words will not come when they are not ready. i was never someone who could force language out of myself just for the sake of it. i think about writers--like anne sexton and sylvia plath--my personal patron saints of literature--these women who would wake up before the sun to sit down at their typewriters and just hammer away at the raw materials of composition--an image, an idea, a metaphor, a literary device...doesnt work? take it apart. what can you salvage? what can be made new? just keep working and it will become SOMETHING. and it did--for them. it became their legacy--their immortality.
me? i dont write poems. they come out of me. just like child-bearing i have no choice what genes are selected when cells merge and begin to wildly divide. what's there is what's there and it grows and blossoms somewhere in me--beyond me--above me--until finally, through blood and pain and tearing, there is an emergence....
i envy writers who can WORK with their craft, sorting through scraps, fitting pieces, connecting the gaps over and over again--reworking and refining until truly they have shaped language into a form. instead of the form insisting upon them, they can insist upon IT--at least to some degree..
when i feel moved to write-it's like a blizzard--blind rush of i dont even know what--i barely feel like a part of it. when i was younger i used to say 'i dont know it just came to me.' i am puzzled still today about how to MAKE writing happen. so many people have urged me to write--that im publishable--that i have a unique, strong, beautiful, vital, even graphic voice. so many professors have pulled me aside whispering of gifts. 'do you realize youre the best writer i've ever taught' both professor fried and professor jones told me (and these are women who taught for over 30 years EACH). but it's not true. i am not a writer. i do not own this. i am just a channel. i wait until something tunes into me and whatever comes comes.
i'm a person who, every now and then, ends up making a poem because im trying to save myself--usually--from something else. monotony. restlessness. depression. much worse. when im writing, im trying to find a way to bleed without breaking the skin--and poetry is just a biproduct of that search...
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
withdrawal is HELL
sucks when your body is dependent on chemicals it can't produce on its own. stuck like this 'til monday. won't be sleeping THIS weekend. should probably be more attentive to this whole medication refill thing--like actually taking action when the bottle is empty (but of course, action means nothing when you forget to pick the damn refill up and it's friday night and the fuckin pharmacy is closed for the weekend). so i'll shiver and twitch and creepy crawly my way thru til monday, which somehow feels lightyears away from me right now...
im a dumbass, what can i say...
im a dumbass, what can i say...
Friday, September 5, 2008
Gloria Steinem, you always did and always will rock my world
GLORIA STEINEM ON SARAH PALIN...written as only a shining feminist icon (and fellow smithie) could...
(This is from Yesterday's L.A. Times Op-Ed page)
Sarah Palin shares nothing but a chromosome with Hillary Clinton. She is Phyllis Schlafly, only younger.
By Gloria Steinem September 4, 2008
Here's the good news: Women have become so politically powerful that even the anti-feminist right wing -- the folks with a headlock on the Republican Party -- are trying to appease the gender gap with a first-ever female vice president. We owe this to women -- and to many men too -- who have picketed, gone on hunger strikes or confronted violence at the polls so women can vote. We owe it to Shirley Chisholm, who first took the "white-male-only" sign off the White House, and to Hillary Rodham Clinton, who hung in there through ridicule and misogyny to win 18 million votes.
But here is even better news: It won't work. This isn't the first time a boss has picked an unqualified woman just because she agrees with him and opposes everything most other women want and need. Feminism has never been about getting a job for one woman. It's about making life more fair for women everywhere. It's not about a piece of the existing pie; there are too many of us for that. It's about baking a new pie.
Selecting Sarah Palin, who was touted all summer by Rush Limbaugh, is no way to attract most women, including die-hard Clinton supporters. Palin shares nothing but a chromosome with Clinton. Her down-home, divisive and deceptive speech did nothing to cosmeticize a Republican convention that has more than twice as many male delegates as female, a presidential candidate who is owned and operated by the right wing and a platform that opposes pretty much everything Clinton's candidacy stood for -- and that Barack Obama's still does. To vote in protest for McCain/Palin would be like saying, "Somebody stole my shoes, so I'll amputate my legs."
This is not to beat up on Palin. I defend her right to be wrong, even on issues that matter most to me. I regret that people say she can't do the job because she has children in need of care, especially if they wouldn't say the same about a father. I get no pleasure from imagining her in the spotlight on national and foreign policy issues about which she has zero background, with one month to learn to compete with Sen. Joe Biden's 37 years' experience.Palin has been honest about what she doesn't know. When asked last month about the vice presidency, she said, "I still can't answer that question until someone answers for me: What is it exactly that the VP does every day?" When asked about Iraq, she said, "I haven't really focused much on the war in Iraq."She was elected governor largely because the incumbent was unpopular, and she's won over Alaskans mostly by using unprecedented oil wealth to give a $1,200 rebate to every resident. Now she is being praised by McCain's campaign as a tax cutter, despite the fact that Alaska has no state income or sales tax. Perhaps McCain has opposed affirmative action for so long that he doesn't know it's about inviting more people to meet standards, not lowering them.
Or perhaps McCain is following the Bush administration habit, as in the Justice Department, of putting a job candidate's views on "God, guns and gays" ahead of competence. The difference is that McCain is filling a job one 72-year-old heartbeat away from the presidency.So let's be clear: The culprit is John McCain. He may have chosen Palin out of change-envy, or a belief that women can't tell the difference between form and content, but the main motive was to please right-wing ideologues; the same ones who nixed anyone who is now or ever has been a supporter of reproductive freedom. If that were not the case, McCain could have chosen a woman who knows what a vice president does and who has thought about Iraq; someone like Texas Sen. Kay Bailey Hutchison or Sen. Olympia Snowe of Maine.
McCain could have taken a baby step away from right-wing patriarchs who determine his actions, right down to opposing the Violence Against Women Act.Palin's value to those patriarchs is clear: She opposes just about every issue that women support by a majority or plurality. She believes that creationism should be taught in public schools but disbelieves global warming; she opposes gun control but supports government control of women's wombs; she opposes stem cell research but approves "abstinence-only" programs, which increase unwanted births, sexually transmitted diseases and abortions; she tried to use taxpayers' millions for a state program to shoot wolves from the air but didn't spend enough money to fix a state school system with the lowest high-school graduation rate in the nation; she runs with a candidate who opposes the Fair Pay Act but supports $500 million in subsidies for a natural gas pipeline across Alaska; she supports drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Reserve, though even McCain has opted for the lesser evil of offshore drilling. She is Phyllis Schlafly, only younger.
I don't doubt her sincerity. As a lifetime member of the National Rifle Assn., she doesn't just support killing animals from helicopters, she does it herself. She doesn't just talk about increasing the use of fossil fuels but puts a coal-burning power plant in her own small town. She doesn't just echo McCain's pledge to criminalize abortion by overturning Roe vs. Wade, she says that if one of her daughters were impregnated by rape or incest, she should bear the child. She not only opposes reproductive freedom as a human right but implies that it dictates abortion, without saying that it also protects the right to have a child.
So far, the major new McCain supporter that Palin has attracted is James Dobson of Focus on the Family. Of course, for Dobson, "women are merely waiting for their husbands to assume leadership," so he may be voting for Palin's husband.
Being a hope-a-holic, however, I can see two long-term bipartisan gains from this contest.Republicans may learn they can't appeal to right-wing patriarchs and most women at the same time. A loss in November could cause the centrist majority of Republicans to take back their party, which was the first to support the Equal Rights Amendment and should be the last to want to invite government into the wombs of women.And American women, who suffer more because of having two full-time jobs than from any other single injustice, finally have support on a national stage from male leaders who know that women can't be equal outside the home until men are equal in it. Barack Obama and Joe Biden are campaigning on their belief that men should be, can be and want to be at home for their children.
This could be huge.
Gloria Steinem is an author, feminist organizer and co-founder of the Women's Media Center. She supported Hillary Clinton and is now supporting Barack Obama.
(This is from Yesterday's L.A. Times Op-Ed page)
Sarah Palin shares nothing but a chromosome with Hillary Clinton. She is Phyllis Schlafly, only younger.
By Gloria Steinem September 4, 2008
Here's the good news: Women have become so politically powerful that even the anti-feminist right wing -- the folks with a headlock on the Republican Party -- are trying to appease the gender gap with a first-ever female vice president. We owe this to women -- and to many men too -- who have picketed, gone on hunger strikes or confronted violence at the polls so women can vote. We owe it to Shirley Chisholm, who first took the "white-male-only" sign off the White House, and to Hillary Rodham Clinton, who hung in there through ridicule and misogyny to win 18 million votes.
But here is even better news: It won't work. This isn't the first time a boss has picked an unqualified woman just because she agrees with him and opposes everything most other women want and need. Feminism has never been about getting a job for one woman. It's about making life more fair for women everywhere. It's not about a piece of the existing pie; there are too many of us for that. It's about baking a new pie.
Selecting Sarah Palin, who was touted all summer by Rush Limbaugh, is no way to attract most women, including die-hard Clinton supporters. Palin shares nothing but a chromosome with Clinton. Her down-home, divisive and deceptive speech did nothing to cosmeticize a Republican convention that has more than twice as many male delegates as female, a presidential candidate who is owned and operated by the right wing and a platform that opposes pretty much everything Clinton's candidacy stood for -- and that Barack Obama's still does. To vote in protest for McCain/Palin would be like saying, "Somebody stole my shoes, so I'll amputate my legs."
This is not to beat up on Palin. I defend her right to be wrong, even on issues that matter most to me. I regret that people say she can't do the job because she has children in need of care, especially if they wouldn't say the same about a father. I get no pleasure from imagining her in the spotlight on national and foreign policy issues about which she has zero background, with one month to learn to compete with Sen. Joe Biden's 37 years' experience.Palin has been honest about what she doesn't know. When asked last month about the vice presidency, she said, "I still can't answer that question until someone answers for me: What is it exactly that the VP does every day?" When asked about Iraq, she said, "I haven't really focused much on the war in Iraq."She was elected governor largely because the incumbent was unpopular, and she's won over Alaskans mostly by using unprecedented oil wealth to give a $1,200 rebate to every resident. Now she is being praised by McCain's campaign as a tax cutter, despite the fact that Alaska has no state income or sales tax. Perhaps McCain has opposed affirmative action for so long that he doesn't know it's about inviting more people to meet standards, not lowering them.
Or perhaps McCain is following the Bush administration habit, as in the Justice Department, of putting a job candidate's views on "God, guns and gays" ahead of competence. The difference is that McCain is filling a job one 72-year-old heartbeat away from the presidency.So let's be clear: The culprit is John McCain. He may have chosen Palin out of change-envy, or a belief that women can't tell the difference between form and content, but the main motive was to please right-wing ideologues; the same ones who nixed anyone who is now or ever has been a supporter of reproductive freedom. If that were not the case, McCain could have chosen a woman who knows what a vice president does and who has thought about Iraq; someone like Texas Sen. Kay Bailey Hutchison or Sen. Olympia Snowe of Maine.
McCain could have taken a baby step away from right-wing patriarchs who determine his actions, right down to opposing the Violence Against Women Act.Palin's value to those patriarchs is clear: She opposes just about every issue that women support by a majority or plurality. She believes that creationism should be taught in public schools but disbelieves global warming; she opposes gun control but supports government control of women's wombs; she opposes stem cell research but approves "abstinence-only" programs, which increase unwanted births, sexually transmitted diseases and abortions; she tried to use taxpayers' millions for a state program to shoot wolves from the air but didn't spend enough money to fix a state school system with the lowest high-school graduation rate in the nation; she runs with a candidate who opposes the Fair Pay Act but supports $500 million in subsidies for a natural gas pipeline across Alaska; she supports drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Reserve, though even McCain has opted for the lesser evil of offshore drilling. She is Phyllis Schlafly, only younger.
I don't doubt her sincerity. As a lifetime member of the National Rifle Assn., she doesn't just support killing animals from helicopters, she does it herself. She doesn't just talk about increasing the use of fossil fuels but puts a coal-burning power plant in her own small town. She doesn't just echo McCain's pledge to criminalize abortion by overturning Roe vs. Wade, she says that if one of her daughters were impregnated by rape or incest, she should bear the child. She not only opposes reproductive freedom as a human right but implies that it dictates abortion, without saying that it also protects the right to have a child.
So far, the major new McCain supporter that Palin has attracted is James Dobson of Focus on the Family. Of course, for Dobson, "women are merely waiting for their husbands to assume leadership," so he may be voting for Palin's husband.
Being a hope-a-holic, however, I can see two long-term bipartisan gains from this contest.Republicans may learn they can't appeal to right-wing patriarchs and most women at the same time. A loss in November could cause the centrist majority of Republicans to take back their party, which was the first to support the Equal Rights Amendment and should be the last to want to invite government into the wombs of women.And American women, who suffer more because of having two full-time jobs than from any other single injustice, finally have support on a national stage from male leaders who know that women can't be equal outside the home until men are equal in it. Barack Obama and Joe Biden are campaigning on their belief that men should be, can be and want to be at home for their children.
This could be huge.
Gloria Steinem is an author, feminist organizer and co-founder of the Women's Media Center. She supported Hillary Clinton and is now supporting Barack Obama.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
and another thing...
i hope all those bitter, angry clinton supporters really didnt mean it when they said they would vote for mccain if hillary didnt get the nom. hey, clinton was my candidate too (although i gotta say when i found out about the big fat check she got from all those 'healthcare' hypocrites, i was pissed), but when it became clear that it was a mathematical impossibility for her to procure the dem nom, i gave my support to obama. you know why? because im still a DEMOCRAT with democratic ideals and liberal hopes and tree-huggin' ways . any stoonad who turns to mccain to spite obama is a traiter to our party. we call ourselves democrats because the party's platform articulates what we think and believe and want for this country, right? so, tell me how a spite vote for mccain helps the democratic cause? because im just DYING to know...
i just hope all those disgruntled clintonites got over their bitterness...
i just hope all those disgruntled clintonites got over their bitterness...
so....
im thinking john mccain picking sarah palin for vp = disgusting stunt to try and snatch women voters (particularly, former women clinton supporters like myself) away from obama. call me crazy, but that's what i think. now excuse me while i go puke.
IT'S OBAMA OR CANADA FOR ME!
IT'S OBAMA OR CANADA FOR ME!
Friday, August 29, 2008
prepared for the crash
seeing my mother so sick could easily provoke some very hard questions for me. i could ask god why. i could ask what she did to deserve it. i could get angry. i could lose hope. i could lose love. i could lose faith...
but my mind does not work like that. i recognize. i do not dare claim that i can or should understand why god 'allows' things like this to happen. im not even sure if 'allows' is the right word. how can i expect my fallible, mortal, limited intellect to even fathom the logic by which the lord works? it is not FOR me to know, so i do not ask.
instead, i pray. i pray for peace for my mother. i pray for comfort in her sickness. i pray for her strength. and i thank god. yes, that's right i thank Him...
for finally leading her to the right place where she can get the right care, i thank Him. for giving me strength enough to hear her and comfort her and take as much care of her as i can being so many miles away, i thank Him. for preparing me for this--and He did prepare me. last sunday, He gave me one of the most poignant, telling, glowing, healing moments in my life. He brought me closer to Him than i have ever been before. He gave me the confirmation that i needed to know that He blesses me to work in His name...and if it wasnt for that experience and the high it put in me, hearing of my mom's liver transplant could have crashed me so hard and so deep into the ground. it's like He saw the collision coming, so He tightened and fastened my safety belt to keep me from ripping through the windshield. thank you God. thank you for ALL the ways you sustain me. thank you for ALL the ways you deliver help to those who need it. thank you for giving me the role of comfortor to my mother and fortifying me so that i may take it on. thank you for leading my mother to the place she needs to be to find whatever healing there is to be had for her disease. i need ask for no more. you give me all i need before i can even utter the request. in the name of my blessed lord and savior i pray. amen
but my mind does not work like that. i recognize. i do not dare claim that i can or should understand why god 'allows' things like this to happen. im not even sure if 'allows' is the right word. how can i expect my fallible, mortal, limited intellect to even fathom the logic by which the lord works? it is not FOR me to know, so i do not ask.
instead, i pray. i pray for peace for my mother. i pray for comfort in her sickness. i pray for her strength. and i thank god. yes, that's right i thank Him...
for finally leading her to the right place where she can get the right care, i thank Him. for giving me strength enough to hear her and comfort her and take as much care of her as i can being so many miles away, i thank Him. for preparing me for this--and He did prepare me. last sunday, He gave me one of the most poignant, telling, glowing, healing moments in my life. He brought me closer to Him than i have ever been before. He gave me the confirmation that i needed to know that He blesses me to work in His name...and if it wasnt for that experience and the high it put in me, hearing of my mom's liver transplant could have crashed me so hard and so deep into the ground. it's like He saw the collision coming, so He tightened and fastened my safety belt to keep me from ripping through the windshield. thank you God. thank you for ALL the ways you sustain me. thank you for ALL the ways you deliver help to those who need it. thank you for giving me the role of comfortor to my mother and fortifying me so that i may take it on. thank you for leading my mother to the place she needs to be to find whatever healing there is to be had for her disease. i need ask for no more. you give me all i need before i can even utter the request. in the name of my blessed lord and savior i pray. amen
universal health care and the bible
my 49 year old mother needs a liver transplant. i'm angry. i'm scared. i'm anxious.
I'm angry because I know my mother's been screwed by medicaid. time after time, they cut her off while she was in the midst of trying to get her sickness diagnosed. and when she wasn't cut off, she was being denied--denied doctors, denied medication, denied HEALTH. with all these roadblocks and hiccups in her 'care,' it took them fuckin YEARS to finally arrive at the diagnosis of primary biliary cirrosis. it took them YEARS to tell her the disease is a hereditary autoimmune sickness. it took them YEARS to tell her, finally that it's an incurable disease. it gets progressively worse. it eventually kills. and early detection is key to keep it from taking your life. early detection!? with a diagnosis 5 years in the making!? yea, well this is the reason she nee ds a transplant...
and so i want to know WHY. why are poor people left hanging to die? why do poor people have to die from things rich people don't die from? why was my mother denied the treatment necessary to keep her from getting sicker? i want to know WHY healthcare is a fucking luxury in this country and WHY is this country the ONLY industrialized nation in the western world with no universal healthcare?? for a more articulated tangent on this issue, watch michael moore's "sicko." for something to do about it, go to his website www.michaelmoore.com. cuz there indeed IS value in the stories we have to tell about getting jacked up and screwed over by the very people and the very system that is supposed to protect our health and take care of us when we need it. don't let people suffer! dont let them die in vain and trust me they do DIE from being denied care. it's THAT bad. health insurance companies will find any reason to declare a certain treatment uncovered by their policy. and if they cant find a reason, they'll look for ways to cut you off completely. watch "sicko;" it provides many such instances of people DYING from things they should never have died from--because so many treatments were available--but they were all held out of the reach of the people that needed them all because the insurance companies are more interested in keeping money in their pockets than they are in healing people.
it is so disgusting from so many standpoints. politically, socially--even religiously. i find it so ironic that it is the christian right who can be some of the most powerful and vocal opponents of universalized health care. so ironic and so incongruous. do they not READ their bibles?? does it NOT SAY in leviticus and numbers and deutoronomy that we are to do good by GOD through doing good by one another. God knows what he's doing when he charges us with this task. he's setting us up--giving to eachother is also giving to God and, in the end, what we give will all be returned to us when He showers us with blessings for doing right by Him.
So where are the bible verses when it comes to helping people in poverty get even the bare necessities that they need to live? have we not been told not to take a man's millstone or his cloak when he requires it? these objects are symbols for that which is vital for survival. you cannot strip people bare and leave them to die. you MUST leave some of your harvest for the ones who have none of their own. you must give to those who need it. so how do these lessons translate into a country where 80% of the wealth is held by 1% of the population. 1%!!! By denying the poor, america denies God himself! everything Jesus taught us falls by the wayside and is washed down the sewer--all in the name of profit.
apparently the bible is only useful to right wingers when they THINK it justifies hatred and the systematic denial of rights. when it actually commands people to GRANT rights, THAT messages gets ignored...i think it's just so funny that left wing liberal democrats seem to be more in line with biblical ideals (whether they know it or not) than the ones who claim religion as the fundamental basis for all they do politically, but that's a whole other rant in itself...
I'm angry because I know my mother's been screwed by medicaid. time after time, they cut her off while she was in the midst of trying to get her sickness diagnosed. and when she wasn't cut off, she was being denied--denied doctors, denied medication, denied HEALTH. with all these roadblocks and hiccups in her 'care,' it took them fuckin YEARS to finally arrive at the diagnosis of primary biliary cirrosis. it took them YEARS to tell her the disease is a hereditary autoimmune sickness. it took them YEARS to tell her, finally that it's an incurable disease. it gets progressively worse. it eventually kills. and early detection is key to keep it from taking your life. early detection!? with a diagnosis 5 years in the making!? yea, well this is the reason she nee ds a transplant...
and so i want to know WHY. why are poor people left hanging to die? why do poor people have to die from things rich people don't die from? why was my mother denied the treatment necessary to keep her from getting sicker? i want to know WHY healthcare is a fucking luxury in this country and WHY is this country the ONLY industrialized nation in the western world with no universal healthcare?? for a more articulated tangent on this issue, watch michael moore's "sicko." for something to do about it, go to his website www.michaelmoore.com. cuz there indeed IS value in the stories we have to tell about getting jacked up and screwed over by the very people and the very system that is supposed to protect our health and take care of us when we need it. don't let people suffer! dont let them die in vain and trust me they do DIE from being denied care. it's THAT bad. health insurance companies will find any reason to declare a certain treatment uncovered by their policy. and if they cant find a reason, they'll look for ways to cut you off completely. watch "sicko;" it provides many such instances of people DYING from things they should never have died from--because so many treatments were available--but they were all held out of the reach of the people that needed them all because the insurance companies are more interested in keeping money in their pockets than they are in healing people.
it is so disgusting from so many standpoints. politically, socially--even religiously. i find it so ironic that it is the christian right who can be some of the most powerful and vocal opponents of universalized health care. so ironic and so incongruous. do they not READ their bibles?? does it NOT SAY in leviticus and numbers and deutoronomy that we are to do good by GOD through doing good by one another. God knows what he's doing when he charges us with this task. he's setting us up--giving to eachother is also giving to God and, in the end, what we give will all be returned to us when He showers us with blessings for doing right by Him.
So where are the bible verses when it comes to helping people in poverty get even the bare necessities that they need to live? have we not been told not to take a man's millstone or his cloak when he requires it? these objects are symbols for that which is vital for survival. you cannot strip people bare and leave them to die. you MUST leave some of your harvest for the ones who have none of their own. you must give to those who need it. so how do these lessons translate into a country where 80% of the wealth is held by 1% of the population. 1%!!! By denying the poor, america denies God himself! everything Jesus taught us falls by the wayside and is washed down the sewer--all in the name of profit.
apparently the bible is only useful to right wingers when they THINK it justifies hatred and the systematic denial of rights. when it actually commands people to GRANT rights, THAT messages gets ignored...i think it's just so funny that left wing liberal democrats seem to be more in line with biblical ideals (whether they know it or not) than the ones who claim religion as the fundamental basis for all they do politically, but that's a whole other rant in itself...
Friday, August 22, 2008
What I'll be saying in church this Sunday...
when the pastor asked me to get up and give some 'testimony' to the power of god in my life, of course i jumped at the chance. but now that sunday is around the corner, it's my nerves that are jumpin....so if i mess up royally this sunday, let this blog be evidence that i actually had something coherent to say...
?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
Any of you like gospel music? I’m talkin about real, raw, loud, audible soul cried out by people like Mahalia Jackson and Dorothy Norwood and Aretha Franklin. True GOSPEL music. I love it. I don’t consider my day ‘started’ until I hear Aretha sing ‘How I Got Over.’ Anybody know that song? Here, let me sing a little bit of it…(brace yourselves and forgive the bad notes!)
How I got over…
How I got over…
O my soul looks back and wonders
How I got over.
Just as soon as I see Jesus,
The man who made me breathe
He was the one who bled and suffered
You know he died for you and me.
I wanna thank you jesus because you brought me
I wanna thank you jesus because you taught me
I wanna thank you because you kept me
Imma thank you cuz you never left me and im gonna sing! hallelujah
O I just gotta shout this morning
Imma thank god for all he’s done for me.
…trust me, it sounds much better when Aretha does it! But really, it doesn’t matter how you sing it as long as you feel the pull the words have on your soul, the quickening of your pulse, the inevitable blossoming of a heart and a mind and a soul given up to think, to feel, to KNOW just how the lord got YOU over. And He’s gotten me over so so much and most of it before I was even aware of his presence in my life.
????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
My story is not an easy one to tell. It may make some of you uncomfortable—but im still gonna tell it because there is power in the mere act of speaking and there are lessons to be learned from discomfort. Even if I was to just say my history and sit back down without saying a word of reflection about praise, the fact that I am even here to talk to you is testament enough of God’s work in my life, and I thank him with every new breath taken into my lungs.
My past was more thorn than rose and God would have it no other way.We had next to nothing growing up. Our only food came free fromWIC--carefully rationed but running out too soon nonetheless. We worestained, ripped hand-me-downs from our cousins and tired, crackedshoes that always let the water in. And I was angry about it--then. Iwas ashamed. I was jealous of what others had--but I was also blessed.In the end, I was blessed. It just took me a few decades to realizejust how strengthened I was by it all, how it taught me to cope withgoing without, and I can't help but cherish now the things that I dohave--it's good to have them but it's better knowing that mypossessions do not possess me because I know I can live on much less.And I am no longer ashamed but proud of my meager upbringing--forthere is One infinately greater than I who tells us to live simply.One who was born--Himself--with next to nothing, who spent His firstnight on earth among farm animals in a lowly manger. But He rose aboveit--so high He rose for He had the Lord--and so too do I have theLord. And so too do I rise.Through the Lord I can indeed rise above anything. And with the Lord Ican live through that which catches me--the inescapable moments of thepresent, future and past--The abuse that fell down all over me in thehands of my father. Hell’s hot rage in those hands as they burned welts into my skin, but more terrifying, more hurtful still when those hands went soft and crept under my covers after the lights went out. All the while he shushed me. He said it was ok—ok as the blood froze in my veins, ok as my heart hammered against its ribby jail, wanting so much to escape, trying so so hard not to feel it. And for 20 years I did nothing but beg that heart to stop beating. I tried so hard to silence it. with pills. with blades. with stupiddesperate acts that never did succeed in their ultimate purpose--forthe Lord held the life fast in my body. And though that body wasmarked and scarred, my soul could still be made strong and clean. Forthe body may be of the earth but the soul is God's. The bodywithers and eventually falls away but the soul is eternal andintangible. something my earthly father could never hope to mark orclaim because I was in the care of my heavenly father. Even though I had no idea at the time!
When I awoke in the ICU, tubes down my throat and charcoal in my belly to neutralize the poison I put inside myself, I was wondering, always wondering why was I so hard to destroy? Were the doctors just that good—were there just too many tubes and wires available to tie me to this earth? Too many machines available to breathe for me when my throat collapsed. Too much electricity to send through my heart, stupid drunk and failing if not for that zap. But when my eyes opened to see nurses bent over me, adjusting this, checking that, there wasn’t a single hallelujiah in my mouth. Only curses. Only bitterness. Because life was utter chaos to me, then. The world came from a bang and accidents upon several million accidents later, I happened. There was no reason in anything. Then. No purpose. No hope. No nothing. Then.
But this is now. And indeed how blessed am I, after 27 years to finally hear God, now? to feel Him, now? toknow that He's there and I am forever held in His Holy, merciful arms.I always was! Even as I pushed myself further away, He drew me evercloser. Even when I claimed He didn't exist, even when I was soarrogant in my self-proclaimed 'godlessness' to sneer at Him and listHim along with santa claus and the tooth fairy as if He was justanother silly fiction that populated the world of fantasy. How greatwas my scorn for my creator! To exalt in hateful refusal of Hisdivinity, choosing instead to live in bitter abandonment, feelingutterly alone, without any hope in a world blackened by ruthlessdepression. How great was my anger! But how much greater still was Hismercy--that even though I denied Him with the very breath He put inme, He NEVER denied me. Still He kept his eye on me and still Hecalled to me over and over again until finally I accepted. Indeed Iwas one who dare demand proof just as Thomas examining the wounds. And I am now pulled down on my knees before Christ, begging forgiveness, cherishing his blessings,singing his praise til my voice gives out and offering up every last day I have on this earth to his service. What a miracle it is, that I still have days to speak of! What a miracle it is that I survived to bring my beautiful boys into the world and watch with my saint-like husband as they grow. What a miracle it is that I am up here this particular Sunday in this particular church to stand before this blessed, beautiful community that brings me closer to god with its extravagant welcome and its endless support. I am here. Thank God, I am here. To tell my story. I am here. To stand as a living testament to His power. I am here because god would have it no other way. for some reason He insisted on it. I am here and I no longer hate what happened to me. If given the chance, like the Joseph of Genesis, I wouldn’t think to curse anyone or anything that once brought hard things into my life. Because it is through those hard things that I’ve grown stronger. Because of those hard things, I have clear, concrete, unbreakable knowledge that yes indeed I can survive. I can even thrive—because I have the lord. And it is through the lord, that I am finally able to make peace with my own past and let it BE past, and move forward and beyond and above and take on that easy yoke, feeling so much lighter I wonder if my feet are even touching the ground. Indeed, anyone who has the lord will rise. Broken, beat down, persecuted and abused, still you will rise. Anyone who has the lord will ‘get over.’ Whatever it is, eventually he’ll get you over it. And your soul can’t help but look back and wonder. And you cant help but raise your voice and sing about what he’s done for you. Because you are his child. Even in the darkest hours, you are his child and it’s during those darkest hours that you glow brightest on his radar screen. I know for a fact He won’t let me fall. Even if I’m the only one tripping myself up, he’s there to catch me. He always was and always will be and now, at least I have the sense to tell someone about it. To shout out hallelujah! There is a God and he loves me—me! And I praise him in as much as my unworthy, fallible, mortal form is able. I have not the language to say just how much I love, my God. There is nothing left for me to do but live out the rest of my days in his name alone. I only pray he will receive me as Ikneel at his feet awaiting the task with which he will charge me. Let my breathbe drawn for his glory. Let my heart beat out my thanks. And let allmy labors strive to be worthy of his name. Amen
?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
Any of you like gospel music? I’m talkin about real, raw, loud, audible soul cried out by people like Mahalia Jackson and Dorothy Norwood and Aretha Franklin. True GOSPEL music. I love it. I don’t consider my day ‘started’ until I hear Aretha sing ‘How I Got Over.’ Anybody know that song? Here, let me sing a little bit of it…(brace yourselves and forgive the bad notes!)
How I got over…
How I got over…
O my soul looks back and wonders
How I got over.
Just as soon as I see Jesus,
The man who made me breathe
He was the one who bled and suffered
You know he died for you and me.
I wanna thank you jesus because you brought me
I wanna thank you jesus because you taught me
I wanna thank you because you kept me
Imma thank you cuz you never left me and im gonna sing! hallelujah
O I just gotta shout this morning
Imma thank god for all he’s done for me.
…trust me, it sounds much better when Aretha does it! But really, it doesn’t matter how you sing it as long as you feel the pull the words have on your soul, the quickening of your pulse, the inevitable blossoming of a heart and a mind and a soul given up to think, to feel, to KNOW just how the lord got YOU over. And He’s gotten me over so so much and most of it before I was even aware of his presence in my life.
????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
My story is not an easy one to tell. It may make some of you uncomfortable—but im still gonna tell it because there is power in the mere act of speaking and there are lessons to be learned from discomfort. Even if I was to just say my history and sit back down without saying a word of reflection about praise, the fact that I am even here to talk to you is testament enough of God’s work in my life, and I thank him with every new breath taken into my lungs.
My past was more thorn than rose and God would have it no other way.We had next to nothing growing up. Our only food came free fromWIC--carefully rationed but running out too soon nonetheless. We worestained, ripped hand-me-downs from our cousins and tired, crackedshoes that always let the water in. And I was angry about it--then. Iwas ashamed. I was jealous of what others had--but I was also blessed.In the end, I was blessed. It just took me a few decades to realizejust how strengthened I was by it all, how it taught me to cope withgoing without, and I can't help but cherish now the things that I dohave--it's good to have them but it's better knowing that mypossessions do not possess me because I know I can live on much less.And I am no longer ashamed but proud of my meager upbringing--forthere is One infinately greater than I who tells us to live simply.One who was born--Himself--with next to nothing, who spent His firstnight on earth among farm animals in a lowly manger. But He rose aboveit--so high He rose for He had the Lord--and so too do I have theLord. And so too do I rise.Through the Lord I can indeed rise above anything. And with the Lord Ican live through that which catches me--the inescapable moments of thepresent, future and past--The abuse that fell down all over me in thehands of my father. Hell’s hot rage in those hands as they burned welts into my skin, but more terrifying, more hurtful still when those hands went soft and crept under my covers after the lights went out. All the while he shushed me. He said it was ok—ok as the blood froze in my veins, ok as my heart hammered against its ribby jail, wanting so much to escape, trying so so hard not to feel it. And for 20 years I did nothing but beg that heart to stop beating. I tried so hard to silence it. with pills. with blades. with stupiddesperate acts that never did succeed in their ultimate purpose--forthe Lord held the life fast in my body. And though that body wasmarked and scarred, my soul could still be made strong and clean. Forthe body may be of the earth but the soul is God's. The bodywithers and eventually falls away but the soul is eternal andintangible. something my earthly father could never hope to mark orclaim because I was in the care of my heavenly father. Even though I had no idea at the time!
When I awoke in the ICU, tubes down my throat and charcoal in my belly to neutralize the poison I put inside myself, I was wondering, always wondering why was I so hard to destroy? Were the doctors just that good—were there just too many tubes and wires available to tie me to this earth? Too many machines available to breathe for me when my throat collapsed. Too much electricity to send through my heart, stupid drunk and failing if not for that zap. But when my eyes opened to see nurses bent over me, adjusting this, checking that, there wasn’t a single hallelujiah in my mouth. Only curses. Only bitterness. Because life was utter chaos to me, then. The world came from a bang and accidents upon several million accidents later, I happened. There was no reason in anything. Then. No purpose. No hope. No nothing. Then.
But this is now. And indeed how blessed am I, after 27 years to finally hear God, now? to feel Him, now? toknow that He's there and I am forever held in His Holy, merciful arms.I always was! Even as I pushed myself further away, He drew me evercloser. Even when I claimed He didn't exist, even when I was soarrogant in my self-proclaimed 'godlessness' to sneer at Him and listHim along with santa claus and the tooth fairy as if He was justanother silly fiction that populated the world of fantasy. How greatwas my scorn for my creator! To exalt in hateful refusal of Hisdivinity, choosing instead to live in bitter abandonment, feelingutterly alone, without any hope in a world blackened by ruthlessdepression. How great was my anger! But how much greater still was Hismercy--that even though I denied Him with the very breath He put inme, He NEVER denied me. Still He kept his eye on me and still Hecalled to me over and over again until finally I accepted. Indeed Iwas one who dare demand proof just as Thomas examining the wounds. And I am now pulled down on my knees before Christ, begging forgiveness, cherishing his blessings,singing his praise til my voice gives out and offering up every last day I have on this earth to his service. What a miracle it is, that I still have days to speak of! What a miracle it is that I survived to bring my beautiful boys into the world and watch with my saint-like husband as they grow. What a miracle it is that I am up here this particular Sunday in this particular church to stand before this blessed, beautiful community that brings me closer to god with its extravagant welcome and its endless support. I am here. Thank God, I am here. To tell my story. I am here. To stand as a living testament to His power. I am here because god would have it no other way. for some reason He insisted on it. I am here and I no longer hate what happened to me. If given the chance, like the Joseph of Genesis, I wouldn’t think to curse anyone or anything that once brought hard things into my life. Because it is through those hard things that I’ve grown stronger. Because of those hard things, I have clear, concrete, unbreakable knowledge that yes indeed I can survive. I can even thrive—because I have the lord. And it is through the lord, that I am finally able to make peace with my own past and let it BE past, and move forward and beyond and above and take on that easy yoke, feeling so much lighter I wonder if my feet are even touching the ground. Indeed, anyone who has the lord will rise. Broken, beat down, persecuted and abused, still you will rise. Anyone who has the lord will ‘get over.’ Whatever it is, eventually he’ll get you over it. And your soul can’t help but look back and wonder. And you cant help but raise your voice and sing about what he’s done for you. Because you are his child. Even in the darkest hours, you are his child and it’s during those darkest hours that you glow brightest on his radar screen. I know for a fact He won’t let me fall. Even if I’m the only one tripping myself up, he’s there to catch me. He always was and always will be and now, at least I have the sense to tell someone about it. To shout out hallelujah! There is a God and he loves me—me! And I praise him in as much as my unworthy, fallible, mortal form is able. I have not the language to say just how much I love, my God. There is nothing left for me to do but live out the rest of my days in his name alone. I only pray he will receive me as Ikneel at his feet awaiting the task with which he will charge me. Let my breathbe drawn for his glory. Let my heart beat out my thanks. And let allmy labors strive to be worthy of his name. Amen
Saturday, August 16, 2008
4 am rant
why is it necessary for female athletes to have their asses hanging out all the time? the worst offender yet is the new addition of beach volleyball. now the men get to play the game in nice, loose shorts and muscle tees, but the women?? those 'uniforms' are friggin ridiculous! why dont they just put them in string bikinis or thongs or better yet--how about completely naked? if i was a female volleyball player i would flat out refuse to go out there like that--hell my bra and underpants provide more coverage than those little bitty things they put those women in. im sure they gotta be uncomfortable as hell too (judging by the amount of shots ive seen of sand-encrusted wedgies, it doesnt look like those bottoms stay where they belong). especially when you consider that half the time, the women are either squatting or bending forward with their hands on their knees. and tell me just how many men jizz right thru their pants when the women jump on one another in celebration after a game win (which usually involves one woman running up to the other and wrapping her arms and legs around her)...
but it's not just beach volleyball. it's gymnastics too. the guys are in friggin stirruped tights for christ's sake and the girls? once again, butts out (and questionably young butts at that). same deal with track and field...
even the press that female athletes get is so sexualized. i remember reading a list of the top 50 athletes of 2007 maybe in sports illustrated or some other such sporty magazine. with the male players, the dudes were all shown in their team gear or in some action shot pulling off some amazing feat of athleticism. but the women were all shown in studio shots--no action shots or shots even remotely connected to whatever sports they played. they were shown all gussied up in bikinis or beaters and underwear or all wet with poppin nipples. it's like even though the sports world is pretending to acknowledge the greatness of female athletes, they still render them pieces of meat either by the uniforms they are required to wear or in the way they are portrayed in the media....grrrrrr and more grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
and--AND i am so tired about hearing how this female athlete is beautiful as well as skilled or hot whatever. when stories are written up about male athletes, do you hear anything being said about their physical appearance? ive yet to hear that tom brady is a kick ass quarterback AND a hottie. nope, the men get evaluated on their talent alone. with women it's always talent + looks (and sometimes looks OVER talent like that one mediocre tennis player who was all hyped up cuz she was supposedly hot--her name is slipping my mind right now--not maria sharapova, the other blonde that came before her...ah fuck it. it's too early in the morning to be precise...
even the truly great (but not physically attractive by our country's stupid barbie doll beauty ideals) women athletes like billie jean king get snickered at and disrespected--like, who cares if their careers reached milestone after milestone, kicked down barriers and redefined standards? grrrrrrrrrrrrr and grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr all the way to bed...
but it's not just beach volleyball. it's gymnastics too. the guys are in friggin stirruped tights for christ's sake and the girls? once again, butts out (and questionably young butts at that). same deal with track and field...
even the press that female athletes get is so sexualized. i remember reading a list of the top 50 athletes of 2007 maybe in sports illustrated or some other such sporty magazine. with the male players, the dudes were all shown in their team gear or in some action shot pulling off some amazing feat of athleticism. but the women were all shown in studio shots--no action shots or shots even remotely connected to whatever sports they played. they were shown all gussied up in bikinis or beaters and underwear or all wet with poppin nipples. it's like even though the sports world is pretending to acknowledge the greatness of female athletes, they still render them pieces of meat either by the uniforms they are required to wear or in the way they are portrayed in the media....grrrrrr and more grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
and--AND i am so tired about hearing how this female athlete is beautiful as well as skilled or hot whatever. when stories are written up about male athletes, do you hear anything being said about their physical appearance? ive yet to hear that tom brady is a kick ass quarterback AND a hottie. nope, the men get evaluated on their talent alone. with women it's always talent + looks (and sometimes looks OVER talent like that one mediocre tennis player who was all hyped up cuz she was supposedly hot--her name is slipping my mind right now--not maria sharapova, the other blonde that came before her...ah fuck it. it's too early in the morning to be precise...
even the truly great (but not physically attractive by our country's stupid barbie doll beauty ideals) women athletes like billie jean king get snickered at and disrespected--like, who cares if their careers reached milestone after milestone, kicked down barriers and redefined standards? grrrrrrrrrrrrr and grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr all the way to bed...
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
the wordled poems
so i figured, if im posting the poems all discombobulated in the wordle images, maybe i should also post the poems themselves--with all the words in the right order...
To Nicholas
To Nicholas
I want to rip the stars
From the sky
As easy as buttons on a sweater
if only my limbs had the muscle
They're so much more permanent
Than I will ever be
My dna now floats
In the blood of another
I try not to make him my salvation
But he is always the one reason
I won't
He dulls the blades
And melts the pills
All with a coo and a smile
Rubbery gums about to break
He rumbles around
First inside me
Now around me
Kneeling at my feet
Grabbing my skirt
Eyes deep brown
Like coffee beans
Scanning the beige carpet
For anything he can reach
With his new-found grasp
He needs me
I tell myself always
In the AM hours
When I dump my pills out on the glass table
Hear them Tapping like hail
Tiny white disks in my palm
The closest I will ever get
To holding a star
He needs me
So I take just enough
To bring on the black
But still stay warm
So I can rise for his cries
Stumble to him
Hold him next to my dewy skin
My heart drumming against my ribs
To think
I Made him
To unmake me
The woman who awed
At the sight of her own blood
Who took apart leg razors
When she couldn't find anything else
sharp enough
When walls got too boring
Too close
To her
I made him
To unmake me
Like I selected all my best genes
Knitted them together
Hoping for no pulls
No dropped stitches
Just a better version
Who would see more days
And more rewards
Than I ever could
What I do for him
Is the best I can possibly do
For me
Because our lives fit
Inside one another
Like a key in a lock
Hoping for beautiful things
On the other side of the door
Both of us curl together
I shield him
With my skin
Scarred as it is
It's still in one piece
And he doesn't even realize
He's the reason why
--jenna r mckean randall winter, 2005
I want to rip the stars
From the sky
As easy as buttons on a sweater
if only my limbs had the muscle
They're so much more permanent
Than I will ever be
My dna now floats
In the blood of another
I try not to make him my salvation
But he is always the one reason
I won't
He dulls the blades
And melts the pills
All with a coo and a smile
Rubbery gums about to break
He rumbles around
First inside me
Now around me
Kneeling at my feet
Grabbing my skirt
Eyes deep brown
Like coffee beans
Scanning the beige carpet
For anything he can reach
With his new-found grasp
He needs me
I tell myself always
In the AM hours
When I dump my pills out on the glass table
Hear them Tapping like hail
Tiny white disks in my palm
The closest I will ever get
To holding a star
He needs me
So I take just enough
To bring on the black
But still stay warm
So I can rise for his cries
Stumble to him
Hold him next to my dewy skin
My heart drumming against my ribs
To think
I Made him
To unmake me
The woman who awed
At the sight of her own blood
Who took apart leg razors
When she couldn't find anything else
sharp enough
When walls got too boring
Too close
To her
I made him
To unmake me
Like I selected all my best genes
Knitted them together
Hoping for no pulls
No dropped stitches
Just a better version
Who would see more days
And more rewards
Than I ever could
What I do for him
Is the best I can possibly do
For me
Because our lives fit
Inside one another
Like a key in a lock
Hoping for beautiful things
On the other side of the door
Both of us curl together
I shield him
With my skin
Scarred as it is
It's still in one piece
And he doesn't even realize
He's the reason why
--jenna r mckean randall winter, 2005
Live and Die
Live and Die
"But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build." –A.S.
You—
Sexy Sadie—
the seducer seduced
by the fumes of your Cougar.
With a cigarette, vodka—
your mother's fur—
you had to be a glamour girl
even while the cold crept up your limbs.
And now your frozen eyes
haunt me from your book cover—
your image awash
in watery blue.
Cradling your skinny knees—
looking up—breakable—
like you've been caught crying,
you provide such a dangerous model.
so I crack the book open—
My fingers are pricked
by your poems—
blood mixes with ink.
The words refuse
to stay on the page.
They catch on my sleeve.
They stain me.
They dare me.
They follow me to bed
and call me out of sleep—
and I swear I see the corners
of your cardboard mouth
creep up into a smirk.
Is this what you wanted?
Dead but never gone—
to show your fellow suicides
the way out of generations
and even the grave?
To be reincarnated
over and over again
in the minds of people
who see their insanity
inside the jackets of your books?
I hear the pattern of your breath
in the rhythms of your lines—
I can see you—
terrified and fighting—
trapped inside the madness
you trapped inside words
and now those words live for you
to breathe that madness
into ears searching
for just such a sound—
a clang of frightful recognition
that makes our stories merge.
--jenna r. mckean january, 2000
"But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build." –A.S.
You—
Sexy Sadie—
the seducer seduced
by the fumes of your Cougar.
With a cigarette, vodka—
your mother's fur—
you had to be a glamour girl
even while the cold crept up your limbs.
And now your frozen eyes
haunt me from your book cover—
your image awash
in watery blue.
Cradling your skinny knees—
looking up—breakable—
like you've been caught crying,
you provide such a dangerous model.
so I crack the book open—
My fingers are pricked
by your poems—
blood mixes with ink.
The words refuse
to stay on the page.
They catch on my sleeve.
They stain me.
They dare me.
They follow me to bed
and call me out of sleep—
and I swear I see the corners
of your cardboard mouth
creep up into a smirk.
Is this what you wanted?
Dead but never gone—
to show your fellow suicides
the way out of generations
and even the grave?
To be reincarnated
over and over again
in the minds of people
who see their insanity
inside the jackets of your books?
I hear the pattern of your breath
in the rhythms of your lines—
I can see you—
terrified and fighting—
trapped inside the madness
you trapped inside words
and now those words live for you
to breathe that madness
into ears searching
for just such a sound—
a clang of frightful recognition
that makes our stories merge.
--jenna r. mckean january, 2000
Vice
Vice
I imbibe you.
Your sherry
bright and sharp
on my tongue,
warm as it trickles
through my veins.
Against the night
I glow,
melody curls
from my lips
like smoke
sweet like maple brown
my words drop
into your hungry mouth.
I am dyed
for you—
greased, powdered and perfumed—
red and black
on china white
like war paint,
the lines drawn
so carefully
outlining my intentions.
We are mutual pawns
and I grin
deliciously
as you fold yourself
into the palm
of my hand,
your eyes shining
with victory.
Licking my fingers,
I taste our addictions
as we peel
back the cloth
so ready
to lose ourselves
in the skin
of the other.
--jenna r. mckean 0ctober, 2001
I imbibe you.
Your sherry
bright and sharp
on my tongue,
warm as it trickles
through my veins.
Against the night
I glow,
melody curls
from my lips
like smoke
sweet like maple brown
my words drop
into your hungry mouth.
I am dyed
for you—
greased, powdered and perfumed—
red and black
on china white
like war paint,
the lines drawn
so carefully
outlining my intentions.
We are mutual pawns
and I grin
deliciously
as you fold yourself
into the palm
of my hand,
your eyes shining
with victory.
Licking my fingers,
I taste our addictions
as we peel
back the cloth
so ready
to lose ourselves
in the skin
of the other.
--jenna r. mckean 0ctober, 2001
instand wordle whore
ok, so this is officially the coolest waste of time ever. i went back and wordled a bunch of poems and even a diatribe or two from my myspace page:
wordle of my poem 'to nicholas'
wordle of 'live and die' the poem i wrote to anne sexton
wordle of another poem of mine: vice
wordle of a blog i wrote after watching the most god-awful poorly disguised piece of anti-choice propaganda EVER (otherwise known as the movie 'knocked up')
and, finally, wordle of a journal entry all about why i let god in my life
wordle of my poem 'to nicholas'
wordle of 'live and die' the poem i wrote to anne sexton
wordle of another poem of mine: vice
wordle of a blog i wrote after watching the most god-awful poorly disguised piece of anti-choice propaganda EVER (otherwise known as the movie 'knocked up')
and, finally, wordle of a journal entry all about why i let god in my life
proud new owner of a wordle
thanks be to the great curator of trailerfulloftunes.blogspot.com...the best online museum of wandering and shutter-bugging the net has to offer...
it's itty bitty teeny tiny so click on it to experience its true coolness...
it's itty bitty teeny tiny so click on it to experience its true coolness...
impersonating martha graham
The word 'Olympics' is running amuck all across the guide page on my tv. i put the games on; i dont even know why really. i'm not interested in 98% of the sports being played; but i cant have silence around me when im down here all alone at night. i gotta have something murmuring in the background just so i dont sit here counting the beats of my own heart. somehow the olympics is the perfect air-filler for me right now; and there's always the hope that something truly historic will happen while im watching (or more appropriately, listening)....one of those 'where were you when' kind of moments...i suppose phelps' warp-speed world record shots back and forth thru water qualify as something like that. the man is a fish with lungs. its almost as if the water gets out of the way when it sees him coming--seeing the sheets of liquid skimming his back as he races is pretty incredible...
the women's gymnastics team final wrapped up a little earlier. we got the silver--oh joy. i dont really watch to see who will win. i watch for the sheer awe it inspires in me. i have always been one to have deep respect--and even a little jealousy--for those who are able to hone their bodies into true living machines capable of impossible miracles of movement. training for years so your muscles explode with power and stretch on demand until you get to the point where gravity means nothing to you. you can hurl yourself twisting into the air and still find your feet when you choose to come down. you can perform magic tricks with nothing but a bar or a few rings or a good, solid, clear floor before you. your body becomes an instrument--your limbs, your bones are tuned to defy physics and the supposed limits of human anatomy. what is it like to have space in the palm of your hand like that? to command your body through it as you please--the air at your mercy as you slice thru it at every possible angle, scissor blades for legs, machetes for arms.
ive fallen so far out of touch with my body. i miss dance the way i miss everyone and everything else that is dead to me. ive lost flexibility and strength--the ability to imagine a shape and command myself to make that shape with nothing but my own bones and flesh. to leave the floor whenever i want--getting just a few feet closer to the zenith before landing silently to cut lines thru the landscape with the tips of my pointed toes. in dance, you do not 'do' art, you become it--sculpture after fleeting sculpture--with every new second, another new movement is born and dies on the floor to allow the next and the next. you cannot frame it. you cannot fold it between the pages of a book. filming it just captures the images--the energy escapes all documentation. the only place it leaves its mark is on the heart of the performer, and the soul of the one who looks on. there are no archives for dance. no keepsakes, no copies, no templates. every dance that has ever been danced before has only been done that one time and never again. even if the same steps are repeated--it's the body behind the steps, the moment that claims the steps, the particular position of the blood in your veins--the heart in mid beat.
dance is physical prayer. and like all prayers, it drifts upwards after it's done, riding air currents stretching into space before it finds rest within the swirl that composes the ear of God. and there it stays, never to know the earth again.
...wow, what a tangent that was. actually, it's nothing for me...
the women's gymnastics team final wrapped up a little earlier. we got the silver--oh joy. i dont really watch to see who will win. i watch for the sheer awe it inspires in me. i have always been one to have deep respect--and even a little jealousy--for those who are able to hone their bodies into true living machines capable of impossible miracles of movement. training for years so your muscles explode with power and stretch on demand until you get to the point where gravity means nothing to you. you can hurl yourself twisting into the air and still find your feet when you choose to come down. you can perform magic tricks with nothing but a bar or a few rings or a good, solid, clear floor before you. your body becomes an instrument--your limbs, your bones are tuned to defy physics and the supposed limits of human anatomy. what is it like to have space in the palm of your hand like that? to command your body through it as you please--the air at your mercy as you slice thru it at every possible angle, scissor blades for legs, machetes for arms.
ive fallen so far out of touch with my body. i miss dance the way i miss everyone and everything else that is dead to me. ive lost flexibility and strength--the ability to imagine a shape and command myself to make that shape with nothing but my own bones and flesh. to leave the floor whenever i want--getting just a few feet closer to the zenith before landing silently to cut lines thru the landscape with the tips of my pointed toes. in dance, you do not 'do' art, you become it--sculpture after fleeting sculpture--with every new second, another new movement is born and dies on the floor to allow the next and the next. you cannot frame it. you cannot fold it between the pages of a book. filming it just captures the images--the energy escapes all documentation. the only place it leaves its mark is on the heart of the performer, and the soul of the one who looks on. there are no archives for dance. no keepsakes, no copies, no templates. every dance that has ever been danced before has only been done that one time and never again. even if the same steps are repeated--it's the body behind the steps, the moment that claims the steps, the particular position of the blood in your veins--the heart in mid beat.
dance is physical prayer. and like all prayers, it drifts upwards after it's done, riding air currents stretching into space before it finds rest within the swirl that composes the ear of God. and there it stays, never to know the earth again.
...wow, what a tangent that was. actually, it's nothing for me...
dandelions
this is something i wrote a while back in response to a bible excerpt put before us to contemplate on one of the UCC's internet forums. it's just another way of thinking of the point i was trying to make yesterday with my boys and their coloring...so i thought it deserved a place here:
“..Jesus said, ‘I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants; yes, Father, for such was your gracious will.’” (MAT 11:25-7)
When I read this passage, I can’t help but think of my own two boys. One is almost 3 and the other is 15 months old and they do nothing but teach me so much about what I fail to miss in this world. When my oldest sees a dandelion growing in the green midst of our lawn, he just HAS to stoop down, mesmerized by the tangy bright yellow interrupting all those grass blades. He sees a ‘boootiful fower!’ (to put it in his words). But as an adult, all I see is a nasty weed messing up my yard. And I think that speaks to the fundamental difference between kids and adults.
Kids appreciate things as they are. They are not worried about diagrams or schedules or patterns; they don’t try to force the rest of the world to fit into their own prescribed boundaries. They let life spill out all over them. They scream when they need to scream. They crack up in unbridled laughter when they find something funny. They are not worried what other people think of them. They have not yet acquired the self-consciousness and the obsessive need for control that adults are always constantly railing against.
In the eyes of children, everything is new and fascinating and has its own gifts to bring—and that’s all that matters. As adults, we get so bogged down into categorizing and theorizing and over-thinking and needing to know how and why and when and where. Children have not yet lost the ability to see miracles for what they are—and those miracles can take the tiniest form—a butterfly landing on a window pane; the ripple caused by underwater toe-wiggling; wind kicking the leaves back onto the path that leads to your door. When we see leaves on our sidewalk, we think ‘oh great now I gotta get the rake again.’ But a kid thinks ‘yay, it’s crunching time.’ A dandelion sends me into the shed digging for the weed-b-gone, but before I can even find the bottle, my son has already plucked it from the grass, completely enamored of all those gorgeous colorful folds. It causes him no stress. It’s yet another opportunity for discovery. And maybe that’s part of what Jesus is getting at when he mentions those infants.
“..Jesus said, ‘I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants; yes, Father, for such was your gracious will.’” (MAT 11:25-7)
When I read this passage, I can’t help but think of my own two boys. One is almost 3 and the other is 15 months old and they do nothing but teach me so much about what I fail to miss in this world. When my oldest sees a dandelion growing in the green midst of our lawn, he just HAS to stoop down, mesmerized by the tangy bright yellow interrupting all those grass blades. He sees a ‘boootiful fower!’ (to put it in his words). But as an adult, all I see is a nasty weed messing up my yard. And I think that speaks to the fundamental difference between kids and adults.
Kids appreciate things as they are. They are not worried about diagrams or schedules or patterns; they don’t try to force the rest of the world to fit into their own prescribed boundaries. They let life spill out all over them. They scream when they need to scream. They crack up in unbridled laughter when they find something funny. They are not worried what other people think of them. They have not yet acquired the self-consciousness and the obsessive need for control that adults are always constantly railing against.
In the eyes of children, everything is new and fascinating and has its own gifts to bring—and that’s all that matters. As adults, we get so bogged down into categorizing and theorizing and over-thinking and needing to know how and why and when and where. Children have not yet lost the ability to see miracles for what they are—and those miracles can take the tiniest form—a butterfly landing on a window pane; the ripple caused by underwater toe-wiggling; wind kicking the leaves back onto the path that leads to your door. When we see leaves on our sidewalk, we think ‘oh great now I gotta get the rake again.’ But a kid thinks ‘yay, it’s crunching time.’ A dandelion sends me into the shed digging for the weed-b-gone, but before I can even find the bottle, my son has already plucked it from the grass, completely enamored of all those gorgeous colorful folds. It causes him no stress. It’s yet another opportunity for discovery. And maybe that’s part of what Jesus is getting at when he mentions those infants.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
blue crayon
the dishwasher lurches and swishes its water against the crusted-over kitchen ware i shoved inside it--my half-assed attempt at housewifery for the day. the floor here in the kitchen is littered with construction paper-- be-scribbled reds, pinks, blues, and yellows hiding the boring beigy vinyl underneath. my kids love to color their world and many a broken crayon lay on top of the paper as a testament. my son nicholas isnt interested in form or content when he draws. all he cares about is the color--he names each one as he picks it up in his hand and then scribbles with it so hard it cracks in half. julian is just fascinated by the fact that he can make marks with the weird little sticks in his hand--and he gives the paper a good line and a jab or two before the crayon heads to the destination that every object in a baby's hand usually finds itself: his mouth.
that's why i love watching my kids do what they do. not a single thought of theirs is spent on structure. babies dont have to force things to mean something the way grown-ups do. they take things for what they are. a blue crayon is just that--blue. it doesnt have to be sadness or sky or a bruise or a code. it can just be wild streaks across some torn paper. that's the simplicity and utter openness with which babies approach their world. fascination and captivity results from every curious and foreign object they come across. i love the wonder that only the very young are able to possess--when everything is still new because you're still new. it's too bad that those are the days we don't have the capacity to remember. just imagine how much different people would be if we could all remember our first few years out of the womb.
that's why i love watching my kids do what they do. not a single thought of theirs is spent on structure. babies dont have to force things to mean something the way grown-ups do. they take things for what they are. a blue crayon is just that--blue. it doesnt have to be sadness or sky or a bruise or a code. it can just be wild streaks across some torn paper. that's the simplicity and utter openness with which babies approach their world. fascination and captivity results from every curious and foreign object they come across. i love the wonder that only the very young are able to possess--when everything is still new because you're still new. it's too bad that those are the days we don't have the capacity to remember. just imagine how much different people would be if we could all remember our first few years out of the womb.
Monday, August 11, 2008
unawake but not sleeping
the sun has reached the top of its daily arc across the sky, and now it's just starting to slide downward, back to its bed hidden somewhere below the horizon. i am unrested--heavy lids over dry eyes that spend far too much time open. 5 am was my bedtime--only a few hours of sleep got into me, not nearly enough to get the lethargy out of my bones. so i sit here now, in stained track pants, with poptart crumbs on my eagles hoody and still a mouthful of pepsi left in my glass, and i stare at the air in front of my eyes, allowing my fingers to tapdance across this keyboard, rambling about nothing in particular.
i am nocturnal. the world is not. one of us has to change--no points for guessing who.
i am nocturnal. the world is not. one of us has to change--no points for guessing who.
The day needs more hours...
maybe one night, if i pray real hard, hopefully i'll get a chance to actually POST something on here. but it's not gonna be this night. tomorrow teases me with promise--but that's what it always does. well, at least i have a good supply of tomorrows yet to come (knock on head, i.e. wood); i just gotta get better about filling them up with more life and less existence.
and right now, the minute flicks--and there's a new day gestating in the dark. so let me crawl under some sheets and give it time to grow until newborn sunrays stretch themselves across my (hopefully) well-rested form.
and right now, the minute flicks--and there's a new day gestating in the dark. so let me crawl under some sheets and give it time to grow until newborn sunrays stretch themselves across my (hopefully) well-rested form.
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