Postmodern Vagabond

The Petition for Tolerance on Route 51

2008-04-17T06:50:00.011-05:00

The petition to promote tolerance on Route 51 is now online.

If you care about issues of prejudice and acceptance, please sign it -- even if you are outside the Central Illinois area. Showing opposition to prejudice is important, wherever you live -- and I would appreciate your support.

A note on inspiration: This photo of Eva Kor and me was taken on April 7th, during a visit Mrs. Kor made to Pana High School to talk about her experience of the Holocaust. Mrs. Kor was a young girl when she and her family were taken by train to Auschwitz; she and her twin sister were separated from the rest of the family, and the two girls were allowed to live -- as human test subjects for the sadistic Dr. Mengele.

Mrs. Kor and her sister ultimately survived the Holocaust -- and over time, Mrs. Kor began to tell their story publicly. She also formed an organization to connect surviving "Mengele twins" to each other; that group became the CANDLES Museum and Education Center (Children of Auschwitz Deadly Lab Experiments Survivors). She remains a strong advocate for human rights and -- perhaps surprisingly -- an advocate for forgiveness.

Mrs. Kor suggested that concerned citizens in our town should create a petition to show that the prejudice on Route 51 does not represent our community's values. This petition is -- in many ways -- in honour of her bravery and her decades of human rights activism. And she was kind enough to be its first signatory.

Antisemitic Propaganda on Route 51

2008-04-08T23:42:00.002-05:00

I first saw this propaganda on Easter Sunday, while driving home from a family gathering. I returned to the site -- the edge of a field along Route 51 in Central Illinois -- on March 29th, bringing a camera for documentation.

The words on the signs are written in chalk, so the message changes occasionally, though there is often an antisemitic agenda. On March 29th, the series of ten signs displayed this message:

JEW BANKSTERS
STOLE USA
THRU
FED RESV
+ USURY
GOD'S LAW
ON URUSY
& INTEREST
DEATH
A-FACT FOLKS

~ * ~

Despite this area's complicated history, I believe these hateful words do not reflect the opinions of most community members.

As awareness of the signs has grown, acts of resistance have occurred. An area minister sent a letter condemning the signs and calling for tolerance; other (anonymous) people have engaged in acts of civil disobedience, erasing and dismantling the signs.

~ * ~

As for me: I prefer organized (and legal) opposition.

I am mobilizing local residents who want to denounce this bigotry -- and raise awareness of the need for tolerance.

If you would like to be kept informed about this process -- or if you can help in any way -- please comment on this post.

Or, if you're more comfortable contacting me privately, please e-mail me: erin.klee@yahoo.com

4,000 Dead American Soldiers -- and Michael Massing's Question: "Who Fights and Why?"

2008-03-29T00:42:00.002-05:00

Last week, the death toll for American soldiers serving in Iraq reached 4,000. While this milestone is hardly surprising – it became clear in recent months that the prospect of 4,000 American deaths was not an “if,” but rather a “when” – the news disturbed me. I found myself thinking about the men and women who have died in combat, asking myself: Who were these people? And what compelled them to enlist?

In the current issue of the New York Review of Books, Michael Massing proposes some answers. His article (entitled “The Volunteer Army: Who Fights and Why?”) largely dispels the cliché of patriotic Americans enlisting for altruistic purposes. In place of this platitude, Massing reveals a more complex (and often disturbing) view of the men and women who fight our wars.

~ * ~

Massing’s article begins with brief summaries of books written by US soldiers and published within the past three years. The memoirs are Colby Buzzell’s My War: Killing Time in Iraq, Kayla Williams’ Love My Rifle More Than You: Young and Female in the US Army, and Joshua Key’s The Deserter's Tale: The Story of an Ordinary Soldier Who Walked Away from the War in Iraq. While the soldiers’ reasons for enlisting varied, Massing’s summary offered disquieting perspective:

“In these books, the idea of joining the military to defend America or uphold its values is largely absent. Rather, these soldiers signed up to escape dead-end jobs, failed relationships, broken families, bills, toothaches, and boredom. The armed forces offered a haven from the struggles and strains of life in modern-day America, a place to gain security and skills, discipline and self-esteem.”

Reluctant to ascribe the motivations of these three to the other soldiers currently serving, Massing traveled to Watertown, a town of 27,000 in upstate New York, to interview Army soldiers stationed at Fort Drum.

~ * ~

Watertown resembles many small American towns; once relatively prosperous, its economy tanked with the decline of the industrial sector. Now chain retail stores (Home Depot, Best Buy, Target) join ubiquitous food establishments (TGI Friday’s, Denny’s, and Starbucks) in employing low-wage workers. Fort Drum has become a crucial part of the town’s economy; it provides jobs for many local residents, and the soldiers stationed at the base patronize the town’s businesses.

It was in these businesses – the “bars, restaurants, and one of the area’s three Wal-Marts” – that Massing conducted interviews with enlisted personnel. (He also interviewed soldiers he found in a church and in a military-supply store.) Massing claims to have interviewed “about thirty soldiers,” and he refers to twelve in his article. Of these, five are identified by name; seven are cited obliquely: “the forty-year-old black woman from rural Georgia,” “the twenty-six-year-old college graduate from Maine,” “a soft-spoken thirty-four-year-old second lieutenant,” etc. Surprisingly, whether soldiers chose to be identified by name appears to have made little difference as to how critical (or positive) they were about their Army experiences.

Overall, the perspective of many soldiers interviewed by Massing are strikingly similar to the viewpoints of the three authors cited earlier in this article. Many enlisted because they were unable to find well-paid jobs in the private sector, or because they believed the military’s GI Bill was their best option for financing college educations. Others appeared to more equally weigh altruism and self-interest. After quoting a soldier who cited the September 11th attacks as his motive for enlisting, Massing elaborates on his impression of that young man and compares him to other soldiers he met:

“Of all the soldiers I met in Watertown, no other spoke with more conviction. Yet as we talked, he acknowledged that there was another reason for his decision: he hoped to make a career in law enforcement, and joining the Army would, he felt, help. So, even in this case, where patriotic concerns loomed large, considerations of self-improvement played a part as well. Among most of the other soldiers I spoke with, such considerations overwhelmed everything else. Over and over, I heard soldiers talk about being hard-pressed to pay the rent, of having a child and being without health care, of yearning to escape a depressing town or oppressive family, of wanting to get out and see the world.”

Military recruiters are attuned to these circumstances; as they struggle to meet their recruitment goals, they offer increasingly-compelling incentives.

~ * ~

Financial rewards for new soldiers are standard in military recruitment, but the value of these bonuses has increased sharply in the past year:

“Last July, after a two-month slump in recruiting, the Army introduced a $20,000 ‘quick-ship’ bonus for enlistees willing to report to training camp within thirty days. In just three weeks, more than 3,800 recruits—92 percent of the total—accepted it. With the addition of other enticements based on job skills and education, new enlistees can earn up to $40,000 in signing bonuses.”

Reenlistment bonuses for officers are also rising:

“Fed up with the constant disruptions to their private lives, these battle-experienced junior officers have been leaving in record numbers, and the Pentagon, desperate to stop them, has begun offering $35,000 reenlistment bonuses. So far, it hasn't helped.”

Despite high financial incentives, the quality of applicants is declining:

“In 2007, 11 percent of all new recruits received ‘moral waivers’ for being in trouble with the law—double the proportion in 2003. Over that same period, the proportion of enlistees who had finished high school fell from 90 to 71 percent—the lowest level in twenty-five years.”

~ * ~

All of this paints a disturbing image of the average American soldier – and the reasons why they fight. In some economically-depressed regions, a $40,000 enlistment bonus is equivalent to more than two years’ wages; with such high stakes, it is not surprising that some Americans find the money irresistible. But the question I find myself asking – one Massing did not explicitly ask – is this: If soldiers are bribed to enlist, can we still claim a “volunteer” force?

We do not have a legislated draft as we did during Vietnam (so paid military service can still be termed “voluntary”), but I believe we now exploit an economic one. This economic draft exploits the youth of disadvantaged families, offering a quick fix for pecuniary hardships many struggle to escape.

The result? We continue to fill our “volunteer” force with young people who have few other options for success. Through bribes and exploitation, we turn disadvantaged youth into mercenaries who are willing to fight a war the rich will not.

~ * ~

Last summer, on a train from Chicago, I met a young man who (unknowingly) illustrated much of what I think is wrong with our military. We had been sitting near each other for a while before I glanced up from the novel I had been reading and saw him, dressed in Army fatigues, looking at me. We smiled, introduced ourselves, and were soon talking about the obvious – though awkward – topic: the war and its impact on his life.

He told me he had recently completed his basic training; he had been sent home to visit family before his scheduled deployment to Iraq. When I asked him why he’d joined the military, he initially mumbled something about September 11th; a few minutes later, he added that he really needed a good job… and he thought that, with the Army’s help, he might even attend college someday. When I asked how he felt about being deployed to a war zone, he described war as his “duty” – only admitting much later that he was terrified. He felt afraid of dying – and even more afraid of being sent home an amputee. He even conceded that he thought America’s intervention in Iraq was “wrong” – but insisted he would go to Iraq anyway. He would fight – because by enlisting, he had promised he would.

At one point, he noticed his bootlace had come untied; as he tugged the ends to tighten them, the lace broke in half. He became quite agitated, and I didn’t understand why. As he fumbled with the lace, he explained: As part of his uniform, he was required to carry spare laces, but he had none with him that day. If his broken lace were seen by a military officer, he could be reprimanded…

I suggested some options. (He could knot the broken ends together near one of the eyelets… or use each piece to lace through half the eyelets, tying two bows.) But he didn’t understand; he just stared at the boot and its broken lace, cursing.

Some minutes later, he had retied his boot and we continued talking, disagreeing often (though respectfully). Again and again, I saw the absent-minded touch of his fingers on the awkward bootlace knot… and then the anxious grimace on his face. As the train reached my destination, we did not exchange contact information. We just said goodbye.

I have since forgotten his name, but I vividly remember his panic over the broken bootlace and his inability to find a quick solution. And while I cannot prove he is an “average” soldier, I think young men like him – well-intentioned but ineffective – are increasingly prevalent in our overextended military.

To its enlisted soldiers, the military inculcates obedience – blind submission to the authority of commanding officers. It rarely instills the confidence or skills that would embolden low-ranking GIs to think for themselves. It’s a classic strategy – and has typically worked in past wars – but I believe that as the context of war has shifted, this method of dogmatic compliance has yielded counter-productive results.

How can we expect to win a war which – because of the guerilla tactics used by insurgents – requires soldiers who must quickly react to changing conditions on Baghdad’s streets? With a military increasingly comprised of high school dropouts and common delinquents, can we possibly succeed?

Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

2008-03-28T19:47:00.000-05:00

Driving in the country this afternoon, I saw a chicken – yes, an actual live chicken – pecking the grass at the end of a farmhouse lane.

To the best of my knowledge, the chicken never tried to cross the road... reducing the risk of existential questions.

Along the Harbour, Near Dusk

2007-08-15T22:06:00.000-05:00

On My Knees: a "public divorce ceremony" by Cathy Gordon

2007-08-12T11:48:00.000-05:00

A quick heads-up for anyone in Toronto: Cathy Gordon, a close friend and colleague, will be crawling across the city -- on her hands and knees -- on Monday, August 13th.

Cathy is a very gifted artist, and this should be a particularly interesting project. All I'll say for now is that I'll be there -- and I encourage anyone reading this in Toronto to see it.

For more information, please visit her website -- www.cathygordon.com -- and check out the article in today's Toronto Star newspaper: An Extremely Public Divorce.

--------------------

(Photo is from Cathy's website.)

The Simplicity of a Child's Acceptance

2007-08-10T00:21:00.000-05:00

I had of the loveliest couple of hours this afternoon, sharing a lingering patio coffee with a sweet friend... and then an even lovelier hour or so, meeting his young son for the first time and frolicking in the park.

My friend's son chased pigeons -- with great glee and little success -- and we all howled with laughter. Later, our talks turned to dragons and unicorns... the shapes of planes and helicopters... and the intricate beadwork of a kitschy Chinatown frog.

My favorite moment was one of the simplest. After the pigeon-chasing, as we walked toward the street, the boy took his father's hand. A moment later, beaming, he reached his other tiny hand toward me.

We walked for blocks like that, talking and laughing. Later this evening, walking home on my own, I remembered my friend's smile and his son's giddy laughter -- and felt such gratitude for this day.

"I Drew a Map of Canada, with Your Face Sketched on it Twice..."

2007-07-31T12:38:00.000-05:00

I sit in full lotus on the grimy station floor, little white headphones in my ears... humming Joni Mitchell as I wait to board the London train.

I feel happy.

I am still leading a surreal life -- hovering between nations and suitcases (linen skirts and poetry). I feel content here, in this state of suspension -- more content to hover than to land.

But it seems I am landing -- gracefully, like a weightless dancer -- in the second land I've grown to love; Ariel has asked me to return to Toronto in October -- to love and live with him -- and I have agreed.

For several months now, I have been thinking about the nature of love -- feeling gratitude for my loves (past and present). I've grown so much with them, and in such unexpected ways -- just as I have also grown (in different but harmonious ways) in the spectrum of my solitude.

I'm agnostic, with no desire for illusions of god, fate, or destiny. I do not believe in "soul mates" -- cannot imagine that each person has only one partner they are somehow "meant" to find. I simply believe in the love, friendship, and trust that two people can mutually construct over months and years. I believe in passion -- and (atheistic) transcendence.

And I know of at least two men who feel like part of me -- who I love more deeply than my jagged tongue can say. Each man is so much of what I want (close friends... romantic lovers... intuitive artists... trusted companions...) and so much more than I had really hoped to find.

There is no right choice here -- and no wrong one.

The fallacy is in the choice itself: the insistence of monogamy, the dichotomy of "lover" and "friend," and the fear that imposes limits on ineffable love.

To the one I couldn't choose: I love you. I do. And I'm sorry...

9:48 PM: On a Bus Bound for Toronto

2007-07-29T22:48:00.000-05:00

I am living up to my "postmodern vagabond" nature: flitting between Toronto and London (Ontario), a few days in each place, living out of suitcases and backpacks. Much to my delight, each time I travel I feel compelled to bring fewer items with me.

Years ago, I could not "travel light." I carried thick binders of creative notes: sketches for paintings... new stanzas of poetry... pages of in-progress theatre scripts... collages and mixed-media journal entries... and sentimental relics from people I'd met during my journeys.

And now: an electronic revolution!

A modest library of music CDs (and a series of French-language lessons) fits onto a player the size of a deck of cards. My photographs (and some raw video footage for a short film I'm brainstorming) fit on a tiny memory card in my camera; most of my other creative projects are on a laptop computer. With the exception of a bulging folder of random text (scrawled on coffee-splotched napkins and the thin white borders of newspapers), most of my creative life is now digital. As a result, the weight of my creativity is a mind-bending eight pounds...

Butterflies and Gnawing Locusts

2007-07-21T00:59:00.000-05:00

After six months apart, we met on a park bench.

I sat in the sun, a flowing pink skirt brushing against my calves; he arrived with a guitar case slung over his shoulder.

We embraced.

And then -- what exactly?

It's so difficult to say...

We spent seven hours together.

He played a few songs...

We shared a picnic on the top of a hill in Riverdale Park (fresh multigrain bread, seasoned olives, Canadian brie, and smoked fish) while children tossed baseballs to each other on the fields below...

We trekked through the Don Valley, charting new paths...

We argued -- as we so often did.

But we stayed -- as we also often did -- and found points of connection: the words unsaid, and the real sense of words we'd each spoken.

I am learning to live with less certainty -- and more trust.

Pigeon-feeding, Popular Culture, and Echoes of the Freemasons

2007-07-19T00:59:00.000-05:00

I intended to take a ballet class tonight -- but as I was stuffing my workout clothes into my backpack, a friend called to invite me to dinner. With my calves already sore, and already feeling a bit hungry and rushed, I pulled the workout clothes out of my bag and hopped on the subway to meet him for Thai food.

Emerging at Yonge and Bloor, I found a strange woman with a shopping cart piled with buckets of birdseed. As she sprinkled seeds on the sidewalk, she cooed at the pigeons and began speaking to them -- affectionately, it seemed -- in a language I couldn't understand.

Then -- with bellies full of mango chicken and green curry, I walked with my friend to a building on Yonge just North of Bloor: the headquarters of MTV Canada.

It's quite an exceptional space -- a former Masonic Temple that has been converted to various small TV studios. My friend (who runs lights for a few of the MTV shows) gave me a tour, and I snapped a few photos -- with a strange degree of trepidation.

Despite its conversion to a pop culture mecca, the building retains many original details -- which lend the space an incongruous sobriety. I felt like an interloper...

To see abandoned fragments of the masons' rituals, out of their formal context, felt surreal -- and perhaps even disrespectful. What right do I have to photograph the relics of the freemasons -- and to document something I do not understand?

So I've decided to do a bit of reading about the masons... and to go back again in the next few weeks.

I hope that a deeper awareness of their rituals may let me capture something I felt I couldn't really see tonight.

Poetry, Elliptical Orbits, and Heliocentric Lives

2007-07-18T00:52:00.000-05:00

This was a truly lovely day.

I saw Ewan, after he'd been away from the city for a few days... and it felt so nice to take his hand and wander around the Annex streets. We stopped to sit and talk beneath trees, on campus benches, and in a small courtyard with a chessboard inlaid into the concrete tabletop...

He's delightful.

I want more of this: more poetry, more kindness... more afternoons with dark chocolate... more moments of connection, of slowly drawing each other back to the sun...

Iran, Afghanistan, and Remembered History

2007-07-14T17:06:00.000-05:00

I wasn't looking for conversation; I just stepped into the Persian carpet store to pet the cat that was sleeping on a stack of wool rugs.

But as I hoisted myself up onto the top of the rug stack, I couldn't help but overhear a conversation between the store's owner, Ali, and an articulate woman with a British accent. They were talking about Iran -- and Iraq -- and Afghanistan.

I quickly shifted from a shy eavesdropper to an active participant. I learned that Ali had been born in Iran and spent most of his younger years in Kuwait; the woman (named Joy), had lived in at least three countries before immigrating to Canada. Their sense of history was impeccable, and they guided me through some recent history of the Middle East: the 1979 Iranian Revolution, various invasions of Afghanistan, and some information about oil reserves in Iraq. Joy recommended two books by Jason Elliot: An Unexpected Light and Mirrors of the Unseen -- Journeys in Iran.

In the most chilling part of the conversation, Ali described being pulled off the streets of an Iranian city for interrogation. Over the course of two hours, he was interrogated by 12 officers -- all under the (specious?) premise that he resembled a man who had passed a counterfeit travelers cheque...

As I left Ali's store and continued wandering through the market, I felt a wave of gratitude for my safety. Few can claim that the United States lives up to the democratic ideals of its founding (the US-led School of the Americas, also euphemistically known as the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation, has been a training centre for some of the most brutal Latin American dictators of the past forty years -- and who can hear of the Patriot Act without supressing a wary twitch?), but when I compare my safety in the US to this man's insecurity in Iran, I can't help but feel gratitude for my home.

--------------------

All of the photographs in this post are from Kensington Carpets (193 Baldwin Street) in Toronto.

David and Manjit at the Gladstone Hotel

2007-07-14T00:59:00.000-05:00

A few shots from David's wedding reception at the Glastone on Friday night...

"His Eye is on the Sparrow"

2007-07-12T17:48:00.000-05:00

We intersect at Bloor and Yonge: an accident on the corner. We watch medics pull bodies from broken glass. I try not to stare.

Fingers light on my wrist, you guide me down a quiet street. The barista greets you by name; you carry our lattes out the back, smiling over your shoulder from the fire escape.

I lean against the café wall beside the vent from the roaster (gentle smoke, deeply aromatic, arousing as any scent) and watch you pull a moleskin journal from your bag.

I am squinting in the sun as you recite Catullus – a translation you wrote this morning. Two millennia incarnate in your voice: gentle as the sparrow you tease from my breast, pecking wistful hands…

In your measured cadence, your sonorous voice, I hear us make love: rhythm of tides… ductility of gold… spinning of stars over hemispheres...

(I hear you moan, one octave below: content in my taste and your sweat.)

You’re closing the notebook, your hand touches mine, and we fly.

Injera, Four Used Paperbacks, and a Blues Bar

2007-07-12T00:06:00.000-05:00

This was another delightful day.

I intended to see "Gladstone Variations" at the Fringe Festival -- but after waiting in line for an hour and a half, I still wasn't able to get a ticket for the show. So I ended up eating Ethiopian food on Bloor Street with Moses (a sweet friend I lived with in Madison seven years ago)...

Then I dropped by the bookstore to see Ewan, the lovely poet/translator who inspired another blog entry: His Eye is on the Sparrow. We wandered through a nearby park, sprawling beneath old trees and talking about literature and theatre...

Later in the evening, I arrived at the University of Toronto to stage manage the show in the swimming pool, and I found my friend John waiting in the lobby. I noticed his datebook -- scrawls of blue ink and fringe shows:

After another exceptional performance, I headed off with the cast to Grossman's tavern, the legendary blues dive on Spadina. The band (two guitarists and one drummer) was incredible, and the drummer was simply phenomenal; I watched the rhythm course through his body, and because I could see the music (instead of simply hearing it), I felt (and understood) the music on a truly intuitive level...

On Hanlan's Island, a Short Ferry Ride from the City

2007-07-11T11:06:00.000-05:00

Yesterday afternoon, I headed out to the Toronto Islands with five colleagues and friends from Perpeual Motion Theatre Company. (They're a brilliant young troupe from Minneapolis; I'm stage managing their show at the Toronto Fringe Festival, and I'd like to encourage anyone reading this to please see it -- and to write a review on the bulletin board at eye weekly...)

While waiting for the ferry, Derek pulled out a pocketknife and began whittling...

And Mark pulled out his notebook, showing me the pages for the virtual rock / paper / scissors tournament that he recently hosted on his blog, Enriched White Bread...

I watched the boat's wake through a small porthole...

... watched small sailboats through tree branches...

... and smiled as I saw the CN Tower through the trees and summer smog.

--------------------

(The first photograph -- the gorgeous underwater shot -- was taken by Avye Alexandres, who documented an earlier production of "The Depth of the Ocean" in her fantastic photo blog.)

On the Beach with Colleagues and New Friends

2007-07-11T09:58:00.000-05:00

(Thanks to Terry for taking these photographs -- and for amusing us with some of the funniest stories I've heard in years...)

I Could Not Take a Photograph

2007-07-05T11:25:00.001-05:00

thick fog:
streetlights twine
through maple leaves

softly, in pace,
past teens on the swings:
(2 a.m.) pendulums swaying...
haze of the night
like stratified time

(your hand in my hair)
(knees damp on the grass)
(overexposed)

moment replayed:
lines overlaid

Sunjye on Bloor and Brunswick: A Healing Ritual and a Delicate Balance

2007-07-04T00:37:00.000-05:00

Walking toward the subway last night, after finishing a dress rehearsal with Perpetual Motion Theatre Company, I wandered around Bloor Street: tired but happy, a particularly delicious beef shawarma in hand.

When I reached the corner of Bloor and Brunswick, I stopped, curious; all along the sidewalk, someone had stacked bits of concrete, transforming utilitarianism into art:

Soon, Sunjye appeared. He was just starting to dismantle the sculptures for the night, loading chunks of concrete into a metal shopping cart:

I asked him to stop for a few moments while I took photographs. He was kind enough to oblige...

He said he'd be in the Bloor/Brunswick area frequently for the next two weeks (since the Fringe festival headquarters is nearby). If you see him, please stop and admire his artwork. (And then, if you're able, please toss a bit of change his way...)

A Country Girl Becomes a City Girl Again (Until the Harvest)

2007-06-29T09:20:00.000-05:00

On Sunday, I leave for Toronto; I'll be there for roughly six weeks (and may spend a few days in Montreal and Ottawa, or elsewhere in Eastern Canada). I'm excited and very happy...

In a Park where I Played as a Child

2007-06-27T10:43:00.000-05:00

Walking through a playground by the home of a childhood friend, I found myself remembering.

There are so many places we frolicked here. I found it a bit surreal to look at the swingsets and jungle gyms and see how small they are, since in my memory they towered like skyscrapers...

Other memories tower too.

I remember her dunken father: unsteady on their yellow porch, bellowing.

Remember how afraid she was to walk across the grass alone to her abusive father's fists. (She spent the night at my house so often as a child that my mom bought us bunkbeds. When we were just a few feet tall, she told me she wanted to run away. She didn't, though -- how far can a ten year old girl run?)

I found myself wondering about her: hoping she has found a safer place to be -- and still feeling afraid.

Did she marry a man like her father?

The Joy of Fresh Peaches, Still Warm from the Sun

2007-06-27T10:14:00.000-05:00

I sometimes see the simplicity of my current life and think I don't deserve it. (What right do I have to spend hours writing, painting, reading, designing, and cultivating an organic veggie garden?)

Then I remember how very hard I've worked: how I barely breathed for years -- and how severely I crippled my wrists during 70-hour weeks hunched over a laptop in Toronto -- and I say yes: I do deserve this.

(And so do you.)

A couple days ago, my dad and I picked about twenty peaches from a tree in our yard. They were magnificent -- organic (and sometimes a bit insect-eaten) and so aromatic. I had forgotten how wonderful they are...

I've been watching the seasons change. I love to look back at my photographs of the transformation: a photo from Spring (pear blossoms) and the small Japanese pears that are now growing on that tree. (Delightful!)

Toad's Eye View

2007-06-26T19:05:00.000-05:00

Just a moment ago, while weeding sunflowers...

... a discovery:

Through a Small Glass (Brightly)

2007-06-26T14:34:00.000-05:00

David Duclos: are you reading this?

~ * ~

No?

Good...

~ * ~

Yes?

Then please stop now -- and please return after July 13th. :)

~ * ~

I am working on a stained glass piece: a gift for David and Manjit -- to celebrate their wedding. I've been thinking about it for a couple weeks, and yesterday I sketched out a preliminary design.

This morning and afternoon, I started to add detail to the sketch (and remove some detail from the dress):

Then I added colour:

(There's much more to do, of course -- but I thought I'd share the progress here. I'll post an update with new photographs in a day or two.)

A Flowering Summer Squash, Accompanied by Georgia O'Keefe

2007-06-25T18:16:00.000-05:00

"Nobody sees a flower, really, it is so small. We haven't time -- and to see takes time like to have a friend takes time.

"If I could paint the flower exactly as I see it no one would see what I see because I would paint it small like the flower is small. So I said to myself -- I'll paint what I see -- what the flower is to me but I'll paint it big and they will be surprised into taking time to look at it -- I will make even busy New Yorkers take time to see what I see of flowers.

"Well, I made you take time to look at what I saw and when you took time to really notice my flower you hung all your own associations with flowers on my flower and you write about my flower as if I think and see what you think and see of the flower -- and I don't."

Georgia O'Keefe

Three Days of Rain

2007-06-25T18:12:00.000-05:00

When I woke this morning, the sun had just begun to burn the fog away. I dashed outside with my camera and captured this:

And this:

Three days of rain -- and the sunflowers have grown to my thighs. The desiccated earth is moist again. The leaves are vivid green... The lake is high.

A Martha Graham Moment

2007-06-24T17:56:00.000-05:00

This morning, still feeling a bit fatigued from last night, I showered slowly: feeling the heat of the water dissolving points of tension in my neck. Then, after toweling dry, I stood before my closet, looking for the path of least resistance.

I found a pair of (khaki) linen pants and slipped them on. Then I pulled a stretchy green blouse over my head and paused as I twisted to the side to stretch my back.

It was there -- spine twisted left, eyes cast down, elbows stretching the fabric in unnatural angles -- that I caught a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror. There was something surreal about that moment -- a resonance that took me a moment to identify: in some small (and accidental) way, I resembled Martha Graham.

_________________________

(Photo credits: Top image is from Graham's "Letter to the World," photographed by Barbara Morgan; bottom image is from "Lamentation," photographed by Herta Moselsio and displayed on the Library of Congress website.)

I See Your Green Tea (And Raise You: Oolong)

2007-06-24T15:46:00.000-05:00

For Ariel, with gratitude and wary kindness:

Kettle calls; steam soothes
like ginger on ragged voice.
One high tea with you.

I Was "Summa Cum Laude" -- Would You Like Fries With That?

2007-06-24T15:32:00.001-05:00

Arriving home last night, I slowly unlaced my shoes and peeled off my clothing. Note the mandatory black and white color scheme; after seven years of working primarily in the performing arts, I have taken a part-time job as a waitress...

I slumped on the couch and could still smell the odors rising from my work clothes: deep fried catfish, baked cabbage, and stale cigarettes. I pushed the pile further away with my foot. (Apparently, I no longer lead a glamorous life. But was my life ever really glamorous -- even if it may have sometimes appeared to be?)

I slipped on an old cotton T-shirt and limped to the kitchen to make a cup of herbal tea. Leaning against the stove, waiting for water to boil, I scanned my body as a dancer might: feeling for points of tension, strain, and injury. My lower back ached from five hours of sprinting across the concrete floor, my shoulders were tight, and my throat felt sore. (My wrists -- with tendons like Achilles -- felt okay: not good, but okay. After many months of excruciating wrist pain -- and appointments with neurologists -- and an electroencephalogram I still haven't been able to pay off -- "okay" is pretty fucking wonderful.)

So I ran a bath with lavender salts and soaked for an hour, sipping camomile tea.

~ * ~

Reflecting on the night: it went surprisingly well.

I waited on several families with kids, and I genuinely enjoyed most of them. (To my surprise, most of the kids also enjoyed me.)

The loveliest by far was a four-year-old girl named Brooklyn; she wants to be a waitress (like her mother), and because I appeared to be living her dream, she liked me instantly. She promptly left her grandmother's side and followed me around like an acolyte.

I had intended to give her a tour, but she was a regular customer and knew her way around the restaurant better than I did. So I enlisted her help as a "junior waitress," pointing at the broom and vacuum cleaner. She began an anti-crumb crusade: dutifully sweeping (with the handle of the broom wobbling at least a full foot above her sun-bleached head)...

~ * ~

The men appeared to like me also.

(Naturally, I preferred hanging out with the kids. Their motives were simpler.)

Sometimes the middle-age male attention was fine. Several men who came to dine alone at various points in the night were perfect gentlemen; most were widowers, grateful to be fed (and conversed with) in genuine kindness. One left a tip that was nearly as much as the cost of his entree; as I stood (on aching feet) clearing his table, I felt a rush of gratitude.

~ * ~

Another man (divorced and in his 50s) required subtle distancing.

He told me I was "beautiful" and he asked my name... then tried to hold my hand. He kept flirting in a rather stomach-turning way...

So I told him to behave himself. I warned him that perceived indiscretions would be punished by motherly finger wagging, accompanied by his full name in a disapproving tone. I also cautioned him be polite since I had access to his food and was not afraid to enact revenge surreptitiously...

(He laughed -- heartily -- and mostly kept a respectful distance -- though he frequently stared as I moved through the restaurant, and I felt mildly disgusted by the time he finally left.)

It Had Hardly Rained for Weeks...

2007-06-22T09:49:00.000-05:00

... and the earth had begun to break in jagged fissures, splitting patches of grass into miniature islands, creating thin canyons. (Whimsically, I found myself thinking about scale and perspective, remembering the firefly's arduous journey across my arm.) Driving on old country roads, black tar rose from gravel: forming boils that crackled beneath my tires... a sound reminiscent of popcorn ringing in an aluminum pan... or of wringing a sheet of plastic packing bubbles with my small childhood hands.

Last night, minutes after midnight: a deluge.

I scampered to my outdoor painting studio and pulled a canvas beneath my shirt to protect it from rain. I slid boxes of acrylics and liquid lead beneath the porch overhangs. Then, hearing hail, I darted back inside.

I shifted to the (enclosed) porch to comfort my anxious golden retriever... listening carefully for any signs of intensification: a howling train-whistle wind -- or sudden silence. Finding neither, I watched (delighted) as the darkened windows glinted with reflected light.

The flashes mounted until the night sky was rarely even dark, but caught instead in flickering suspension: like a jar of captured fireflies -- or a flurry of photographs beneath a dim streetlight.

This is What Inspiration Looks Like

2007-06-21T17:35:00.000-05:00

Earlier this afternoon, intending to continue editing Fragments, I pushed the novella away (for what I imagined would be just a few minutes) so I could organize a nearby stack of poetry into the table of contents for another book.

I had been contemplating this second book for several weeks, because although I have occasionally written fiction, my primary literary conduit is poetry -- and has been for most of my life. Each time I've mentioned Fragments to someone who has known me for years, they show interest -- and invariably, they also ask when I'll publish another collection of poems. (I self-published my first chapbook, Candied Nothings, in 1999.)

So -- this afternoon -- intending only to select my favourite poems, I soon found myself laying them out in a possible order -- and simultaneously matching them with photographs I've taken over the past decade. Working on the graphic design, each facing spread became a post-it note scribbled with poem titles and quick sketches -- all arranged (and rearranged) on a window beside my desk.

Then: thinking about the trajectory of the poetry, as well as my intent to somehow use this work a symbolic companion to the novella, I brainstormed titles... and found that three titles obliquely reference rituals of the winter solstice. (Since I am still contemplating, I won't list the options here -- though I may announce a working title sometime in the next few weeks.)

Now, after a couple of delightfully-productive hours, I have the foundation for another book. It's time to turn off my laptop -- change into a flowing skirt -- and celebrate!

Status Update on my Fragments Novella -- And a Dash of Cinematic Aspiration

2007-06-20T22:42:00.000-05:00

Tonight, I began reading Fragments from the beginning, continuing through the halfway point.

(I was startled to discover how objective I could be. I didn't feel like the novella's writer; I felt like its editor.)

At times, I was brutal with my cuts and revisions -- and deservedly so. But the process was also quite heartening; I have a couple stylistic issues to resolve -- and I'm aware that many vignettes must still be written to create a satisfying narrative -- but overall, I like the form and content.

Something I have not mentioned before (but that seems worth whispering now) is that while most of the sections are written in first-person narrative form, some feel better suited to a cinematic rendering. So -- a few of the vignettes are now emerging first as film scenes (with suggestions for camera angles and cuts) and are then being "translated" to fit the novella's structure.

I have never worked this way before, though my writing has always been imagistic. It seems to mark a distinct shift in my creative and professional focus: perhaps an extension of my rising interest in visual art that began a few years ago when I worked on performance installations at DNA... and then shifted away from theatre, into dance.

I don't know what will come of all this.

I've never written a film script before, and it sometimes feels a bit daunting to learn yet another lexicon. But I had never written a novella, either, before I began Fragments a few months ago... and Fragments seems to be progressing realatively smoothly -- so why not?

I Wrote "I Love You" in the Sand (as Titania Watched and Faeries Frolicked)

2007-06-18T06:52:00.000-05:00

I wrote "I love you" in the sand.

You built our castle.

This is no crumbling edifice -- no dreamt midsummer night -- no tempest in a cup of herbal tea.

This is simplicity -- divinity -- instinct manifest.

This is the innocence of swing-sets by the slow rise of a waxing moon.

This night is a white kitten on the sidewalk by the park...

tofu and bean sprouts on the pavilion steps...

and an orange tiger lilly in a water-bottle vase.

Simple rural serenity: a few photographs

2007-06-17T11:52:00.000-05:00

A few country images: moments of tranquil escape for my city friends...

An onion that has gone to seed:

Drying rye in a planter of concrete bricks:

New branches near the base of a tree:

Still Life with Fireflies (and Einstein)

2007-06-15T21:53:00.000-05:00

The fireflies are swarming.

On my arms like preludes to approaching rain, I feel their tiny bodies ricochet.

Most dive and recover, arcing off my skin; others land, stunned, and crawl across follicles that are nearly half their size.

Everything is relative, it seems -- their obstacles are thin as filaments.

I strive to walk slowly...

I don't want to impede their flight.

The Angel of History

2007-06-14T09:55:00.000-05:00

I have been folding my grandparents' clothing.

This is an intimate task; they died several years ago, but their clothing is still a corporeal presence. We have a closet full of fabric no one wears: Grandma's modest cotton sun-dresses... Grandpa's polyester slacks (some with wear spots at the knees)... a dozen pairs of white long johns (because he was thin and always cold). At the back of the closet: pairs of shoes that still hold imprints of their feet.

There is so much history here: a Christmas photograph from 1955... Grandpa's lunch bucket from the years he worked in the coal mine... Grandma's driver education card -- granted in 1939...

The objects they chose to keep are notable signs of what they valued -- but also interesting is what they didn't keep; neither grandparent wrote a journal, so I have no direct window into their most personal thoughts.

There is such history in this small town as well: the town where my great-grandparents immigrated and raised their families, where my grandparents had lived all their lives, where my father returned to raise his kids (and work with his sister, who has also lived her entire life in this town). My brother and I are the first generation to leave; though we're both home temporarily, he has spent the last decade in Austin, Texas, while I've been away at college and then off working in Toronto and New York.

I am humbled by how often I meet someone here who I don't remember. Often, they are people who knew me as a child... or who know my father or grandparents. Some simply recognize me from articles in the local newspaper, and they congratulate me on my academic and artistic achievements. When I tell them how I've failed -- perhaps not as often as I've "succeeded," but surely more spectacularly -- they dismiss failures instantly. What is most important to them is that I've followed my aspirations and trusted my own dreams.

When I find myself in conversation with old friends (even those I didn't know particularly well), the dialogue is so fulfilling. I am still thinking about my talk with Tom, who has worked at the local newspaper for more than five decades... I am thinking of the joy of running into Angela at the library -- and seeing how happy she is with her spouse and child. I am thinking of the waitress I worked with while I was in high school; her husband recently left her, and despite her obvious pain, she's much better off alone. I'm remembering my grocery store conversation with one of the "girls" (all must have been over 50) who sat at the gossip table at my restaurant, drinking coffee and fawning over the local "heartthrob" (who was also in his 50s). And then there's J.R., my closest high school friend -- who recently reminded me that we made a pact as kids to marry each other if we didn't find other partners by a certain age. (I laughed -- then thought about it -- then revised the age slightly upward -- but agreed that we'd probably do quite well together. So the marriage pact is valid...)

It is a joy to return to this small Midwestern town -- two and a half decades after I was born into it.

I see it differently now; I can appreciate what it is, rather than demeaning it for what it can never be.

For years now, intent on succeeding in the (cannibalistic) arts worlds of major cities, I have neglected my own heritage and the many friends and relatives and teachers who helped me grow into the woman I've become (and am still becoming). Yes, I'm still the urban artist -- but I'm also the Luddite who can read for hours in a clearing in the woods... the girl who -- at dusk last night -- went for my first (spontaneous) swim of the season: stripping off dance clothes and wading into the lake. I'm the same girl (woman) who -- more than 15 years ago -- waded into that same lake to rescue a frightened fawn from our overzealous terrier. As a child, I was so in touch with the rhythm of this land that wild sparrows would land on my fingers to eat birdseed.

Whatever else I do in the next months and years of my life -- regardless of what happens with my novella or the recent job offers from New York -- I want to cultivate this powerful tranquility: to be so serene that birds might choose to perch on me again.

Malleability and Ductility: An Urban Artist is Hugging Trees

2007-06-11T10:04:00.000-05:00

At dusk last night, when I caught a glimpse of myself walking back into the house, after many hours outside (gardening, landscaping, laying bricks, etc) I felt three nearly-simultaneous thoughts:

1) My clothing was filthy (a paint-stained tee shirt with my high school track logo... over mud-spattered dance pants), and I was disheveled (hair half-coiled in humid tendrils... a streak of mud where I'd pushed back falling bangs)
2) I looked tired -- but young -- and very happy
3) My friends and colleagues in New York would not recognize me here

~ * ~

Actually, that last thought/feeling isn't true.

Some of my closest New York friends would be happy to see my windswept country splendor.

One of my favourite friends in the city is originally from Vermont; she'd love to see me so relaxed, and I think she'd find this rural life delightful. Another friend would also understand: some months ago, he left NY for a more peaceful Connecticut life (inspired by thoughts of grassy yards and simple canine companionship). An East Village choreographer/filmmaker (who summers in the Hamptons) would empathize. Two Brooklyn friends -- an exquisite dancer/choreographer/puppeteer and an innovative musician -- would be thrilled to see me living so holistically. And two similarly brilliant friends/colleagues -- one a writer, the other a theatre director and video artist -- would understand completely.

~ * ~

I shouldn't fault my colleagues -- I'm the one who cannot recognize myself.

(Is this muddy country girl the same woman who lived in New York?)

Just last October, I worked at City Center -- calling the cues for Christopher's magnificent dance as I crouched in the wings off-stage right. Last November, I was giddy for David's show at the Brooklyn Academy of Music -- slipping seamlessly through corridors with my backstage pass. And I never imagined I would tour as I did. Memories of those months in New York are staggering; I accomplished things so grand I had little time to dream before they morphed from chimera to (transient) reality.

~ * ~

The heights of those achievements made the undertow quite hard.

I was freelancing for so many different companies that I felt I spent more time commuting between meetings than actually working. Some of the companies paid me well... others couldn't pay me at all (but I chose to work with them for the inspiration they sparked)... another intended to pay decently but later didn't (as their finances became strained by other starving artists). I felt pulled in incongruous (and irreconcilable) directions. And I was drowning -- financially, creatively, and existentially.

~ * ~

And now?

I've resurfaced.

I'm breathing... laughing... singing... writing... reading... sketching... dancing.

I'm living.

And I feel ready to live.

Five New "Fragments"

2007-06-08T12:37:00.000-05:00

I've just posted five chapters of Fragments:
* Magnolias
* The Musical Term for the Process by which Out-of-Phase Elements Slowly But Deliberately Come into Synchrony
* Entrainment
* The Front Moves Through
* Then

All can be read on my website (on the main page for the novella): Fragments of an Intended Life, Whispered to an Absent Lover.

The Front Moves Through

2007-06-08T09:05:00.001-05:00

Over the last day (and night), a powerful storm forged new elements of the Midwestern landscape. My family’s home emerged unscathed, but the wind was awe-inspiring: a raw, sustained assault.

Yesterday morning, while I was upstairs writing, a branch snapped off the locust tree and struck the window, near my desk. The wind held it there, pressed to the glass, for more than a minute until the gust abated and the branch dropped to the twig-littered grass two stories below.

This morning appears gentler but reserves chaotic intent. The dank air is unnervingly dense; the sky: an eerie blend of rust and grey.

Birds are colliding with our windows at a startling rate. Are they simply blown off course by the wind? Or so disoriented by the rigors of mating season that they dive headfirst into their own reflection, entranced by themselves in another’s guise?

This storm – literally and allegorically – reminds me of another one that passed last year, while I was staying in Toronto with a man I loved; that night became the basis of a couple chapters in Fragments, the novella I’m writing…

(I may post those chapters soon…)

Before Caffeine, a Fledgling Chirps

2007-06-06T09:28:00.000-05:00

This morning, I poured boiling water into my bodum and walked outside while the coffee steeped.

Barely cognisant (pre-caffeine), I walked barefoot in the bright sun.

And then I heard a distinctive fledgling chirping... from a low branch of a shrub... and found this precious little bird just inches from my hand.

Delightful.

Catharsis

2007-06-04T08:53:00.000-05:00

Last night, after a domestic frustration (the cause of which I will tactfully leave vague), I laced up a pair of old jogging shoes in an angry huff, choosing (against prevailing instincts) not to slam the door as I left.

Striding North through overgrown grass (iPod and travel-size speakers in tow), I kept marching past the pond where I had intended to sit: too frustrated by the incongruity between my distress and its tranquil nature. So instead, I kept walking... until I reached the clearing in the pines.

I broke apart the tranquil dusk with (ironic) Nirvana.

I flung myself into the humid air, landing momentarily on fallen pine needles, then launching again (and again) until I began to feel calm.

In that liminal place (between life and art), I began to notice the remarkable height of my leaps... the grace of my landings... the fluid contortions of my spine... and the openness of my hips.

And with that awareness, the anger dissolved. The dance began.

Thoughts on Artistic Inspiration -- and Hunger -- and Advocacy

2007-06-03T14:22:00.000-05:00

I am writing a series of articles about the sources of my inspiration: the people and companies that have shaped my artistic vision.

I have a rather eclectic aesthetic... so writing about inspirations is an inherently interdisciplinary task. I intend to touch upon contemporary dance, interdisciplinary text/image collaborations, performance art, writing, and film. Geographically, I intended to focus on two of the cities where I recently lived and worked: Toronto and New York. (Occasionally, I will venture outside of these geographic boundaries -- especially when writing about film, which is a migratory art.) For the most part, I'll omit high-profile influences who have well-established funding structures; I'm more interested in writing about early- and mid-career artists: people whose work I have seen live (not just in photographs or archival videos), and many of whom I have been fortunate to work with in some capacity.

~ * ~

I feel it's important for me to articulate what inspires me -- and then distill that inspiration -- to see if I can apply my passion for the arts to another field -- perhaps one that will place me above the poverty line (for the first time in my adult life). I am thinking seriously about graduate school in 2008, and there are several fields that interest me; I think writing may clarify my choice.

But I also have a pragmatic motive, and I want to make it quite overt. I want to celebrate gifted artists who -- despite pathetic underfunding -- manage to create inspiring work. While I lack the financial resources to be a "patron," my voice is unfettered; I hope (perhaps naively?) that my advocacy might increase awareness of their work. And even if the impact is negligible, it is still an impact. And if someone reads about a choreographer in my blog and then supports her/him by attending a performance (or slipping a small donation into an envelope for any of the artists who so desperately need the support) then my words will help a hungry dancer afford to eat.

~ * ~

I'll begin with a post about Susanna Hood, a very talented Toronto dancer/choreographer.

(Posts about other artists will gradually follow, over several weeks.)

Perhaps 'Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely' -- But Could Barack Obama Alter this Trend?

2007-06-02T10:03:00.000-05:00

Yesterday afternoon, I read a long New Yorker article ("The Conciliator" by Larissa MacFarquhar) about Barack Obama's character and political style. The link had been forwarded by a Canadian friend who now assists a Member of Parliament -- but who also has a strong background in the arts; this friend's instincts (on art -- and politics) have often been deeply insightful. So it was with great curiosity that I began to read about Obama -- and my curiosity soon turned to delight.

I hesitate to write this (since in reality, hope and politics are deeply incongruous), but for the first time in my eligible voting life, I feel excited about a political candidate who is actually a serious contender for President. (As much as I appreciated Nader in 2000, I voted for him in idealistic protest, not political strategy.)

I rarely think of "morality" as a defining qualifier for political candidates; mostly, I have taken the corruption in stride -- knowing that many American political leaders will exploit power for their personal gain, with little regard for their constituents (who are either too disillusioned to track news of political debauchery -- or too preoccupied with their daily drowning: struggling to feed their families as they live month-to-month without emergency savings or basic health insurance).

I cannot fault Americans who see this and choose not to vote. Political debates can be uniquely depressing: white male millionaires in tailored suits with ivy-league educations pretending to know what America is -- with no real understanding of what life in this country actually feels like for the majority of us.

In this context, politically apathy seems like a sane coping mechanism. Nevertheless, it is a deeply unacceptable one.

Change is long overdue. It's time to embrace postmodern patriotism. Let's dare to really love our country -- and love it through honest appraisals of its faults and determination to reshape its future.

Let's elect someone who understands the principles on which this country was founded -- and who can reach humbly toward representatives of different political inclinations to ensure our country grows closer to its founding ideals.

-------------------------

(Photo credit: Caricature accompanied a brilliant article in the Economist.)

Thoughts of New York "Downtown Dancer(s)"

2007-05-30T10:54:00.000-05:00

This morning, I stumbled across the "Downtown Dancer" blog, written by a NY-based dancer who appears to be as articute with her words as she must be with her physicality.

In a recent post titled Is that the Ghost of Bloggers Past?, she writes so clearly what most of us have felt at one time or another: "How many more years can an intelligent person with a solid education struggle with money, health insurance, and the vagaries of a dance career?"

I've been writing a dirge of my own -- a "call to arms" in honour of DeeAnn Nelson, the young NY dancer who was seriously injured in performance about a week ago. I didn't know her personally, though I respect the company with which she was dancing. And I am always feel empathy for dancers who are suffering like this young woman -- who will continue to suffer as she undergoes multiple surgeries and rehabilitation to repair her fractured spine...

Acute Triangle Degrees: An Open Letter to a Former Love

2007-05-28T11:32:00.000-05:00

Dear - - - - - - ,

Twelve hours with you yesterday, and still I feel free from the logic of time.

We loved as deeply in our arcane affair as we had four years ago -- yet with awareness that we both were lacking then. What mystic gift has brought us here again? You mire me in contradiction: an atheist who feels we loved long before the fissure of the (nonexistent) soul.

I relive our ecstasies like clips of art-house film, spliced into a soundtrack of Susan Voelz, Jimmy Dale Gillmore, and Counting Crows. I see you sprawled across the bed, your exquisite form framed by the arched rail of the spiral staircase. I feel your back beneath my hands -- prone on a lavender sheet spread over dry pine needles. And your eyes -- pale sapphires that intuit me more truly than I may ever see myself -- I fall into your image, swimming inches from my own, through tangled strands of hair that land between our lips.

You revive me. Twelve short hours of your touch and I breathe deep again: the phantom limbs that ached intangibly are becoming real, aroused and opened by your love. You conjured up the bliss of all we had -- and all I now know I could be.

I want so many days like this -- even if we must wait months or years to alter angles of our geometric world. I will await more nights with you, sleeping entwined on wrinkled cotton sheets, making love in the space between dreams.

Obliquely Referencing Horizontal Planes

2007-05-28T02:36:00.000-05:00

I don't want to bathe -- can't lose how you've seasoned my skin
while whispering nothings (sweet somethings) that pulsed like the sun
on our soft-blowing hair as we picnicked out under the pines...
so grateful for all that we shared and all left undone.

Let's Uncork Champagne to Celebrate Jerry Falwell's Death

2007-05-17T10:36:00.000-05:00

It's rare for me to celebrate death, but in this case I do -- because the "man" who died was not a man but a heretic, a self-aggrandizing bigot with delusions of grandeur who used the pretense of his religion to espouse his own sham agenda.

So, it's true: I celebrate Falwell's passing, because I remember Matthew Sheppard. Instead of letting Sheppard's broken body rest in peace, Falwell used Sheppard's funeral as a platform to espouse the same ignorance that led to Sheppard's murder. In a situation so tragic that all but the most sadistic bigots had recused themselves, Falwell denied Sheppard's family and friends the right to quietly remember Sheppard's life and mourn his early death.

Falwell no longer deserves our attention. (He never deserved more than our pity.) Now that he is gone, I will try not to speak (or write) of him again. I want to indulge my fantasy -- a fantasy that he never existed -- even though I know that many of his disciples will now clamor to fill the heretical void left by his death.

While I don't believe in gods, devils, or afterlives, for a moment I take joy in the illusion that hell for Falwell would be a unique torture -- where he learns that god is a lesbian and the devil is gay -- and he spends eternity listening to an endless round of "Kumbaya," sung by members of the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus, buffeted by rainbow-coloured angel wings.

Salvaged Red Carnations

2007-05-14T14:38:00.000-05:00

The wilted carnations we rescued from the florist's dumpster have undergone a renaissance: now unfurled in orbs of vibrant red, their slender green stems crossing in a tall vase in my room.

I did not expect this revival; I pulled them from the trash out of habit and empathy, sad to witness the end of their intended life. And I kept them to remember you -- an homage to a friend I've loved since childhood.

I expected swift decline: further wilting, broken stems, a dulling of colour -- but now, days later, they are stronger than before.

I never expected them to bloom, but they are blooming.

And you and I are blooming too.

Writing, writing, writing...

2007-05-05T19:54:00.000-05:00

There are moments now when I feel so full – when three or four different stories are pouring out of me simultaneously, battling for supremacy in this séance (this literary eucharist?) we mundanely term “art.”

Different narratives, cascading in moments: scenes for "Fragments..." scenes for a yet-unnamed family narrative… scenes from another memoir… words of unwritten letters.

Amid these battling (but complementary) voices, I pause for a moment, trying to prioritize. Then I pluck the thread of the most compelling narrative – of Fragments – and hope the others will wait for my return.

One for Posterity?

2007-05-05T18:14:00.000-05:00

I am thinking now of children – awkwardly, with an unfamiliar longing – wondering if I’ll ever be a mother.

I’ve never been one of those women who “want children” – have not been the type to instinctively covet the beauty of a crinkled newborn child. So this longing is not something I feel often – though when I do, it’s with a disquieting vagueness: a crucial riddle that I can’t yet solve.

It’s been six weeks since my partner left, and I miss the things I loved most about him – the qualities that also made him my closest friend: his humour, intelligence, tenderness, and musicality… his passion for dance… and the often-fearless way he flung himself at love. I understand why I miss those things, so I can acknowledge their worth and grieve their loss.

But there’s something else I’ve lost that disturbs me – precisely because I don’t understand; I’ve lost a man who loved children and wanted kids of his own.

Logically, this shouldn’t bother me – not me, who has always been content to envision a childless existence – not me, with so many dimensions of meaning in my life (so many a child would hinder).

Intuitively, though, I mourn the loss of this potential. I so deeply value the unconditional love my dad has given me – and some peculiar part of me sees this and naively hopes that with the right spouse, under decent circumstances, I could accord this profound acceptance on a child of my own…

Yes… Six weeks have passed since my partner left.

I’m laughing and healing and often quite happy – but fuck, what a harrowing loss.

Fragments: "Intersection"

2007-05-02T01:37:00.000-05:00

I have begun writing something that I've tentatively titled "Fragments" -- my current work-in-progress that blends memoir, fiction, prose, and poetry.

Below is the first excerpt from that work: "Intersection."

~ * ~

We sit at the round table in the intimate windowed alcove, our faces warmed by steam rising from bowls of pho, laughing… glancing out at our bicycles, chained and propped against the diner wall.

Outside: a man sleeps, back propped against the bike rack, legs wedged between a parked Lexus and an SUV. Inside: we flirt with politics; you cough, self-conscious, when chili oil catches your throat.

The broth begins to cool. The sleeping man stirs then settles, neck bent awkwardly.

You rest your chopsticks on the table, push aside the plate with lime rinds and straggling bean sprouts, and cup my nervous hands in yours.

Again he stirs, chapped fingers in the pocket of his threadbare coat, searching, preparing: blackened spoon, bag of white crystals, rubber hose, lighter, syringe.

The petite waitress with her tenuous English brings the check. Politely, we both reach for it.

I struggle to avert my eyes as the white rocks melt on his spoon and he sinks the syringe in his vein.

We unchain our bikes as he staggers off, screaming his hatred for “Jews, fags, and the government.” You insist on escorting me home, so we ride together across the bridge, skirting decrepit projects on the Lower East Side, weaving between Chinatown and Little Italy, then heading West, toward the Village and the waterfront, past industrial sites and factories locked down for the night.

We stand at the door of my loft. Our heat radiates.

We kiss goodbye, cilantro on our lips.

The Spectrum of a Work of Art

2007-05-01T20:24:00.000-05:00

Good art haunts you for hours, or days, or months, resurfacing in unexpected moments: in the contoured arc of a stone bridge that’s reminiscent of a ballerina’s arch; in an encounter with a stranger – the man your novel’s protagonist would have been if only he had lived; or the moment in the woods when (spooked by your approach) the birds flutter free of their perches in an evergreen, flashing such vibrant streaks of red, blue, yellow, black, and gray that you feel you’ve entered a Pollock canvas brought mystically to life.

But the best art is even more than this: it seeps into your soul, alters your dna, and grows like an exquisite cancer, expanding and recoiling with every breath of your life.

“The Silence of Snow” -- An Homage to Orhan Pamuk

2007-04-27T23:55:00.000-05:00

The journey
to the outlying districts:
poverty and history

In the New Life pastry shop,
the first conversation
between the murderer and his victim:
love, religion, and poetry

A sad story at Party headquarters
(police headquarters)
and once again on the streets –
a nonbeliever
(blue)
who does not want to kill himself

Happiness
and a walk
through the snow;
the dinner conversation turns
to love, headscarves, and suicide

At the National Theatre,
one describes his landscape
and another recites
his poem:
a revolution:
a play about a girl
who burns
her headscarf

The night of the Revolution
(the six-sided snowflake),
he slept;
and when he woke
in the hotel room
(cold rooms of terror)
the next morning,
a short spell of happiness:
fusion of military and theatrical careers

In Frankfurt,
he urges another to sign a statement
to the West
on love, insignificance, and disappearance

The mediator
(fear of being shot)
in his cell,
bargaining
(life vies with theatre,
and art with politics):
preparations for the play
to end all plays

The final act
from his point of view
a few years later:
an enforced visit
at the hotel:
the missing green notebook –
the first half of the chapter –
the silence of snow.

This is not a poem as much as a collage; the phrases are excerpts from the table of contents of Orhan Pamuk’s phenomenal novel, Snow. In the first moments of reading Pamuk’s words, I was struck by how little they resembled a conventional table of contents – and how much they felt like poetry. Re-reading them a few days later, I sensed the shape of the poem – and felt inspired to cut and shape them to bring out that poetry, adding only a few words of my own.

I cannot claim to be this poem’s “author” – I merely assembled the poetry that Pamuk had already written. Please feel free to compare this poem to Pamuk’s actual table of contents; then I urge you to read the rest of his novel.

I am just beginning to read Snow, and it’s gorgeous. In his opening lines I felt an elation like the rapture of falling in love: “The silence of snow, thought the man sitting just behind the bus driver. If this were the beginning of a poem, he would have called the thing he felt inside him the silence of snow.”

Barefoot, in Tall Grass, After Rain

2007-04-26T01:28:00.000-05:00

After leaving New York, I remember how insignificant I am.

I see the points of innumerable stars.... feel breezes that traverse oceans and continents... ponder expansive blue gradations of arbitrarily-termed "sky." And I become aware of the magnitude of this system that perpetuates itself, regardless of my existence.

It is a gift to be small in the presence of this -- a gift to be aware of my own insignificance. Meaninglessness on this scale is liberation -- an invitation to form my own meaning from inspiration, creation, and love... because amid this world's randomness, my own life is all I can dare to shape. I can only create meaning for myself... and aspire to constancy, despite the flawed structure of love.

Making an Entrance

2007-04-19T04:56:00.000-05:00

This blog begins in April of 2007, nearly a month after the dissolution of an amazing (but complicated) relationship... and several months after I became aware of my capacity for failure.

I'm so grateful for the clarity I find in solitude. I am aware of myself again: rediscovering my creativity and strength, reaffirming my inspirations and desires without the strain of another's influence.

After gingerly uncoiling from the fetal position, I am reconnecting with friends and former loves... and finding new points of contact.

I want to begin sharing my words again...

I am here now, calm and present, writing simply because I love to write -- with pain, joy, awe, and gratitude for my existence.