 |
| take a seat and read!
This short film is 100% worth your fifteen minutes. Absolutely mesmerizing and human. As I Am resonates deeply with me because what I am most concerned with lately is what lack of connection- a human network of ancestors and community and support- is doing to us.
Listen to an interview with some writers from my publisher Shebooks on NPR
This essay resonated with me, I really like the voice and is just a good, brain biting read. Dear Friend, from My Life I write To You In Your Life
This is a very informative interview with Dr. Lustig who gave a well known lecture 'Sugar, the Bitter Truth' and has a book out. I am really working to balance my blood sugar better.
It's soooo, so good to read about people becoming activists, even if they are taking off their shirts to do so. I loved this article on Femen, a new protest group formed in the Ukraine. And if you are going to be naked, that girl's breasts are absolutely beautiful. I guess the fact that I comment on that is both the benefit and problem of using nudity for attention- it got attention, and here I am talking about it, but in the next breath talking about breasts.
I just very happily discovered Civil Coping Mechanisms, a 'selection of innovative literature and poetry'
Do you know Ram Dass? I watched a documentary about him on Netflix and then read about him online, finding his website. Try this: Dying is Absolutely Safe
My newest Budget Fashionista is How To Dress Like A Hipster On The Cheap -gives you links to hipster clothing on a poor man's budget
My friend Danielle writes a beautiful mother comfort for a friend who lost her baby, Solace
I have an enormous respect and interest in Hanna Rosin, I read everything she writes. She has a sharp, embracing intelligence and her writing is always brimming with important news and ideas that she puts together in a cohesive way. This essay Letting Go of Asperger's is a personal one about her son.
In Purple Clover, Aliza Worthington writes about her experience with anti-depressants.
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Friday, February 28, 2014
People In Your Neighborhood
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
love is captured for a moment
my cells, your cells, for what we are we are together
my heart, your heart, for what we love we love forever.
Monday, February 24, 2014
An Easy Way To Make A Difference: Help Save The Bees
My friend Dena Rash Guzman, the poet and entrepreneur extraordinaire, has taken a deep abiding interest in the plight of bees- and the resulting, devastating effect on our entire planet- and turned it into a mighty advocacy. Meet the Lusted Road Honey Co. & Pollinator Conservatory fundraiser on Indiegogo!!!
This is no bullshit. This is a real, serious and informed effort to start a bee colony conservatory on the beautiful Oregon lands where Dena lives. Look, all the important, persuasive information is on the site, as well as a beautiful video and photos of the conservatory.
There are also some truly awesome packages as perks for the varying levels of contributors.
Dena has a broad reaching plan which includes, among other things, hiring disabled people to work at the bee conservatory for a livable wage. There is really a reason for every one of us to care about this. Take a look!!
Thursday, February 20, 2014
In Memory of Blaine
the jackal and coyote and starve eyed owl
wet footed on the bank of our preserved town.
the moon rises silently and full,
a crease left where pressure once was.
i think of this boy, he was nineteen. my god.
my oldest son also nineteen, his friend
beautiful boy, dark long lashes, dark tousled hair.
now we know-
what do we know, again?
this boy, he was nineteen.
his older brothers, they died in a drunk driving crash.
now we know he-
what do we know, again?
this boy, he was nineteen
made himself beholden to those two losses,
curled up tight in the crash debris.
the stars penetrate, bright stabs of pain
his mother, his father. his mother, his father.
their mother, their father. their mother, their father.
let us rest in what we know, with only those words.
let us rest with them for a moment.
do they have to be so alone?
they had seven boy children, now they have four.
what do we know, again?
four children left with their brothers cells.
do those cells pull forever to be together,
is that the bond of family?
is it some kind of electronic tug-
this boy, he was nineteen.
he said goodnight to his brothers, and took his life.
took his life
where did he take it?
my son pulled his phone from his pocket,
shaking and sweating and crying.
look, this is what we were saying to each other,
he told us.
these are the things we told each other.
we answered him evenly as if his life depended on it-
love is the only thing that you could do
and you did.
love is the only thing to do now-
here it is.
i love you.
i send messages to people i've never met.
i tell them i am so sorry. i say i love you.
what do we know, again?
i tell them i love them.
they sit on the trembling edges of this town
with their children tucked to the wing.
coyotes and jackals and owls flutter
wet beaked and sharp toothed.
i wish i could take them to my heart
and feed them like baby birds.
this boy, he was nineteen.
wet footed on the bank of our preserved town.
the moon rises silently and full,
a crease left where pressure once was.
i think of this boy, he was nineteen. my god.
my oldest son also nineteen, his friend
beautiful boy, dark long lashes, dark tousled hair.
now we know-
what do we know, again?
this boy, he was nineteen.
his older brothers, they died in a drunk driving crash.
now we know he-
what do we know, again?
this boy, he was nineteen
made himself beholden to those two losses,
curled up tight in the crash debris.
the stars penetrate, bright stabs of pain
his mother, his father. his mother, his father.
their mother, their father. their mother, their father.
let us rest in what we know, with only those words.
let us rest with them for a moment.
do they have to be so alone?
they had seven boy children, now they have four.
what do we know, again?
four children left with their brothers cells.
do those cells pull forever to be together,
is that the bond of family?
is it some kind of electronic tug-
this boy, he was nineteen.
he said goodnight to his brothers, and took his life.
took his life
where did he take it?
my son pulled his phone from his pocket,
shaking and sweating and crying.
look, this is what we were saying to each other,
he told us.
these are the things we told each other.
we answered him evenly as if his life depended on it-
love is the only thing that you could do
and you did.
love is the only thing to do now-
here it is.
i love you.
i send messages to people i've never met.
i tell them i am so sorry. i say i love you.
what do we know, again?
i tell them i love them.
they sit on the trembling edges of this town
with their children tucked to the wing.
coyotes and jackals and owls flutter
wet beaked and sharp toothed.
i wish i could take them to my heart
and feed them like baby birds.
this boy, he was nineteen.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
tween spirit
Lola is a tween, a magical unicorn creature rarely glimpsed in this life, a time of her girlhood that is excruciatingly valuable, so that mindful parents keep an eye out for the scalpers, the ones who would pin her down, cut off the horn and Instagram their grinning faces with her white curled horn clutched in their hands.
A tween girl is a mighty vortex, an eye of the storm where little girl meets teen so that there is a closet full of American Girl dolls, each carefully dressed and tucked into bed, while the young girl who put them there now has armpit hair and a shapeless cotton bra. Some tweens have already been face planted into mimicking teenage behavior, either older siblings or coarse, neglectful parents or some damage has been done to create a driving need for the dress up of maturity: a focus on sexuality and boys, fierce verbal attacks on other girls, makeup and shaving and a committed ironic stance that coming from the baby face of a tween can break your old, embittered heart in two.
In our culture there are protective barriers in the physical world of tweens, in parents, teachers, even older protective siblings, but few protective barriers against the growing awareness- usually, most damagingly, without guidance- of our cultural mirrors for young girls. One minute the mirror tells them 'innocent' 'sweet' 'protected' 'funny' 'smart' 'charming', and then the mirror begins to say 'flirt' 'pretty' 'feminine' 'sexy' and confusingly, 'vulnerable'. Girls begin to sense certain older boys or even an occasional grown men looking at them with open interest, and a panicky, throat fluttering feeling has in its tiny wind stirred center a tiny thrill. Open Vogue or Mademoiselle or Elle and the ads with gap mouthed, mime panting, bent over, oil soaked, wet haired, lingerie clad girls often look, in face and form, as if they were 12 years old. They are long and lean and without curves except for the barest hint of breast buds, and their faces have just- you could see it go!- lost the fat pads of adolescence. On television you hear and see women fussing over these young girls as if they were purebred dogs to dress and parade. Mothers begin to project: she's not going to be fat, is she? Oh God, she has my nose… it was so hard to have that nose… Why does she always have wear her hair in that ridiculous clump? Fathers begin to withdraw: can you still sit on my lap? Are you still my little girl? Can I still tease you? And girls begin in these ways to be aware of their sexuality, a thing not yet freed from the frost, but that underneath the thin film of ice, feels the sun all the same.
Some of Lola's friends have become aware of their bodies in a critical, appraising way that so far, we have avoided. She does not, as a friend recently did, scorn the spread of her thigh as she crosses her leg, and she does not, as another friend has, wonder often what boys think she is pretty. She is still unconsciously accepting of herself. When she turned 11 and pre-puberty began, we had a handful of talks, long meandering talks, where anything that needed to come up and be looked at could. So we talked about it all and I did my best to be unselfconscious, open and accepting because this is what I want for my daughters. I did my best to be cheerful about it all, because this is also what I want for my daughters. Shame attaches itself like a barnacle to the consciousness of young people, and for a young girl, shame attached to your body or womanhood will never quite be shaken off or grown out of, but remains like a shadow twin, something we can acknowledge and write about and expose but that ultimately affects our experience of being female in a negative way. Something that I do not want for my daughters. Taking note of all I need to explain to her is exhausting at times, but her expressions of gratitude and relief later always let me know that it is is important. If I do not translate the way that culture transmogrifies and distorts female sexuality, no one will. If I do not explain why some mothers shame their daughters for their pimples or weight, no one will. If I do not point out how girls at this age can lose themselves- their brilliant, shining, energetic and awesome selves- to the ultimately backfiring, boring and reductive hunting of male attention, no one will. If I do not express how almost any way that a new healthy sexuality presents itself is normal, no one will. Young boys are often made to understand that masturbating is normal, for example, but these subjects are still often taboo for young girls, creating at a crucial moment a severe divide between men and women's equality.
The place where childhood girlhood innocence meets the first expression of teenage womanhood is brief and can be terribly tender and beautiful. Slumber parties of shrieking, laughing and scavenger hunts still end in the girls tangled together in sleeping bags, snoring, but they also can contain deep in the night whispered conversations about french kissing and getting your period. Tween time is when, in a healthy, open environment of support, a young girl can safety explore these new realities. Keeping our daughters safe from the unicorn poachers cannot mean cutting them off from magazines, the internet, T.V.- of course, those boundaries have to be decided on, and in my family we have them in place. But most of all it is the parent guide who can help the girl interpret the reflection of herself she is newly seeing that keeps her 'safe', meaning, keeps her from passively accepting those views. Ultimately the true beauty of tweenage years is in the choice to begin to define yourself.
A tween girl is a mighty vortex, an eye of the storm where little girl meets teen so that there is a closet full of American Girl dolls, each carefully dressed and tucked into bed, while the young girl who put them there now has armpit hair and a shapeless cotton bra. Some tweens have already been face planted into mimicking teenage behavior, either older siblings or coarse, neglectful parents or some damage has been done to create a driving need for the dress up of maturity: a focus on sexuality and boys, fierce verbal attacks on other girls, makeup and shaving and a committed ironic stance that coming from the baby face of a tween can break your old, embittered heart in two.
In our culture there are protective barriers in the physical world of tweens, in parents, teachers, even older protective siblings, but few protective barriers against the growing awareness- usually, most damagingly, without guidance- of our cultural mirrors for young girls. One minute the mirror tells them 'innocent' 'sweet' 'protected' 'funny' 'smart' 'charming', and then the mirror begins to say 'flirt' 'pretty' 'feminine' 'sexy' and confusingly, 'vulnerable'. Girls begin to sense certain older boys or even an occasional grown men looking at them with open interest, and a panicky, throat fluttering feeling has in its tiny wind stirred center a tiny thrill. Open Vogue or Mademoiselle or Elle and the ads with gap mouthed, mime panting, bent over, oil soaked, wet haired, lingerie clad girls often look, in face and form, as if they were 12 years old. They are long and lean and without curves except for the barest hint of breast buds, and their faces have just- you could see it go!- lost the fat pads of adolescence. On television you hear and see women fussing over these young girls as if they were purebred dogs to dress and parade. Mothers begin to project: she's not going to be fat, is she? Oh God, she has my nose… it was so hard to have that nose… Why does she always have wear her hair in that ridiculous clump? Fathers begin to withdraw: can you still sit on my lap? Are you still my little girl? Can I still tease you? And girls begin in these ways to be aware of their sexuality, a thing not yet freed from the frost, but that underneath the thin film of ice, feels the sun all the same.
Some of Lola's friends have become aware of their bodies in a critical, appraising way that so far, we have avoided. She does not, as a friend recently did, scorn the spread of her thigh as she crosses her leg, and she does not, as another friend has, wonder often what boys think she is pretty. She is still unconsciously accepting of herself. When she turned 11 and pre-puberty began, we had a handful of talks, long meandering talks, where anything that needed to come up and be looked at could. So we talked about it all and I did my best to be unselfconscious, open and accepting because this is what I want for my daughters. I did my best to be cheerful about it all, because this is also what I want for my daughters. Shame attaches itself like a barnacle to the consciousness of young people, and for a young girl, shame attached to your body or womanhood will never quite be shaken off or grown out of, but remains like a shadow twin, something we can acknowledge and write about and expose but that ultimately affects our experience of being female in a negative way. Something that I do not want for my daughters. Taking note of all I need to explain to her is exhausting at times, but her expressions of gratitude and relief later always let me know that it is is important. If I do not translate the way that culture transmogrifies and distorts female sexuality, no one will. If I do not explain why some mothers shame their daughters for their pimples or weight, no one will. If I do not point out how girls at this age can lose themselves- their brilliant, shining, energetic and awesome selves- to the ultimately backfiring, boring and reductive hunting of male attention, no one will. If I do not express how almost any way that a new healthy sexuality presents itself is normal, no one will. Young boys are often made to understand that masturbating is normal, for example, but these subjects are still often taboo for young girls, creating at a crucial moment a severe divide between men and women's equality.
The place where childhood girlhood innocence meets the first expression of teenage womanhood is brief and can be terribly tender and beautiful. Slumber parties of shrieking, laughing and scavenger hunts still end in the girls tangled together in sleeping bags, snoring, but they also can contain deep in the night whispered conversations about french kissing and getting your period. Tween time is when, in a healthy, open environment of support, a young girl can safety explore these new realities. Keeping our daughters safe from the unicorn poachers cannot mean cutting them off from magazines, the internet, T.V.- of course, those boundaries have to be decided on, and in my family we have them in place. But most of all it is the parent guide who can help the girl interpret the reflection of herself she is newly seeing that keeps her 'safe', meaning, keeps her from passively accepting those views. Ultimately the true beauty of tweenage years is in the choice to begin to define yourself.
Monday, February 17, 2014
My Article on The Broad Side About Vaccinations:
Please come read and comment on my article up at The Broad Side. I spent a lot of time researching and putting together what I believe is a very important story. Part of the story itself is how the press completely ignored the entire thing because of, as happened with the scientists themselves, the fear that public will react by not vaccinating. In other words, we are having our news curated for us because maybe we aren't smart enough to understand what to do with the information we are being told.
Read and comment and if you think it's worth talking about, please share. Let's get talking.
Read and comment and if you think it's worth talking about, please share. Let's get talking.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
this profile is no longer available
the detritus of online profiles long left behind
faces you don't recognize,
selfies from an old life.
smoking you denied,
the time you put up a half naked photo
the CIA will see if they google your name.
a tiny dot dot dot that left things in air
the sense of everything in a vortex,
everything swallowed by the maw of net
in the ocean rising above our heads.
the long month you only posted photos of your body
in shapes you named with curse words
or parts of the body 'vulva' and 'vascular anus',
the way your employer realizes you are
one of those creative types.
the long streams of type and font detailing
an abuse you endured,
the way your husband realizes you are
one of those damaged types.
a tiny poem you left years ago in a cradle
of no longer available,
that cries pathetically resurrected with the stroke
of a key.
the boyfriend who remains in over sexualized
posts and twee-ts that rise, damn zombies.
the unbearable tenderness of accounts closed
reminding us what we already know
nothing is ever closed or deleted or unreachable-
not in the human heart,
not in the worldwide web.
faces you don't recognize,
selfies from an old life.
smoking you denied,
the time you put up a half naked photo
the CIA will see if they google your name.
a tiny dot dot dot that left things in air
the sense of everything in a vortex,
everything swallowed by the maw of net
in the ocean rising above our heads.
the long month you only posted photos of your body
in shapes you named with curse words
or parts of the body 'vulva' and 'vascular anus',
the way your employer realizes you are
one of those creative types.
the long streams of type and font detailing
an abuse you endured,
the way your husband realizes you are
one of those damaged types.
a tiny poem you left years ago in a cradle
of no longer available,
that cries pathetically resurrected with the stroke
of a key.
the boyfriend who remains in over sexualized
posts and twee-ts that rise, damn zombies.
the unbearable tenderness of accounts closed
reminding us what we already know
nothing is ever closed or deleted or unreachable-
not in the human heart,
not in the worldwide web.
Friday, February 14, 2014
People In Your Neighborhood
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| take a seat and read! |
Maggie Estep died last week at age 50 from a massive heart attack. She was a famous ( in literary circles ) spoken word poet and her former lover and best friend wrote one of the most insightful, compassionate and fully formed remembrances I've ever read.
This essay by Emily Rapp, 'Los Angelitos' is just a gorgeous, enveloping experience of reading.
I think I'm on way to having this: Julie Metz writes about her experience with frozen shoulder.
Rolling Stones writes Animal Cruelty Is the Price We Pay For Cheap Meat. About four months ago, I started eating only humanely raised and killed meat. I care deeply and passionately about this issue and believe the way we raise and slaughter much of our meat will be, in the not too far future, be considered an embarrassing and upsetting part of our history. ( as it is now in my personal history ) There is no excuse for this kind of cruelty.
In the Chicago Tribune, a Shebooks author reviews Gina Frangello's book A Life In Men
These children are alive because somebody picked up a phone and called, despite their possible fears of retribution, of thinking 'maybe there is something I don't know', of thinking 'i don't want to be someone who meddles in others lives' or 'what if I'm wrong.' They took a chance for four children, and those four children are alive because they did.
Whenever one of these video essays on the way women are photoshopped comes out, I watch it with Lola and then discuss. Information is power.
I want to read this book and this book
The photos of Eudora Welty
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Work Anxiety, Grateful Anyhow
My body is not co-operating. The body: I am alternately overly identified with my physical self and alarmingly detached from the freckles and fat, breast and butt, hair and yellowed teeth, bones and beating heart that allow me to do what humans usually do- experience the world through touch, taste, sound, sight, my feet on the ground, my arms around hers, food in my mouth, the hot car door underneath my cold, hypothryoid stricken fingers. I am exhausted, getting through my normal five day a week workouts has become very hard, my muscles ache, my fingers are swollen, IBS has cropped up again and I am in general just not vibrant with health.
Mr. Curry began gluten free about two weeks ago and I am SO DAMN PROUD OF HIM. After reading Grain Brain, I asked him if he would try it, mainly to see if we could affect the bipolar in a positive way, and he said yes. He's doing it 100% and can feel a positive difference, even though he is having horrible cravings. I am GF with him, although I am 95% and not 100%. I have something with gluten maybe twice a week, like a bagel once and a bowl of cereal another time. For the most part, I feed my family healthy fats and proteins alongside fruits, nuts and vegetables. I am obsessed with KIND bars- I eat one every morning with coffee.
I think that the terror over losing my paying day job ( the little girl I watched moved away ) and being, so far, unable to replace it, is manifesting in my body. Although I do not feel panicked, I feel constant, thrumming anxiety find a job make money find a job make money. I apply to at least one writing job a day, which is all I have time for. The cover letter takes a half hour to an hour to write, crafted for that specific job, then attach resume and links, hit send, never hear a peep from them again. Repeat. I have a number of online resources for writing jobs that I am suited for, which is more than I can say for the last time I attempted this. Meanwhile, I continue writing for pay for two publications, submitting freelance articles and essays and various others- like the grant I applied for a few weeks ago. It's for writers ( or other types of artists, they have four categories, I believe ) with children under age 18 who need financial help. I send the first 25 pages of my novel ( their specific request ) and spent two hours filling out their application, hit send, wait. The publications and acceptances do keep coming in a steady- although not fast paced and exciting- stream, and that is extremely gratifying.
I am insanely in love and enamored with Ever, as is Mr. Curry and really all our other kids, too. She's just a fireball of opinions and cuteness and funny sayings and has a cinnamon dashing of freckles along her nose and cheeks that slay me. I feel incredibly lucky and joyful that I am with her all day and all night, as I was with the other kids…the feeling of luckiness never goes away, even when I'm down, I look at her and am so grateful that I am her mother, and that I can teach her as I see fit in these formative years. She is KILLER polite, and I am proud of that. In public she says 'excuse me' if she's in someone's way, or 'sorry' if she bumps into someone, and before petting any dog does as she was instructed and approaches the adult, saying in her squeak voice: 'Excuse me? Can I pet your dog?' People always gush about her manners and she looks very smug. The smugness of toddlers is so funny.
The other day I said to her, after a mistake ' Oh that's OK honey, it's not your fault. '
And very seriously she replied ' I know mommy. It's your fault. Everything is your fault!'
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