This poem has now been re-dedicated to the Nerdfighters of the world. "Who the hell are Nerdfighters?" you may ask. Here, go check this out: The Birth of the Nerdfighter (from Brotherhood 2.0) DFTBA! (Don't Forget To Be Awesome! Fight Worldsuck!)
I’M NOT
I’m not searching, I’m not leaping
I’m not waiting by the phone
I’m not begging, I’m not snatching
when a man throws me a bone
I’m not lying, I’m not trying
I’m not dressing to the teeth
these clothes that I am wearing
hide no lingerie beneath
I’m not dreaming, I’m not scheming
and I won’t put out an ad
I’m not phoning up old lovers
I’m not looking for my dad
I won’t diet, I won’t primp
no, I won’t lay down and sob
I won’t get a tuck, a lift, a suck
nor contemplate a nose job
I’m not planning, I’m not playing
I’m not clubbing every night
I won’t take part in fads
I won’t wear my jeans skin tight
I’m not reading COSMO, ELLE or VOGUE
nor books on how to please
I’m not a virgin or a slut
I’m not a bitch or tease
I’m not faking, I’m not aching
I’m not baking him a cake
I’m not baiting, nor blind-dating
and I’m not out on the take
I’m not running to a therapist
my psyche is intact
I’m a functional non-victim
I’m quite normal; it’s a fact
I’m not praying, I’m not swearing
I’ve no rep that’s on the line
I’m not changing my religion
my philosophies work fine
I’m not anxious, I’m not frightened
I’m not wallowing in sorrow
I haven’t got a mother
who wants grandchildren tomorrow
I’ve got no clock that’s ticking
I’m a woman, not a bomb
I don’t time my ovulations
there’s no rush to be a mom
I’m not buying, I’m not charging
I’m not giving it away
I’m not daring, I’m not caring
if it takes another day.
The truth is that I’m hopeful
for I’m loving’s biggest fan
but my happiness depends on me
and not upon a man.
Thursday, 12 February 2009
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
Why Are So Many Americans Geographically Illiterate?
Most Americans couldn't find their asses even if they had a map. Why? Because they can't read the map.
The level of American geographic illiteracy is astounding. I teach Geography courses at a community college and I see it daily in my classrooms. But don't take my anecdotal evidence as the be-all and end-all; National Geographic has been conducting surveys for decades and comparing data between both developed and developing nations. Here are some highlights from the 2006 survey (they're currently conducted every four years):
How did we get to this point? It certainly didn't happen overnight. Why aren't students in the U.S. given more instruction in where things are in the world, where their country fits into the bigger picture, and why people and places are interrelated in ways that affect us every day? Why have my students not had any geography since 8th grade, and then only as a single unit in a larger Social Studies course? Some teachers believe that if you've had History with all of its maps, you've had Geography (trust me on this one--it's not the same thing). Believe it or not, the seeds if this tangled vine were sown with the ancient Greeks. But pointing the finger at Hippocrates won't get you far in understanding the Big Picture. Modern politics played just as large a role, if not more so.
[the following section includes adapted excerpts from Physical Geography: Earth's Interconnected Systems, by Angela Orr, Kendall/Hunt Publishers, 2006]
Traditions of Geography
What is the core of the discipline, the central motivating question or purpose, the material which geographers should be spending their careers studying and defending? In 1964, William Pattison wrote “The Four Traditions of Geography” for the Journal of Geography, in which he attempted to synthesize the basic ideas of academic geographers into a coherent framework. Two of these, the Human-Environment Tradition and the Area Studies Tradition, both offer some insight into reasons behind the loss of geographic literacy in the United States which began in the second half of the 20th Century.
The Human-Environment Tradition
This tradition focuses on the inter-relationships between the natural and the human world. It is perhaps the oldest of the four traditions, the brain-child of Hippocrates, the Greek physician of the 5th century B.C. who wrote On Airs, Waters and Places, in which he attempted to discern the influence of nature on humans. Unfortunately, this tradition led to the embracing of the concept of environmental determinism, and the similarly disastrous concept of social Darwinism, in which it was assumed (without much in the way of true data) that the environment creates conditions of natural selection and is therefore the main determiner of the outcome of human activities. In other words, the most successful (and therefore “superior”) societies or cultures are those which developed in regions of the world dominated by certain types of climate and environmental conditions.
This dangerously-applied concept became one of many justifications for the abuses of racism and imperialism, and sadly dominated American geography well into the 20th Century. By the 1920s, however, it became evident that the most influential studies were being conducted by “armchair geographers” who rarely went out into the world and who often used inauthentic data gathered from other researchers or from anecdotal evidence, rather than authentic field work, clear observations and carefully-derived data.
For example, the climate which produced the strongest societies, according to the environmental determinists, was often the same climate of each author’s home country. For the ancient Greeks, the mediterranean climate brought about cultural perfection. For British authors, it was the west coast marine climate. For Americans, the four-season humid continental climate.
But environmental determinism could not explain the contradictions of situations such as sequent occupance, in which successive societies use and modify the same environment, yet leave vastly different cultural imprints on that place. California is an excellent example of sequent occupance, where numerous different societies (hundreds of different Native American tribes, Spanish and Russian occupiers, Mexican, European, and American settlers) all have successfully adapted to and utilized the same environment, each in very different ways,
Eventually, the hypothesis of environmental determinism was refuted by the larger academic community. Today, those geographers who define the field in terms of the Human-Environment Tradition now accept that there is an interaction between culture and nature. Neither can exist without influencing and being influenced by the other, at this stage in the human habitation of the planet.
The Regional Tradition
Geographers who focus on the Regional Tradition are charged with the characterization and description of places, of regions, as being distinctly different from one another, rather than simply a summary of their locations and associated cartographic facts. A researcher in the Regional Tradition is expected to be an expert, with encyclopedic knowledge of a particular area. This academic focus was dominant in American geography in the first half of the 20th Century, largely due to the interest in defining political boundaries after the World Wars.
However, it soon became apparent that the boundaries of a region can be constructed any number of different ways, and that there existed in geography no universally accepted method for determining which way was best for any one area. We can still see the effects of the difficulties of defining regional borders in many parts of the world, such as Israel and the former Yugoslavia, where lines drawn on a map for political convenience did not match up with real world interactions of people, environment, and economy.
Science is all about gathering information, making generalizations, and testing hypotheses. Regional studies, as it was originally conceptualized, pieced together already gathered knowledge, sought out what was unique or different, and focused very little attention on testing and theorizing. Because it was largely atheoretical and descriptive, regional studies came to be viewed as "unscientific". The Cold War era and the need for more rigorously-trained scientists led to the general academic concensus that anything unscientific was, essentially, useless.
Both the backlash from environmental determinism and the lack of scientific rigour led to regional studies being phased out of the teaching curriculum in American K-12 classrooms. Today, researchers in this tradition have begun to accept the difficulties of regional identification. The realization that Americans have become largely geographically illiterate has led to the reinstitution of regional studies as part of a new set of geographic standards being incorporated once again into the schools.
Geography Today
There has been an effort on the part of some American educators to renew geographic literacy, as exemplified by the eighteen National Geography Standards identified by the National Council for Geographic Education in 1994. It remains to be seen, however, just how well this approach is working. I certainly have yet to see it in my own classroom. Geography generally remains relegated to a position of lesser importance in both physical and social sciences in the secondary education system.
It must be emphasized here that Geography is just as important and rigorous a field of study as any other. Perhaps more so, as our country forges new connections with other nations and cultures around the world through overseas businesses, politics, military movements, humanitarian aid, financial assistance, and tourism. Our nation is made up of people from almost every country in the world, yet we know so little about those places, cultures, and environments that our citizens are often forced to rely on the knowledge, perspectives, and agendas of those offering information—information which may not be complete or accurate, whether through ignorance or deliberation.
Imagine, for example, a company based in Belgium, with production facilities in Singapore, customer assistance in India, and retail sales in the North America, Europe, and Japan. That company will need to make well-informed business decisions, taking into account the cultures, politics, finances, and environments of the places they deal with every day. Geography is an excellent field within which to formulate studies, focus groups, and reports on critical economic and security issues. The nation’s businesses and political institutions will ultimately pay the price for a deficiency of geographic education in the United States.
Turn in your seat right now, dear reader, and point south.
I rest my case.
The level of American geographic illiteracy is astounding. I teach Geography courses at a community college and I see it daily in my classrooms. But don't take my anecdotal evidence as the be-all and end-all; National Geographic has been conducting surveys for decades and comparing data between both developed and developing nations. Here are some highlights from the 2006 survey (they're currently conducted every four years):
- Only 37% of young Americans can find Iraq on a map—though U.S. troops have been there since 2003.
- 6 in 10 young Americans don't speak a foreign language fluently.
- 20% of young Americans think Sudan is in Asia. (It's the largest country in Africa.)
- 48% of young Americans believe the majority population in India is Muslim. (It's Hindu—by a landslide.)
- Half of young Americans can't find New York on a map.
Download the full report here.
While working on my bachelor's degree in 1995, I sat in the Cal State Northridge Geography Department's computer lab, near two girls studying for a quiz that week. They spent a good ten minutes with a blank world map, arguing over which ocean was the Pacific. With embarassed giggles, they made their best guess and shrugged it off. They had come thiiiiis close to picking the Atlantic. I almost fell out of my chair.How did we get to this point? It certainly didn't happen overnight. Why aren't students in the U.S. given more instruction in where things are in the world, where their country fits into the bigger picture, and why people and places are interrelated in ways that affect us every day? Why have my students not had any geography since 8th grade, and then only as a single unit in a larger Social Studies course? Some teachers believe that if you've had History with all of its maps, you've had Geography (trust me on this one--it's not the same thing). Believe it or not, the seeds if this tangled vine were sown with the ancient Greeks. But pointing the finger at Hippocrates won't get you far in understanding the Big Picture. Modern politics played just as large a role, if not more so.
[the following section includes adapted excerpts from Physical Geography: Earth's Interconnected Systems, by Angela Orr, Kendall/Hunt Publishers, 2006]
Traditions of GeographyWhat is the core of the discipline, the central motivating question or purpose, the material which geographers should be spending their careers studying and defending? In 1964, William Pattison wrote “The Four Traditions of Geography” for the Journal of Geography, in which he attempted to synthesize the basic ideas of academic geographers into a coherent framework. Two of these, the Human-Environment Tradition and the Area Studies Tradition, both offer some insight into reasons behind the loss of geographic literacy in the United States which began in the second half of the 20th Century.
The Human-Environment Tradition
This tradition focuses on the inter-relationships between the natural and the human world. It is perhaps the oldest of the four traditions, the brain-child of Hippocrates, the Greek physician of the 5th century B.C. who wrote On Airs, Waters and Places, in which he attempted to discern the influence of nature on humans. Unfortunately, this tradition led to the embracing of the concept of environmental determinism, and the similarly disastrous concept of social Darwinism, in which it was assumed (without much in the way of true data) that the environment creates conditions of natural selection and is therefore the main determiner of the outcome of human activities. In other words, the most successful (and therefore “superior”) societies or cultures are those which developed in regions of the world dominated by certain types of climate and environmental conditions.
This dangerously-applied concept became one of many justifications for the abuses of racism and imperialism, and sadly dominated American geography well into the 20th Century. By the 1920s, however, it became evident that the most influential studies were being conducted by “armchair geographers” who rarely went out into the world and who often used inauthentic data gathered from other researchers or from anecdotal evidence, rather than authentic field work, clear observations and carefully-derived data.
For example, the climate which produced the strongest societies, according to the environmental determinists, was often the same climate of each author’s home country. For the ancient Greeks, the mediterranean climate brought about cultural perfection. For British authors, it was the west coast marine climate. For Americans, the four-season humid continental climate.
But environmental determinism could not explain the contradictions of situations such as sequent occupance, in which successive societies use and modify the same environment, yet leave vastly different cultural imprints on that place. California is an excellent example of sequent occupance, where numerous different societies (hundreds of different Native American tribes, Spanish and Russian occupiers, Mexican, European, and American settlers) all have successfully adapted to and utilized the same environment, each in very different ways,
Eventually, the hypothesis of environmental determinism was refuted by the larger academic community. Today, those geographers who define the field in terms of the Human-Environment Tradition now accept that there is an interaction between culture and nature. Neither can exist without influencing and being influenced by the other, at this stage in the human habitation of the planet.
The Regional Tradition
Geographers who focus on the Regional Tradition are charged with the characterization and description of places, of regions, as being distinctly different from one another, rather than simply a summary of their locations and associated cartographic facts. A researcher in the Regional Tradition is expected to be an expert, with encyclopedic knowledge of a particular area. This academic focus was dominant in American geography in the first half of the 20th Century, largely due to the interest in defining political boundaries after the World Wars.
However, it soon became apparent that the boundaries of a region can be constructed any number of different ways, and that there existed in geography no universally accepted method for determining which way was best for any one area. We can still see the effects of the difficulties of defining regional borders in many parts of the world, such as Israel and the former Yugoslavia, where lines drawn on a map for political convenience did not match up with real world interactions of people, environment, and economy.
Science is all about gathering information, making generalizations, and testing hypotheses. Regional studies, as it was originally conceptualized, pieced together already gathered knowledge, sought out what was unique or different, and focused very little attention on testing and theorizing. Because it was largely atheoretical and descriptive, regional studies came to be viewed as "unscientific". The Cold War era and the need for more rigorously-trained scientists led to the general academic concensus that anything unscientific was, essentially, useless.
Both the backlash from environmental determinism and the lack of scientific rigour led to regional studies being phased out of the teaching curriculum in American K-12 classrooms. Today, researchers in this tradition have begun to accept the difficulties of regional identification. The realization that Americans have become largely geographically illiterate has led to the reinstitution of regional studies as part of a new set of geographic standards being incorporated once again into the schools.
Geography Today
There has been an effort on the part of some American educators to renew geographic literacy, as exemplified by the eighteen National Geography Standards identified by the National Council for Geographic Education in 1994. It remains to be seen, however, just how well this approach is working. I certainly have yet to see it in my own classroom. Geography generally remains relegated to a position of lesser importance in both physical and social sciences in the secondary education system.
It must be emphasized here that Geography is just as important and rigorous a field of study as any other. Perhaps more so, as our country forges new connections with other nations and cultures around the world through overseas businesses, politics, military movements, humanitarian aid, financial assistance, and tourism. Our nation is made up of people from almost every country in the world, yet we know so little about those places, cultures, and environments that our citizens are often forced to rely on the knowledge, perspectives, and agendas of those offering information—information which may not be complete or accurate, whether through ignorance or deliberation.
Imagine, for example, a company based in Belgium, with production facilities in Singapore, customer assistance in India, and retail sales in the North America, Europe, and Japan. That company will need to make well-informed business decisions, taking into account the cultures, politics, finances, and environments of the places they deal with every day. Geography is an excellent field within which to formulate studies, focus groups, and reports on critical economic and security issues. The nation’s businesses and political institutions will ultimately pay the price for a deficiency of geographic education in the United States.
Turn in your seat right now, dear reader, and point south.
I rest my case.
Sunday, 8 February 2009
It Takes A Lot of Shit
Our worst experiences can become the defining moments that lead us to personal greatness. In other words: It takes a lot of shit to grow great flowers.But it doesn’t end with the worst experiences—we all know that flowers need more than dirt. Of course, we have to water those flowers, often with our tears. And when the littlest beam of sunlight finally breaks through our emotional clouds, the sprouts emerge, seed leaf and single root, extending themselves, hungrily stretching their bounds. Until one day, seemingly quite suddenly, spring is here and the sun is shining, and you look around to discover you’re surrounded by a field of blooms.
It's all going to be okay.
Like all things in nature, those flowers are transitory. We forget this fact, quite often. Being tool-wielding creatures fascinated by permanent structures--stone monuments and ancient pyramids--we expect everything around us to remain just as we see it. And we extend this belief to our best selves.
If we are built rather than grown, then it is our parents who built us—physically, emotionally, culturally. That creation takes sweat and blood and regular maintenance to remain healthy in so many little ways. When we are broken or hurting, we turn to the masseuse, the doctor, the psychotherapist—the repairmen. When it comes to our deeper selves, we can pay someone to fix the cracks, but not the structural damage. Sometimes we have to tear it all down and start again.
Personally, I think we're more organic than that. We're not starting over from scratch or patching up with Bondo. Rather I see us absorbing the decayed moments of the past as we grow atop them, in a never-ending cycle of death and renewal.
The flowers?
The flowers wilt.
My daughter has always had a love-hate relationship with flowers. She’d pick daisies and roses and random weeds out of peoples’ yards on our walks, entranced by the magic of petals and leaves held aloft by such fragile stems. Some would go carefully into her pocket. Some were given to Mommy because she knew with her child mind that I would see their beauty just as she did. After all, I was the adult extension of her tiny body, wasn’t I? Most days, I think she saw me more like a sock, keeping her warm when it was chilly, kicked off when the sun was shining and the sprinkler puddles just too inviting not to run from my grasp. Splash and pick the flowers.
But the flowers would always wilt. Their limp petals mirrored her fallen face, desperate to bring them back to life by drowning them in a glass of water. I would hide the glass behind a box of crackers, toward the back of the kitchen counter, agreeing that surely the water would help. Her emotional storm eventually quieted and a new activity replaced her fixation with a more positive outcome—beating me at “go fish” usually did the trick. Thank God we can’t have any pets in our apartment. I remember my brother’s death-watch of a beloved fish at age nine and don’t care to imagine the power of ten by which my little girl’s reaction would be magnified, watching any animal die.
Because the flowers always die.
You stand in that browning field, wondering what you did wrong. Sometimes it is something you’ve done. More often than not, it has nothing whatsoever to do with you. Action begets reaction, which begets further action, in the unbroken chain of tiny events that make up our cultural and biological history. We don’t see that daisy chain of moments. Each of us the center of our own private universes, we see only the causes and effects of our own experiences.
Those flowers died because of…me? Or you? It depends on your level of narcissism.
Sadness drowns us and we have trouble seeing the bigger picture through the tears. Because, you see, those flowers never die in vain. Did you not notice the bees? The butterflies and moths? They are the strangers, ignored; the annoyance of an acquaintance—the grocer, the mechanic, the aloof third-grade teacher. Even the people we love, all of whom leave within us gentle reminders of our essential connectedness. We may not have noticed, but each left its indelible mark on the future. Each pollinated us as the insects pollinated the flowers, surrounded by now-fallen petals at our feet. And each left within us silently dreaming seeds.
How long until they feel the safety of soft earth surrounding them?
Those fields will bloom again, my friend. They always do, year after year. Sometimes the season is longer, sometimes shorter, but always it returns, eventually. And all of the fertilizer of the wasted, worrisome, horrible, even horrific, events of our lives will feed them, just as it always has.
My Sweet Pea rarely picks the flowers, any more. We watch them bloom and smell them, touch them and love them where they live, and then we wave good-bye. They drop their seeds or hibernate for the winter. Our walks become less frequent as we move indoors with the changing season. Until spring, when we emerge like the insects from our busy hive to watch the patient gardeners carefully sprinkle the stinking manure that grows such great flowers.
And each moment passes into the next.
Will you join me as we sit patiently in the dirt? It’s so much easier to wait together. We can hold one another as we water the future with our combined tears. We’ll share the beauty of that first beam of light, the first seedlings, the first daring buds.
Together, we will celebrate the slowly-opening moments of our recovery.
Sunday, 5 October 2008
Can you guess who this pancake is dedicated to...?
The world is flat. Flat, flat, FLAT. Flat as a pancake my friends.
And I am the butter that slides, melting, across the top, yellow-white into clear, softening everything it touches. Artery-coating. I am the syrup, spreading, soaking in, sweet and teeth-rotting, delicious and insulin spike-inducing. Waiting for that first knife cut. Flat and flabby-minded and waiting.
I am conservative. A simple dish found in most every town in the nation--in a restaurant or on your own breakfast table. I am all about Small Town Values. Don't ask me what those values are--I'm not sure I can tell you. I'm sure they involve pancakes, though. I'm too full of sugar to think clearly. But I am here to support you. Swallow me and I'll give you all the energy you need to keep going.
The world is a pancake, I tell you. Easy to pour. Heating up. I may be soft and fluffy on the inside, not much substance, but everyone knows the pancake. What's not to like? I am all you really need.
Never mind that the wheat that makes up my middle is imported from Mexico, where European agribusiness owners pay workers a pittance to work from morning's dark to dusk and there is no respite, just a long line of more waiting to take their place as lives dissolve--they are the water that makes me moist. Please ignore the fact that the syrup isn't maple but flavoured corn syrup, made from corn subsidized so well by the American Government and foisted so heavily onto the world market that farmers in Africa can't make a competitive profit and are forced to abandon the family farm and move away to the city, where it's crowded and hot and dangerous. And cousins and life-long friends are far away, some of them slowly starving, still clinging to the fields. I am here to sustain you--does it matter so much where I came from? Will you think these thoughts as you bite, anyway? Likely not.
You're not thinking any further than the plate. No, I know for a fact that you will enjoy this moment. I will fill your belly with a pleasant warmth and you will feel the comfort of home and love and all that is decent and right with the world. The flat world. Created by God. Don't worry--those books that say otherwise will be taken from the shelves soon. All you need is a cookbook. A pancake cookbook. What else could give you such a golden smile? I am all you need. I AM.
So embrace me! Let me change you with my comforting sameness. Let me be the food that you buy when you go to the grocery store, this week. Yes, I know I cost half again as much as last week, but I'm worth it, don't you think? Eating all of that other food out there can be dangerous--pesticides and additives and migrant workers. You don't need that in your life. In the lives of your children, born and unborn. All you need is me to nourish you.
Won't you vote for the pancake? I know you will. Because you love America. I know you'll support me. All the TRUE Americans support me. So enjoy your meal, America.
Oh, the bill? Don't worry. I'm expensive, but I'll make you a special deal, because you're a hard-working member of society. Don't worry about the high tax on that bill. I'll give you some money back.
Put it to good use, friend. Buy more pancakes.
And I am the butter that slides, melting, across the top, yellow-white into clear, softening everything it touches. Artery-coating. I am the syrup, spreading, soaking in, sweet and teeth-rotting, delicious and insulin spike-inducing. Waiting for that first knife cut. Flat and flabby-minded and waiting.
I am conservative. A simple dish found in most every town in the nation--in a restaurant or on your own breakfast table. I am all about Small Town Values. Don't ask me what those values are--I'm not sure I can tell you. I'm sure they involve pancakes, though. I'm too full of sugar to think clearly. But I am here to support you. Swallow me and I'll give you all the energy you need to keep going.
The world is a pancake, I tell you. Easy to pour. Heating up. I may be soft and fluffy on the inside, not much substance, but everyone knows the pancake. What's not to like? I am all you really need.
Never mind that the wheat that makes up my middle is imported from Mexico, where European agribusiness owners pay workers a pittance to work from morning's dark to dusk and there is no respite, just a long line of more waiting to take their place as lives dissolve--they are the water that makes me moist. Please ignore the fact that the syrup isn't maple but flavoured corn syrup, made from corn subsidized so well by the American Government and foisted so heavily onto the world market that farmers in Africa can't make a competitive profit and are forced to abandon the family farm and move away to the city, where it's crowded and hot and dangerous. And cousins and life-long friends are far away, some of them slowly starving, still clinging to the fields. I am here to sustain you--does it matter so much where I came from? Will you think these thoughts as you bite, anyway? Likely not.
You're not thinking any further than the plate. No, I know for a fact that you will enjoy this moment. I will fill your belly with a pleasant warmth and you will feel the comfort of home and love and all that is decent and right with the world. The flat world. Created by God. Don't worry--those books that say otherwise will be taken from the shelves soon. All you need is a cookbook. A pancake cookbook. What else could give you such a golden smile? I am all you need. I AM.
So embrace me! Let me change you with my comforting sameness. Let me be the food that you buy when you go to the grocery store, this week. Yes, I know I cost half again as much as last week, but I'm worth it, don't you think? Eating all of that other food out there can be dangerous--pesticides and additives and migrant workers. You don't need that in your life. In the lives of your children, born and unborn. All you need is me to nourish you.
Won't you vote for the pancake? I know you will. Because you love America. I know you'll support me. All the TRUE Americans support me. So enjoy your meal, America.
Oh, the bill? Don't worry. I'm expensive, but I'll make you a special deal, because you're a hard-working member of society. Don't worry about the high tax on that bill. I'll give you some money back.
Put it to good use, friend. Buy more pancakes.
Sunday, 28 September 2008
BURDEN OF GUILT
Nothing could pierce the iron balloon of your guilt
though love like water would rust your consumptive self-hatred
surround you, soak you, wear you down
lift up this burden on currents of compassion
and, taking your tears, carve its path to the sea
It would drown your fear in this great ocean
cover it with coral and anemones and pearl-bearing oysters
and the sea would reclaim it
I say all this, gentle as the night coming on
while the wind of your words, disbelieving,
scatters all reassurances; my tongue is torn away
and, standing at the eye wall of this tempest,
your salt on my hands for the first time,
I am bludgeoned into silence by the violence of these waves
With empty throat I reach to rise above them, redeemer
as you sink beneath the storm within
though love like water would rust your consumptive self-hatred
surround you, soak you, wear you down
lift up this burden on currents of compassion
and, taking your tears, carve its path to the sea
It would drown your fear in this great ocean
cover it with coral and anemones and pearl-bearing oysters
and the sea would reclaim it
I say all this, gentle as the night coming on
while the wind of your words, disbelieving,
scatters all reassurances; my tongue is torn away
and, standing at the eye wall of this tempest,
your salt on my hands for the first time,
I am bludgeoned into silence by the violence of these waves
With empty throat I reach to rise above them, redeemer
as you sink beneath the storm within
Friday, 19 September 2008
"The totality is present even in the broken pieces."
1989. The year I graduated high school. A few grey hairs and laugh wrinkles ago. How did time disappear? A question for the old, for those facing their mortality--and for me: Did I do enough with the time I've had so far?
These days, I stay up until an ungodly hour, staring at this screen, trying to avoid the fact that the present moment will be tomorrow soon. That there are countless things I haven't done, said, written, felt, thought. That my bed is calling my name. That the day is done and there's little else that can be squeezed out of it now. Morning brings more of the same routine, less and less time for what I want. I don't want it to come. Not yet! I'm not ready for you, day. Keep your low-angled light away from my window. Keep your early shadows away from my walls, creeping with languid fingers, making me ache in places your radiation cannot reach.
When I finally slide into the bed, softly, as though I'd only gotten up to use the bathroom, the sky is lightening. The children are stretching and squeaking. Tell them it's still the middle of the night, honey, and put them back in bed, would you?
The question comes back again at eleven, when I should be planning lunch. Did I do enough? I know I didn't. I know I can't possibly. I don't want to waste moments swept up like the crumbs left under the table...but...a book, Mommy, read this book, please? I can't put her off long, either. She is part of that doing. Part of the enough. Already her older sister is hardly home, anymore. And when she is, she's reading, enclosed in her magical world of words. I know that world. I've lived there, and I still visit when I can hide in the bathroom long enough with a book. But I miss her. She's still so young.
At night, I put the little one to bed first, curling next to her in her tiny toddler bed, snuggled up with a good book. Turn on sleepy music and lay on the floor, holding her hand through the railing until she's still and sighing softly. Take the booklight from big sister and lay next to her, exchanging soft Mommy kisses for an arm squeezed tight. Trying to stay awake with thoughts of incomplete power points, notes to prepare, script revisions, blog posts, overdue administrative paperwork. Emails and updates. My lover keeping company with the flatscreen, watching our favorite series. And, oh yeah, the household that peeks out from under papers and dust, wondering when I'll give it attention, too.
In front of the screen again, the album has ended. Start another. The solitare game lost. Start another. Just another fifteen minutes more, I promise myself. Michael drops a kiss on my head and shuffles off into the dark hallway. Game lost again, I hit replay. Now it's midnight. Eyes barely open. And words barely begun. Pulled down by the weight of exhausted sleeplessness. I don't want to go. Not yet.
Reluctant, I pull the earbuds out like pulling a bath plug. Shut down the game. Hibernate the computer. Resigned. Did I do enough? Not nearly. Honestly, I don't even feel like I really tried. I'm just too damned tired.
But the big picture is there. I can see where I was just months ago, how far I've painted this new road across the canvas, covering old paint with new, brighter images. I suppose that to see the changes I'll have to step back. Put the pointillist's painting in perspective and see the beauty of the full scene. Wide angle shot. All of the screen at once. And? Did I do enough?
Ah, my sweet loves. Yes, I did. I kiss their softly-tousled brown locks. All three of them. Sweaty with sleep, cheeks rounded, eyebrows raised in dreams. There will always be time for more words.
I nestle under the down comforter, cold feet as close to my dear as I dare. Asleep in minutes. To do it all again tomorrow.
Resolved? Not by a long shot. Resigned, for the moment. It won't last, I'm sure of that. Life rarely finds, and even more rarely maintains, an equilibrium. That, at least, I can count on. I saw it when I stepped back. Keep momentum and the road will keep unfolding. Long ahead and behind, yet constantly rolling toward the horizon and over the edge of Earth's curve. Check the map--I'll get me there, eventually.
I've done enough for today.
The dreams come. And I wake suddenly, startled. The next story! Head falling back. Eyes close. Asleep. And gone. The shadow of an idea relegated to the lost associations of slumber.
The next morning, I rise with an itch. Have I forgotten something? I sit in front of the computer where the words refuse to come.
And I start all over again.
[title quote by Aldous Huxley]
These days, I stay up until an ungodly hour, staring at this screen, trying to avoid the fact that the present moment will be tomorrow soon. That there are countless things I haven't done, said, written, felt, thought. That my bed is calling my name. That the day is done and there's little else that can be squeezed out of it now. Morning brings more of the same routine, less and less time for what I want. I don't want it to come. Not yet! I'm not ready for you, day. Keep your low-angled light away from my window. Keep your early shadows away from my walls, creeping with languid fingers, making me ache in places your radiation cannot reach.
When I finally slide into the bed, softly, as though I'd only gotten up to use the bathroom, the sky is lightening. The children are stretching and squeaking. Tell them it's still the middle of the night, honey, and put them back in bed, would you?
The question comes back again at eleven, when I should be planning lunch. Did I do enough? I know I didn't. I know I can't possibly. I don't want to waste moments swept up like the crumbs left under the table...but...a book, Mommy, read this book, please? I can't put her off long, either. She is part of that doing. Part of the enough. Already her older sister is hardly home, anymore. And when she is, she's reading, enclosed in her magical world of words. I know that world. I've lived there, and I still visit when I can hide in the bathroom long enough with a book. But I miss her. She's still so young.
At night, I put the little one to bed first, curling next to her in her tiny toddler bed, snuggled up with a good book. Turn on sleepy music and lay on the floor, holding her hand through the railing until she's still and sighing softly. Take the booklight from big sister and lay next to her, exchanging soft Mommy kisses for an arm squeezed tight. Trying to stay awake with thoughts of incomplete power points, notes to prepare, script revisions, blog posts, overdue administrative paperwork. Emails and updates. My lover keeping company with the flatscreen, watching our favorite series. And, oh yeah, the household that peeks out from under papers and dust, wondering when I'll give it attention, too.
In front of the screen again, the album has ended. Start another. The solitare game lost. Start another. Just another fifteen minutes more, I promise myself. Michael drops a kiss on my head and shuffles off into the dark hallway. Game lost again, I hit replay. Now it's midnight. Eyes barely open. And words barely begun. Pulled down by the weight of exhausted sleeplessness. I don't want to go. Not yet.
Reluctant, I pull the earbuds out like pulling a bath plug. Shut down the game. Hibernate the computer. Resigned. Did I do enough? Not nearly. Honestly, I don't even feel like I really tried. I'm just too damned tired.
But the big picture is there. I can see where I was just months ago, how far I've painted this new road across the canvas, covering old paint with new, brighter images. I suppose that to see the changes I'll have to step back. Put the pointillist's painting in perspective and see the beauty of the full scene. Wide angle shot. All of the screen at once. And? Did I do enough?
Ah, my sweet loves. Yes, I did. I kiss their softly-tousled brown locks. All three of them. Sweaty with sleep, cheeks rounded, eyebrows raised in dreams. There will always be time for more words.
I nestle under the down comforter, cold feet as close to my dear as I dare. Asleep in minutes. To do it all again tomorrow.
Resolved? Not by a long shot. Resigned, for the moment. It won't last, I'm sure of that. Life rarely finds, and even more rarely maintains, an equilibrium. That, at least, I can count on. I saw it when I stepped back. Keep momentum and the road will keep unfolding. Long ahead and behind, yet constantly rolling toward the horizon and over the edge of Earth's curve. Check the map--I'll get me there, eventually.
I've done enough for today.
The dreams come. And I wake suddenly, startled. The next story! Head falling back. Eyes close. Asleep. And gone. The shadow of an idea relegated to the lost associations of slumber.
The next morning, I rise with an itch. Have I forgotten something? I sit in front of the computer where the words refuse to come.
And I start all over again.
[title quote by Aldous Huxley]
Monday, 15 September 2008
REPETITION
Too many times we’ve tasted the salt of this bitter ocean, faces of love that caused us pain The good are broken, we are useful, we are non-people, servants to the god of your depression You are creative in your destruction, my Shiva—I have followed you out of a blind love, bound by sex and violence and the promise of more and I wonder if you are ever going to deliver We are priestesses of the cult of lost personalities, in bondage, in darkness, give us faces, name us, hole-ness consumes us, creates us, unmakes us, leaving room for your desires and I want to tear your eyes out No, you may not dance with our demons, you cannot go there, you are unwelcome It is the place of no pain, no tears, no ecstasy, the ultimate nothing, you cannot touch us here, this is home For the bridges will never support the weight of an empty stare, so we can never leave Don’t take me! You have stolen every thing I have ever loved, telling me I asked for this, I have no rights within your rites of passage, as your knife is brought into the circle, I fear for my life so hard that it makes me afraid you will leave me and if I cannot disappear, I will die It has run the gamut of black and purple I am bruises and all humor is gone This repetition, this anger is but an outgrowth of our ecstatic joy twisted into a tiny speck of loss Oh no, my Shiva, I will not kill, I will not drown this darkened soul, No, not ever again for you….
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