Breathing

This Blog Has Vacated The Premises.

2008-06-15T23:13:00.002-06:00

Future snippets will no longer be cross-posted. From here on out, you gotta go over to

http://breathingmoss.wordpress.com

Adios, dear blogger. You've been good to me, but I am fickle and I am moving on.

Memorial

2008-05-26T21:37:00.005-06:00

This past week I've seen flower stands along Foster Road, selling cheap hothouse flowers dyed with chemicals and wrapped in non-recyclable plastic. This afternoon's traffic to the Willamette National Cemetery was backed up over 1/2 mile, spilling down 110th Avenue. As I made my way through it, heading home, I thought about my tradition of calling all veterans I know on 11/11, how I don't actually know anyone who died while in military service, how my father threw his purple heart into the ocean, his reasons complicated and intensely personal.

And then I thought of Utah Phillips (wiki link here), whose singing and storytelling touched me, and provided a common forum through which my father and I connected, he a veteran and his daughter a peacemonger. The 1996 album Utah Phillips produced with Ani Difranco, The Past Didn't Go Anywhere, was tremendous and moving. Two tracks in particular, "Korea," followed by "Anarchy," brought tears to my eyes every time I heard them. I have many memories wrapped up in associations of this man, his cataclysmic force and sense of humor will remain in the threads woven through the past twelve years when I was first introduced to his stories and his music.

From "Korea":

I knew that it was all wrong, that it all had to change, and that change had to start with me.

From "Anarchy":

I learned in Korea that I would never again, in my life, abdicate to somebody else my right and my ability to decide who the enemy is.

. . . anarchy is not a noun but an adjective. It describes the tension between moral autonomy and political authority, especially in the area of combinations, whether they are voluntary or coercive. The most destructive coercive combinations are arrived at by force. As Ammon said, 'Force is the weapon of the weak.'

All these thoughts and memories and triggers inform me that now is the right time to publicly acknowledge my next project, to investigate and explore the Great Peace March of 1986. My fascination with the March, with Marchers' thoughts and stories twenty-two years later, with the meaning of Peace as a concept, a practice, a vision, a reality - these things will weave together the next creative phase.

What is peace? What is war? What is between the two? What else is on the spectrum? How do we choose to exist?

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Now I Know His Name

2008-05-23T09:52:00.002-06:00

For a long time, I didn't know his name, although I saw him almost every day. And then I fretted about not knowing his name.

But now I know his name. It's Jesse. He smiles and waves, "Hi, Mossie!" as I drive by, whether or not I have a dollar or a banana to give him.

The last few times I've had the first-in-line position, where I can roll down my window and talk with him until the traffic light changes, I've been especially sad. Today I was fighting back tears. But I still smiled at him.

He said, "You have such a pretty smile. It really brightens my day. It's great that you are so happy!"

"I'm actually really sad right now, Jesse. But I find that when I smile, it helps."

He smiles at me softly. "It helps me, Mossie. Thank you for your smile."

And so with tears splattering my lenses, I turned the corner and drove down Glisan Street to my office.

Smiling helps. Knowing his name helps, too.

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He Said . . .

2008-05-22T00:12:00.003-06:00

. . . to K on the phone:

Oh no! [rummaging sounds] Shit! . . . . What the . . . . ? Dammit!

So she asks:

What is it? Whassa matter?

And he says in utter seriousness:

I can't find my phone anywhere!

K laughed until urine threatened to soak her jeans. And when K recounted the story, telling us of "B's blond moment," T looked at me, raised her eyebrows and wondered aloud if he should have taken that last hit.

Maybe he shouldn't have taken those last twenty years' worth of hits.

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Fridge Wisdom

2008-05-16T11:15:00.006-06:00

Last night I started clearing off my fridge and decided to finally recycle these scraps of paper I've hung in various locations for years. Since I'm not ready to let go of their sentiments, I'm posting them here in the form of a photo.

Fundamental

2008-05-15T12:16:00.008-06:00

Besides the fact that it is 85 degrees and sunny in Portland today, news out of California has me all aflutter.

Despite all my conflicted feelings about having gone to law school, those three years getting my JD provided me a new lens through which to interpret news. Links to the decision abound, but here it is again (172 page PDF) for your pleasure.

Marriage is a fundamental right. Felons [edit: Prisoners] get it, and (gasp) gay people should get it too.

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Taken with my phone last Sunday

2008-05-13T14:08:00.003-06:00

Further Perspective

2008-05-12T11:04:00.004-06:00

After the 4/11 car incident, I intended to refrain from posting until the story had played itself out fully. [I made an exception for the plea for NineMile Canyon.]

I also thought I'd gain some insight on how to talk about news I received earlier in the afternoon on the day of the accident. I haven't figured out that tellling, but the accident story I can now address. The accident played out in the following ways:

1. Statements were given and reports were filed. Photos were taken. Measurements were provided. The story was recounted. Hours and hours were spent on the phone, in tears, telling it over and over. Sleep was lost. Nightmares were had. Eventually, Oregon Revised Statutes were named. Blame was placed. On me. My insurance company made tsking noises and raised my rates. Attorneys were consulted and said they were sorry, they couldn't help me. So much for my naive self-righteousness. So much for recouping money for damages to my car or time lost from work, let alone the nebulous pain and suffering.

2. The upside: I am now receiving much-needed chiropractic care. Oregon law requires that minimum liability insurance provide $15,000 in medical care, regardless of fault, and my body is starting to heal. For that blessing, I am breathing a huge sigh of relief.

3. Housemate N pshawed my lamentations about salvaging my beloved car (named Goldilocks) for a paltry $400. I'd talked to three different body shops, receiving repair quotes between $2500 and $7000. (In tip-top shape, Goldilock's bluebook value is $2200, though her value is so much more than that for oh-so-many reasons.) N was my rockstar savior, my guy, who drove me to the junkyard. On the drive there, I bounced up and down and said, "N, I feel more hopeful than I've felt in two weeks."

We hammered on Goldy's frame a bit.

And then we attached a door retrieved from a Silverlocks which had been in a head-on collision. N later put the window in the silver door, replacing the classy blue tarp that kept the rain out.

Sure, it's kind of ghetto-style, and opening and closing the car door presents its own set of adventures, but I will say this: at least the door isn't red.

4. This whole series of events provided significant distraction, and the further further perspective is just starting to sink in and sort itself out now. For weeks I've tried to encapsulate what happened earlier that afternoon, before the car door was ripped out of my hand, what's happened over the course of the last year, two years, five years - and every choice, every decision, every motivation become so convoluted and twisty that communicating meaning seems impossible.

So rather than force it, I'm going to let the story trickle out as it does. Drip drop. A deluge may ensue, but it could be a slow telling. The unfolding, the mystery. Are you curious? Excited? Confused? Disinterested?

Yeah, me too.

Act Now for Nine Mile Canyon

2008-05-01T10:07:00.005-06:00

Though out of character for this blog, I'm posting the following on the chance even one person will see this in time to take action.

Today is the deadline for submitting public comments to the BLM on proposed drilling of over 800 natural gas wells in ways that threaten Nine Mile Canyon. This canyon, home to over 10,000 individual petroglyphs and pictographs, would become an essential highway for hundreds of trucks traveling to and from the gas wells.

This is not an all-or-nothing issue. Many people and groups are urging the BLM to consider alternative routes for the trucks, among other options.

Please see The National Trust for Historic Preservation and the draft Environmental Impact Statement for more information.

Most importantly, send electronic comments to UT_Pr_Comments@blm.gov TODAY, May 1, 2008, even just to send a short comment letting the BLM know that you concur with and endorse the official comments they have received from the NineMile Canyon Coalition, the Hopi Tribe, the National Trust for HistoricPreservation, the Colorado Plateau Archaeological Alliance, and the Utah Rock Art Research Association.

--
I'll be posting automobile/accident updates in the next few days. I'm sure the masses are terribly excited!
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Perspective

2008-04-14T15:33:00.007-06:00

Perspective shifted when my life flashed before my eyes last Friday.

After parallel parking on Hawthorne Boulevard, I checked over my left shoulder, saw no car in the lane closest to me, and started to open my door about six inches. My car door was ripped from my hand. Two seconds later it would have been my body in addition to the car door that was smashed.

I am full of gratitude. This puts a lot of things in perspective.

Unusual Reference

2008-04-07T23:54:00.007-06:00

This is a once-in-a-blog's-lifetime-experience. In case you aren't already sitting down, you might want to do so now.

I'm going to mention The Bible.

Shocking, I realize. Not along my general lines of gleeful low-brow humor.

But see, I read this post by Derick about the number of times that homosexuality is mentioned in various versions of the Christian Bible, compared to how many times the concept of peace is mentioned, and of course I had to link it up here.

You can stand up now. The shocking event has passed. But seriously, go check it out. It gave even a heathen like me a moment of pause.

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40 years on 4/4

2008-04-04T14:21:00.004-06:00

I've recently discovered Blue Oregon and would like to point out a post by Chip Shields: Wages and War - the King Speeches You Won't Hear Today.

My favorite quote from the video clip below? "I was increasingly compelled to see the war as an enemy of the poor and attack it as such."

Noticing how much these issues are intertwined is imperative if we are to truly find and make change. Forty-plus years later, it's still true.

Novelized

2008-04-01T21:37:00.003-06:00

The gravitational pull at her ribcage sucked everything she was into an eerily rotating mass, drawing her sex up inside herself, drawing her shoulders down and forward, lodging her stomach against her lungs. She sipped shallow breath through a fixed jaw, down the narrow passage of her throat. She barely registered the fading memory of how to breathe properly, how to expand her diaphragm and envision oxygen flowing through her bloodstream, feeding her starving extremities. She was tight, wound up. She sensed herself as dismembered, and cradled a crisp notion that clenching herself together would keep her from unraveling, from flying away like dandelion seeds.

Seeking connection, redemption, she managed a soft smile and eagerly agreed to roll around in bed. Fumbling there, she shyly admitted that she felt like a pubescent boy, groping and grasping, with sheer need and without providing pleasure to the one she groped and grasped. Her admission was met with a demonstrative kiss from her practiced lover, one who knew of topography and riptides and the curve of ocean meeting land. She allowed herself to be prodded toward surrender. Her cries were actually pleads for release, for mutuality, for a glimpse of her lover's slow knowing, for patience, for forgiveness. Gripping hands, eyes squeezed, she willed herself over the sharp edge of the earth, where land and sea dropped away, leaving nothing but cold darkness.

It was there, in the expanse, that she slept, better than she had for weeks.

There is my answer to being tagged by Chicory's if-your-life-were-a-novel meme. I'm not tagging anyone in particular because honestly, I'm not really sure who reads this blog. So you have to be assertive and self-tag if you'd like to participate. Just do me a favor? Post a comment and then I'll check it out and enjoy the opening paragraphs to the novel of your life - beginning last night. Carry on.

Bags of Urine

2008-03-31T09:09:00.001-06:00

The cultural exchange in my family is something I love. We tell stories and surprise each other with our varied experiences and perspectives. Some stories are far more entertaining than others. Jorge-Mario is my sister's domestic-partner-husbandish-person, who is called Jorge-Mario because there were so many Jorges in his family that they had to distinguish them somehow. I don't even think Mario is his middle name; it was just made up so they could quit calling him Jorge Number Seventeen. My favorite story thus far from Jorge-Mario about life in Guatemala? The Bags of Urine story. He gave me permission to recount that story here and prove how much my sense of humor revolves around the toilet. You know, in case that wasn't already self-evident.

Jorge-Mario:

Where I grew up, people were crazy about soccer. Loco. Totally nuts. You think I get passionate during my soccer games when I tell the goalie he's a worthless piece of shit? That's nothing. Nothing.

When I was eight years old, two years after I moved back to Guatemala from L.A., I went to a soccer game at a big stadium with my cousin Beto. He got us what I thought were really good seats, right down next to the field. But Beto was nervous about the seats. He'd had gone to a game before, and warned me that when he said to move, I should move. He didn't tell me where to move, just that I should move.

At this stadium, there was barbed wire along the top of the fence separating the stands from the players. See, people get so into the game that they've been known to climb the fence and get onto the field. They put up barbed wire to keep everybody in the stands.

So we were watching the game, and all of a sudden, after one side made a goal, fireworks started going off. In the stands. It sounded like gunfire, and I was pretty scared until I figured out it was fireworks. After a quick glance over his shoulder, Beto suddenly shoved me. "Move!" he said. I was staring at the fireworks, wondering if the stadium was going to catch on fire. "Move!" he said again, but I was mesmerized.

And then I found out why I should have moved. Okay, you're not going to believe me, but I'm not kidding: there were BAGS OF URINE, raining down from the seats above us. They were trying to hit the players, but the pissed off (ha ha!) spectators were already so piss-drunk (ha ha!) that they had terrible aim. They would pee into plastic grocery bags, tie them off, and throw them at the field. But they kept getting caught on the barbed wire and it was suddenly raining urine on me.

That was my first experience at a professional soccer game, and I've been hooked ever since.

If you ask me really nicely in the comments, I will recount the Second Floating Turd Story from a Surf-n-Swim outing when I was a kid. That particular version had to replace the Original Floating Turd Story because the Original version would only embarrass the parties involved, and I am above embarrassing other people. Embarrassing myself, however, is clearly not a concern.

In Case You Hadn't Heard

2008-03-28T14:15:00.011-06:00

One of the things I really enjoy about living in Oregon is the spectrum. Right here, in this one state, we have legislators who tell gay folks to shut up and compare Oregon to Nazi Germany by virtue of its anti-discrimination law. There are fierce and ongoing legal battles about the afore-mentioned anti-discrimination law and statewide domestic partnership rights. And now, Oregon is home to a widely publicized transgender pregnancy, the original story appearing in the 4/8/08 Advocate. [I've fixed the link that apparently wasn't working when I first made this post.]

Blogs I follow that have commented:
* Recovering Straight Girl on 3/25/08
* Stumptown Girl on 3/26/08
* Firecracker! on Lesbiatopia on 3/27/08
* More from Recovering Straight Girl on 3/28/08

What I find most striking is not that a transmale is pregnant, nor that he and his wife are afforded federal protections because they are legally married. Nor am I surprised that they have encountered significant discrimination and lack of support.

What is interesting to me is that legal gender identity, personal sexual and gender identities, and interpersonal identities intersect in interesting and unique ways. This situation, and the resulting discussions, cause me to reflect on the importance and relevance of my undergraduate degree in Women's/Gender Studies. I spent much of my early- to mid-twenties unpacking and assessing matters of gender, social "reading" of bodies, identification, and meaning.

In both my undergraduate program and in law school, the greatest lessons I gained with my diplomas was that THERE IS SO DAMN MUCH THAT I JUST DON'T KNOW. Gaining comfort with that level of ignorance, without settling into complacency, is an ongoing and humbling experience that has provided an entry into connection and compassion with my fellow beings whose life experiences differ from or parallel my own. It's an imperfect comfort, and is often more riddled with fits and starts than endowed with a smooth glide into true connection. But ultimately, I consider the journey one of the most precious aspects of my life thus far. One teacher in particular, S.Pace, is and was a key catalyst for that journey. To her, I am deeply and eternally grateful.

Kudos to the parents-to-be in Bend for their candor, and best wishes for a smooth birth experience for their child, expected in July 08.

Stretching our concepts of reality to include the experiences of others is one of the most blessed opportunities of being human.

Not About Courage

2008-03-27T20:04:00.003-06:00

So I really set myself up, making my last blog post about courage and then saying I'd dig deeper in my next post. The result? Waiting 16 days to post again.

The only way I could compel myself to compose today was by giving myself permission to break with the whole courage bit (how cowardly!) and just put something, anything, up. I'll get back to courage when I can stomach the thought of going there. My reticence shows me how I'm not ready to really explore what I had intended and that itself is further food for courageous thought and action.

In the mean time, enjoy this important piece about the Christian Gene. What do these findings mean to you? Should a person be held responsible for something that is genetic? What kinds of religio-engineering processes should be ethically permitted?

Yeah. This one's definitely NOT about courage. Au contraire.

Courage Part One

2008-03-11T00:34:00.005-06:00

Eleven years ago I told my then-partner that I wanted to get a pet snake and overcome my intense fear of slithery creatures. What did I get for Solstice that year? You guessed it. I didn't mean I wanted to get a pet snake quite so soon. It was more of an in-the-future idea and one that I expected to tackle myself, not through a holiday gift. At the time, I felt freaked out and slightly resentful, although simultaneously invigorated with what was probably adrenaline. All of a sudden I was responsible for this living being whose mere existence caused me heart palpitations and sweaty palms.

I named my snake Hygeiea and she was a wonderful companion. After about a year, she went many places with me, wrapped around my neck for warmth. She and I were connected, and I continued to explore my own associations with snakes and serpents as "male" in juxtaposition to ancient traditions of snakes representing femininity. During Hygeiea's growth spurts she would shed her skin once a month, during the same time I was menstruating. I felt a profound systerhood and strong Knowing during those times.

Additionally, the life-death cycle played out in my tiny one-bedroom apartment when my partner acquired another snake and we began breeding rats rather than buy pinky rats to feed our snakes from the pet store. Now, years later, I revisit the conflicting emotions of seeing the mama rat frantic, pressed against the glass, whiskers quivering, as we fed her babies to our snakes in the other room. It is an image that haunts me. Life-death-life-death-life. It was intense.

What ended up happening to Hygeiea, some time after that partnership ended, is another story entirely, and ultimately one of liberation and joy. But the experience of caring for her was perhaps the first time I realized that my inner strength and ability to delve into new, terrifying realms is deep, wide, and mysterious.

Where am I going with this? I'm not sure. But I'll dig deeper in the next post.

Random Peeps

2008-03-09T09:09:00.001-06:00

One of my favorite things about blogging is to watch what search engine queries lead the poor unsuspecting searcher to my ever-random and undeniably self-indulgent webspot. Ah, sitemeter, thank you for feeding my voyeurism.

Dirty Eggs gets the most hits because somebody tagged it "cock" on a del.icio.us page, and apparently google sends people there for "how roosters fertilize eggs" and "chickens don't have penis" and "chicken eggs vagina or ass." Internet rovers are so curious! Just a few months ago, I ran the same searches trying to find out how to spell cloacae. The cycle of internet life continues.

S*x Reading and Mainstream S*x Stories also get hit, usually from ISPs in India and Indonesia and Ithaca, probably because people living in places with names beginning in the letter I are more prone to search for sex stories on the internet than people from Latvia or Liberia or Lafayette. Or so goes my theory of the moment.

Those who accidentally stumble across me don't usually stay long. Their desires for hot erotica unsatisfied, clickity-click, and off they go. I'm not sure what the chicken-seekers think.
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Moved Me

2008-03-02T17:40:00.004-07:00

When I watched this video today, I felt so much. My reaction was visceral and more profound than anything I've felt for an exceptionally long time. Perhaps ever. Sitting with my love at our dining room table, bearing witness via YouTube, tears streaming down our cheeks - it made for an incredible Sunday morning. I may write more about my reaction later, but for now, I'll simply hold this out as a humble offering. Maybe it will move you too.

Something else that moved me: Waking up early on Tuesday morning, the first day of the bar exam, padding into the kitchen to turn on the gas fireplace and make coffee, glancing out the sliding glass door, and seeing a beautiful bouquet of flowers, left for me by an incredible friend at 5am. I love to feel love.

Updated Bouncing Back with a Tag

2008-02-28T13:41:00.007-07:00

After a longish blogging break in the weeks leading up to Tuesday and yesterday's bar exam, it's nice to reemerge with a tag from Chicory.

Grab the book nearest to you, open it up, and turn it to page 123. Write down the first 5 sentences on that page. Then tag 5 more people. [*This post is updated because I didn't properly follow the directions and only listed five lines instead of five sentences. Doh.*]

The book closest to me in this moment is Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose, a title with much serendipity for me lately. In one day I saw it at two people's houses, exclaimed that it was the next book I was going to read after the bar exam, and also learned that Oprah is doing a free ten-week online course with Eckhart Tolle starting 3/3 (see www.oprah.com). Having been unplugged from TV for several years, I was totally out of this Oprah loop until someone told me this news, but I am so excited to see that television and online media is being used in these powerful ways! Because the course is online, I'm absolutely going to sign up! The first full five sentences on page 123, from the chapter entitled "Role-Playing: The Many Faces of the Ego":

There is a "me" that feels personally offended or resentful, and a huge amount of energy is burned up in useless protest or anger, energy that could be used for solving the situation if it were not being misused by the ego. What is more, this "anti"-energy creates new obstacles, new opposition. May people are truly their own worst enemy.
- People unknowingly sabotage their own work when they withhold help or information from others or try to undermine them lest they become more successful or get more credit than "me." Cooperation is alien to the ego, except when there is a secondary motive.

And now, I hereby tag Jehara, Lori, Derick, Zilla, and LeviZoe.

* * *

Clogged Up With a Lot to Say

2008-02-07T22:34:00.002-07:00

Posts have been percolating, but I find myself unable to get there. I get stuck because my filter is mucked up with too much too much too much. Those posts might have to wait until after those magic days in 2.5 weeks when I take the bar exam. But they are coming.

I'll be back at the end of the month.

* This post was edited to remove gratuitous and unnecessary references originally included for my own amusement and probably not amusing to anyone else. *

Cassie's Birthday

2008-02-03T16:08:00.000-07:00

Dipstick's posting about her snow dogs is prompting this post in honor of Cassie. It's timely, given that LittleGrrl turned six two days ago.

Cassie was born February 1, one week before the 2002 Olympic Games in Salt Lake City, and is my very first dog. Given the totality of the circumstances, leaving her with B and K was assuredly the right choice. The prospect of taking her away from her home and her best friend was unacceptable to me. Nevertheless, moving 766 miles away from my canine companion was one of the hardest choices I've ever made. The privilege of caring for animals is a blessed responsibility, and making that particular decision about Cassie's future was perhaps the most unselfish thing I've ever done. Maybe there's hope for me yet!

Though it brings a lump to my throat, my heart swells when K sends pictures to my phone, like the one above from a hike in Memory Grove. I miss her fiercely, but it brings great comfort to know she is happy and cherished. Many thanks to B and K for continuing to give all the Avalon Animals such a good home. (They are now giving daily insulin shots to Buddy, whose obesity resulted in an unsurprising feline diabetes diagnosis a few months ago.)

So happy birthday to Cass; may your next six years be as joyful and full of adventure as the first six!

Mah Suthuhn Gal Loves Her Faux Meat

2008-02-01T16:54:00.000-07:00

My grrl gets around. She spent her childhood in Oregon, adolescence and early adulthood in the south, eight months walking across the country on a peace march, brief time in D.C. and Minneapolis, and then migrated west for twenty years spent in Zionia being a local bluesy/rock and gardening icon. Infamous, if you will.

Despite her varied geographical identities, I can't help but think of T as inherently southern, and not only due to that sexy drawl she's prone to whip out during intimate moments. No, I take her fervent love and commitment to meat - albeit faux meat - as a southern quality, especially the way she gets excited about the "bacon" and "sausage." (If so inclined, you may insert a joke here about other types of faux sausage we grrls may enjoy . . . )

Yes, indeedy, folks. Mah soy-lovin' vegetarian gal is suthuhn. (She even told me how to spell southern phonetically. Whattagal.)

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Aftermath

2008-01-31T00:22:00.000-07:00

"The children sucked my personality out," she said limply, after babysitting for an entire three hours.

How do I? Tell me, wiki, do!

2008-01-28T00:35:00.000-07:00

I love wikiHow. I learned how to tell it I loved it at Say-I-Love-You. Before I loved it, we were just friends. I learned how to become its friend at Become-Friends-With-Someone-Who-Knows-You.

Of course, first I had to learn to Meet-New-People-Without-Being-Creepy. And now wikiHow tells me I have a problem and that I need to Control-a-wikiHow-Addiction.

The place slays me. The culture, the audience - it's this huge mash of humanity that is at times bizarre and touching and surprisingly insightful and always, always, good for a laugh. My faves lately:

consume this

2008-01-23T21:42:00.000-07:00

Victor Lebow, a post WWII retailing analyst:

"Our enormously productive economy . . . demands that we make consumption our way of life, that we convert the buying and use of goods into rituals, that we seek our spiritual satisfaction, our ego satisfaction, in consumption . . . we need things consumed, burned up, replaced, and discarded at an ever-accelerating rate.

This article, and the above quote, have prompted me to find creative ways around outright replacing my dear technological companion, though the prospect of being away from her again for repairs tears at my heart. (Why do they make these things disposable?! They told me I was LUCKY to get three years out of my laptop!)

So again I tell myself: Buy less. Live more.

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Men's Abortions & The War Mentality

2008-01-20T18:13:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago I read two articles about abortion on the same day. I'm glad I read them in the order that I did because the first one placed my paradigm in a more inclusive rather than exclusive stance.

The first article (A Change of Heart: From Pro Life to Pro Choice, AlterNet 1/9/08) included a perspective I needed to hear: "Our beliefs are not created by what -- or who -- we are against. They exist because of what we are for: comprehensive reproductive health for all, and the ability to decide for ourselves if we will or will not have an abortion."

A line from the second article (Changing Abortion's Pronoun, LA Times 1/7/08) elicited an audible groan from me, and my mind went to The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood and Starhawk's description of The Southlands in The Fifth Sacred Thing. A man, discussing his personal regret about several ex-girlfriends' abortions: "'I never really thought about it for the woman,' he says slowly." What?! He never really thought about the woman part of the equation in an abortion scenario? Excuse me?

It's an interesting catch-22. Though it disgusts me, it doesn't surprise me that anti-abortion activists will utilize women's termination regret to influence the courts toward the incorrectly-perceived need to "protect" women from their own choices. But would they do the same with men's regret as a motivator? To protect men from themselves? I do not doubt that some men experience loss or sadness over the termination of a pregnancy in which they played a role. But is regret the best measure of whether or not government should permit certain reproductive medical decisions?

Back when I was a married-to-a-man queer grrl, before the polyamorous part of our marriage was predominant, my husband and I terminated a pregnancy. In Utah. I wrote about it here, when the South Dakota mess was in the news. In the post, I half-heartedly pretended it wasn't me, but it was probably pretty obvious. Many women have termination stories; I have one. I don't see why men shouldn't get to tell their stories too.

My ambivalence toward abortion topics is deep and multi-layered. I believe it important to let stories and voices be heard, and yet I also recognize the deeply personal realm of reproduction, coming from a family where fertility, miscarriage, and ectopic (tubal) pregnancies were wrapped in whispered conversations, kept from children, spoken about with solemn secrecy.

The more we share, all of us, the more information we have, the greater likelihood that we might just be able to see each other and really connect and not live under the illusion that our way of experiencing the world is the only way it's experienced. The more information, more connection, more understanding, more empathy, the better. That includes having empathy for people who truly believe that abortion should be illegal. If I can empathize with their feelings, it may be a vital step in bridging the gap in our perspectives, and maybe that person will one day believe that even if abortion is not a choice s/he would make or want a loved one to make, it is a choice that should nevertheless be available in a legal and safe way. The "fight" is more about increased connection and communication rather than fighting. Give peace a chance, wo/man.

. . .

Blessed Intention

2008-01-19T14:08:00.001-07:00

Upon reviewing yesterday's post I feel that much of it sounded like "wow, I'm so great," and that's not what I meant. Or at least not what I wanted to convey. I really wanted to express that seeing this guy, connecting with him the various ways I've connected, that's a blessing. Especially. Predominantly. Blessings can and are found in all sorts of circumstances. He is my blessing on the way to work everyday.

And the fact that I don't know his name, that's embarrassing. It's as though he is this objectified opportunity for me to feel good, to feel connected with a stranger, to experience heartfelt humanity. And that really sucks. Romanticizing poverty and homelessness is downright shameful. Though I'm not sure that's what I'm doing, the mere possibility of my complicity with it - that's something of which I want to be well aware.

Until I moved to Portland, I didn't witness homelessness in such a visible way, so spread out throughout the city. That's not to say there was no homelessness in Salt Lake City - there is/was. But my experience with it was different than it is here. I need to unpack my emotions and reactions as I process this new reality.

Ah, the process.

I Don't Know His Name

2008-01-16T09:25:00.000-07:00

I see him almost every day on the offramp at I-205 and Glisan Street. When I don't see him, I wonder where he is and if he's okay.

Hard lives can age people; I really have no idea if he's sixty or forty. His right leg is missing below the knee. He has a white beard and kind eyes and holds a tattered sign that says, "Anything is a blessing. God bless." Based on my experience and observation, I think he really means that. Anything is a blessing. Some days my blessing is a smile. Some days it's whatever extra food I have in the car. He's always grateful, and he always smiles back at me, unlike the younger men who squint incredulously when I offer them fruit or a granola bar. They want money. But my guy, he's something else. After I handed him a tangerine he said, "Ooooh! These little oranges, they sure are good!" I smiled, "Yeah, they are. They are really sweet!"

The difficulty with his location is that if I'm not the first car stopped at the light, he usually can't reach me for a tangible exchange because of his crutches. Many days I have something for him besides my smile, but I can't give it to him without stopping a whole line of cars at a green light. So one day, between Christmas and New Years, when there was little traffic and I felt particularly flush, I gave him a crisp $10 bill. I'd been saving it in my glove compartment for him. He looked shocked, shook his head, "Too much!" My eyes welling with tears, I said, "I see you every single day and many days I can't give you what I want to give you. This makes up for that." He smiled at me shyly, his tears matching my own.

As I turned the corner and drove toward my office, I realized the truth in his sign. Contact with a person so humbled as to broadcast his need, to stand out in the freezing temperatures and precipitation, leaning against a cold guardrail with his crutches, to ask his fellow humans for anything they can and will share - I am blessed to be reminded of our shared humanity.

Anything is a blessing.

*

Important Stuff

2008-01-13T12:40:00.000-07:00

Twenty minutes. I'll be bold and say that you can't afford not to spend this twenty minutes. Maybe that sounds melodramatic, but this is one of those things that feels Important.

Maybe you don't want to watch it. Maybe you say to yourself, "But I like not knowing. If I don't know, I'm absolved of my participation." Or you say, "Look, I know, but I have a XYZ factors in my life that require me to live the way that I do." Or maybe you say, "I already know. And I live frugally and consciously and watching this is unnecessary."

But this is Important Stuff. Seriously seriously important stuff. And even the most examined life can use a boost, a reminder, a tool to share with others, perhaps. I'll embed a teaser below, but more importantly, go spend twenty minutes watching or listening to the film The Story of Stuff. Let a kid watch it. In fact, please, encourage your kid to watch it. Important Stuff.

Blogs & Family

2008-01-12T19:53:00.000-07:00

Two more conversations with the 5-year-old who lives upstairs:

#1
me, giving her a hug hello: I wrote about you in my blog yesterday.

B: What's a blog?

me: It's a complete and utter waste of my time.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

#2
B: I don't know for sure about this, and I might be wrong, but you know what I think?

me: What do you think?

B: I think that if someone moves into your house, that means they are your family.

me: Like me?

B: Yes! My family has grown! It used to be 3 people: my mom, my brother and me, after my dad died. Then it was 4 when mommy met N. Living with you makes it 5! And when T gets here, it will be 6! Our growing family!

me: I love being in your family, B.

Yo

2008-01-10T16:48:00.000-07:00

B, the 5-year-old who lives upstairs, announced with a little hop and a big grin: This DVD is off the chain, yo.

me: What does that mean?

B: I think it means this DVD is all scratched up, yo.

me: What does "yo" mean, B?

B, exasperated: Mossssseeeeee! I think it means YO! . . . yo . . . YO . . . yo-yo-yo . . . It's like a word that you can call people. You can call people Yo, like YoMomma.

me: Hmmm. I'm not sure about that. You might not want to say "yo momma" without knowing for sure what it means.

B: I know just one more thing! The first letter is y, yuh. I'm not sure of the second letter, yo.

Shrinkage

2008-01-09T23:13:00.000-07:00

For five months our love-connection has been nurtured and cultivated by daily phone calls across a couple of states, a rendezvous in Idaho, frustratingly short visits spaced four to six weeks apart, and much anticipation.

Last month when she spent twelve days in south Florida, we were separated by 2650 miles. And I felt those extra 1900 miles. In some ways it was sort of romantic, envisioning us on opposite ends of the continent, but the time difference made phone call coordination difficult.

Now the distance has shrunk from 2650 miles to 766 miles and soon to mere inches. Instead of counting the weeks or days, I'm counting the hours until she's here for good with a truck full of instruments and clothes and kitchen supplies, my decadent request for Red Iguana Mole Poblano fulfilled, a sexy (and sedated for the roadtrip) black cat in tow.

I am giddy with the prospect of holding hands and burying my face in her neck and laughing together and feeling her breath in my hair and watching her sleep and seeing her eyes gazing at me when I awake.

The phone sex has been fun, and has probably kept me from plummeting into a celibacy-induced psychosis, but getting off is so much better in person. Juggling a cell phone and saying "what?" when one of us starts mumbling somehow bleeds the eroticism from the experience. But soon the phone sex will be reserved for those public masturbatory adventures when I may need a little prompting and my grrl is on the other side of town, instead of far far away in MormoniaZionia.

Here, kitty, kitty!

. . .

Apostrophe

2008-01-07T20:45:00.000-07:00

I'm a word-nerd. I have an inner editor-proofreader, and she is snarky. Lately she has been squirming, but not in that pleasantly-sexy-squirming way, but in that oh-shit-my-OCD-is-sure-squirming way. (Lest ye question my word-nerdness, I'll just say that I creamed myself when I took a look at this WildWords game. Not-so-subtle gift idea!)

Lately I've been fixating on misuse of the apostrophe. The lovely apostrophe, though not nearly as fetching as a semicolon, is nevertheless a marvelous mark of punctuation. And so I lament! How it loses its power when well-meaning but ill-informed people toss it into a word, believing it necessary to make a word plural or past tense! I did it myself last week, writing that we had subpoena'd someone. My inner proofreader recoiled, and I rephrased the sentence, giving it a different verb, and looked it up later. (I'm sure you're aching to know that the correct spelling of the past tense to subpoena is subpoenaed.)

You want proof? Think that surely you are doing it correctly? Check out this wikiHow page on apostrophes. Or this grammar rule page. Or this one. Or see this site dedicated to Apostrophe Protection. Those Brits are oh-so-polite:

We are aware of the way the English language is evolving during use, and do not intend any direct criticism of those who have made the mistakes above. We are just reminding all writers of English text, whether on notices or in documents of any type, of the correct usage of the apostrophe should you wish to put right mistakes you may have inadvertently made.

For you visual learners, see the flickr pool of public apostrophe misuse.

Until I went to graduate school and well-paid legal writing professors told me that it is perfectly acceptable (in their warped universe) to start a sentence with And, But, or Because, that particular writing choice used to bug me too. And now I do at incessantly. So perhaps I just need some grammatic authority to tell me to get over myself for cringing over the alleged apostrophe abuse.

Maybe I just need to get laid and transform the obsessive-squirmy into some sexy-squirmy. Soon, friends. Soon.

* * *

Wind

2008-01-04T23:42:00.000-07:00

Things can and do blow away when the wind blows.

It picks up, sometimes slowly at first, and builds, flicking around, rustling, crescendo, quicker now, and whips things from where they were. Or maybe where they were was just a temporary resting spot, in that metaphysical sort of way that life can take. Maybe those dreams, those possibilities, that DreamedLife, was waiting for the wind to take it to the next place, leaving space behind.

To say that death and loss are parts of the life cycle is obvious. However true, the actual experience of LifeLoss, or LifeTransformation, is something else. Something the body knows. The physical. The flesh.

Strong winds tonight; a lot of change. And also a strong intention toward blessedness and gratitude and spirit and Aliveness. The joy of Life punctuated by Loss. Letting go. Life passage.

* * *

Writing in this semi-veiled diarist (diarrhea-ist?) fashion, yet ever-conscious of the privacy of those around me, can be slightly challenging when something really huge is happening in my immediate domestic proximity.

* * *

1 down

2008-01-03T13:29:00.000-07:00

One day down. Fifty-six to go.

I curse the tagline at the bottom of the nasty-ass 11x17 page of daily assignments from now until the end of February:

Do it once, do it right, and NEVER do it again.

I did it once. I didn't do it right. And now I'm doing it again.

Withdrawal

2007-12-28T23:13:00.000-07:00

My most constant companion since August 2004 will be away from me for an entire week as she gets fixed up and rejuvenated.

The prospect of lying in bed without my beloved laptop perched on my knee, kinky porn du jour glimmering across her screen . . . I don't think I can adequately express my horror.

Staying Warm

2007-12-27T14:47:00.000-07:00

Yesterday it snowed. It didn't stick. But it snowed.

Hot tub and cozy rainbow sox make it all bettah.

Is That Snow?!

2007-12-25T22:56:00.001-07:00

Of all the things I may or may not miss about the place I used to live, it is quite safe to say that I do not miss the snow. I'm not talking about the easy access to snowy mountainous locales for sledding or snowshoeing or winter hiking. I'm talking about snow-in-the-city-in-my-daily-life. I don't miss that.

I am thrilled to live in a place where "Oh my god, is that snow?!" is a joyful and novel thing to hear.

Seeing big fat flakes falling from a precipitous sky on December 25 brought a smile to this face today. So long as the snow continues to fall on Mount Hood, and leave us with non-freezing rain, Mother Nature and I will continue on with our current stellar record.

Feliz Navidad!

Bubbles

2007-12-21T00:54:00.000-07:00

J: I'm leaving for Wisconsin on the 22nd, the morning of that dark solstice day. I get synced up, embarking on cosmically significant dates.

me: The time of solstice is actually tonight at 10:08 pm PST, making last night the longest night of the year and today the shortest day. Longer days and shorter nights from here on out - hooray for the return of light!
(pause)
me: Um. . . . Well. I'm sure your leaving for Wisconsin on the 22nd can still be auspicious, though. It's the second-shortest day.

Safe travels!

Bright Solstice Blessings!

Temptation

2007-12-18T22:15:00.000-07:00

Look, I know about the dangers of being dooced. I love dooce. I'm working my way through her archives right now, still in pre-dooced dooceland. Savoring.

Nevertheless.

The temptation to write about the shocking shit that comes from the rednecky mouth attached to the wide-blue-eyed woman in my office is nearly overwhelming me. Almost as overwhelming as the urge to masturbate in public. Not quite, but almost.

I'm on the verge of starting an anonymous spot. I have the name picked out, but if I post it here, I just might be blowing the anonymity.

But I will say this:

If that bitch says one more time, "No offense!" after making an ugly homo-hating comment, my head just might explode and splatter queer brains and blood all over her crunchy-with-hair-product head.

...

Dirty Eggs

2007-12-18T01:54:00.000-07:00

me: Do the chickens push the egg out their vagina or their ass? Sometimes it seems like there is shit on the eggs when I gather them.

N: Chickens don't have vaginas or assholes. They have cloacae. It's an all-purpose hole. So yeah, there probably is some shit on the eggs, coming out of the all-purpose hole.

me: No chicken vaginas?

N: No chicken vaginas.

me: Hmm. . . How do the roosters fertilize the eggs?

N: A rooster has a cloaca too. So when a hen and a rooster mate, they rub their cloacae together for the fluid exchange. [Seriously - he used the words "fluid exchange." And my mind wandered into thoughts about rubbing holes together before realizing . . . .]

me: A rooster has an all-purpose hole too? So a cock doesn't have a cock? My mind has been blown.

+++++
Wikipedia says roosters don't have penises.
Some guy at Harv*rd says male chickens do have a small penis (buried in their all-purpose hole, I'm guessing.)
This Aussie site on chicken ("chook") breeding doesn't mention penises, just the all-purpose hole.
+++++

You know, I am not interested in the chicken-or-egg question. I AM interested in knowing how a penis came to be known as a cock if male chickens don't really have one, or if they do, it's buried in their all-purpose shit-semen-piss hole. Etymology of sex slang is fascinating. Or perhaps I just need to get some sleep.

Pondering . . .

2007-12-16T17:31:00.000-07:00

. . . how these fit together:

Actions speak louder than words.

The pen is mightier than the sword.

4:00 dusk

2007-12-11T00:45:00.000-07:00

I've never lived this far north before.

Glow on me, full-spectrum light, set on a timer to go off like the sunshine at 6:00 am!

Glow!

This Just In

2007-12-05T09:05:00.000-07:00

Drinking caffeinated beer
and halfheartedly watching
exotic dancers doing yoga
in a nearly-empty bar
is a pleasant way
to spend an early Tuesday evening.

Or perhaps
the pleasantness
was the exceptional company.

Food, Health, & Self-Love

2007-11-30T00:42:00.000-07:00

This post is rambly. And it's essentially just a reposting of my comment on Chicory's post, linked below. It's in response to three posts that clearly had a strong impression on me: Chicory's Not Giving Up, Something Other Than That at An Accident of Hope; M. Leblanc's Shapely Prose Nails It Again at Bitch PhD; and Kate Harding's The Fantasy of Being Thin at Shapely Prose, the post about which the first two refer.

I am glad to have been reading about self acceptance, fat acceptance, about body image, about health. Glad to be thinking/feeling it. Glad on a lot of levels and for a lot of reasons. Introspection, shame, denial, sorrow, regret, internalized beliefs — lots of stuff going on in my brain and heart. There are lots of things to unpack.

A few years ago, I became a raw vegan. I blogged briefly about my first raw Thanksgiving, my parents' reaction, and a mishmash of links and a video here. A number of factors have reduced my raw intake since then and I’m hardly raw at all anymore. During the summer months my intake of raw food increases dramatically. But you know what keeps me from “doing” the nearly-all-raw thing again? Well, it’s a couple things.

1. I became an annoying proselytizer, despite my best efforts not to be that person and despite disclaimers that I wasn't being that person, erstwhile emailing websites and personal testimonials willy nilly. How grossly annoying.

2. Other people’s reactions to the supposed dangers and how unhealthy it was and how I was buying into a myth of being skinny=being healthy. And/or people saying, “But Moss you look great! Those raw vegans are too skinny! You don’t need to do that!” as if the only reason to eat predominantly fresh, living food is because I don’t like the way I look. That food choice affects how I FEEL seemed so unreasonable it was never considered as the reason I was making my decisions.

>>2.a. Social interactions became very very difficult and awkward and I found myself either coming off as having an eating disorder because I wouldn’t eat anything I was offered or seeming to be a snob who was too good for what food was available.

And you know what? That’s just bullshit. It’s bullshit that 1. I won’t take control of my own propensity to proselytize and 2. that I would seriously let other people affect such a fundamental and personal decision like what to put in my body.

It’s especially bullshit because *I really REALLY like the way I feel when I eat raw vegan food.* I feel better than I have EVER felt in my life (which has led to that #1 proselytizing problem, but that’s not insurmountable if I just get a fucking grip already and remember that what feels good for ME and what works for MY life is just that - MINE).

I won’t even get into what I weighed or my size at different points in time, because those numbers on the scale or on the tags of my clothes are not the measure. The measure is how I feel, and that is incredibly subjective and not readily quantified to anyone outside my own flesh.

What most struck home for me about Chicory's post and about Kate’s original post, was that self-acceptance is so much deeper and more profound and perhaps more difficult than “just” body issues. This new life I’ve created in my new home in a new state has provided me ample opportunity to really look close and hard at who I am, who I think I am, who I project myself to be, and who I would really like to be. Working that shit out might be a lifetime project, but it’s one that I’m finally willing to tackle.

Is thinking/feeling/acknowledging the first steps toward action? I sure hope so.

Sick of Sick

2007-11-29T10:17:00.000-07:00

the benefits of being sick:

* I appreciate being well
* lots of rest
* watching movies on my laptop in bed
* cuddling with cats
* meditating to sleep
* catching up with incredibly creative folks at the forum from Joe's Hit Record site

Pushing Liquids

2007-11-28T10:17:00.000-07:00

After sleeping for 13 hours, I just got up to rehydrate. In the kitchen I downed a big glass of not-from-concentrate orange juice as I forced Chinese herbal remedies down my tight throat.

Next to my bed I have a nearly empty box of tissue, a quart of water in my beloved Sigg, a big glass of water infused with two Emergency supplements (2000% vitamin C!), and a huge cup of tea with two echinacea bags and two throat coat bags.

Now the trick will be to drink them all before falling asleep. Oh, and not wetting the bed.

Frowny Sick

2007-11-27T20:49:00.000-07:00

I'm sick. Tired. Whiney. Headachey. My sweetheart is en route back to SLC, and I miss her fiercely already.

But I did manage to smile wryly at this.

And I also just heard from TW, the aforementioned sweetheart, about a narrowly averted tragedy in the form of an almost-lost fly rod, being transported by TW on my behalf, for J, who needs the rod to potentially snag something on his roadtrip tomorrow. Thanks, love, for seeing that project through. What a relief in the form of a white paging phone at SLC International Airport. Whew.

Wimmin

2007-11-26T21:04:00.000-07:00

XX1 to XX2, frustrated by trouble with her husband and anticipating going to work at a new office: Can't wait to meet these fifteen attorneys - most of them are men. I wonder which one I'll be f*ckin.

XX2: Men are so stupid. Our husbands treat us like shit, but they don't know that we can always f*ck around if we want to. We're the ones with the power.

XX1, nodding: Damn straight.

Me, listening in, picking my chin up off the floor.

There are real world scenarios for which Gender Studies could never adequately prepare me.

Good Dates

2007-11-25T22:04:00.000-07:00

We've had nothing but good dates. We include our hang-out-at-home and stay-in-bed-until-1:00-pm encounters as good dates, too. Maybe even as especially good dates.

Today was no exception. We took Max downtown Portland, wandered around the Market, laughed a lot, talked to artists, dreamed of how we will configure our future home, and maneuvered through a Hare Krishna encounter. Then we went to the library where I headed for the law section and she the botany/science areas.

To add the utter cream to our day, we then transplanted indoor plants at my office and went home for squash soup.

Good dates, oh yes.

Aggressive Solicitation

2007-11-24T21:52:00.000-07:00

The conversation could have gone like this:

her, walking up to us quickly, entering the realm of our personal space, thrusting american flag and peace sign stickers in my hand: You are hereby under arrest for being too beautiful, for smiling too much, for being too happy. Your citation fee is a minimum of $10 that goes to our food bank where we feed hot vegetarian meals to the hungry.

me, practicing nonviolent communication: Wow! I can see that you are really motivated by this project and very enthusiastic to gain my support. You seem like you feel passionately about what you are doing and you want me to give you money for it. I am feeling like my personal space is being violated and that you aren't giving me a viable way of saying no to your request, and I feel resentful when I feel as though I am being manipulated or cajoled into giving money. I am requesting that you take your stickers, give me some space, and tell me more about what you are doing in a less invasive way.

Instead, the conversation went something like this:

her, walking up to us quickly, entering the realm of our personal space, thrusting american flag and peace sign stickers in my hand: You are hereby under arrest for being too beautiful, for smiling too much, for being too happy. Your citation fee is a minimum of $10 that goes to our food bank where we feed hot vegetarian meals to the hungry.

me, slightly inebriated, staring at the stickers in my hand, just starting to understand she was asking for money: is this a religious based charity?

her: this project is run by the Hare Krishnas, but --

me: is there proselytizing?

her: people can listen if they want or not. But many people want someone to talk to when they come share our meals.

me, lamely: There is a lot of loneliness in the world. Then, handing her $5, feeling manipulated and like I wanted my personal space back, thank-you-very-much: Have a nice day.

I felt pissed until I left the stickers at the free literature stand at the public library.

Moral of the story: NVC is much easier to think about and plan than it is to do spontaneously. Clearly I need more practice.

Isn't Life Great?

2007-11-23T20:35:00.000-07:00

I don't have to be anybody but myself with you, he said, through a telephone transmission spanning 760 miles. He'd gone to Alaska for work, before I moved to Oregon, and now he's back in Salt Lake City. He's writing away and reuniting with Silver, his trusty automobilic stallion.

As we said goodbye from the phonecall, he told me that it was good to hear my smile, that I have an audible smile.

Friendship, connection, what blessings.

Today

2007-11-22T23:03:00.000-07:00

Today is beautiful.

I am blessed to live and breathe and learn and love.

Gratitude is a wondrous emotional/mental/spiritual state.

Anticipator

2007-11-21T08:13:00.000-07:00

One of my grandfather's sayings, after I'd tell him about travel plans to go visit him:

"Oooh, girlie! That gets my anticipator cranking!"

That saying always makes me smile and feel fondly of that dear man.

And today, my anticipator is seriously cranked. My lover arrives in a mere twelve hours. Twelve hours!

That is all I can manage at this moment. Excitement ...

Nerd Word Games

2007-11-20T23:16:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to the adult spelling bee at Mississippi Pizza. No, I didn't compete. But I cheered on and played along and had a wonderful awesome brain-stimulating time. Hooray! I love being a nerd. And I tend to like nerdy people. Cool kids need not apply to my friend-scene.

Oh, and I saw http://www.freerice.com/ today. The warning at the bottom cautions that it will make you smarter and a better conversationalist. So there you go.

Blank Canvas

2007-11-19T23:09:00.000-07:00

You're my first blank canvas, I told C. The first person I've met who hasn't known me for a long time or peripherally in another context or known people I've known or vice versa. I'm reinventing myself before your eyes, as you get to know me, I said.

(What a curious view, I bet!)

The vulnerable self-revealing of painting the blank canvas of our mutual Knowing has been met with amazing generosity and tenderness.

How lucky I feel, to know such kindness.

My Brain Turns WhichWise?

2007-11-18T23:31:00.000-07:00

What was most astounding to me about yesterday's rotating image was that when C showed me, we were both looking at the same thing, and seeing her turn in different directions.

That was really cool. The nipples are also a nice touch.

(And see this science-y post for more info about the whole thing.)

Click da Chik

2007-11-17T23:13:00.001-07:00

Nonbelievers, check this science-y post for more info.

Click the image to see the action!

Right Brain v Left Brain

Article from:

October 09, 2007 12:00am

THE Right Brain vs Left Brain test ... do you see the dancer turning clockwise or anti-clockwise?

If clockwise, then you use more of the right side of the brain and vice versa.

Most of us would see the dancer turning anti-clockwise though you can try to focus and change the direction; see if you can do it.

LEFT BRAIN FUNCTIONS
uses logic
detail oriented
facts rule
words and language
present and past
math and science
can comprehend
knowing
acknowledges
order/pattern perception
knows object name
reality based
forms strategies
practical
safe

RIGHT BRAIN FUNCTIONS
uses feeling
"big picture" oriented
imagination rules
symbols and images
present and future
philosophy & religion
can "get it" (i.e. meaning)
believes
appreciates
spatial perception
knows object function
fantasy based
presents possibilities
impetuous
risk taking

Compassion

2007-11-17T10:02:00.000-07:00

If you want others to be happy,
practice compassion.
If you want to be happy,
practice compassion.
- Dalai Lama

Not Enough Retirement Activites?

2007-11-16T23:11:00.000-07:00

News of the weird: Dear diary of too much information ...

The Salt Lake Tribune wire services

Article Launched: 11/14/2007 07:59:05 AM MST

Posted: 7:57 AM- A man noted for keeping an almost unbelievably detailed personal diary died in October at age 89.
For 25 years, the Rev. Robert Shields of Dayton, Wash., had chronicled his life in five-minute segments of banalities, leaving 37 million words on paper filling 91 boxes. His self-described "uninhibited," "spontaneous" work was astonishing in its mundaneness.
Examples: Aug. 13, 1995, 8:40 a.m. "I filled the humidifying basin mounted over the Futura baseboard heater." 8:45 a.m.: "I shaved twice with the Gillette Sensor blade (and) shaved my neck behind both ears, and crossways of my cheeks, too."' July 25, 1993, 7 a.m.: "I cleaned out the tub and scraped my feet with my fingernails to remove layers of dead skin." 7:05 a.m.: "Passed a large, firm stool, and a pint of urine. Used 5 sheets of paper."
-- Chuck Shepherd

Screw the Purple Hat, I Want THIS When I'm Old

2007-11-15T00:28:00.001-07:00

Display

2007-11-14T00:48:00.001-07:00

Ring ring ring

voice, slightly muffled: Hello?

me: Hey, baby, how's your night?

voice, more clearly: What?

me, panic rising: Mom?!

I'll be watching the cellphone display a lot more carefully from now on. I'm just so relieved that all I did was say "baby." It could've been worse. It could've been a hot and steamy sexy-text. Yikes.

Bitchy 8th Grade Grrls Would Be Comfortable Here

2007-11-13T11:28:00.000-07:00

My mom was a substitute teacher in public schools. Thankless job, that. I had more than one fistfight over it, since kids can be so incredibly rude to sub teachers, and you know, I might be a bitch to my mom, but I'll be damned if someone else is rude to her. Harumph.

For all the tribulations of her time as a substitute teacher, my mom says very little, except: "There is nothing so unpleasant as an eighth grade girl."

Setting aside her likely internalized misogyny, I have to say that I agree. When I was an eighth-grade girl, I was horrible. Horrible. So I was amused to find that my blog's readability requires a junior high education. Maybe if I didn't purposefully misspell words or use incorrect grammar or cuss, I'd rise to the level of high school. But fuck that. Junior high it is.

Confessions

2007-11-12T23:46:00.000-07:00

Chicory sent me a message today asking if I was cheating on NaBloPoMo. I giggled (via email) and answered affirmatively. Caught! I joined the post-everyday-in-November club a couple days ago, and I unleashed some stuff that was saved as drafts and changed the dates to protect the innocent. Oh wait. I mean I changed the dates because I like order (ahem. except when I don't like order . . .). Ommmmm.

So there it is. My confession. AND a promise: I will post every day from here on out. The back-posting was just because I joined late! Am I naughty? Oh yes. Yes I am. Naughty notty notteeeee. I'll take my punishment later, thankyouverymuch.

And here's an image that makes me smile. The beautiful B in her famous Mexican wrestling mask. Roar!

Um, Tagged?

2007-11-12T17:15:00.000-07:00

Wow, I've never done this before. I know, that's what all the born-again virgins say. But seriously. Until I joined NaBloPoMo, I existed in a very lonely blog place. No one read or saw my blog. It was a wasteland, truly. I wrote and posted mostly just for me. In the wasteland. My blog and me. But now that the randomizer is in play, oh my! It's like a carnival of activity. So I got tagged. By the lovely MissMess. And as a dutiful sort (ha!), I'm playing along:

* Link to the person that tagged you, and post the rules on your blog.
* Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself.
* Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
* Let each person know that they’ve been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

7 Random and/or Weird Facts About Me:

1. I have lots of names.
2. I drink more water than most people would believe.
3. As a kid I listened to Neil Diamond on vinyl. Hot August Nights.
4. My tongue has been pierced for a dozen years.
5. I believe that I will hit the jackpot someday. Yes. The lottery kind of jackpot.
6. I used to have a pet snake. And I was deathly afraid of snakes. It's a long story.
7. My closet used to be alphabetized.

I started to use NaBloPoMo Randomizer to choose my tagged fellow bloggers (who may or may not allow the comments to go though, but you know who they are in case they drop the ball). But I grew so embarrassed that I was tagging random strangers that I had to revert to people I knew. And then I got tired, so I stopped at five.

My victims:
Yoga Teacher
Chris Carlaw
For the Birds
An Accident of Hope
Pieces of Gray

Vet Day

2007-11-11T17:13:00.000-07:00

This is the day when I contact those who have served in the military and thank them. Politics aside, my respect and appreciation for the sacrifice of those who have served is deep and very meaningful to me. There's a reason time in the military is called service.

Last night I saw In the Valley of Elah. As always, I sat to the end until the final credits rolled (all those hairstylists, animal handlers, and gaffers deserved for me to appreciate their names, too), which provided me the opportunity to compose myself after seeing the final scene where an American flag, sent by an Iraq vet to his father, was raised in the SOS signal.

And I was reminded of the oratory I did during my junior year in high school, in which I talked about my father's military service, his PTSD, the violence in my home as a result of my father's demons, and the frustration I felt with the ways young men and women are trained in violence and to kill without thought, but are not untrained. They are programmed to be killers but never deprogrammed to better fit within civilian life. The way in which vets were met Stateside during the Vietnam era with contempt and disgrace gave them no hero's outlet with which to channel the extreme violence they had witnessed and in which they had engaged.

The sadness I feel is tempered by my humble gratitude to my many family members and friends who have served, including for my friend B, who works in mental health services for the VA. Supporting the healing, while also trying to minimize the initial damage, is perhaps our best hope for a changed culture.

Bumper Sticker Wisdom

2007-11-10T17:08:00.001-07:00

Seen on a vehicle near Hawthorne and 39th Avenue in SE Portland:

It's never too late to have a happy childhood.

Empty Mind

2007-11-09T23:24:00.000-07:00

The five-year-old who lives upstairs likes to come down and eat fruit with me. We're buddies, she and me. I'll be posting some of our conversations because this child knows what's up.

M: Hey, B, I saw you meditating while I was cutting up the pineapple.

B: I wasn't meditating. I was doing yoga.

M: What do you think about when you do yoga?

B: I don't think about anything. I have an empty mind.

M: Will you teach me how to have an empty mind?

B: No, Mossy. You have to do it yourself. I don't know how to teach you.

Vegansexuals

2007-11-08T23:57:00.000-07:00

This article, while amusing, does little to rebut the perception that vegans are exclusive, weird, and perhaps lacking in social skills.

That said, when I'm not eating meat, I can smell a meat-eater across the room. Same thing when I'm not eating dairy. And really, smell has a lot to do with attractiveness, right?

But I do wonder, is oral sex okay for ethically-motivated (as opposed to health-motivated) vegans because it's an issue of consent? As in, My lover consents to my eating her, but the chicken does not consent to my eating its eggs.

Thoughts?

Utaaaahhhhh

2007-11-07T22:29:00.000-07:00

Interesting the way that perspective shifts. Now that I've moved away from Utah I find myself defending Utah, Salt Lake City, even Mormons. No, it's not so bad, I say. It's beautiful! And Salt Lake City has an incredibly progressive mayor and is a great city! The counterculture there is strong and the community of freaks fairly cohesive!

When I lived in Utah, I would bitch and moan about politics, Mormons, small-minded backwater culture. I (perhaps begrudgingly) recognized and acknowledged the good things, too, but my focus on the good parts has increased and my vocal defense of my previous homestate has grown tremendously. It feels good to actively focus on the good parts, because certainly there are wonderful, amazing things about my former homestate and my religious/cultural upbringing.

Yeah, there are really shitty parts, too. But this is a positive post.

Wrapping my head and heart around the fact that whether I like it or not, I am Mormon, is a long, protracted trudging through subconsciousness and repression. At age 21, I had my name removed from the Mormon (LDS) church rolls. When I got the letter saying, "You are no longer a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints," I let out a little whoop. I wasn't Mormon anymore! I lived under that delusion for about six months until I realized that I will always be Mormon. It's part of who I am. Inextricably.

So I'll focus on the good parts. For now, anyway. I had a great time singing early Mormon education songs like "Give Said the Little Stream" and "Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree" with another "former" Mormon I met after moving to Portland. Actually, I have no idea if those songs are unique to Mormons or not. (Probably not.) But they were quintessential to my Mormon experience. And this YouTube video, though the quality sucks, still makes me smile.

Civic Action, Or An Approximation Thereof

2007-11-06T16:10:00.001-07:00

I love Election Day.

The only drawback I've found thus far to my new state is that Oregon does mail-in voting. What?! That means I can't go smile at the senior citizens volunteering as election personnel at the church or elementary school closest to my house, sign my name on the line next to my printed name, go into the little booth, and punch my ballot (or use the computer touch screen, like I did last year). That's my favorite part of voting: the ritual! Well, the ritual and the cool sticker that proclaims to the world I Voted! (Last year's sticker had a thumbprint on it, for the touch screen voting.)

So I "forgot" to mail my ballot in time and now I have to make sure I get to the polls (I'll use my branch library's drop-spot) before 8:00 pm.

The Onion Knows

2007-11-05T16:03:00.000-07:00

Sure, I was being sarcastic by posting this, but think about it - wouldn't the death of a sexclub member be really sad for her or his clubmates? Wouldn't the next encounter be fundamentally different, especially if the group had formed a cohesive bond? Sometimes the Onion is right on. Right on.

First Orgy After Brian's Death Very Solemn

FAIRFIELD, CA—The orgy was marked by long stretches of silence despite the use of only two ball gags, and began with a melancholy daisy chain on the floor.

She Begat Me

2007-11-04T22:29:00.001-07:00

Two weeks ago I found myself in Salem, Oregon, to perform an unpleasant task requiring me to entertain myself for a period of time. With help from a not-quite-articulate employee at a Shell station, a tattered phonebook, and repeated phone calls to my mother in Utah, I found the graves of my maternal grandparents.

Unpacking the baggage of my maternal relations is a slow project. Just when I believe I have made progress, a seemingly insignificant word, gesture, or memory slams me back to a space of bewilderment, where nothing makes sense and a toxic cocktail of sadness swirled with resentment courses through me. Lately the sadness predominates, especially in the aftertaste, which is a welcomed change from the days and years when I took my resentment (and often rage) straight up, followed by agonizing emotional hangovers.

No wonder I love paradox, what with the mix of teetotaling women, alcoholic men, and a familial culture of silence that leaves me with the above picture as my only tangible remnant of the woman who gave birth to my mother.

Diff'rent Strokes

2007-11-03T21:42:00.000-06:00

I'm a pluralistic kind of person, in case that isn't obvious. As a pluralistic sort, I have no problem with people who want to have kids. I do have a problem when people with kids think that everyone else should have them too. Yeah, I hear you when you say that having kids is the best thing in your life. I get that. Or at least I see that it brings you meaning.

But I see this image I think, "Mmm hmmm. Deciding not to have kids is the right decision for me." Not for you, but for me. It's all about me. Me me me me me.

Which might have something to do with my lack of desire to dedicate my life to a child . . . ? Sure. But at least I'm honest about that fact. What fact? That it's all about me.

.

Reincarnation

2007-11-02T23:11:00.000-06:00

Yesterday's post on Recognition prompted further thoughts. I do find that I often meet people I "recognize," which is a nice reminder of interconnectedness. Life is a fantastic mystery, and I make no pretension at understanding that Mystery. It is, in fact, what I love most - that much is unknown. I am comfortable with that Unknowing.

And because I Don't Know, I don't disparage those who believe in Pre-Life, Post-Life, and/or Reincarnation. But I don't relate to the detailed accounts of how I am connected to so-and-so because in a past life I was the French scullery maid working in the house where Young Master X (who is now embodied in the female form in this lifetime) and I had a torrid affair. Such stories have never rung true for me, and I am seemingly a magnet for past-live-connection stories.

What motivates a person to tell me how I am supposedly connected to them through a past life? I don't quibble with their belief relating to their own life, but I find it presumptuous to tell me about my own. Maybe if it EVER rings true, I'll change my tune and maybe even update this post.

In the mean time, don't tell me we were siblings in the Civil War. I probably won't buy it.

Recognition

2007-11-01T03:02:00.000-06:00

I smiled at a woman at the market last week and she said, "Do I know you?" to which I responded, "Not yet." She furrowed her brow and walked away.

I smiled at her in the first place because she looked grumpy, and sometimes when I feel grumpy a random smile can change my whole day.

Passage

2007-10-26T11:32:00.000-06:00

In this part of the world, the agricultural year is ending and Death, a necessary element of Life, predominates as growing things roll into fallow time before life returns in the spring. The other night, I described to C how my pagan practice has changed over the years, and now I don't engage in much ritual or pageantry, but rather I simply feel the seasons, the cycles, the shifts as energy mutates and transforms. I honor it quietly, feel it deeply.

Last night my grandfather took passage from what we know of this life. I am profoundly relieved. Yesterday was quite awful, as I felt him dying all day, and felt his children's pain in watching their father die. Although I am nearly 800 miles away from where it took place, the energy of the events surrounded me.

Today I have a sense of peace and am glad that he has taken passage into the Mystery. Grandpa frequently referred to death as graduation, that one completes this life and moves ahead to the next thing. Though much of my family and I may differ in how we conceive of what happens after death, I am comfortable with the graduation analogy. He completed his time in the form in which I was blessed to know and experience his spirit.

My love for him is intense and honoring his life and celebrating his passage feels highly appropriate during this liminal time in the solar year, as light fades and solstice begins its approach.

Rites... updated ... and updated again.

2007-10-17T18:58:00.001-06:00

Before I moved away from the only state I had ever lived, I made a difficult but deliberate decision. I did not make the 12-hour trip to see my grandfather. I wanted to remember him how he was during my previous visit, about a year before. I knew I might live to regret that decision, and I didn't make it lightly.

About an hour ago, I was told that Grandpa is en route to Salt Lake City to undergo surgery after taking a fall. More details as they become available. **Update: he broke his hip, had surgery, developed pneumonia, is now doing better, and I've talked to him on the phone.**

He's worked so bloody hard his whole life. First as a miner, then as his town's garbage collector, then as a thoughtful and supportive grandfather to his fifteen living grandchildren, many of whom had no other grandparents except for him. He would say to me fondly, "You were the first one to call me grandpa."

During my tearful call to TW, she offered to take him flowers at the hospital tomorrow. Her angelic presence and willingness to be at his bedside in my stead deepens my devotion to her. That's what's so wondrously surprising - that my devotion could grow any deeper than it already was.

**SECOND UPDATE: Just heard that he's suffered a stroke. As of yesterday he was doing much much better, was actually sitting up, eating solid food, coherent, and was being transferred to a rehab facility sooner than initially expected. Sometime during the night he had a stroke, his pneumonia is back with a vengeance, and his body is full of infection. If the antibiotics are going to work, we're told, they will do so within the first 24 hours. And so we wait. And I fight back tears at work while coping by writing this update.**

Queer

2007-10-10T23:24:00.000-06:00

Go here for the above book.

I upset someone today, using a word that rolls off my tongue as naturally as breathing.

My employer and teacher seemed rather rattled when I mentioned that of the fifteen living cousins on my paternal side, three of us are "confirmed queers." He questioned my using queer, and apparently assumes it reflects low self-image. He said he doesn't think "gay" has the same negative connotation. It may be useful to mention that he graduated from law school two years before I was born.

Although I grew up in a small town, and certainly heard "fag" used pejoratively, and probably "queer" too, I just feel really happy (gay, if you will) about the word queer. I was surprised by his reaction. The word is so normalized to me that I found myself blinking and stammering, surprised that I felt a need to defend my position.

Sure, I'll concede that my mom wailed a bit when I first used the word around her and I recognize that not everyone is thrilled with its use. But dammit, if I can't use the best umbrella term I know, for the sake of someone else's comfort, who the hell is accommodating and tolerating who?

So what does this mossygrrl do when she is baffled? She goes to the internet.

~ The wikipedia page on queer seems nice and round and overviewish, as wiki is wont to do.

~ I enjoyed the tone of this page from a queer spirituality blog.

~ This post talks about reclaiming, making distinctions between the Q-word and the N-word.

~ A how-to-decide guide for whether it's okay to use the word Q/queer made me grin.

Yet, for all my fervor and comfort with the word, I am now also thinking about effective communication. Shutting down pathways for connection by using a term that sets people on edge is not effective. And yet I find "queer" so normal. Is that ironic? Undoubtedly my comfort with queer is affected by the fact my undergraduate degree was in gender studies in the 1990s. Educational status certainly plays a role.

But beyond academia and postmodern mental masturbation maneuvers, at a very core level, the word queer is not only comfortable, but also comforting to me. It's broad and inclusive and makes space for me. It made space for me as a bi married person. It made room for me as a kink-curious person. It made room for me as a polyamorous person. It makes space for me now, mono and seemingly "lesbian." It doesn't require me to define myself too narrowly, providing space for fluidity and movement.

To me, being queer means being free.

Destination Spot

2007-10-10T12:33:00.000-06:00

At my see-ya-later party I reiterated that if/when my peeps found themselves in the NW (or wanting to find themselves in the NW), I encouraged them to come visit me.

My wish is coming true! The first weekend I was in my new home, D stayed with me amidst my boxes on his way to a wedding in Olympia. My lovely lover TW stayed with me last week; 42 days until she's back for Thanksgiving. This evening I'll have dinner with my cousin and his wife, who are here visiting his brother, who moved here right after I did. Early tomorrow G and S arrive, taking a grrls' road trip in their respective post-breakup states of being. Slumber party at Casa Moss! Yesterday I chatted with J who is finishing his season in Alaska and is planning is PDX visit and I heard from S a while back about her plans to be in town for a wedding in December. Add to that the plans of N&S to vacation in the NW in the spring.

I love that everyone is coming to me, that I have a steady stream of visitors to anticipate.

Hooray for being a desirable destination spot!

Luvy Wuvy

2007-10-04T21:38:00.001-06:00

In honor of its twentieth anniversary, a quote from the indomitable A Princess Bride:

Westley: This is true love - you think this happens every day?

Instead of being 766 miles away from me, my love is within a couple hundred miles. Right now she is on the coast and as I'm now working to pay off that mortgage-size student loan debt, I had to stay in Stumptown.

When she leaves Monday the 8th, I'll start counting the days until Thanksgiving.

M-m-miners

2007-10-03T16:44:00.001-06:00

Maybe I should make this a mining blog.

Because I was at work, after seeing this headline I had to consciously set out of my head the complex layers of gold, consumption, labor, and (in)justice. We're assured that the trapped miners have water and the mine is well-ventilated and that no one has been hurt so far. And maybe I'm just playing into the trapped-miner-sexy-media factor. But this stuff really strikes me. Strikes me deeply, as I've discussed at length here and here.

I guess it's like looking at a bad accident. Or listening to Neil Diamond. Sometimes you just can't help yourself.

Or more accurately, I can't help myself.

A Poly Song!

2007-09-26T01:22:00.000-06:00

Whether or not I'm doing poly, I'll probably always be interested in it.

This song had me humming along by the end. How dear.

My favorite verse:

"Have you ever seen 'Big Love'?
Know what I mean, wink, wink, nudge, nudge..."
And they say "Oh, so you're a Mormon?"
"No! ...I'll explain from the beginning..."

Are You Carny?

2007-09-16T21:39:00.000-06:00

Emay and I started a small beach fire and settled into our camp chairs, craning our necks to enjoy the rare view of coastal starlight. Several hundred yards up the beach, a bonfire blazed. Thick, black clouds periodically rose from the distant fire, the smell of burnt plastic wafting down the beach, occasionally reaching us. We muttered about rednecks and wrinkled our noses.

After awhile, I stood, stretched, and stepped out of the firelight to pull off my long-sleeved shirt, exposing my chest to the cool night air, before pulling on the leather vest and adjusting my leather chaps.

"Okay, Emay, here I go. You know how to work the camera?"

"Yep. I do. You signal me when you want me to hit record."

Usually I savor the post-fireplay rush produced by flame against flesh, heat dancing on lips, adrenaline pumping. But this time I was startled when a dog's glowing collar and rattling tags announced the otherwise-stealthy appearance of Drunken Local One. He swayed as he entered the circle of light, clutching a tallboy.

"Hello?" Emay called out nervously.

"Hey there, ladies," he said, slightly slurry. Then addressing me, "You're crazy!"

I sighed. Though attracting attention was inevitable with fireplay, I really wasn't in the mood to entertain a drunken stranger. "Yeah. That's what they tell me." I walked away, rustled around in my firebox, wishing he would go away so I could take off the leather vest and pull on the soft wool shirt without showing my breasts to some random drunk guy. After a few minutes of rambling on about my obvious insanity, he finally took the hint from our silence and non-engagement.

"Alright. Didn't mean to disturb you. Just drawn to the fire."

"Have a good night," I chirped, happy as he finally sauntered off.

Emay was anxious. "Wasn't that weird? Just to sneak up on us like that? I think that's weird, Moss."

"Yeah, it was," I acknowledged. In an effort to calm her nervousness, I added, "But maybe he thought we could see him walking up. Maybe he didn't know it was creepy. Maybe he was too drunk to think about it."

After sitting for a few minutes, watching the video on the tiny camera screen, and waiting for Drunken Local to move further down the beach, I spun poi, dancing barefoot in the sand. I dipped and re-dipped. Recorded, reviewed, erased, and re-recorded, missing the best performances and then futilely trying to recreate the best moments . . .

As I finished what I thought would be my last round for awhile, Drunken Locals Two, Three, Four, and Five approached. Drunken Locals' two dogs walked right into the fuel station, knocking lids off cans, spilling fuel. Again Emay called out to them before anyone acknowledged their presence. "Hello?" Her voice had the distinct twinge of irritation. Don't people know it's rude to approach a fire without signaling arrival?

"I was just finishing," I said to them, dropping my smoking poi on the firebox.

"Aww, but we wanted to come see up close! We been watching you for awhile down the beach."

"Okay, okay, I'll light up one more time," I conceded, figuring that making it performance-esque would perhaps keep them from feeling invited to stay and hang out at our campfire with us. I stooped to shoo away the dogs, upright the fuel cans, dip my wicks, and confer with Emay, who seemed agitated.

"This is freaking me out," she whispered. "There are four drunk guys here and two of us. I don't feel safe."

"It'll be okay," I whispered back. "Energetic boundaries. We're safe. They won't hurt us - I can just feel it. We're okay."

Standing, I addressed the Drunk Locals. "Here's the deal. I have open fuel over here, so keep your dogs away from me and the fuel, okay? Also, don't walk over here with lit cigarettes. Open fuel. Get it? And don't walk up behind me when I'm lit up. I can't hear you or see you when the toys are on fire. Okay?"

The Drunken Chorus:

Dogs! C'mere!
Wow, lots of rules.
Oh, yeah, yeah, we get it.
I don't smoke cigarettes.
Dogs! Come back here!

During the performance and afterward, the Drunken Chorus continued:

Wow!
That's amazing...
What kind of gas do you burn?
Probably propane. Must be propane.
How do you not burn yourself?
Man, you got balls, girl.

And then one question came from Drunken Local Three, who asked me in a serious tone:

Are you carny?

I laughed. "Am I what? Carny? No. I wouldn't say I'm carny." Images of thick-knuckled men with cigarettes dangling between their lips while they operated a merry-go-round flashed before my eyes. Emay later told me that she thought he'd asked if I was horny, fueling her nervousness at the scenario.

"Where'd you learn how to do that if you ain't carny?" he challenged me. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"Well, I lived with fire spinners for awhile, and I learned from them."

He thought about that for a moment.

"Oh. So you ARE carny."

TrashMan

2007-09-12T00:49:00.000-06:00

After his back was broken in a mining accident, my grandfather became the garbage man in Blanding, Utah, an insular little place, just north and west of the spot where Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico meet. It's a town that doesn't sell alcohol within city limits, a place where five or six family names dominate the cemetery headstones.

As the town trashman, he would often take people's broken side tables or bikes or whatever, fix them, and put them back on their front porch.

Grandpa was always picking up garbage. Everywhere we went, he was picking up trash, stooping his broken-backed self over to pick up a stray cup lid or cigarette butt or newspaper. He consistently made a place better than it was when he found it.

I've tried my best to follow suit, to follow the good examples I've received from my male lineage, taking latex gloves from my first aid kit and picking up people's nasty leave-behind garbage. And yeah, humans are really gross creatures. But this weekend, at the Owyhee Hot Springs Rendezvous with TW, I was shocked by the garbage. The 5-cent glass beer bottles and aluminum cans were taken away by enterprising sorts who wanted the recycling credits. But the cardboard box that held the 24-pack of Budweiser was left askew on the water's edge. The toilet paper alone was enough to warrant a second pair of latex gloves. But the topper was the Huggies and Pull-Ups.

What kind of person leaves filthy diapers strewn about? Seriously?

Rendezvous

2007-09-12T00:31:00.000-06:00

TW and I rendezvoused at Owyhee Hot Springs last weekend. It was wonderful. We are both so much in love with each other that it's endearing and (by all accounts) not quite yet sickening.

When we met up in Nampa, Idaho, I realized how much fear and watchful looking over my shoulder I'd shed since moving to Portland six weeks ago. She had to remind me that we had an audience at times; that the rednecks might not appreciate watching me suck face with my girlfriend, that I wasn't in my safe haven of a liberal city.

Sunny Seattle

2007-09-03T02:37:00.000-06:00

My well-loved pink sunglasses recently broke, so I was thrilled to find another pair upon entering Bumbershoot in Seattle Saturday morning. R took the following little mpg of me in those rose colored glasses that make the world look extra-beeeeautiful.

Other highlights from my weekend in sunny Seattle, in addition to hanging out with SLC friends who flew in for the festival:
- log cabin house where I stayed and slept under a fairy tree
- meeting Shanti's folks!
- laughing in an Irish pub with a couple of makeup'd clowns from Vau de Vire, fresh from BRC
- Rude Mechs doing Get Your War On (flash link)
- shaking my ass to the Aggrolites
- Ingrid and Heidi blessing the crowd with their loveliness (unfortunately the mpg I tried to take didn't turn out)
- getting turned on to Rodrigo y Gabriela
- DeVotchKa as the perfect end to a perfect festival day
- Cyclecide, the Heavy Pedal Cyclecide Bike Rodeo - see video below

* * *

After driving home Sunday afternoon, I finally hauled myself and my firetoys down to the bi-monthly firejam under the Marquam Bridge on Sunday nights. I was dead tired, hadn't lit up for over a month, but happy to hear the swoosh and feel the heat and play with burning fuel. After all, I am an Aries Fire Dragon.

Then today was my first potluck gathering in my new space and a very nice way to warm my house a month after setting down my first box, wiping my brow, and wondering WTF I'd done. What I'd done was follow my instinct/heart, and the rest is falling into place just as it should. As usual.

Irresistible

2007-08-31T02:55:00.000-06:00

I couldn't help myself. And if you aren't familiar with this series, Get Your War On lives here online. And for other amusements, see My New Fighting Technique is Unstoppable and the subtle links at the bottom of the page. You won't be sorry.

Likey

2007-08-28T00:03:00.001-06:00

Last night someone told me that if I'm blogging about produce, I have too much time on my hands. I cheerfully agreed.

However, having a lot of time on my hands does not mean I'm going to discuss anything like the long overdue resignation of US Attorney BossMan (aka Posterboy for the double feature: 'Merican Dream/Gitmo Nightmare). I will, however, link you to a chimp site. Yee-haw.

Tonight's post is going to focus on Likey.

Likey. Verb. As in, I likey that S continually inspires and endears me.

I first heard the term years ago from S, with whom I share a 12+ year friendship, and it always makes me smile. So in addition to the example provided above for the usage of the term, here's my likey list for today:

1. I likey that my Authentic Audubon Society Singing Bird Clock sounds so realistic that it produces the same reaction in at least two badass cats. B's cat Smokey used to do it, and I just watched Kitty do it too. They get That Look. They open their mouth, squint their eyes, and breathe all lustily. Roar. Feline instinct.

2. I likey that I found out about this Peace-Making site.

3. I really likey that I am envisioning a way to use my JD for good and not for evil, enabling me to meet my own gaze in the mirror hanging above my kitchen sink.

4. I likey making intention boards with an intuitive 5-year-old, who helped me collage carefully chosen images and words in an ongoing project to manifest my reality. (Oh, and if you're rolling your eyes at the mention of manifesting reality, I do have a sense of humor about Da Seeeekret. And/but I also make intention boards.)

5. I likey having my Anticipator all revved up, looking forward to rendezvous and trips and visits in the next month.

6. I likey the varied correspondence TW and I share through psychic, written, technological, postal, auditory, and astral means.

6. I likey being in love. (Awww, she's in love!)

Feeding Myself~Feeling Good

2007-08-24T12:48:00.000-06:00

Knowing where my food is grown is intensely satisfying. If I haven't grown it myself, I like to look at the person who did grow it and have a conversation. Though not always practical, I do engage in this behavior as much as possible.

Yesterday I went to my first Portland Farmer's Market. There are markets nearly every day, at various locations in the city, and I had missed a really good one Wednesday at People's Food Coop (which has a year-round farmer's market. Year-round!!!). So I got my ass out of Haven, the Stumptown-coffee-serving queer-friendly coffeeshop where I'd been working at my computer and headed over to 20th and Salmon. The market was mellow. It was friendly. Beautiful dready mamas telling me about the fingerling potatoes with a slight southern twang and easy smiles. A kindly old man telling me about the Red Bartlett pears, wagging his finger, telling me to "eat 'em up soon! They're ready!" I got the most beautiful berries, pears, peaches, beets, corn, fingerlings. Freezing the fruit, envisioning the sorbet and smoothies and fruit sauces I'll make all year, was a welcomed Farmer's Market Day chore last night.

As one who has been trying to minimize the plastic in my immediate world, especially in my kitchen, I'm wondering how to freeze or otherwise store my fruit without the use of plastics? Canning might be an option, but I try to minimize my sugar intake and all my experience with canning has required using sugar.

Here's a little video of my new apartment ...

And a tour of the yard outside my new place:

And here's my current reminder/intention board. You know, in case you thought I'd become a suit or something crazy like that:

Just for kicks I thought somebody out there might like a shot of my blackberried tongue. No? I'm wrong? Nobody wants to see my black tongue?

Mainstream Sex Stories

2007-08-17T13:47:00.000-06:00

I don't often (or really ever) follow mainstream media. Shocking, I realize. However, I am on an email list from the Woodhull Freedom Foundation, through which I see many stories about sex(uality)-society-politics-law. And recently there were three articles in the mainstream press that caught my attention.

* * *

1. The general absence of male-identified folks in articles about bisexuality impacted my impression of Young Women Defy Labels in Intimacy with Both Sexes, Bisexuals Take a 'Flexible' View and Don't Follow a 'Fixed Path,' Say Sexuality Experts. But xx bisexuals are so fantasy-worthy! How silly of me to be bothered by a one-sided focus! At least the article did mention trans folks and resistance to labels and tags to define one's fluid sexuality. I noted, however, that all the women went from relationships with women to relationships with men, and not mentioning heteroprivilege or socialization was a gaping hole. But what did I expect, really, from a piece that mentions Britn*y Spears, Anne H*che, and Ang*lina Jol*e in the opening paragraphs? Favorite quote: "In no way does she deny her history or say she has found her true sexuality. It was all her true sexuality."

2. Polyamory is making it to the mainstream? The Decade of Bad Fashion was invoked, swinging inextricably tied to poly in the headline (oooh, titillating), the piece was hetero/marriage-based, and the question of what constitutes "success" wasn't really explored, but in general I was pleased to see Are Open Marriages More Successful Than Traditional Couplings? A New Generation Tries Swinging, but Leaves the Leisure Suits in the Closet, especially given the source. Favorite quote: "They see it as a high road; it's not cheating, it's growing their relationship."

3. The heteronormative tone and assumptions implicit in Boys, don't be jealous of her toys — play along! How's a guy to compete with the wonders of electronics engineering? annoyed me. Are the phallus-bearers feeling insufficient, given the many choices in small bedroom appliances? How aching that must be for them. Favorite quote: “So much choreography goes into orgasmic sex that sometimes it is wisest to accept help wherever you can get it!”

* * *

There's your mainstream media dose for today. Maybe for the month.

Noticing the Fear/Hope Connection

2007-08-16T19:41:00.000-06:00

Though I generally reject dualisms, believing them oversimplifications of complex spectra, hope/fear dichotomies and impulses are on my mind, informed by recent events. My last post, about the miners trapped in a Utah mine, is still abuzz in my brain, though the volume has decreased slightly over the last two days. But hearing about the earthquake in Peru added to my tragedy anxiety. Is Uncle W, visiting Peru, safe? Are his friends and loved ones safe?

So I called my folks. After discussing my uncle's whereabouts and planned travel itinerary, my mom brought up the trapped miners, how they've been following the story closely and my dad has been trying to keep himself from watching the news continuously. This came as no surprise -- every cave-in takes him back to 1965. She talked about the families holding vigil and the incessant hopefulness that propel tight-knit mining communities. Stories of mind-boggling survival circulate, like trapped miners in southern China surviving 23 days, fueling with optimism the eleven-day-long search at the Huntington mine. Hope persists, even for those watching from afar, bearing witness. Praying.

After hanging up, I sat outside under three gigantic cedar trees in my backyard, listening to birds singing in the trees and chickens cooing at my feet. I thought about how fear and hope wove together these events in my psyche. Fear for W's safety and the safety of those he loves in Peru, as hundreds of bodies are found in rubble; fear for the families whose loved ones are trapped. Hope for W's well-being; hope that plucky earth-diggers will survive.

I recognized how much I've grown, because now I'm noticing the hope. I persisted in such a fear-based state for so very long that hardship seemed to loom at every turn. Now I often create a Gratitude List upon waking each morning, almost automatically, but consciously. I live a blessed life, and I am thankful.

Focusing on hope, in the face of frustration, is my mantra for today, and probably for tomorrow too. Larger events put my challenged job searching in perspective.

Update: Just heard a message from my uncle, who reports that the earthquake's devastation was in the area he had visited and that he returned to the US two days before. N, the love of his life, and her family, all escaped injury. Blessings abound.

Update2: Another cave-in at the mine leaves rescue workers dead and injured. Mournful, I breathe, quelling fear for hope.

Trapped in Earth-Tunnels

2007-08-11T10:49:00.000-06:00

Along with my father, I have a tendency to pay close attention to mine accidents, those inevitable consequences of digging hundreds of feet into the earth and putting humans there to blast and gather and cut away stone. I generally ignored the news this week as I settled into PDX and studied for the exam I took yesterday. Last night on the BBC news service I read about two US mine accidents and my belly rolled over.

No one in my family works underground anymore. But my connection to mining persists; I cannot shake free from the prickling awareness of what happens in the heartstone of Gaia, where we've tunneled and taken. Don't misunderstand by my word usage that I am vehemently opposed to mining. What would be the point of such opposition? I am acutely aware of why people work in mining and logging and for defense contractors. The food that fueled my lengthening limbs, the house that sheltered me, the books that expanded my sharpening mind - these were all acquired by the modest salaries derived from work I find politically objectionable.

But politics and personal family dynamics are a realm requiring deliberate navigation. How do I hold these seemingly disparate parts of myself? Will I continually mourn for unknown miners, trapped by tons of rock and soil, oxygen running low? Is that mourning a reflection of the sadness I feel toward the limited opportunities available to my dad and granddad? Grandpa's back was broken in a uranium mining accident in 1965, a cave-in that also crushed my father's 15-year-old shoulder. Dad's neck was broken in 1978 in a copper mine accident, and after recovering he went back to the mines as foreman. After Anac*nda shut down its Utah operation in 1983, he sought whatever mining work was available. Hearing of workers dying in a mineshaft fire, he'd rush to the mine to apply, knowing there were now openings. After being unable to secure underground work, as new veins and cheaper labor were harvested in South America, he moved on to defense contractor jobs, at Dugw*y Pr*ving Ground and then at Thi*kol. And how was my mother impacted by her husband's profession? How many times did she wonder if she'd see him again when he left for a graveyard shift as she put her small children to bed? How often did she expect to be a young widow?

There are things I recognize on a cellular level. Through my mother's body I recognize Oregon, the land here, as well as the proud hearts and minds of old-school loggers, who eschewed clearcutting and defended their work as promoting forest health. Through my father's body I recognize redrock desert, uranium dust, the smell of greasy manual labor, and the terror of being trapped in tunnels.

I wrote the following about a year and a half ago:

Sentimentality for the natural world could have easily overwhelmed me; gratefully, it did not. I am deeply connected to the western landscape in which I was raised and protecting the earth from abuse is a cherished personal value I hold. But sentimentality could never fully take hold because early on I realized that issues relating to natural resource acquisition and preservation of wild spaces are complex and require creative methods to find common ground.

My maternal grandfather was born in an Oregon logging camp, the son of a crew foreman. Before he died, my family took him to the forest areas of his childhood; Grandpa was shocked by the clear-cutting we found when venturing off the main roads. He recounted stories of his father covertly bringing forestry students to his camp, against the wishes of the company bosses, to advise the crew on healthier logging techniques. I thought about that story a lot on the drive back to Utah, realizing that my great-grandfather, who made his living from the forest, had a fervent desire not to see it destroyed.

While my mother’s family subsisted on the logging of trees, my father’s family endured by tunneling through the earth. My father and maternal grandfather worked in uranium mines in southeastern Utah, their very livelihood reliant upon a nuclear industry with undisclosed health and ecological consequences. I understand all too well why and how economic survival takes precedence, even in the face of extreme risk and physical injury.

In my family, balancing idealism and pragmatism was a necessity, not a luxury. As a child, I witnessed and participated in a working-class struggle for survival. Education was my ticket out of that cycle of hardship. However, I did not anticipate that education would create such an intense disconnection from my family. As my education and life experience grew, so too did my perceived sense of alienation from my upbringing. My beliefs have deviated from my family's, which has provided me the unique opportunity to recognize the validity and importance of a variety of perspectives and eschew ineffective dogmatic approaches.
* * *

I'll probably still continue to follow the progress in the mines. I can't seem to help myself. The simultaneous integration and untangling of emotion and worldview and cellular knowing is a lifetime journey; not something I expect will be quickly resolved. And for the families of those trapped, those praying for oxygen to reach their loved ones - I pray with you, eyes welling with tears. My body remembers.

Settling

2007-08-08T20:01:00.000-06:00

Here's a picture of the first proper meal I made myself at my new home in Portland. Salad, pasta, wine, oh my! Add some Harry Potter and a beautiful location, and it was utterly pleasant, even though I used way too much rosemary in my sauce. Until last night, I was feeding myself antipasti, guacamole, Thai takeout, and PB sandwiches.

I've been in Portland a week now, and I am wondering if my housemate thinks I'm agoraphobic. I have left the house, but not much. Getting everything settled and unpacked and finding where stuff belongs has seemed important for my mental clarity. And it's amazing how much job-hunting and networking one can do in the backyard with a cell phone and a laptop. Plus, I'm studying for the exam on the professional rules governing lawyers, which I'll take day after tomorrow. Do I sound like I'm making excuses? Yeah. I am.

But tomorrow I'm going to study law at the anarchist cafe. Ironic, no?

Yes, friends, I am happy, I am settling in, and the wonder of actually living in Oregon is starting to not be the shock that it was at first. Moss belongs here. My body recognizes this place, and it feels like home.

SLC: Magical Organic Gardenspace

2007-08-01T11:07:00.000-06:00

On our way out of town, the beautiful and multi-talented TW gave my parents a tour of Traces, the most breathtaking acre oasis in SLC. (TW describes the fact that she works at a place with her own name as another manifestation of the serendipity in her life.) Going there was the last stop I wanted to make as I set forth.

This spot is incredible. Farmer's market of organic produce every day! Edible flowers! Gorgeous floral arrangements! Lovely gifts and furnishings and organic gardening supplies in the shop! Heirloom vegetables, seeds, and information from those who tend the soil and care for the plants!

For those in or passing through SLC, you must - I emphasize must - visit this place, pick some fresh organic produce, directly pay the beautiful people who grow this blessed food with love, and know that we can feed ourselves from the earth beyond the sidewalk.

1432 S 1100 E. Summer hours Monday through Saturday 9:30 am - 6:00 pm. Sunday hours erratic.

I'm so relieved I didn't leave without learning about its existence; sharing the knowledge and love of this place will make me profoundly glad.

Farewell (Faring Well)

2007-08-01T01:02:00.000-06:00

The choppy and disoriented tone of the last few posts may persist as I settle into the first Big Move of my life. Abrupt, jerky movements have manifested as nasty scrapes and bruises all over the lower half of my body from stumbles and lurches.

Remember to breathe, Moss.

The See-Ya-Later Party was beyond words. The love I felt, the bright eyes and tight heart-hugs, the laughter, the touching things people wrote in my self-proclaimed "SLC YearsBook." And tonight I just saw some incredibly beautiful and heartfelt writing by Chicory about moi and feeling our friendship in my core.

***

Now I'm sitting amongst boxes, filled with the knowledge that stuff, in general, is just superfluous anyway. Although toothbrushes are nice.

Relief >>> Anticipation

2007-07-27T15:18:00.000-06:00

I survived the bar, but won't know if I have to re-take it until the results are posted 9/14. What an awful ordeal that was; I'm very glad it's behind me. And I didn't even have a seizure from the terrible carpet in the hotel ballroom. Two days of wearing earplugs did make me rather self-conscious and self-absorbed, as every swallow rang in my ears and my footfalls sounded elephantine.

Now I am frantically packing up twelve years of life in Salt Lake City. Tomorrow's farewell potluck party starts in the afternoon, so I have much to do in anticipation, plus the actual packing part. I load the truck and move Monday the 30th.

Slightly bittersweet, as I have recently connected with someone truly extraordinary, and naturally, living in SLC. But this feeling of liking someone a whole lot, and being liked back in turn, is incredible. Thank goodness my leaving prompted boldness on my part (what did I have to lose if she wasn't interested?), else I may have slid out of Mormonia without meeting its rocknroll-angel-goddess. But. That tragedy was averted, and I do have the distinct pleasure of Miss W's affection, and she mine. Yes, my friends, I am indeed grinning.

back to the boxes and packing tape

Downslope

2007-07-24T22:56:00.000-06:00

Today I checked in at 7:40 am. We finished just before 7:00 pm.

Tomorrow: 6 hours of multiple choice questions. Over halfway done.

Verging . . .

2007-07-23T19:05:00.000-06:00

. . . on tears. Rather freaked out. Landed in Portland a few hours ago; will take the bar exam tomorrow and Wednesday. Someone told me today I should consider myself lucky because the California bar is a day longer than Oregon's. Um, okay. Presto. I consider myself lucky. (!)

I've been really grateful for the friendly voices on the other end of the phone line.

Thanks to mama for believing in me. Thanks to sistah L for her support. Thanks to G for taking me to New Seasons so I can be stocked on good water, fruit, oatmeal, almond milk, and Stumptown coffee for the morning. Greasy eggs and bacon in the hotel restaurant did not appeal.

Thanks to B for her reassuring roommate loves and advice on how to handle my stress through physical action like the cross-crawl, eye exercises, and muscle movements. Thanks to J in Boston for being unfailing in his ability to make me feel better. I knew I could count on his pep talk!

And especially thanks to T for being the person she is -- calm and inspiring and beautiful and receptive and perceptive and open and generous. When I see/hear/think about her I find myself blissed out and buzzing and breathless.

Breathless, yes. Even as I try to remember to breathe.

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