Was Not Was

Possessed
by an emotional intelligence
greater than the sum of your rational parts
I am the antithetical
in your discourse
and your discourse is a sham.

There is no alpha in my being
no omega
just a circle
a spiral
getting me deeper down.

Around I go
a death throe
of paradise.

Audre Lorde . . .

. . . is my favorite poet. She has influenced me more than any poet, and I'm always shooting for creating the kind of rhythm and flow and beauty and impact she wrought with words. A self-described "black lesbian feminist warrior-poet mother," Lorde died of cancer in the 90s, leaving as her legacy some of the most brilliant poetry and prose of the 20th century. Her writing always reflected her activism and her courage.

Her poem below is appropriate for this time of year. I hope you take from it strength and an appreciation of your own complexity.

The Women of Dan Dance with Swords in Their Hands to Mark the Time When They Were Warriors

I did not fall from the sky
I
nor descend like a plague of locusts
to drink color and strength from the earth
and I do not come like rain
as a tribute or symbol for earth's becoming
I come as a woman
dark and open
some times I fall like night
softly
and terrible
only when I must die
in order to rise again.

I do not come like a secret warrior
with an unsheathed sword in my mouth
hidden behind my tongue
slicing my throat to ribbons
of service with a smile
while the blood runs
down and out
through holes in the two sacred mounds
on my chest.

I come like a woman
who I am
spreading out through nights
laughter and promise
and dark heat
warming whatever I touch
that is living
consuming
only
what is already dead.

The Unpredictable

What is the difference between being trusting and being foolish? If I knew the answer to that question, my mind could release the death-grip its got on the moving problem.

First of all, I have to marvel at the difference in people in Oregon, at least those I've spoken to. I'm not even there yet, and already I feel welcomed. I anticipate having friends again! I anticipate wanting to participate in my community again! There is something softer and friendlier and just plain endearing about the folks I've been speaking with over the phone, and it contrasts the feeling I get interacting with Arizona residents. People in the desert are harder, rougher, crustier, like the desert itself. I don't know if it has to do with the lack of water here and the surplus of it there, the difference between red state and blue state residents, or my own perceptual distortion. I guess I mention perceptual distortion because I got caught up in some New Age hocus pocus for a while. Wayne Dyer, guru of the New Age movement, insists that people are the same everywhere and how you feel about them is a reflection of how you feel, relate, think, and thus, interact. I disagree.

Four Oregon residents I've spoken with over the phone have now stated that they hope I come in and see them or contact them so we can get together when I'm finally in town. One woman is going completely out of her way to contact people she knows with rentals and has offered to go scout out the neighborhoods of the homes we're considering. I am turning over as many rocks as I can find, and Jo, the delightful woman of the last sentence, popped up smiling from one turned over yesterday. She has nothing to gain from helping me, as we can't afford the property she and her husband own. How refreshing and stunning, as in, I'm stunned. People in Iowa are warm and helpful (something I very much took for granted during my formative years), and encountering a similar spirit in people again makes me feel really happy. Thankful.

I'm hoping to work at the Oregon Coast Aquarium, and barring that, I can still volunteer there. A very nice public relations woman for the Aquarium has helped me make contact with those in positions to give me a job. (As far as the available jobs in the coastal area go, I'm going to have to be flexible.)

So again, I return to the question, what qualifies as trust -- that your needs will be met, you will have a roof over your head, food to eat, the means to pay your bills -- and what qualifies as foolishness? We have no guarantees that we will find affordable housing once we arrive. Having pets makes our options very limited. Rentals we can afford are snatched up very quickly. But from my investigative perch, looking down into the jaws of the unknown, I see my fear is holding me hostage again. What I can see from here is a hospitable community and magnificent surroundings. We need to be there to snatch up our own rental. We are leaving on All Hallows Eve. Trick or treat? Indeed.

Worst-case scenario: We blow our wad on a temporary rental we can't afford for more than a month, I do whatever work I can find, and we find a more humble abode once the roof over our head is secure. My mom and sister caution me over and over about taking unwise risks. I ask you, what is an unwise risk? I don't think I've ever taken a real risk at all so I don't know. I'm always too scared of the bottom dropping out from under me and leaving me prostrated before an angry and punitive Father God, which I don't believe in anyway -- just leftover conditioning from childhood.

I need me some more pioneer spirit!

# # #

Michael Lutin is huffing and puffing about water being unpredictable. I believe him. We've seen the evidence of this all over the globe. And yet, I'm still moving surfside. My parents' house burned to the ground as soon as they moved to the farm.

Life, Mr. Lutin, is unpredictable. I refuse to live mine in fear.

# # #

I've not been paying a lot of attention to the news, save for Eric Francis' blog. I just hope Prezzy Bush buys a big package of Charmin. His backside is going to need it. He'll just have to remember to remove it from the roll before inserting it inside his drawers. You never can have too much cushion.

Choosing Love

Today I am supposed to be packing. My body has other ideas. This time, my upper and lower back have decided to go on strike. I never finished that post about how I originally injured my back ("Eclipsed by a Garden Cart"). It goes like this:

Just one class short of an English major, I was working on an organic vegetable farm by the name of Rock Spring Farm in northeastern Iowa. The Blanchards did not permit kneeling while working, which meant I was always either bent over from the waist or in a squat. I don't know if you've ever tried squatting or bending over for 8-10 hour days, with upright breaks consisting of hauling a poorly maintained garden cart over hill and dale, through the fields, to the compost pile and back. I hadn't before, and I imagine it would have been fine except for a few factors:

1. I am built like a halfbreed Italian farm girl. I carry my weight around my hips and ass. No lithe frame here.

2. The garden cart, as mentioned, sported one, then two, flat tires. I did not know how to be assertive enough to demand that they repair the cart so it would function properly.

3. I had weakened first and second chakras from a few unsavory bouts with depression. Survival issues having to do with money have always stalked me as well. It was no different then.

One rainy summer day, I was hauling swaths of remay (a covering for particularly bug-sensitive plants, like arugula) up a hill to the barn using the cart (walking in front, pulling it behind me). It was hard going because the ground was saturated with water and very muddy; I used the force of my will and brute strength to get it there. My back was very sore after I had accomplished this, but I was accustomed to perpetual soreness in the evenings, so I unloaded, went back down the hill, out to a field, muck caked on the wheels and my boots, loaded up with salad greens, hauled it back up to the cleaning shed, and just as I was about to clear the incline, I felt something clench up and radiate pain into my lower back. I teared up from the pain, stopped, gritted my teeth, and managed to heave it up into the shed. (Why I didn't stop at this point is a good question, especially for $6.00/hr.) One of my bosses saw my face, asked what had happened, and sent me home with a command to ice it and call in the morning to let them know how I was.

I took the next day off, had a three-day weekend, and stayed off of it as much as I could. The next Monday, as I was getting ready for work, I bent over to move a crate of filed paperwork to where I could rifle through it for something I needed, and my back tightened and clenched and pain returned, only this time, more severe and hot. I somehow made it to the phone, left a message, and crawled into bed, where I remained for the next four days. During this time, I decided that my back was not worth $6.00/hr. I left a message for them stating that I didn't think I could continue working for them, asked them to call me back, and waited, feeling guilt and shame that I had failed them as the most intense part of their growing season approached. I never thought to shift more of the responsibility for my injury onto their shoulders. So when they offered me no worker's compensation or money to see a medical professional, refused to give me my last paycheck in a timely manner, and accused me of being irresponsible and unreliable as well as a liar, I was incensed, hurt -- these people had become my friends, their sons my devoted tag alongs -- but believed that they were right to blame me. Of course, my injury must have been entirely my own fault! Most importantly, they were right, a stronger person would have sucked it up and continued on, pain or no.

And therein is the crux of the problem. My typical approach to difficult situations, ones in which I am weak and in need of care, support, help, is to shrug it off, suck it up, and march onward. I have learned how to be assertive since this incident, but somewhere along the line I have learned to suffer well and despise myself for my failings, thinking if I am weak then I deserve to suffer. Even as I write this, I see how ridiculous it is to operate this way. I suppose I am finally being given an opportunity to change this maladaptive approach to my problems. This could be a watershed moment for me.

I went very deep last night into an old wound after tweaking my back again, and I think I understand where this practiced self-loathing comes from. When I hurt myself the first time, I couldn't afford to see a professional but went anyway, hoping that they'd pay me by the time the check cleared. I had a therapeutic massage and some reiki and felt wonderful afterward, that is, until the check bounced.

Now I have an opportunity to care for myself in a way I didn't then, to love myself into wholeness. When a wise woman recommended that I get some kind of treatment for the nightmares I've been having, inwardly I scoffed, thinking I was strong enough to weather the discomfort of my predator dreams. I bought some more Valerian and decided we couldn't afford it. I didn't think I was worth that kind of self-love.

But I've discovered a little girl inside here somewhere, crying, cowering, whimpering, afraid. I think it's about time that I showed her that she is lovable, that there's nothing wrong with her, that I'll keep her safe from harm.

# # #

I was outside by the creek yesterday and watched butterflies flitting, almost everywhere it seemed. It occurred to me that autumn is the time for transformation.

May I finally become a butterfly.

Rain In with Cats and a Restless Dog

I'm sitting on the couch, an afghan tucked around me, smelling the rain scent, listening to cottonwood leaves drip as water percolates down through the thirsty soil. Air is chill. Wind is gusting. Kitchen reflects last night's feeding. There is an insistent ache in my skull; the shadow of a migraine looms, threatens. I am pausing between keyboard strokes to press on the acupressure points my acupuncturist urged me to use whenever these boogers hover around me. I probably triggered it by injecting too much spice into last night's dinner -- cabbage, tofu, and peas are cooling, but I couldn't resist the red pepper punch.

Free association is something I have been relunctant to engage in on my blog because what my mind reports to my fingertips reveals more than I would often like. Take the last post, for example. I might as well have written "UNRESOLVED PAIN" all over it. A part of me judges such undainty exposure as indicative of weakness. Too, I do not know how to be truthful without scaring people. Scaring people by being yourself is something no one wants to shoulder. How I have generally dealt with this:

Pretend well.

It's necessary for me to trot this out now because this is something I wish to change, have been working on changing in my interactions with people. Online, however, it's easy to fall back into this habit. Truth is, I am scared about our upcoming move. Lots of thorny issues with finding housing.

This upcoming move represents the first time I have moved somewhere because I wanted to. Not for someone else's benefit or under some dire need for change and healing. I am terrified of all the things that must fall into place in order for us to set up house in Oregon. I am terrified that we won't have enough money to get a nice place to live, and I'm so very tired of living in squallor. Intellectually, I am aware that I need to trust the universe to support me, but after six months of high intensity personal problems, fanny red and swollen from the swinging I've been doing by it, I am terrified that the past will continue undermining my best efforts. I know people say, "Wherever you go, there you are," but my experience has demonstrated that every place has a different feeling and causes different aspects of yourself to come forward. And I'm not running away from myself; I'm moving toward new opportunities and experiences. There's so much to do, and so much that remains unknown. I will attempt to be here now and walk through my fears and apprehensions in trust, but man, oh man, there's a quiet, stifled aching going on here. Question marks around the horizon.

I imagine that my anxieties about my past's impact on the present are being reflected in the recurring nightmare I am having again about being thrown back into high school to complete my senior year before I can graduate from college. I hate that dream. I wish I knew how to make it go away.

# # #

An aside to Reya: I would love it if you shared your sister's information with me. Thanks for offering. Sorry to take so long in responding. Fanny gliding again.

The Sound of Coming Home

The light this time of year and the way sound travels remind me of harvest time on the farm. My parents were the sole farmers of some 400 acres of soybeans and corn, so no matter what year it was, this time of year you'd find mom and dad deep into the harvest: my mom, hauling in loads of grain on the tractor, and my dad in the combine, giant furrows swallowing whole rows of corn in a matter of minutes. They wouldn't make it out of the fields till mid November, generally, around the time of my birthday, but sometimes as late as Thanksgiving they'd be out, and when I was a little girl, I was in the fields with them, late into the night, waiting for that last load to be delivered to the dryers at the middle place or the south place, and my mom promising me that this was the final haul as she swung back into the tractor, throttling up the engine to the tractor's highway speeds, getting her daughter home and to bed.

There are sounds here that are reminiscent of the tractor's high drone, and it is one of the most comforting sounds I can imagine hearing. Whenever I'd hear that sound, I'd know one of my parents, most likely my mom, was coming home. With the final thrust of energy available to them, they'd stay out late into the night, sometimes all night, getting in the crops in time for the snows that threatened to obscure the fruits of that year's labor, with winter days ahead promising time to rest and tend to family life, such as it was until my parents separated and divorced, their crash and burn linked with the demise of their farm, farm and family crumbling from the debt they'd incurred to keep the farm running through drought and flood, the poor farming economy of the 80s and early 90s driving my dad to take out hundreds of thousands of dollars in loans to keep his family farm afloat, and then having to auction off the land, equipment, and his pride, as my mom stood alongside him, wondering why she hadn't kept more informed of their financial bottom line from the beginning. It suddenly became my dad's farm, my dad's equipment, my dad's loss, my dad's money, my dad's pride that was the issue. My mom's contribution was denied. Her time on the tractor was no longer relevant, her sweat and blood and tears invisible, like vapor.

There is much I could write about how my family's disintegration dovetailed with that of the farm, but my point is to instead illustrate the comfort that this time of year represents to me in the annals of nostalgia and anticipation and childhood. The nostalgia I feel when I hear that high lonesome drone assures me that all is well, that a warm bed waits for me, that soon the waiting and harvesting and long strength needed to weather the hard knock of skull against back window of tractor cab will give rise to something else, and whatever that something else turns out to be, it will be restorative and nourishing and a lot like coming home.

Onto the Oregon Trail

Now it is happening. Doug got the job offer, and we are off to the Oregon coast! I cannot express how wonderful it feels to think about living by the ocean, nor can I explain how easily it's come to be that we are moving there in a few (or two?) weeks. This comes on the heels of me receiving a job offer from the Red Rock News to be a features writer and copy editor. I was waiting to see which presented itself most clearly, and now we are following the road as it unfurls before us. You could say I'm excited, because I'm outta my mind excited. Ready to pop or float, not sure which.

There's an aquarium in nearby Newport, the Oregon Coast Aquarium, that I've queried in the past couple of weeks, but I'm going to have to contact somebody over the phone tomorrow because this email business isn't working. Maybe November will find me working in the library again, or maybe something totally unexpected will come over the horizon in the next few weeks. I feel so blessed to breathe the cool autumn air outside and feel chilly, really chilly, at night again. Chilly and giddy and ready to welcome the changes ahead.

BioAstroRhythm

What is Scorpio? A Paradox, in Reverse

Scorpio is blue eyes gazing into starry black night, not the Milky Way.

Scorpio is luminous,
a silhoutte brightened by the shadows.

Scorpio is wanting to but not always knowing how.

Scorpio is distraction mindful of itself.

Scorpio is craving.

Scorpio is seeing beauty not skin deep.

Scorpio is laughter bouncing back from unseen walls.

Scorpio is always, always an enchantress.

Scorpio thinks three dimensions are boring.

Scorpio is a dream weaver, a healer.

And sometimes,
Scorpio is full of shit.

Morning in the City in the Desert

Dawn

A twitchy stillness
sallow vibrations
within the early Monday morning rush phase,
unexpected, like love suddenly with lust,
in a valley between canyons and mountains
where the people
(considered a continuous equation)
work, drive, play, eat, sleep, dream, fuck, die
but the gray marauders of the early light bringing the stillness on
always scent the air for danger and pause to wait before stepping
lest a roaming shadow of this era
move to harm them.

Aggressively passive most of the time
the sleeping male relies on his mate
to protect him while he sleeps
she keeps watch like the wild thing she is
like a mother
like a jealous lover
nervous to be on time someplace
she paces and snorts
huffing and stamping when a new potential threat
enters the silence they hollow out from the dirt.

In an overdeveloped metropolitan wasteland of cement
and freeways and yuppies and suburbs
it figures they would rest in this patch of desert
so near their mountains of origin,
wander past their boundaries of descent
and find a new peace, the silent lark, in the fringes of desert in the city.

They broadcast their stillness through the superficial noise
and inane cell phone chatter,
a new wave kind of soundlessness.

Sky kisses the morning while the javelina sleep,
mostly silent, in the city.

Almost Published

McSweeney's said that they were tempted, but that they had decided against publishing it in the end because they get too many good sestinas to post. They seriously considered it, and that, I think, is a success.

So here it is, on my site.

Black Tides Under a Restless Night

You aftershave is poison
a potion prepared for your face after anointing it with water
when you cut yourself, and you bleed,
and it hurts like a sunnuffabitch, baby,
but with my touch, I say I can heal,
I can heal you with my touch.

As I wonder about your touch
if it would be poison,
a scorpion to sting me, not heal,
perhaps a breeze on the water,
where ocean salt tastes like tears, baby,
where waves plead and make my heart bleed.

But as I bleed
I speak to you of rivers that do not touch
of whether I will ever conceive a baby
whether my womb is poison,
whether it would fill with foul water
or after birthing, heal.

Chiron speaks of wounds that never heal
always picking the scab, waiting for it to bleed,
the eternal peroxide bottle on standby for water,
you, for a mother’s hands, a gentle touch,
me, for the hot thing to relinquish its poison,
for the moon to speak my name, baby.

I will not eat the meat if it comes from a baby.
I pray for our culture to heal
while we both wait for it to eject its poison,
believing that to live is to bleed,
for the dead do not bleed or feel a lover’s touch
and blood is always thicker than water;

water is not thicker than blood.
And my pillows sigh as they wait for you, baby,
my ivy tangled in the cornfields waits for your touch,
for our shackled souls to heal,
though every 28 days I bleed,
glad to be alive and know the fear of poison.

My soul bleeds water and by firelight I heal,
for it is a blessing to bleed and by a full moon wait for your touch,
but some still say that your touch is poison.

For Love of a Dog

Dear Editor:

I recently had an experience at the Verde Valley Humane Society that I think fellow animal lovers may find interesting. After all the press surrounding neglect and abuse allegations at that facility, I assumed that there would be no obvious signs of ineptitude or neglect when I visited to meet the dog I’d found online, having determined that my future dog would come from the V.V.H.S. because I wasn’t convinced that everything was hunky dory there, especially considering the Letter to the Editor by the Cornville resident who volunteered there ( ) and despite having been cleared by the authorities of any wrongdoing. I also fell in love with the face I saw on my screen, described as the mug of an Irish Wolfhound/German Shepherd mix.

I’d left several messages the day before, while the facility was closed, notifying them that I wanted to meet this dog, and I followed up my phone calls around noon the next day to make sure he was still available. He was, but I was told the facility closed at 1 pm that day, and I assured the receptionist that I would be there, but I was driving from Camp Verde, so please bear that in mind, but that I would be there as soon as I could, say half an hour.

After being trailed by two police officers for the majority of my drive down Why 260, I arrived at the facility, excited to meet the dog and make arrangements to adopt him if we hit it off. The receptionist refused to allow me back in the kennel area because it was 1:00 and they were closed, the computers were down, and that was that. I explained that I had just called about a dog, and all I wanted to do was meet him, that I was sorry I had been delayed due to driving a steady 55 all the way from the outer limits of Camp Verde. After I protested that the dog was there to be adopted, and that it was her job to facilitate adoptions, and that it would only take a minute, she sucked in her breath, shot me a look, and dialed a kennel attendant to open up his kennel.

When I met the dog, I knew he was the one, even though I was dismayed at the lack of energy he displayed, not standing as I approached, not even sitting up to meet me when I entered the kennel, kneeling to pet this beautiful giant prostrated on his side, his backbone protruding visibly through his skin, his face gaunt and narrow, ribs clearly defined, his hip bones jutting and sharp. I declared my intentions to adopt him, went back out front and thanked them for their help, and asked if I could take the paperwork home with me, thinking I could fax it in the next day. The receptionist told me I was not allowed to fill out the paperwork at home, and when I asked why, she said those were the rules and that I would have to come back in the morning. As I protested such a silly rule, telling her that work would prevent me from making another trip across the valley, and that the dog was visibly malnourished and weak and needed to be adopted as soon as possible, another vehicle pulled up and an older gentlemen walked up with his granddaughter, wanting to look at the puppies. They, too, had driven from Camp Verde and were puzzled at the sign that said 10-1, thinking that the humane society was closed during these hours instead of open. She told them they would have to drive back tomorrow, as the facility was closed. They left, and at this point, she became openly rude and nasty with me, telling me they would only hold the dog for me for 24 hours, even if I couldn’t return the next day, and I turned my back to her and walked out.

When I returned home, I immediately left a message for the director, describing my experience of a half hour ago. I advised her that I had just alerted the media about my experience and expressed my confusion that an animal held at her facility would be in such poor physical condition, although I had no way of knowing how long he had been at her facility, and that I would wait to speak with her before I came out, guns blaring, alerting everyone within reading distance that more investigations were needed about the Verde Valley Humane Society. I never spoke with her, although I returned twice more to the facility within the next three days.

I discovered my dog had been there for two and half weeks, the same amount of time in which the gained approximately five pounds after I assumed his care. And, miraculously, the staff was wonderfully accommodating and friendly when I returned.

My dog is wonderful, steadily gaining weight week by week and filling out to his full size and magnificence, and I can’t imagine life without him now. I wonder why the people charged with rescuing and protecting animals in the community fail them so miserably, and the public they serve. I sincerely hope that no other animals waste away in the Verde Valley Humane Society, and that when an animal in Camp Verde is found in a hot metal trailer during the last part of July, that our animal control personnel respond by rescuing that animal, not walking away because it’s time for them to also go home for the day. My mom is a nurse in the OR, charged with people’s lives every day, and most days, she doesn’t get to go home when her shift is over. She stays, and takes care of the needs of her patient. Shouldn’t those responsible for animal welfare do the same?

Eclipsed by a Garden Cart

I turn and scoop me out of this cracked eggshell.
Soft-boiled again. Damn.


I have been reading some very interesting blogs lately, which have re-affirmed my desire to be a part of blog culture. I may be isolated in the desert, but there is some kind of connection forged to other like-minded beings through this machine.

I particularly enjoy reading about how this time of year affects people. Being an autumn baby, November born, I have become accustomed to craving this period of increasing darkness and longer shadows. It feels like coming home as the sun moves from Libra into Scorpio, but this experience is complicated by crawling through the dark of the moon to a solar eclipse. Heavy. Intense. Bizarre. Three adjectives which suitably describe me right now.

# # #

My lower back gave out yesterday, after I'd reinjured it a week ago to the day, tweaking the area weakened and originally injured by working on an organic farm using faulty equipment (hint: never agree to use a garden cart with a flat tire, let alone two; oxen don't even do this). I should not even be sitting here, but the bed-rest regimen was wearing on me, and I won't be able to complete this post until later, but I needed to start it.

Okay, so this is going to be abruptly abbreviated. I'll leave off with this:

I will dance with the dragon instead of fight it.