairs for the first time in maybe a year. Mario took several photos of the four of us. This particular photo was shot after I said (and demonstrated) that we all needed to hike up what breasts we had, or something like that. Then we all told stories of what happens to women's breasts as the years go by. We asked the men if there was an equivalent thing that happened to men. Mario just kept taking pictures, but I may have mortified Barbara's husband. (Although he should be used to me by now.)
Happy days everyone! Okay, this is the end of pics of me for a while. Geez.
I was sick to my stomach for about half the day, so I lay on the couch and worked on Church of the Old Mermaids. I felt better after lunch and a bath. A friend from Nevada called and sang me happy birthday. (Thanks, Steve.) Around six o'clock our friends started to arrive. By 7:00 eight of us sat in the living room eating and watching Network. It was better than I remembered. We paused it after the "I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take this" speech and got dessert. About this time, two more people came.
After the movie, half of my friends left, the other half sat around talking about local politics. My friend Mary goes to nearly every city and county meeting. She's so knowledgeable about everything going on in this county, yet she can't get appointed or elected to anything. It is a veritable feast of good ol' boys. Recently the county prosecutor sued her and several other people and their spouses for challenging a proposed clearcut on county land. Sued her. It's vindictive. She calls these good ol' boys on their stuff, and they get pissed off. I admire all the work she does: It's all volunteer.
We ended the conversation with news of the 500,000 demonstrators in Los Angeles today. As far as I know the police essentially let them alone. Why can't they do that with peace demonstrators? Anyway, it was a nice evening. Everyone left at 11:00 p.m. when I said, "Get out." Now mounds of dishes await us. Mañana, man.
I wore my rock star shirt tonight. The photograph is blurry, but you can see the important part. No, not my bosom, the words ROCK STAR.
Here's a pic of Barbara, Mary, me, and Linda. Doesn't Linda look so beautiful? She's feeling good. She was walking around barely using her walker. She even went up and down our stairs for the first time in maybe a year. Mario took several photos of the four of us. This particular photo was shot after I said (and demonstrated) that we all needed to hike up what breasts we had, or something like that. Then we all told stories of what happens to women's breasts as the years go by. We asked the men if there was an equivalent thing that happened to men. Mario just kept taking pictures, but I may have mortified Barbara's husband. (Although he should be used to me by now.)
Happy days everyone! Okay, this is the end of pics of me for a while. Geez.
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Half a Mill Protest in L.A.
Isn't it great? An estimated 500,000 gathered in the L.A. today to protest immigration reform. Look at the photograph. Amazing! That's a good start for a new movement.
Power to the people.
Power to the people.
Pics of Moi, Me, & I
After Mario read the previous post, he said, "It's all about your dad not you. And it's your birthday." Well, I write about myself every day, I said. So why should today be any different? So I scanned some pics. Got up to 1991 and got bored with myself. I'm sure I'll be interested again in a few minutes, so maybe I'll update later. (In truth, these photos were in a folder so they were easy to get.) They're photographs of photographs so the quality isn't that great. I find a few of them quite amusing.
A few months old
Toddler
First communion, 1960? With my dad
Second or third grade, 1961-63
12-13 years old, 1967-68
18 years old, 1973. Taken by my high school boyfriend; have no idea why it's crooked.
Summer 1973, Paris. Backpacking across Europe. Lousy pic, but it's good for showing off.
Summer 1974. Annie, me, my Camaro. We're on a camping trip in northern Michigan. I'm on the left. I loved that car.
Camaro Cheesecake. 1975-79? I loved, loved this car. I still have a piece of it. It was totaled in 1982 a few weeks before Mario and I were scheduled to move to Oregon. I was picking up Mario from work and some guy in a car was oogling another guy walking along the road and the guy in a car rearended me. Mario saw the whole thing.
Guzzling in Greece. Amstel beer, my favorite beer which I wasn't able to get in the U.S. 1978-79?
Mario & me, summer 1980, when we met, at Clarion, MSU campus, East Lansing. Poster children for naturally curly hair.
Married summer 1981, in the arboretum in Ann Arbor.
Me & my four sisters, summer 1984. Michelle, me, Karen, Kathleen, Camille.
Tenth wedding anniversary, 1991, on Mount Hood, W'yeast.
A few months old
Toddler
First communion, 1960? With my dad
Second or third grade, 1961-63
12-13 years old, 1967-68
18 years old, 1973. Taken by my high school boyfriend; have no idea why it's crooked.
Summer 1973, Paris. Backpacking across Europe. Lousy pic, but it's good for showing off.
Summer 1974. Annie, me, my Camaro. We're on a camping trip in northern Michigan. I'm on the left. I loved that car.
Camaro Cheesecake. 1975-79? I loved, loved this car. I still have a piece of it. It was totaled in 1982 a few weeks before Mario and I were scheduled to move to Oregon. I was picking up Mario from work and some guy in a car was oogling another guy walking along the road and the guy in a car rearended me. Mario saw the whole thing.
Guzzling in Greece. Amstel beer, my favorite beer which I wasn't able to get in the U.S. 1978-79?
Mario & me, summer 1980, when we met, at Clarion, MSU campus, East Lansing. Poster children for naturally curly hair.
Married summer 1981, in the arboretum in Ann Arbor.
Me & my four sisters, summer 1984. Michelle, me, Karen, Kathleen, Camille.
Tenth wedding anniversary, 1991, on Mount Hood, W'yeast.
Happy Hilaria Day!
On this day Gloria Steinem and Aretha Franklin were born. So were Elton John and Henry II. So was I. My parents were at a movie in Shreveport, Louisiana when I knocked on the womb without a view. (I think the movie was The Long Gray Line.) Is it any wonder I'm a movie freak?
I was born in the Air Force hospital in Bossier City early the next morning. I thought I was born in Shreveport until I was in my forties and happened to examine my birth certificate carefully. I said, "Dad, for my entire life I've been telling people I was born in Shreveport, even the government! I could be in big trouble." He shrugged and said, "We lived in Shreveport. You just happened to be born on the base." He didn't see the big deal, which I guess it wasn't—but it was a surprise to think I was born one place and then find out it was another. (It reminded me of when I found out my grandfather took his stepfather's name—Antieau—when he was an adult. So the family tree I thought I had wasn't mine. I learned this in my thirties.) My father explained that Bossier City and Shreveport were right next to each other.
I don't know a lot about where we lived in Louisiana except for a few anecdotes my father has told me. Once after my father brought home a buddy from the base , his landlord told him never to bring a black man to the house again. My father didn't pay any attention to her. He told me the drinking fountains in the south were marked "whites only" and "blacks only." (Probably the "blacks only" faucets said "colored only.") My father always drank from whatever faucet was nearest, he said, but then he didn't risk getting beaten up. My father was stationed in Louisiana for about a year. Soon after I was born we moved to Texas. (Yes, I actually lived in Texas for about a year. I kind of feel about Texas the way Louise did in Thelma & Louise. Although I'm sure it's not all Bush country.) Like many young men without means my father's age, he joined the service for the G.I. Bill (or something like it). After he got out, he was able to go to college, which he did, and become a teacher.
So today I plan on spending time with my sweetie and later some friends, eating hearty, and watching movies. And maybe dance a bit.
Have a good one.
May You Dance in Beauty!
I was born in the Air Force hospital in Bossier City early the next morning. I thought I was born in Shreveport until I was in my forties and happened to examine my birth certificate carefully. I said, "Dad, for my entire life I've been telling people I was born in Shreveport, even the government! I could be in big trouble." He shrugged and said, "We lived in Shreveport. You just happened to be born on the base." He didn't see the big deal, which I guess it wasn't—but it was a surprise to think I was born one place and then find out it was another. (It reminded me of when I found out my grandfather took his stepfather's name—Antieau—when he was an adult. So the family tree I thought I had wasn't mine. I learned this in my thirties.) My father explained that Bossier City and Shreveport were right next to each other.
I don't know a lot about where we lived in Louisiana except for a few anecdotes my father has told me. Once after my father brought home a buddy from the base , his landlord told him never to bring a black man to the house again. My father didn't pay any attention to her. He told me the drinking fountains in the south were marked "whites only" and "blacks only." (Probably the "blacks only" faucets said "colored only.") My father always drank from whatever faucet was nearest, he said, but then he didn't risk getting beaten up. My father was stationed in Louisiana for about a year. Soon after I was born we moved to Texas. (Yes, I actually lived in Texas for about a year. I kind of feel about Texas the way Louise did in Thelma & Louise. Although I'm sure it's not all Bush country.) Like many young men without means my father's age, he joined the service for the G.I. Bill (or something like it). After he got out, he was able to go to college, which he did, and become a teacher.
So today I plan on spending time with my sweetie and later some friends, eating hearty, and watching movies. And maybe dance a bit.
Have a good one.
May You Dance in Beauty!
Friday, March 24, 2006
ZZZZZ Nyet
I've lost count. How many days and nights have I been awake now? This is very strange. I'm so exhausted. Might have to cancel Hilaria Day. Yes, that's my biggest worry right now, besides wondering how long it takes to go crazy when you haven't slept. And by you I mean me. Since I'm already half way to crazy normally, I might arrive there soon.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Conspiracy
Sleep, where for art thou, buddy?
So never got to sleep after I got up and couldn't sleep and did the post. Seems like everyone and everything is dead, dying, or sick. Having trouble coming to grips with that again. Geez. And my ears were ringing so bad I couldn't stand the silence—or non-silence. Went downstairs and put on the Gilmore Girls to put me to sleep whilst on the couch snuggled under the quilt my daddy made me. Didn't work. Mario woke up at 6 a.m. and came and got me, wouldn't go away until I went back upstairs with him. Fell asleep on his shoulder (always does the trick). Didn't even wake up when he got up to get ready for work. Did wake up when the phone rang at three minutes to 8:00. Doc's office was calling to schedule a pre-op. Turns out I could have had my pre-op yesterday when I had my post-op. Been awake all day in that hazy icky way you are when you haven't slept for a couple of days. Almost asleep when someone knocked on the freaking door. I yelled, "Who is it?"
"Millennium."
"Millennium-who?" (Hey, it could have been a cruel knock-knock joke.)
"The cable company," he said.
"We don't have cable!"
"You get it through the phone line?"
Couldn't the guy tell by my annoying screech that he needed to go away?
"WE DON'T HAVE TV!"
That did it. I guess he thought I was nuts, and he went away.
Now I feel like Mel Gibson in whatever that conspiracy movie was. The phone is ringing. I wonder if it's Patrick Stewart. I hope he doesn't try to tie me to a wheelchair and throw me down concrete stairs.
Maybe I need to chant.
Moooooooooooooooooooo.
Wait, that's what cows do.
Ommmmmmmmmmmmm.
So never got to sleep after I got up and couldn't sleep and did the post. Seems like everyone and everything is dead, dying, or sick. Having trouble coming to grips with that again. Geez. And my ears were ringing so bad I couldn't stand the silence—or non-silence. Went downstairs and put on the Gilmore Girls to put me to sleep whilst on the couch snuggled under the quilt my daddy made me. Didn't work. Mario woke up at 6 a.m. and came and got me, wouldn't go away until I went back upstairs with him. Fell asleep on his shoulder (always does the trick). Didn't even wake up when he got up to get ready for work. Did wake up when the phone rang at three minutes to 8:00. Doc's office was calling to schedule a pre-op. Turns out I could have had my pre-op yesterday when I had my post-op. Been awake all day in that hazy icky way you are when you haven't slept for a couple of days. Almost asleep when someone knocked on the freaking door. I yelled, "Who is it?"
"Millennium."
"Millennium-who?" (Hey, it could have been a cruel knock-knock joke.)
"The cable company," he said.
"We don't have cable!"
"You get it through the phone line?"
Couldn't the guy tell by my annoying screech that he needed to go away?
"WE DON'T HAVE TV!"
That did it. I guess he thought I was nuts, and he went away.
Now I feel like Mel Gibson in whatever that conspiracy movie was. The phone is ringing. I wonder if it's Patrick Stewart. I hope he doesn't try to tie me to a wheelchair and throw me down concrete stairs.
Maybe I need to chant.
Moooooooooooooooooooo.
Wait, that's what cows do.
Ommmmmmmmmmmmm.
Musings...
Middle of the night. I can hear the train in the distance. And our hepa fan in the nearer distance. Mario is upstairs asleep. He is over his cold, knock wood, and is sleeping soundly. Me, I'm up. Been a lot sleepless lately. Or sleepless a lot. Middle of the night musings mix up my syntax.
I learned today I should be getting copies of Mercy, Unbound soon from my publisher. That'll be nice. Mario and I talked about which book I might do next. It's hard to think of something else when I'm so cozily ensconced in Church of the Old Mermaids. I feel like I could write about these people forever. That rarely happens with me. I usually tell a story and I'm ready to move on. I may be ready to move on once I finish the rewrite.
I had hopes that things would settle down in my world. Now I'm wondering if life is just a series of crises where you grab onto the moments of peace and hunker down, like nomads in a desert oasis. (Best I can do at 2:00 a.m.) Last week my mom was in the hospital. After a bout with pneumonia etc. she began to deteriorate. Since I had two friends unexpectedly die within days of each other I went into action mode along with my sibs as we encouraged and prodded my father to kick the doctor into gear to find out what was wrong with Mom. He was recovering from pneumonia himself and I can only imagine how exhausting the whole experience was. My mother is 77 years old and had a heart valve replacement last year. They needed to figure out YESTERDAY where the infection was. My father contemplated airlifting her back to Michigan but held off on this when the doc in Scottsdale finally consented to putting her in the hospital. They never figured out what exactly was wrong with her but after several days of fluids and potassium treatments and a multitude of tests, she got better and she was able to go home.
The day after my mom got home, we learned Mario's brother has cancer. It's very treatable, and I'm sure he'll be fine but what a strain on him and his wife, children, and my dear mother in law. I asked a friend if this was what our lives were going to be now: Just one sickness after another. I hope not.
Today I went to Vancouver for my second post-op appointment. In a couple of weeks I'll go for my pre-op and then my op. I'm saying all this because I like saying op. Op, op, op. I think I'm punchy. An hour before the appointment, I took a Tylenol. Two actually. I didn't want to, but it was better than the painkiller I had to take before my last post-op appointment. That pain pill was the worst thing of my entire operatic (or operational) experience. First it made me dizzy. Then sleepy. Then very sick to my stomach. I told you this already, didn't I? It also affected my memory.(Or is it effect? I used to know the difference between those words without thinking. Lately I'm confusing them again. Don't you hate that? It's like the words past and passed. For some reason, I'm always mixing them up. I'll write, "She passed by the house." Then I'll wonder, is it "she past by the house." Now right this minute I'm thinking how could I ever confuse those two? It's so obvious which is right and which is wrong. This from someone who taught college English. Thus you can see why I adore good copyeditors.)
Anyway, I'm babbling. After I got so sick with the painkiller, I said to the doc, "Can't I please just take Tylenol next time if I have to take anything at all?" She agreed, since the painkiller was mostly acetaminophen with just a hint, a modicum, a dizzying puking bit of perc. I don't think I needed either one. It's very strange to take any kind of pain pill period and then to take one before I'm in pain is very bizarre.
Today we drove an hour to get to the doc's. She saw me almost immediately. I like that about her. She held a piece of gauze over my nose and then shot a mist of numbing agent up my nostril. She asked me to hold the gauze just below my nose while she stuck a long lighted instrument up my nose. At least I think it's got a light. I always close my eyes. I don't really need to see that long thing as it comes toward me. Don’t need to imagine it going up my nose. While she did this, I felt a bit of pressure but nothing seriously uncomfortable and nothing painful.
Today she said, "Oh, that one hanging there is like a ripe cherry ready to be plucked." I said, "Okay, doc, go get your scissors. I'm ready to go." She laughed. She said it looked like I was healing nicely, and she saw no reason we couldn't go ahead. She was sorry I was going to have to wait so long. I told her I had tried to bribe the scheduler to no avail. The whole visit with her took about five minutes, tops. We were in the doc's office a total of twenty minutes, and that included check-in time. Not bad.
After the visit, we drove to Portland and did errands. We stopped at the Tao of Tea for dal and rice. (I just mistakenly wrote the Tao of Death. Wonder what that means? Sounds like something Dave would say.) Then we went grocery shopping. Spent an obscene amount of money on food. Partly because it’s my b-day on Saturday and we’re having a small par-tay. We’re using my birthday (Hilaria Day) as an excuse for friend, food, and film.
Okay. Now that I’ve given you a summary of my day, I think I should say something profound so that you don’t get to the end of this and think, “There goes ten minutes of my life I’ll never get back.”
I can’t think of anything profound. Can anyone ever think of something profound? Or does profundity just smack us up side the head and say, “You there! Listen up. I gots something to say.” Maybe not. Tonight I do seem to fixated on how things just happen, seemingly out of the blue. Bad things. Good things. It’s easier on us if we can learn to go with the flow. (And watch out for waterfalls as Sister Sophia Mermaid says.) We need to find happiness and joy where we can. Today I stood in the grocery store talking with a woman about bowls. We both confessed our love of bowls. (You wait, I’ll write a story or book about bowls one of these days.) I searched for the words to explain my love of bowls. I said (quite profoundly, I might add) that bowls were just so, well, round. That's why I liked them. Round and deep. Ah well.
My best bet now is to go to sleep.
The words of Mary Oliver keep bouncing around in my head: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” When I search on the net to find a link for this poem, I discover another poem of hers that I love, Blackwater Woods. It is a reminder I need to hear tonight. Thirty days after Dave died, I think I almost feel his tug at my sleeve (or on my keyboard), urging me to this poem.
Oliver writes, "To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.”
It’s time for me to try and sleep again.
‘nite, Spinners. ‘nite, Dave.
I learned today I should be getting copies of Mercy, Unbound soon from my publisher. That'll be nice. Mario and I talked about which book I might do next. It's hard to think of something else when I'm so cozily ensconced in Church of the Old Mermaids. I feel like I could write about these people forever. That rarely happens with me. I usually tell a story and I'm ready to move on. I may be ready to move on once I finish the rewrite.
I had hopes that things would settle down in my world. Now I'm wondering if life is just a series of crises where you grab onto the moments of peace and hunker down, like nomads in a desert oasis. (Best I can do at 2:00 a.m.) Last week my mom was in the hospital. After a bout with pneumonia etc. she began to deteriorate. Since I had two friends unexpectedly die within days of each other I went into action mode along with my sibs as we encouraged and prodded my father to kick the doctor into gear to find out what was wrong with Mom. He was recovering from pneumonia himself and I can only imagine how exhausting the whole experience was. My mother is 77 years old and had a heart valve replacement last year. They needed to figure out YESTERDAY where the infection was. My father contemplated airlifting her back to Michigan but held off on this when the doc in Scottsdale finally consented to putting her in the hospital. They never figured out what exactly was wrong with her but after several days of fluids and potassium treatments and a multitude of tests, she got better and she was able to go home.
The day after my mom got home, we learned Mario's brother has cancer. It's very treatable, and I'm sure he'll be fine but what a strain on him and his wife, children, and my dear mother in law. I asked a friend if this was what our lives were going to be now: Just one sickness after another. I hope not.
Today I went to Vancouver for my second post-op appointment. In a couple of weeks I'll go for my pre-op and then my op. I'm saying all this because I like saying op. Op, op, op. I think I'm punchy. An hour before the appointment, I took a Tylenol. Two actually. I didn't want to, but it was better than the painkiller I had to take before my last post-op appointment. That pain pill was the worst thing of my entire operatic (or operational) experience. First it made me dizzy. Then sleepy. Then very sick to my stomach. I told you this already, didn't I? It also affected my memory.(Or is it effect? I used to know the difference between those words without thinking. Lately I'm confusing them again. Don't you hate that? It's like the words past and passed. For some reason, I'm always mixing them up. I'll write, "She passed by the house." Then I'll wonder, is it "she past by the house." Now right this minute I'm thinking how could I ever confuse those two? It's so obvious which is right and which is wrong. This from someone who taught college English. Thus you can see why I adore good copyeditors.)
Anyway, I'm babbling. After I got so sick with the painkiller, I said to the doc, "Can't I please just take Tylenol next time if I have to take anything at all?" She agreed, since the painkiller was mostly acetaminophen with just a hint, a modicum, a dizzying puking bit of perc. I don't think I needed either one. It's very strange to take any kind of pain pill period and then to take one before I'm in pain is very bizarre.
Today we drove an hour to get to the doc's. She saw me almost immediately. I like that about her. She held a piece of gauze over my nose and then shot a mist of numbing agent up my nostril. She asked me to hold the gauze just below my nose while she stuck a long lighted instrument up my nose. At least I think it's got a light. I always close my eyes. I don't really need to see that long thing as it comes toward me. Don’t need to imagine it going up my nose. While she did this, I felt a bit of pressure but nothing seriously uncomfortable and nothing painful.
Today she said, "Oh, that one hanging there is like a ripe cherry ready to be plucked." I said, "Okay, doc, go get your scissors. I'm ready to go." She laughed. She said it looked like I was healing nicely, and she saw no reason we couldn't go ahead. She was sorry I was going to have to wait so long. I told her I had tried to bribe the scheduler to no avail. The whole visit with her took about five minutes, tops. We were in the doc's office a total of twenty minutes, and that included check-in time. Not bad.
After the visit, we drove to Portland and did errands. We stopped at the Tao of Tea for dal and rice. (I just mistakenly wrote the Tao of Death. Wonder what that means? Sounds like something Dave would say.) Then we went grocery shopping. Spent an obscene amount of money on food. Partly because it’s my b-day on Saturday and we’re having a small par-tay. We’re using my birthday (Hilaria Day) as an excuse for friend, food, and film.
Okay. Now that I’ve given you a summary of my day, I think I should say something profound so that you don’t get to the end of this and think, “There goes ten minutes of my life I’ll never get back.”
I can’t think of anything profound. Can anyone ever think of something profound? Or does profundity just smack us up side the head and say, “You there! Listen up. I gots something to say.” Maybe not. Tonight I do seem to fixated on how things just happen, seemingly out of the blue. Bad things. Good things. It’s easier on us if we can learn to go with the flow. (And watch out for waterfalls as Sister Sophia Mermaid says.) We need to find happiness and joy where we can. Today I stood in the grocery store talking with a woman about bowls. We both confessed our love of bowls. (You wait, I’ll write a story or book about bowls one of these days.) I searched for the words to explain my love of bowls. I said (quite profoundly, I might add) that bowls were just so, well, round. That's why I liked them. Round and deep. Ah well.
My best bet now is to go to sleep.
The words of Mary Oliver keep bouncing around in my head: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” When I search on the net to find a link for this poem, I discover another poem of hers that I love, Blackwater Woods. It is a reminder I need to hear tonight. Thirty days after Dave died, I think I almost feel his tug at my sleeve (or on my keyboard), urging me to this poem.
Oliver writes, "To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.”
It’s time for me to try and sleep again.
‘nite, Spinners. ‘nite, Dave.
Labels: Mercy Unbound, Old Mermaids, sleep, surgery
Heeeere's Randi
Heard Randi Rhodes was on Lou Dobbs. The vid is here and here. Second one is more interesting.
Monday, March 20, 2006
13 Suggestions from the Old Mermaids
I’ve been working on Church of the Old Mermaids for the past few days. Such fun. Then I gave it to Mario. He always reads my novels after I do the first rewrite. (I usually read the pages outloud to him as I write it each day. That gives me a feel for the story. Then I put it aside for awhile, unless it’s got some major plot problems. If that’s the case, I usually poke around in it for a bit. In either case I give it to Mario.) So he read it yesterday and today and did some minor editing. After he finished it, he told me what he thought worked and what didn’t. Now I’ll look it over and make the changes I agree with. Afterward I’ll read it one more time and decide whether I need to put it away for a while or send it to my agent.
More than you wanted to know?
I love these Old Mermaids. A suggestion from one of them heads each chapter of the novel. Here's a preview for Furious Spinner readers.
Get the starfish outta your eyes, sister. —Sister Sheila Na Giggles Mermaid
Step lightly. Dance hard. Eat your vegetables. —Sister DeeDee Lightful Mermaid
Things change. Get over it. —Sister Bea Wilder Mermaid
Fear has no sisters, but I have many. —Sister Lyra Musica Mermaid
She who laughs a lot laughs a lot. —Sister Laughs A Lot Mermaid
I am most at home where the wild things are. —Sister Ursula Divine Mermaid
Sing, dance, create. If you have to choose one, do all three at once. —Sister Bridget Mermaid
A good bean is hard to find. Everything else is easy. —Sister Ruby Rosarita Mermaid
Go with the flow—and watch out for waterfalls. —Sister Sophia Mermaid
You ask me to tell you about love? Showing is so much better. —Sister Magdalene Mermaid
Laugh or weep. We swim in your tears. —Grand Mother Yemaya Mermaid
All the wisdom of the ages can be distilled into one suggestion: Be. —Mother Star Stupendous Mermaid
The rest is mystery. —Sister Faye Mermaid
More than you wanted to know?
I love these Old Mermaids. A suggestion from one of them heads each chapter of the novel. Here's a preview for Furious Spinner readers.
Get the starfish outta your eyes, sister. —Sister Sheila Na Giggles Mermaid
Step lightly. Dance hard. Eat your vegetables. —Sister DeeDee Lightful Mermaid
Things change. Get over it. —Sister Bea Wilder Mermaid
Fear has no sisters, but I have many. —Sister Lyra Musica Mermaid
She who laughs a lot laughs a lot. —Sister Laughs A Lot Mermaid
I am most at home where the wild things are. —Sister Ursula Divine Mermaid
Sing, dance, create. If you have to choose one, do all three at once. —Sister Bridget Mermaid
A good bean is hard to find. Everything else is easy. —Sister Ruby Rosarita Mermaid
Go with the flow—and watch out for waterfalls. —Sister Sophia Mermaid
You ask me to tell you about love? Showing is so much better. —Sister Magdalene Mermaid
Laugh or weep. We swim in your tears. —Grand Mother Yemaya Mermaid
All the wisdom of the ages can be distilled into one suggestion: Be. —Mother Star Stupendous Mermaid
The rest is mystery. —Sister Faye Mermaid
Happy Vernal Equinox!
Hope you had some signs of spring today. It was sunny and warm here today, but I was inside most of the day. Mario is recovering from a little bug. This meant I was up at the crack of dawn. (Don't know why; just don't sleep a lot when he's sick.) 6:30 a.m. I made two batches of two soups: aduki bean and veggie. Turned out I had bought the wrong winter squash yesterday, so I walked down to the grocery store and got some butternut squash (for the soups). This was at 8:00 a.m. Crisp clear morning. Wrapped up in my 15-year old winter jacket, 25-year old scarf, and 34-year old mittens. (I bet I own clothes that are older than some of you. That is very strange.) I love things that last, but all of these items are on their last threads. Maybe I can get someone to make a quilt out of them or something. My parents gave me the mittens for xmas when I was sixteen. They're just so warm. Except for the thumbs which no longer exist. Mario bought the scarf for me when we lived in Ann Arbor.
I'm babbling, though, aren't I?
Yesterday I went to the peace bridges demonstration and protest in Hood River. I didn't stay long. It was windy, cold, and Mario was waiting for me at home with the sniffles. There were about 50 people.
In Portland, thousands protested. Today the front page of the Oregonian had photos and a story about the demonstrations, which was surprising and exhilarating. Protests happened all over the globe. Perhaps middle America will soon stand up against this war and this administration.
In any case, yesterday, a few dozen of us stood on the bridge with signs; the cars going by underneath on the freeway waved and honked. (I actually had no sign. I waved and chatted.) Afterward I went grocery shopping. Went home, made dinner, then did library work. Mario read Church of the Old Mermaids and marked it up for me.
Today I looked over my copyedited manuscript for Broken Moon. (Did I tell you that's the new name of Camel Jockey which was Nadira's Moon which was She Combs the Desert for Fallen Stars. I like Broken Moon, and it works for the story.) I love the process of creating a book. I know I've said this before. I love writing the book. I love when the book sells. Love the contract negotiations. Love the process of the cover. (Mostly.) Love the copyedited manuscript. Love going over the galleys. Love getting my copies. Love, love, love. I love the process until the book actually hits the bookstores.
Once it gets published, it's out of my hands. I have absolutely no control. It either sells or it doesn't. Mario and I have done all the things that "experts" have suggested writers do. We've done local publicity; we've written letters to every public library and bookstore in the United States (or nearly so); we've made bookmarks; we've made postcards and sent them out. I've gone on area book tours. Didn't make a bit of difference. Squat. We spent thousands of dollars for nada. This time, for Mercy, Unbound, I'm relying on my publisher, good luck, and good luck. It'll either do well by word of mouth, etc., or it won't. I love Mercy and I love her story, so I'm hoping she'll get to tell it.
Speaking of writing and writers. Here's a pic of me working at my desk (well, actually I'm looking at the camera, but I was working at my desk.) It's from about a week or more after the first operation. (I can't see much difference, but the left side is a bit less swollen. Since the polyps pushed out my bone, the upper part of my nose will most likely never be the same again.) Once the second operation is over, we'll take another pic. This is my room. It looks out at the Methodist Church across the road. In this pic you can see Bear dancing behind me, a couple of witches on the wall, one of the bookshelves, the mermaid cigar box Mario got me in Tucson, and the flute bag (with the flute inside it) that Genevieve sent me. And for those interested in haute couture: I'm wearing my old man sweater (that's what I call it) and pajama bottoms. This is my work outfit.
Have a great spring!
I'm babbling, though, aren't I?
Yesterday I went to the peace bridges demonstration and protest in Hood River. I didn't stay long. It was windy, cold, and Mario was waiting for me at home with the sniffles. There were about 50 people.
In Portland, thousands protested. Today the front page of the Oregonian had photos and a story about the demonstrations, which was surprising and exhilarating. Protests happened all over the globe. Perhaps middle America will soon stand up against this war and this administration.
In any case, yesterday, a few dozen of us stood on the bridge with signs; the cars going by underneath on the freeway waved and honked. (I actually had no sign. I waved and chatted.) Afterward I went grocery shopping. Went home, made dinner, then did library work. Mario read Church of the Old Mermaids and marked it up for me.
Today I looked over my copyedited manuscript for Broken Moon. (Did I tell you that's the new name of Camel Jockey which was Nadira's Moon which was She Combs the Desert for Fallen Stars. I like Broken Moon, and it works for the story.) I love the process of creating a book. I know I've said this before. I love writing the book. I love when the book sells. Love the contract negotiations. Love the process of the cover. (Mostly.) Love the copyedited manuscript. Love going over the galleys. Love getting my copies. Love, love, love. I love the process until the book actually hits the bookstores.
Once it gets published, it's out of my hands. I have absolutely no control. It either sells or it doesn't. Mario and I have done all the things that "experts" have suggested writers do. We've done local publicity; we've written letters to every public library and bookstore in the United States (or nearly so); we've made bookmarks; we've made postcards and sent them out. I've gone on area book tours. Didn't make a bit of difference. Squat. We spent thousands of dollars for nada. This time, for Mercy, Unbound, I'm relying on my publisher, good luck, and good luck. It'll either do well by word of mouth, etc., or it won't. I love Mercy and I love her story, so I'm hoping she'll get to tell it.
Speaking of writing and writers. Here's a pic of me working at my desk (well, actually I'm looking at the camera, but I was working at my desk.) It's from about a week or more after the first operation. (I can't see much difference, but the left side is a bit less swollen. Since the polyps pushed out my bone, the upper part of my nose will most likely never be the same again.) Once the second operation is over, we'll take another pic. This is my room. It looks out at the Methodist Church across the road. In this pic you can see Bear dancing behind me, a couple of witches on the wall, one of the bookshelves, the mermaid cigar box Mario got me in Tucson, and the flute bag (with the flute inside it) that Genevieve sent me. And for those interested in haute couture: I'm wearing my old man sweater (that's what I call it) and pajama bottoms. This is my work outfit.
Have a great spring!
Sunday, March 19, 2006
For His Next Number
Love this first political cartoon. The rest of them on the page aren't bad either. Thanks, Patricia.
Clipping the Wingnuts
In case you've gotten any of those emails from people claiming to be speaking for those serving in the military in Iraq (and other formulations) and you wish you had a response because you're just so speechless at the rightwing's audacity (and ability to lie so easily), Jim Mcdonald dissects one of these emails and responds. It's great.
Iraq War: Entering Year Four
It's been three years since the war began. I remember where I was when it started: Scottsdale, AZ. I was so angry and upset. After months and months of organizing rallies, writing letters, making phone calls side by side with millions of other people around the globe, the Emperor invaded Iraq—illegally to my way of thinking. It became clear to me then that Bush was an Emperor and he didn't care what we thought, and he didn't care what the world thought. I still don't know for certain why they did what they did to Iraq. I am ashamed for my country and its leaders. Since that time, the world seems to have been knocked off its axis. I would not have believed our country could fall so low in such a short amount of time. But I believe it now.
The human toll caused by this war is enormous. Between 17,000 and 48,000 American soldiers have been wounded. Over 2,300 have been killed. Ten of thousands (some say even 100,000) of Iraqis have been killed. The country of Iraq is in ruins, and Cheney still goes around saying nothing bad is happening in Iraq that they didn't bring on themselves—or words to that effect. The health effects of the war machine are being felt worldwide as depleted uranium hitches a ride on the thermals. (It's a bird, it's a plane, no, it's depleted uranium!)
Despite all that, there is hope. I hope the people stand up and say they're mad as hell and they aren't going to take it any more--and then actually act. We can keep hounding our elected representatives (at all levels of government) even though we've lost faith in them completely. We should support third parties at the local and state levels as much as possible until they're ready to be a viable force at the national level. Right now the Dems are complicit in the wrongs being perpetrated by the Republicans because they are silent. As Molly Ivins said about the D.C. Dems, "I can’t see a damn soul in D.C. except Russ Feingold who is even worth considering for President. The rest of them seem to me so poisonously in hock to this system of legalized bribery they can’t even see straight."
Yesterday I was at the library (as a patron) talking with a friend about the war and other atrocities and a man came up to us and asked us what we were talking about. He had a Massachusetts accent, so I made the mistake of assuming (we know what that makes me) that he might participate in our dialogue. I said, "You're either a liberal or you left Massachusetts because it was too liberal." He kept talking over me and trying to put me down in that way that patronizing men have where they think they're being charming and they're...not. He said bad people were out to get us. What bad people? I asked. "Those who blew up the World Trade Center." "But that doesn't mean we give up our civil liberties," I said. I asked if he thought it was right for this administration to be wiretapping American citizens. He said, "Are you emailing Al Qaeda. Well, then you've got nothing to worry about." I said, "That's not the point. It's not about me. We're supposed to protect everyone. That's what this country is supposed to be about. We don't give up our civil rights because we're afraid." He kept talking over me every time I spoke.
I should have walked away. Everyone says dialogue is good, but this didn't feel like a dialogue. I don't understand how smart people can believe that George Bush is actually protecting us. The world is far more dangerous than it was before he became president. But what his supporters say is that nothing has happened since 9/11. TO US. In fact, at least 17,000 American soldiers have been wounded, 2,300 have been killed, at least 35,000 Iraqis have been killed. How is that "nothing?"
Yesterday and today, people all over the world are protesting this war. The Emperor and his fashionistas will pay no attention, but at least we will be in solidarity with one another—at least the Iraqis will see that millions of us disagree with the policies of our government.
Mario's sick today, so I don't know if I will be out in the streets protesting yet, but I'm with them in spirit.
Blessed be.
The human toll caused by this war is enormous. Between 17,000 and 48,000 American soldiers have been wounded. Over 2,300 have been killed. Ten of thousands (some say even 100,000) of Iraqis have been killed. The country of Iraq is in ruins, and Cheney still goes around saying nothing bad is happening in Iraq that they didn't bring on themselves—or words to that effect. The health effects of the war machine are being felt worldwide as depleted uranium hitches a ride on the thermals. (It's a bird, it's a plane, no, it's depleted uranium!)
Despite all that, there is hope. I hope the people stand up and say they're mad as hell and they aren't going to take it any more--and then actually act. We can keep hounding our elected representatives (at all levels of government) even though we've lost faith in them completely. We should support third parties at the local and state levels as much as possible until they're ready to be a viable force at the national level. Right now the Dems are complicit in the wrongs being perpetrated by the Republicans because they are silent. As Molly Ivins said about the D.C. Dems, "I can’t see a damn soul in D.C. except Russ Feingold who is even worth considering for President. The rest of them seem to me so poisonously in hock to this system of legalized bribery they can’t even see straight."
Yesterday I was at the library (as a patron) talking with a friend about the war and other atrocities and a man came up to us and asked us what we were talking about. He had a Massachusetts accent, so I made the mistake of assuming (we know what that makes me) that he might participate in our dialogue. I said, "You're either a liberal or you left Massachusetts because it was too liberal." He kept talking over me and trying to put me down in that way that patronizing men have where they think they're being charming and they're...not. He said bad people were out to get us. What bad people? I asked. "Those who blew up the World Trade Center." "But that doesn't mean we give up our civil liberties," I said. I asked if he thought it was right for this administration to be wiretapping American citizens. He said, "Are you emailing Al Qaeda. Well, then you've got nothing to worry about." I said, "That's not the point. It's not about me. We're supposed to protect everyone. That's what this country is supposed to be about. We don't give up our civil rights because we're afraid." He kept talking over me every time I spoke.
I should have walked away. Everyone says dialogue is good, but this didn't feel like a dialogue. I don't understand how smart people can believe that George Bush is actually protecting us. The world is far more dangerous than it was before he became president. But what his supporters say is that nothing has happened since 9/11. TO US. In fact, at least 17,000 American soldiers have been wounded, 2,300 have been killed, at least 35,000 Iraqis have been killed. How is that "nothing?"
Yesterday and today, people all over the world are protesting this war. The Emperor and his fashionistas will pay no attention, but at least we will be in solidarity with one another—at least the Iraqis will see that millions of us disagree with the policies of our government.
Mario's sick today, so I don't know if I will be out in the streets protesting yet, but I'm with them in spirit.
Blessed be.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Words of Valor
Sometimes you read something and you think, "Well, they've said it all." I felt that reading Twilight's Last Gleaming by John Cory.
Cory begins with, "Who are these people? These people who line their pockets with the lives of our loved ones?... Who are these people who have turned America into their own personal ATM machine? These are the people of the lie - Republicans.
"Who are these people? These people who sit in spineless silence unable to speak in defense of America?... Who utter the words 'We concede,' instead of 'We the People?' These are the people who lie down - Democrats."
And he's just getting started. Superb. Thanks for speaking out, Mr. Cory.
Cory begins with, "Who are these people? These people who line their pockets with the lives of our loved ones?... Who are these people who have turned America into their own personal ATM machine? These are the people of the lie - Republicans.
"Who are these people? These people who sit in spineless silence unable to speak in defense of America?... Who utter the words 'We concede,' instead of 'We the People?' These are the people who lie down - Democrats."
And he's just getting started. Superb. Thanks for speaking out, Mr. Cory.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
ACLU: The Spies Have It
Go here for a nifty new short film the ACLU put together. I think the ACLU is very groovy, man, and now I know they have a sense of humor too. Although I will confess that their little movie made me a bit teary-eyed near the end. This country has fallen so low and the American public and the politicians we elected are allowing this administration to get away with so much—it just makes me sad. We can't even pretend this country stands for anything any more.
I went to the Gathering last night, and one of the women kept saying, "I can't believe what he's doing." She kept saying that over and over. I said, "Hey, believe it. You gotta get past that. Believe it. Figure out what you can do and then do it. And then dance and live in joy as much as you can." "But I'm so afraid and so depressed that I can hardly leave the house," she said.
I understand, I understand, I understand.
But they want us to be in fear. Then we concentrate on the fear mongering and we don't see what "they" are actually doing.
I say turn off television! Or at least turn off the ads and news. (Sometimes TV has moments where the truth is spoken. Brilliant!) Stay away from advertising as much as you can. Find a few news sources that give worldwide news. Don't just read corporate news or leftwing news or rightwing news. They're all doom and gloom. I don't mean you turn away from the truth—but find the truth. Discern the truth. Things aren't always as bad as they're made out to be and sometimes they're worse. But all sides seem to think they need to scream the loudest and be the worst doomsayers to get people to listen.
Or our brains get filled with crap. I stopped by the CNN website just to see the headlines and I saw a link to an article about Phil Collins separating from his wife (not that I read it), and I thought, geez louise, why on Earth is that considered news? Nobody's business but theirs. That's just so weird. Or all this fuss and bother about Iran. This fuss may be appropriate (and I doubt it—sounds more like a pretext to bomb the shit out of another country), but what about what's happening right in our own front and backyards? The Bush administration is illegally wiretapping American citizens. He misled the American people about the reasons for going to war with Iraq. The House just passed legislation to make our food choices harder and easier for manufacturers to put crap in the food without us knowing it. (Now, come on, THAT should make people mad. I mean isn't it an American anthem: Don't fuck with my food, dude?) And of course, let's not forget what's happening with the environment and women's rights.
Anyway, it's a daunting list, but we can each decide what we are able to do and then do just a bit more than that. Local issues and local involvement are so important. Mario's going to yet another meeting about the use of pesticides at our local schools tomorrow. Saturday and/or Sunday we'll participate in local peace and anti-war rallies. Well, anyway, you know the drill. I'm really just giving myself a pep talk.
Now, time to go make-out with my hubbie and have some lunch. Not necessarily in that order.
May You Stand Up (even if you have to sit) in Beauty!
And May You Smooch in Beauty also!
I went to the Gathering last night, and one of the women kept saying, "I can't believe what he's doing." She kept saying that over and over. I said, "Hey, believe it. You gotta get past that. Believe it. Figure out what you can do and then do it. And then dance and live in joy as much as you can." "But I'm so afraid and so depressed that I can hardly leave the house," she said.
I understand, I understand, I understand.
But they want us to be in fear. Then we concentrate on the fear mongering and we don't see what "they" are actually doing.
I say turn off television! Or at least turn off the ads and news. (Sometimes TV has moments where the truth is spoken. Brilliant!) Stay away from advertising as much as you can. Find a few news sources that give worldwide news. Don't just read corporate news or leftwing news or rightwing news. They're all doom and gloom. I don't mean you turn away from the truth—but find the truth. Discern the truth. Things aren't always as bad as they're made out to be and sometimes they're worse. But all sides seem to think they need to scream the loudest and be the worst doomsayers to get people to listen.
Or our brains get filled with crap. I stopped by the CNN website just to see the headlines and I saw a link to an article about Phil Collins separating from his wife (not that I read it), and I thought, geez louise, why on Earth is that considered news? Nobody's business but theirs. That's just so weird. Or all this fuss and bother about Iran. This fuss may be appropriate (and I doubt it—sounds more like a pretext to bomb the shit out of another country), but what about what's happening right in our own front and backyards? The Bush administration is illegally wiretapping American citizens. He misled the American people about the reasons for going to war with Iraq. The House just passed legislation to make our food choices harder and easier for manufacturers to put crap in the food without us knowing it. (Now, come on, THAT should make people mad. I mean isn't it an American anthem: Don't fuck with my food, dude?) And of course, let's not forget what's happening with the environment and women's rights.
Anyway, it's a daunting list, but we can each decide what we are able to do and then do just a bit more than that. Local issues and local involvement are so important. Mario's going to yet another meeting about the use of pesticides at our local schools tomorrow. Saturday and/or Sunday we'll participate in local peace and anti-war rallies. Well, anyway, you know the drill. I'm really just giving myself a pep talk.
Now, time to go make-out with my hubbie and have some lunch. Not necessarily in that order.
May You Stand Up (even if you have to sit) in Beauty!
And May You Smooch in Beauty also!
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Small Town Values
Don't you just love how much Garrison Keillor is speaking out against the Emperor and his fashionistas? He does it so succinctly, easily, eloquently. Keillor is a kind of walking representative for small town values given his creation of Lake Wobegon and his long running stint as host of the Prairie Home Companion. (Yes, I realize "small town values" is relatively meaningless, but you get my drift.) His most recent essay, "Day of Reckoning for the Current Occupant," is particularly wonderful. He writes, "Over the course of time, the Chief Occupant has been cruelly exposed over and over. He sat and was briefed on the danger of a hurricane wiping out a major American city, and without asking a single question, he got up from the table and walked away and resumed his vacation. He played guitar as New Orleans was flooded. It took him four days to realize his responsibility to do something. When the tsunami killed 100,000 people in Southeast Asia, he was on vacation and it took him 72 hours to issue a statement of sympathy.
"The Republicans tied their wagon to him and, as a result, their revolution is bankrupt. He has played the terrorism card for all it is worth and campaigned successfully against Adam and Steve and co-opted whole vast flocks of Christians, but he is done now, kaput, out of gas, for one simple reason. He doesn't represent the best that is our country. Not even close."
Thank you, Mr. Keillor!
"The Republicans tied their wagon to him and, as a result, their revolution is bankrupt. He has played the terrorism card for all it is worth and campaigned successfully against Adam and Steve and co-opted whole vast flocks of Christians, but he is done now, kaput, out of gas, for one simple reason. He doesn't represent the best that is our country. Not even close."
Thank you, Mr. Keillor!
Monday, March 13, 2006
Good Guy
I like Russ Feingold. I think he's a genuine guy. He's certainly put his vote where his beliefs are. He didn't vote for the war. The only one out of one hundred Senators. He's fought steadfastly against the Patriot Act. And today he introduced a resolution to censure the Emperor With No Clothes. While Pelosi, Reid, Lieberman, and all the rest of the D.C. Democrats hem and haw while Rome burns, Feingold is trying to do something. I'm calling my Senators to urge them to support him and I'll call Feingold's office tomorrow to congratulate him.
Sore Loser
Someone really should have advised Annie Proulx to tear this up and throw it away after she wrote it. Good to vent but don't then get it published. She's upset Brokeback Mountain didn't win for best picture at the Oscars. Yes, with all that's going on in the world, she is upset over that. (And yes, with all that's going on, I'm writing about this.) She claims that it lost because it was about two gay men in love. In other words, they're all homophobic if they didn't vote for it. Huh? Well, first, the two characters in question denied they were gay all the way through the movie. Second, I didn't see a whole lotta lovin' going on in the movie—I actually wanted more lovin'. Third, I would think gay bashers would like this movie because one of the main characters is murdered; the other is destitute and depressed, destined to live out an awful, miserable, no-good very rotten life. Did Annie Proulx ever consider that maybe people thought Crash was a better movie? (She calls the movie Trash, by the way.) I thought the characters were more real and more fully drawn in Crash than in Brokeback Mountain. I certainly thought the story of Crash was more interesting and thought provoking. She may call Crash Trash, but I say she ain't got no class.
P.S. I do agree with Proulx that the Independent Spirit Awards are more fun and seem to focus more on actual talent. I also agree that it is more impressive when an actor creates a character (like Felicity Huffman in Transamerica) than when s/he plays a real-life person—at least it is to me.
P.S. I do agree with Proulx that the Independent Spirit Awards are more fun and seem to focus more on actual talent. I also agree that it is more impressive when an actor creates a character (like Felicity Huffman in Transamerica) than when s/he plays a real-life person—at least it is to me.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
A Little Too Late?
Sandra Day O'Connor is speaking out against the Republicans now that she is no longer a judge. According the Guardian, "Sandra Day O'Connor...has said the US is in danger of edging towards dictatorship if the party's rightwingers continue to attack the judiciary." Well, Judge O'Connor, isn't this a little too little too late? Why did you retire during a Republican presidency if you were worried about it so much? And why did you cast the deciding vote that allowed this dictatorship to take firm hold?
Speaking Out
Syrian-American Dr. Wafa Sultan is speaking out against violence committed by Muslims. I hope she remains safe, and I thank her for speaking up.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Did You Hear?
Did you hear the Mexican prez referred to women as washing machines with two legs. What an idiot. For one thing, what does that even mean? For another thing, what does that even mean? I'm trying to think of an analogous comment for men. My mind has drawn a blank. I guess he thinks of women as appliances. Yeah, well, let's plug some part of his anatomy into a wall socket and see how he works... Sorry. Best I could do. It's so ludicrous. He and the Emperor might have to join hands and share the prize for biggest presidential loser.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Sweet Music
Mario and I spent part of the evening going through the letters and poems of our dear friend David Johnson who died recently. E-mails have nothing over letters. I liked seeing and touching the pages where his hand had made black lines into words. I even cherish the typed pages because I know his hands had touched them. I found one handwritten note stapled to a review he sent me. It was dated 9-24-95 and ended with, "Also, thanks for telling me that you see me as a magical being. It went a long ways toward shoring up a somewhat besieged ego/spirit. D." That made me weep. And it made me glad because he always knew how much I loved him. He always knew how much I admired him. What better gift to give a friend?
He often mentioned his granddaughter, Grace Elizabeth. He said he had a dream (or hope) that one day she would show up on his doorstep, and they would run off together on a motorcycle—him showing her the world she was not allowed to see as a child. He said once she asked him why he didn't go to church on Sunday, and he told her, “Darlin’, I go to church every time I’m out of doors.” In one letter to us, he wrote, "I had an exquisite few moments with my granddaughter, Grace Elizabeth. She's two years and a couple of months old and a thoughtful elf who seems to realize how much I love her."
He was always so excited about writing, always planning his next project. In one letter he wrote, "Got the green light to do a 2500-word piece on the mystique of the Mountain Lion and why some of us want to shoot holes in them and others want to shoot holes in those shooters. Should be a lively assignment."
In 1994 he wrote, "I'm in the media lab on Pill Hill getting caught up on query submissions, writing a letter to you instead of taking care of business. Oh well, why change work ethic in midstream. A Chinese student has just asked me how to work the laser printer. He thinks I'm a college professor and thus will know how to run the machine. I've always wanted to be a teacher and once in a while, I'm asked to talk to a class for an hour or so. I prefer the image of professor over the petty sturm und drang of the real thing. Although, where can you go to escape the petty whatsit of whosit? I'm sure that by now, the hermit on top of the legendary mountain has a beeper and cellular phone."
Tomorrow at the memorial service, Mario is going to read a paragraph from one of his letters to us written in 1994. Dave wrote, "Enclosed is a poem called 'Sunday in Marcola' recently published in Fireweed. I've been working on it since 1979. When it finally gelled, I jumped up and didn't know whether to spike the computer like a football in the end zone or sit on a metaphorical branch and grin like a cheshire cat. As hardworking writers, you know what I'm talking about. I wouldn't trade my craft for any gift or ease of livelihood. I passionately believe that there are messages afloat. They are out there for we who write—ancient sorrows, detonations of delight, chance encounters that tip the tumblers of understanding. We can use that stuff anyway we want in what Dylan Thomas called our 'craft and sullen art.' But mostly, we can make sweet music out of our own pain."
Oh, sweetheart. You have left us in pain. May we make sweet music of it in your name.
He often mentioned his granddaughter, Grace Elizabeth. He said he had a dream (or hope) that one day she would show up on his doorstep, and they would run off together on a motorcycle—him showing her the world she was not allowed to see as a child. He said once she asked him why he didn't go to church on Sunday, and he told her, “Darlin’, I go to church every time I’m out of doors.” In one letter to us, he wrote, "I had an exquisite few moments with my granddaughter, Grace Elizabeth. She's two years and a couple of months old and a thoughtful elf who seems to realize how much I love her."
He was always so excited about writing, always planning his next project. In one letter he wrote, "Got the green light to do a 2500-word piece on the mystique of the Mountain Lion and why some of us want to shoot holes in them and others want to shoot holes in those shooters. Should be a lively assignment."
In 1994 he wrote, "I'm in the media lab on Pill Hill getting caught up on query submissions, writing a letter to you instead of taking care of business. Oh well, why change work ethic in midstream. A Chinese student has just asked me how to work the laser printer. He thinks I'm a college professor and thus will know how to run the machine. I've always wanted to be a teacher and once in a while, I'm asked to talk to a class for an hour or so. I prefer the image of professor over the petty sturm und drang of the real thing. Although, where can you go to escape the petty whatsit of whosit? I'm sure that by now, the hermit on top of the legendary mountain has a beeper and cellular phone."
Tomorrow at the memorial service, Mario is going to read a paragraph from one of his letters to us written in 1994. Dave wrote, "Enclosed is a poem called 'Sunday in Marcola' recently published in Fireweed. I've been working on it since 1979. When it finally gelled, I jumped up and didn't know whether to spike the computer like a football in the end zone or sit on a metaphorical branch and grin like a cheshire cat. As hardworking writers, you know what I'm talking about. I wouldn't trade my craft for any gift or ease of livelihood. I passionately believe that there are messages afloat. They are out there for we who write—ancient sorrows, detonations of delight, chance encounters that tip the tumblers of understanding. We can use that stuff anyway we want in what Dylan Thomas called our 'craft and sullen art.' But mostly, we can make sweet music out of our own pain."
Oh, sweetheart. You have left us in pain. May we make sweet music of it in your name.
Second Surgery
OK. I got the date for the second surgery: April 25. *sigh* I wanted it tomorrow, or the next day. Six weeks seems like such a long time! Well, I'll just use the time to continue to get healthier. I'm counting on you all to be with me again, if you will. Whatever you did really helped this last time.
Now I'm off to do the taxes. Very cranky. I was up until 3:30 a.m. doing them (because I couldn't sleep). That made me cranky. Then I got crankier because I didn't have TV to distract me from the crankiness and the taxes. This too shall pass.
P.S. Great piece by my not-so-secret love, Molly Ivins: Enough of the D.C. Dems. Right on, Molly!
Now I'm off to do the taxes. Very cranky. I was up until 3:30 a.m. doing them (because I couldn't sleep). That made me cranky. Then I got crankier because I didn't have TV to distract me from the crankiness and the taxes. This too shall pass.
P.S. Great piece by my not-so-secret love, Molly Ivins: Enough of the D.C. Dems. Right on, Molly!
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Smell of the Sensuous
I am breathing through my left nostril fairly regularly. It's amazing! It's been over a decade since I've breathed through my nose and since I have smelled anything. I still can't smell anything, but I am hoping my sense of smell will return. The doc isn't sure. So I'm going around the house finding the smelliest things I can and holding them up to my nose and breathing deeply. We're wondering what it is I will smell first. Most people think it will be something "bad." No smell is bad, in my mind, although my mind is changeable. I'm looking forward to all that is stinky!
I sniffed cayenne, chili powder, salsa, cinnamon, fresh rosemary. The great outdoors. I am most looking forward to the smell of fresh flowers, of course, and food. And sweat. Yes, sweat. I love the smell of a sweaty man. You know, before its gone rancid. That outdoors freshly minted sweat smell. Very sensual. I'm looking forward to smelling my husband. Smelling everyone. Myself. I hope I develop a nice rich musky scent. I want to smell that. I want to smell everything. That's the way it is. You take it all or you take none of it. Doesn't that seem to be the way it is with life? When I first lost my sense of smell, I didn't think much of it. So what? I was constantly smelling chemicals, and that stressed me out because I worried I was being harmed. But since then, I have missed my sense of smell very much. For one thing, I cannot tell you how many times I have nearly burned the house down because I left something on the stove and either forgot about it or fell to sleep, only to be slapped into wakefulness by the fire alarm.
So I'm dancing around the house in bliss.
Can you smell happiness?
May You Sniff in Blissful Beauty!
I sniffed cayenne, chili powder, salsa, cinnamon, fresh rosemary. The great outdoors. I am most looking forward to the smell of fresh flowers, of course, and food. And sweat. Yes, sweat. I love the smell of a sweaty man. You know, before its gone rancid. That outdoors freshly minted sweat smell. Very sensual. I'm looking forward to smelling my husband. Smelling everyone. Myself. I hope I develop a nice rich musky scent. I want to smell that. I want to smell everything. That's the way it is. You take it all or you take none of it. Doesn't that seem to be the way it is with life? When I first lost my sense of smell, I didn't think much of it. So what? I was constantly smelling chemicals, and that stressed me out because I worried I was being harmed. But since then, I have missed my sense of smell very much. For one thing, I cannot tell you how many times I have nearly burned the house down because I left something on the stove and either forgot about it or fell to sleep, only to be slapped into wakefulness by the fire alarm.
So I'm dancing around the house in bliss.
Can you smell happiness?
May You Sniff in Blissful Beauty!
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Great Essay: Be Happy
Journalist Joyce Marcel responds to a letter to the editor written by a Republican who said Republicans just know how to have more fun than others. I'm thinking of Nero here. All these Repulsicans have got their fiddles out and are plucking away, fer sure! Marcel concludes her essay with this lovely vision of the future which would make me very happy (and that's what it's about: me, me, et moi), "Frankly, a little political change and social justice will make a lot of people very, very happy. In fact, when Bush is gone, there will be dancing in the streets."
Get 'em While You Still Can
You can turn the sound off. The pictures tell the story. Hope it gives you a giggle.
Oppose Logging Bill
My representative in Congress, Brian Baird, who is almost always on the green side of issues, seems to have made a bad misstep this time by joining forces with Representative Greg Walden, who is always on the wrong side of nearly every issue, to co-sponsor a logging bill, H.R. 4200. As part of the doublespeak Congress is so fond of, they named the bill the "Forest Emergency Recovery and Research Act." Uh-huh. Sort of like the Katrina Recovery program. Pillage is the buzzsaw word. I'm really surprised by Baird and it's making me rethink my support for him. If you are of a mind, call or email your reps to let them know the science behind this bill is Bush-science, i.e. nonscience. You don't have to be specific when you call if you don't want. Just tell them you oppose it and they put a check mark in a column yeah or nay and count them up at the end of the day.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Looking for Home
You've heard, no doubt, that South Dakota has signed a bill making abortion illegal in that state. I mentioned before that if abortion is made illegal in this country, I'm moving. After the US bombed Iraq, I said we needed to stay here and fight for our country. After the Patriot Act was made into law, I said we needed to stay here and fight for our country. Then this Administration said torture was OK, said it was OK to keep people in prison for years without charging them. They've done one thing after another to ruin our environment, trash our civil rights, and otherwise screw up the planet. Now this. So Mar and I are looking around Canada, seeing if there's some place we might want to live there. We'll see. I go back and forth on this. When I'm paranoid, I think of Germany pre-World War II. And the Democrats are certainly not doing anything to stop the Emperor and his fashionistas. Yes, it feels like he's the Emperor again. He does stupid thing after stupid thing and yet the Dems don't rise up and do anything. The people don't rise up and do anything.
Maybe later I'll be sanguine about it all.
Maybe later I'll be sanguine about it all.
Drugged and Toasted
Went for my post-op appointment today. I had been instructed that I had to take a painkiller beforehand. I reluctantly did as I was instructed. I trust my surgeon. She really doesn't want to cause me pain. I explained that I could take pain. As I've said before, pain is temporary. I knew any pain I experience would go away. Would be short-lived. (We're not talking chronic pain; that is a horse of a different color.) Still, she said the post-op appointment could get hairy, and she wanted me drugged, so I took the pill—percecet, or some kind of Rush Limbaugh-wannabe drug. The post-op visit was an absolute breeze, and I really could have done without the drug. Dizziness. Nausea. Dizziness. Did I mention nausea? Bleck. Eight hours later and it's almost gone, just a bit drowsy and sick. Mario is making my comfort food: blueberry pancakes. I admire people who can do medical stuff nonchalantly. I'm just laying on the couch. We watched Junebug. Tried to watch Bleak House but it was really...bleak. We'll try later when I'm not on drugs. So now I'm watching The Gilmore Girls. Starting from the beginning. Like eating bonbons without the sugar hangover.
Dreamed last night that it was the Night of the Living Dead. (Second time I've dreamed of that recently.) Everyone was turning into the living dead, and Mario and I decided we had to get back to our families, so we were trying to pack just right so that we could fool the living dead and get by them. The night before, I dreamed I was looking to buy a house that had seven toasters. Kind of funny.
OK. I know this is fascinating beyond belief, but I shall sign off for now.
Dreamed last night that it was the Night of the Living Dead. (Second time I've dreamed of that recently.) Everyone was turning into the living dead, and Mario and I decided we had to get back to our families, so we were trying to pack just right so that we could fool the living dead and get by them. The night before, I dreamed I was looking to buy a house that had seven toasters. Kind of funny.
OK. I know this is fascinating beyond belief, but I shall sign off for now.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Unconstitutional
If you get a chance, see Unconstitutional: The War on Our Civil Liberties. This documentary is a reminder of what lengths this administration has gone to suppress civil liberties. It is heartbreaking to listen to immigrants who were unjustly imprisoned for months after 9/11—immigrants who came here because it was supposed to be the "freedom country." And then there are the illegally imprisoned men at Guantanamo Bay. Would you have ever guessed our country would be like this?
At the end of the movie, someone recited Stephen Rodhe's piece "They came for the Muslims and I didn't speak up..." (A rewriting of the original "First They Came for the Jews," by Pastor Martin Niemöller.)
At the end of the movie, someone recited Stephen Rodhe's piece "They came for the Muslims and I didn't speak up..." (A rewriting of the original "First They Came for the Jews," by Pastor Martin Niemöller.)
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Tradition
I called the satellite company and asked if we could have TV back for a day so we could watch the Academy Awards. They agreed. We'll turn it off tomorrow. Mario and I have watched it every year since we've been married. Let's call it tradition. When it's all over, we always remark on what a waste of time it was. So far it's been fairly boring, except for the acceptance speech of Three 6 Mafia, whose song "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" won an Oscar. (They changed "bitches" to "witches" and "shit" to "ship.") Felicity Huffman was robbed. Reese Witherspoon won for best actress. She was fine, and her acceptance speech was very sweet, but Felicity Huffman was absolutely amazing in Transamerica. I've always thought Philip Seymour Hoffman was good, so he deserves to win, but I wish Terence Howard had won; he was so real in Hustle & Flow. Now I just hope Crash wins for best picture.
It's so important for my happiness and the peace of the world...
It's so important for my happiness and the peace of the world...
More on Rewriting
Mario suggested I take pictures of my pages because this blog is so much like the Paris Review...Well, maybe not, but I did as he asked. It's harder than you think to take a photograph of a page. Nevertheless, here's the first page of Church of the Old Mermaids when it was still The Woman and the Old Sea.
As I mentioned in the previous post about rewriting, I ink up my pages, some more than others. Here's page 4:
As I mentioned in the previous post about rewriting, I ink up my pages, some more than others. Here's page 4:
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Rewriting
I'm sitting on the couch watching The Gilmore Girls with Mario. I did some library work today and talked on the phone, and I'm a bit tired. I'm hoping to start work on the book again, and I thought you might be interested in part of the process. I'll put up the first page or more, so you can see how I rewrite.
I started writing the book in the Quail House in Arizona, if you'll remember, using a yellow legal pad. So pretend this first part is written in longhand:
The Woman & the Old Sea
Mylawalked stepped over the mound of coriander-colored dirt into the wash and began walking, Her feet cocooned in an old pair of rust brown m Her Her her feet slipping slip-sliding inside her old mocassins over the loose beach-like sand. The her gaze She studied & loose white, pale pink, quartz cloudy quartz multi-colored pebble that cre sh sifted together to become the river bottom of this mostly dry arroyo. Then she looked to each side of her, careful not to miss anything. At this time of year, when the water had not run for many months, she had to be especially observant.
A crow flew
She heard a crow call out. She looked up as it flew overhead, its wings making a kind of whirring sound in the dry desert air.
"Good morning, crow," she said. Sometimes she wished she were a crow. Or at least when she walked the wash. Crowscould spot shiny treasure. Even w/
So that was the first page. I was so bored after writing and reading it, I felt a little panicky. I really wanted to get the sense of the desert in the book, but this wasn't it—too much detail. I then encouraged myself. Very important at the beginning stage. I was good at putting my characters in a particular place with just a few words, I said. I could do it. At that point I got on the computer and wrote this:
The Woman and the Old Sea
It was Saturday morning, and Myla walked the wash looking for trash in the dirt. She looked for treasure too. One man's trash was another woman's treasure. And vice versa. She always said. She carried two bags over her right shoulder. Into the plastic bag, she dropped garbage; into the ruby-colored cloth bag, she put those bits of refuse she thought she might sell on 4th Street, at the Church of the Old Mermaids. It was not a real church. At least not how must people defined "church." It was the space where she put her table, chair, and wares on Saturdays, shine or shine. She called it the Church of the Old Mermaids because her mother told her when she was a child that the desert had once been a vast sea. She liked imagining that the mermaids had not dried up when the sea did; they merely changed their attitudes. And maybe their skin and fin-ware.
Her feet slip-slided over the sand. A ground squirrel
When I got home, I started the rewrite. I printed the book off and began crossing things out and adding things with my red pen. So imagine red marks all over the page. The first page didn't get a lot of changes, but the next pages did. But here's the first page anyway:
The Church of the Old Mermaids
It was Saturday morning, and Myla walked the wash looking for trash in the dirt. She looked for treasure too. One man's trash was another woman's treasure. And vice versa. She always said. She carried two bags over her right shoulder. Into the plastic bag, she dropped garbage; into the ruby-colored cloth bag, she put those bits of refuse she thought believed she might could sell on 4th Street, at the Church of the Old mermaids. It was not a real church. At least not how must people defined "church." It was the space where she put her table, chair, and wares on Saturdays, shine or shine. She called it the church of the Old Mermaids because her mother told her when she was a child that the desert had once been a vast sea. She liked imagining that the mermaids had not dried up when the sea did; they merely changed their attitudes. And maybe their skin and fin-ware.
Her Myla's feet slip-slided over the sand. A ground rock squirrel
And then it became this, at least for now:
The Church of the Old Mermaids
Chapter One
Myla walked the wash looking for trash in the dirt. She looked for treasure too. One man’s trash was another woman’s treasure. And vice versa, she always said. She carried two bags over her right shoulder. Into the plastic bag, she dropped garbage; into the ruby-colored cloth bag, she put those bits of refuse she believed she could sell on 4th Street, at the Church of the Old Mermaids. It was not a real church. At least not how most people defined that word. It was the space where she put her table, chair, and wares on Saturdays, shine or shine. She called it the Church of Old Mermaids because her mother told her when she was a child that the desert had once been a vast sea. She liked imagining that the mermaids had not dried up when the sea did; they merely changed their attitudes. And maybe their skin and fin-ware.
Myla’s feet slip-slided over the sand as she went around a palo verde whose bare branches stretched out over the wash.
Not rocket science, but there it is.
I started writing the book in the Quail House in Arizona, if you'll remember, using a yellow legal pad. So pretend this first part is written in longhand:
The Woman & the Old Sea
Myla
She heard a crow call out. She looked up as it flew overhead, its wings making a kind of whirring sound in the dry desert air.
"Good morning, crow," she said. Sometimes she wished she were a crow. Or at least when she walked the wash. Crows
So that was the first page. I was so bored after writing and reading it, I felt a little panicky. I really wanted to get the sense of the desert in the book, but this wasn't it—too much detail. I then encouraged myself. Very important at the beginning stage. I was good at putting my characters in a particular place with just a few words, I said. I could do it. At that point I got on the computer and wrote this:
The Woman and the Old Sea
It was Saturday morning, and Myla walked the wash looking for trash in the dirt. She looked for treasure too. One man's trash was another woman's treasure. And vice versa. She always said. She carried two bags over her right shoulder. Into the plastic bag, she dropped garbage; into the ruby-colored cloth bag, she put those bits of refuse she thought she might sell on 4th Street, at the Church of the Old Mermaids. It was not a real church. At least not how must people defined "church." It was the space where she put her table, chair, and wares on Saturdays, shine or shine. She called it the Church of the Old Mermaids because her mother told her when she was a child that the desert had once been a vast sea. She liked imagining that the mermaids had not dried up when the sea did; they merely changed their attitudes. And maybe their skin and fin-ware.
Her feet slip-slided over the sand. A ground squirrel
When I got home, I started the rewrite. I printed the book off and began crossing things out and adding things with my red pen. So imagine red marks all over the page. The first page didn't get a lot of changes, but the next pages did. But here's the first page anyway:
The Church of the Old Mermaids
And then it became this, at least for now:
The Church of the Old Mermaids
Chapter One
Myla walked the wash looking for trash in the dirt. She looked for treasure too. One man’s trash was another woman’s treasure. And vice versa, she always said. She carried two bags over her right shoulder. Into the plastic bag, she dropped garbage; into the ruby-colored cloth bag, she put those bits of refuse she believed she could sell on 4th Street, at the Church of the Old Mermaids. It was not a real church. At least not how most people defined that word. It was the space where she put her table, chair, and wares on Saturdays, shine or shine. She called it the Church of Old Mermaids because her mother told her when she was a child that the desert had once been a vast sea. She liked imagining that the mermaids had not dried up when the sea did; they merely changed their attitudes. And maybe their skin and fin-ware.
Myla’s feet slip-slided over the sand as she went around a palo verde whose bare branches stretched out over the wash.
Not rocket science, but there it is.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Irony?
Am I still doped up from the surgery or is this story bizarre? A grieving mother had an Arkansas artist paint pictures of her dead son and his dead comrades—"as well as patriotic scenes and slogans"—on her 2006 Hummer. The headline is "mom's moving memorial." Is the writer trying to make fun? Or does this story sound weird to me because I hate Hummers and every time I see one I want to scream, "You're why we're in Iraq!" even though I know it's not really true? Have I become so judgmental that I have no compassion? I keep reading this story and hearing a t-shirt slogan in my head: "My son died in Iraq and I got a Hummer." Quid pro quo. I am very sorry for her loss, most certainly. Perhaps the writer of the story is at fault. Or my brain. It's a strange world we live in.
I slept a bit better last night. Can't remember my dreams much except that we had television again. I think that's funny. In waking life at night, I try to sleep in my bed, but I can't. I keep thinking I'm about to die. Or something. So I come downstairs and put a DVD in and let it run. When I wake up again, all is quiet.
I thought I wouldn't remember much about the experience, but I do. It's a weird kind of fuzzy memory, but not dopey. Just fast and fuzzy. The nursing staff all had tin foil and wire decorations around their heads, so I knew they were all my fairy goddessmothers for the day. (Their boss had decided they were all Queens for the day.) When they took me into the operating room, I was joking. Something about someone copping a feel. In the operating room, everyone introduced themselves. I told Sherry, my nurse, that it would really help during the operation if she could touch me, to help ground me. I got to wear my pouch with the "magic" stone and one of the shells I found in Arizona; they wrapped tape around the metal button for some reason I didn't really understand. They all seemed kind. They wrapped me up and put something on my head. I was glad when they turned the lights out. Then my doctor told me just to close my eyes and try to relax.
There's more, but I'm suddenly tired.
Been very depressed. Must be something about the surgery and medicine they gave me. I'm on antibiotics. But that's it. Too much detail?
I had Mario take my photograph before the surgery. I just looked at it. I had no idea I was that grotesque. I didn' know it had gotten that bad. I was shocked. Am still shocked. Sad. Mario said, "But you look in the mirror." I said, "That's not what I see." Even after the next operation, I'm gonna look like Quasimdodo. Ah well. I'll be able to breathe.
Walked around town with Mario today. Didn't see anyone, which was fine. Don't want to talk with anyone. Went out to the woods. Breathed deep the green. Thanked all the spirits and beings that helped me. Sat by the river.
Two hours after they started the operation, they had to stop. I could see and hear them talking in the dark. Something about my heart rate and blood pressure. Then they unwrapped me and the lights came on. I sobbed. I wanted it to be over so much. I had worked so hard to get to this place. Wasn't sure how I could do it again. My doctor held my hand. They said I did a good job.
Before I left recovery, my doctor's surgical assistant came and kissed my hand. Kind people.
You all know how much I value that.
May You All Recover in Beauty!All photographs and written material copyright © 2003-2008 by Kim Antieau unless otherwise indicated. May not be used without permission.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Day After the Day After
I slept a bit better last night. Can't remember my dreams much except that we had television again. I think that's funny. In waking life at night, I try to sleep in my bed, but I can't. I keep thinking I'm about to die. Or something. So I come downstairs and put a DVD in and let it run. When I wake up again, all is quiet.
I thought I wouldn't remember much about the experience, but I do. It's a weird kind of fuzzy memory, but not dopey. Just fast and fuzzy. The nursing staff all had tin foil and wire decorations around their heads, so I knew they were all my fairy goddessmothers for the day. (Their boss had decided they were all Queens for the day.) When they took me into the operating room, I was joking. Something about someone copping a feel. In the operating room, everyone introduced themselves. I told Sherry, my nurse, that it would really help during the operation if she could touch me, to help ground me. I got to wear my pouch with the "magic" stone and one of the shells I found in Arizona; they wrapped tape around the metal button for some reason I didn't really understand. They all seemed kind. They wrapped me up and put something on my head. I was glad when they turned the lights out. Then my doctor told me just to close my eyes and try to relax.
There's more, but I'm suddenly tired.
Been very depressed. Must be something about the surgery and medicine they gave me. I'm on antibiotics. But that's it. Too much detail?
I had Mario take my photograph before the surgery. I just looked at it. I had no idea I was that grotesque. I didn' know it had gotten that bad. I was shocked. Am still shocked. Sad. Mario said, "But you look in the mirror." I said, "That's not what I see." Even after the next operation, I'm gonna look like Quasimdodo. Ah well. I'll be able to breathe.
Walked around town with Mario today. Didn't see anyone, which was fine. Don't want to talk with anyone. Went out to the woods. Breathed deep the green. Thanked all the spirits and beings that helped me. Sat by the river.
Two hours after they started the operation, they had to stop. I could see and hear them talking in the dark. Something about my heart rate and blood pressure. Then they unwrapped me and the lights came on. I sobbed. I wanted it to be over so much. I had worked so hard to get to this place. Wasn't sure how I could do it again. My doctor held my hand. They said I did a good job.
Before I left recovery, my doctor's surgical assistant came and kissed my hand. Kind people.
You all know how much I value that.
May You All Recover in Beauty!
