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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
Been on the road since last Wednesday. Well, not on the road, exactly. I spent 12 hours on the road, driving all night (see picture below!), and have been staying in Portland with M. I've been in Oregon in anticipation of my pending move here, to interview and scope my employment scene, to set up housing, and I managed to get to a music festival the first weekend I was here, foregoing the Portland Pride celebrations in lieu of some burner/hippie/magic love in the woods.
This is what I look like at sunrise after a night I saw fall. Witnessing sunset and sunrise without rest is an awesome experience. I took this picture and the one above while driving along the Columbia River Gorge. My excitement builds and bubbles when driving along the river toward the sea, knowing it's taking me to my new home.
Campsite at Emrg N See, a four-day music festival at Miller Ranch, outside Salem. I met some lovely people, hung out with my new housemate-to-be, and was just thrilled to be in the woods. And here's a shot of my new city, taken from the air tram connecting two hospitals on the west side of the river. Yes, I actually took the tram for the view. And because I knew I probably wouldn't do it after I moved.
I've had some plans up my sleeve for a few months.
This blog is moving soonish to breathingmoss. Some posts are already cross-posted, but I'm still working out formatting and such. I'll post when I'm all done here.
I love options. Having three distinct (and equally valid) first names is the kind of pluralist I like to be. The only downside is that it seems like I don't know my name when I stammer upon introducing myself.
I am who I say I am. But I'm also a couple other people too.
