2009

Hey, New York. I scanned the skies and TV monitor for all you back east people. Times Square looked so great. I kept looking for your faces. They flipped to J. Brothers too many times(ugga), but I knew you were there in that 02 degree weather. We miss all of you.

On the Lighter Side--True Story (except for "minus 30)

OK, I just have to tell someone this: Yesterday, I was sort of drowning (as you see from last post), but I was so busy writing in my journal to keep from jumping up and screaming every obscenity I know, and some I've forgotten, from the back porch that I was only vaguely aware of Cat (who hasn't got a 'real' name yet) running up and down the stairs and furiously round and round the kitchen. I thought Patch was chasing her because he does that when he's bored, but I looked up once (when the noise got a little out of control), and he was sitting by me watching the kitchen intently.
The noise IS unusual at this point, and somewhere far in the back of my mind I'm thinking of a discussion I had with Jacob on Monday about the woman in Ammon who was almost robbed recently. A man, posing as a book sales person (how dare he), shoved a gun in her ribs, tied her up, then started grabbing computers, video games, etc. and piling them by her front door. But, someone honks a car horn outside, so this guy runs out without taking any of the stuff. (What an idiot. I swear the IQ of thieves is dropping daily.) Her kids find her tied up when they get home from school--how traumatic for them. So, Jacob and I are discussing visits to locksmiths, since, let's face it, I'm never going to remember the safe place where I've hidden the key to unlock my 22, and because for some reason I've always wanted to shoot a thief (now, no gasping, please--just in the arm or leg). It's a secret dream of mine because HOW DARE THEY? I paid for my stuff, and no one, not even PresElect Obama is going to take it--unless I say so! But, hey, I'm busy writing my book to stay off the blog, like Matt Esq suggested I do, so who cares about creepo, probably meth-induced robberies, right?

OK, so I get up around midnight to hunt through my kitchen for some chocolate, and right there--between me and the kitchen--is not a thief but a mouse. Now, mice are not like snakes with me (a dead snake on my rug would have had me dialing 911), but I'm gagging, and this mouse looks like it's just faking dead. I don't want to pick it up because what if it starts squirming. The thought makes me gag twice, but I also don't want the cat throwing it up in the air again, and Patch is moving through my legs to sniff. And where did it come from anyway? I'm sure I've been "mouse-free" for years even though I know this is impossible when one lives in the middle of trees by a river, for hecks sake. But, I'M NOT PICKING THIS MOUSE UP! ... Yet, I have to get to the kitchen. Suddenly, I'm laughing hysterically, doubled over the back of the couch, because this is sort of a gift from God--the death of a rodent--to break my depression. Get it? It's so symbolic and I'm laughing so hard at myself that now I have to go to the bathroom, which means I have to pass the mouse, so I might as well pick it up, since I don't dare go upstairs and leave this dead thing down here with Patch and Cat, who sits by my feet, looking indignant, like, "Hey, I brought you a Christmas present and you dare laugh?" (I'm trying for the world's longest sentences, though I'll never beat Henry James.)

So, I edge by, carefully watching for signs of movement, wanting to call my mother, for some reason, to ask what to do, but she is terrified of mice and once stood on a kitchen chair until my dad got home because one was under our sink, and it's now past midnight for hecks sake. I grab almost a full roll of paper towels, but that's not enough, so I pad them into an old cloth towel I won't mind throwing away, while the whole time, I'm screaming at Patch and Cat to stay by me: "Don't you dare go near that mouse, or you'll be as dead as he (or she) is," but that's the problem--is this mouse dead or a great Hollywood actor in disguise? I mean his legs (I'm sure it's a "he" now, since who else would dare interrupt my depression in the middle of the night. Females know instinctively that we all work it out on our own. They quietly sympathize, then leave us alone, bless their hearts. And, no fair jumping on that sexist remark) are sticking straight up, and his eyes are closed, but...who knows? So, I loosely cover him with a mountain of "stuff," and gingerly gather him up--because I swear if he's faking it and starts moving around, I'll throw him and towels and run for Canada, which means he could land stuck on the ceiling and stay there clear through Christmas (remember, it's past midnight, and I'm not thinking too clearly, nor would you under said circumstances).

Now, I'm carrying him--with my head turned sideways--convinced he's suffocated by if he truly wasn't dead--and head for the garbage can; but wait, I can't leave him in a can inside my house! But, how can I put him down to find shoes because he could still be faking death and suddenly run out from underneath the towels? I mean who knows? There’s been a lot of fake stuff happen in my life. So, I open the garage door, with two fingers, my head still turned sideways, and walk out in the snow to throw a dead rodent into my garbage can-- whose lid is frozen shut. I kick the can hard with my bare feet and bang my shoulder against it, because I'm not putting this mouse down for anything. And do you know how stinkin' cold it is here? Minus 30 without wind-chill (slightly exaggerated for effect). I finally run clear to the fence behind the shed and throw him--towels and all--into the big gully, and on my frozen run back, I'm wondering, "Is that littering?" which my dad taught us never to do.

I LOVE CAT. She is now playing with the colored lights that swirl around my floor from the crystals hanging from the windows (like in Pollyanna). She is truly one of the Great Females in my life right now. She's resting. I'm saving the rest of the mice (such as there is) for Em to catch, so she won't ever be bored living here in Ice City.

This is me screaming---Clear to Japan--Blood Essay

Kylie asked why I’m screaming. I'm answering her on a different blog.
Kylie, you sweet innocent, I’m screaming because I've tried to catch up on the WC blog, I wrote replies, tried to patch up hurt fingers, change subjects, track down "Anonymous" (which I misspelled twice, but will never do so again), told WC assistants, in the most subtle way possible, that I'm glad everyone is homesick when they go home because home is behind us and ahead of us, NOT down here in this hell-hole of a life, but Julie said it better, so no one even talked to me but you, and Britt, Katie, Crystal, and Julie, Jami, Travis, Anona, Chan, and Matt (who said over e-mail at midnight, “Why don’t you just take a vacation from the blog and go write another book?")--which is, I guess, quite a lot of people talking to me, but it doesn’t feel like anyone because ... I, myself, am whining too much to feel the Spirit, which IS the only real comfort and peace we have. And no matter what anyone says to you, or promises you, or whatever they DON’T say to you, that is the absolute truth, because the Lord is the only One who can fill up emptiness.

But, here’s the kicker: He can’t give us peace when there’s no room at the Inn—when we’re too filled up already with resentment, or anger, or fear, or pain—and your incessant whining brought me face-to-face with my own pain, and I just want it all to go away, just like you do.

I want to crawl into a closet and sit, hugging my knees with my head down, until it melts away or thrashes itself to death against my bedroom window. I remember Chan saying "[when the memories hit too hard], use the Atonement," but I can’t right now, because my children are in pain—real pain, which I can’t even talk about. And because it snowed again--heavy.

So, I'm adding to the deep, sick, crap-sorrow-—claustrophobia, because now I can’t drive down my lane to help my 90-yr-old parents hang lights on their tree--because they’re sitting there too tired after dragging the tree in from the garage--even though I’ve driven round and round my driveway to pack down the snow, and Jacob and J. shoveled out my truck, so I could get down my lane, IT SNOWED AGAIN—-GET IT? DO YOU GET THAT because it’s important to me that you understand--it will always snow again. And twenty years ago, I could have taken a shovel and gleefully thrown snow clear over the roof, clear to Japan, but now I’m stuck here because it snowed again.

And Patch won’t eat because he gets depressed when I’m depressed, and so I’m saying, “Look, Patch, this can of dog food says Top-Sirloin Flavored... and Prime Cuts. “Umm, yum, yum,” and then I’m thinking, well, yeah, sure, someone offered you Prime Cuts once--over an altar--and it wasn’t real; it was a lie, and then I realize I’m comparing Jim to DOG FOOD, which does momentarily make me laugh, because sometimes it feels so good to hate him—-even at Christmas when we’re supposed to forgive everyone--especially when he should be here with a snow blower, or at his grandchildren’s basketball games, or helping my parents (whom he loved, and yet still broke my father’s heart when he just...left, without a backward glance, and, damn, I can’t fix it, because I’m not enough. I’m not a strong son-in-law, who can shovel snow off my dad’s roof), and, also, Jim should be with me right now wrapping presents to send to Turner in Slovakia or Parker in Mexico, or to Beau-—damn you, Jim, damn you clear to the hottest hell-—to Beau and Megan, and to Jason-—he should be anywhere but in a nice new house with a "Nice" new women, when my family is still sealed to him! Ahhhhhhhh...some days I think I will break in half. Yes, Kylie, this is me screaming, though I’m writing it on another blog, so you’ll never hear it, so you won’t catch this disease, this fear of the future from me.

And who can blame him for leaving since I am an angry, insane person and always sad? I can't even stand to be around me. I would have left me also. I did leave me. It was all too sad.

But, that’s not true. It’s literally not true. I’m looking at pictures of myself before Jim (Megan sneaked these pics out of Randy’s Minnesota house last summer, just for me), and I’m laughing and light and I remember—though it gets more vague—that life tasted so sweet and how I was glad to see the morning, even excited. ...so, what in the holy hell happened?

If I could just see it clearly, once, just understand a little of it....

And sometimes I just want to crawl in his bed and lay my head up under his chin or hear his voice because I can’t remember what it sounded like, but I remember it made me feel safe and warm—sometimes. And sometimes it made me feel like I had already died.

And the point is that no one can help you, and I don’t want help because I HAVE TO GET OUT OF THIS CRAP-HOLE MYSELF—and Heavenly Father is the only One who can really help. But, how the hell can He get through so much pain before it suffocates me, squeezes me until my bones break like brittle little mice bones. And I hear a line in my head from English Patient where the Count says, “Every night I cut out my heart, but by morning it grows back again.”

What I wanted to say to those groaning WC assistants was this: Wait to whine until you hit real trials. I know they seem big now, but they’re not, and how you handle these small ones will help you get through the big ones. You’re whining because your parents gave your room to your brother? Wait to whine until you’re 61, and you don’t go to church because some idiot speaker will say, “Everyone (she actually held her breath, anticipating the joy she’d bring to the congregation), now... close your eyes and remember your best Christmas.” And you innocently close your eyes because this is church, right? And Church should be safe, right? But you suddenly see a roomful of laughing children, a tall husband who can fight lions and tigers and bears oh my, and a big tree dripping with drippy ornaments made by the kids (which now sit in someone else’s garage, who doesn’t recognize which childish paper Mache is which, nor does she care). And because the tears wouldn’t stop gushing, you leave through the side door, embarrassed, but knowing now that Christmas can be lethal, and maybe it will be until you die.

Wait to whine until you wake up with eyes that hurt before you even open them. Wait until you have to take half the morning to re frame the day in terms of eternities, so you don’t look ahead and just see days of waking to no one--gray, quiet-quietness, where not even temples help-- before you can pull on clothes and drag yourself to a hostile place where friends used to be. Wait until you wake up to what you never thought would be your life because you wanted so much—-you, who raced a palomino horse down the Iona hill chasing rabbits through sagebrush, sure you would be empress of the universe someday; you dreamed so high that this can’t possibly be true—-THIS is the dream--I’ve disappeared already and only my shadow drifts around this house-—it’s ethereal. I’m not solid, but blend in with the chairs and tables. I’m a ghost before I’m dead. How incredibly strange, and it’s cold, so cold that my warmest blanket can’t get my blood moving again.

But, it’s not a dream, and you have to reach down and drag up from nowhere more strength and courage and spit and brassy grit because this stupid cat and dog are sitting at your feet looking up, as if to say, “Well, hey, you’re all we have, and--such as you are--you’re enough, so... what’s your problem?”

Therefore, I will turn my whole body towards the pain to disarm it, so it can kill me--face it, you wimp, you gutless wonder of a wispy wimp-—and feel it until you can’t feel any more, because it can’t kill you because nothing ever dies, and isn’t that the great irony? I am fighting an unreal battle—-a total illusion. ... I’m tilting at windmills, and right now, I don’t know if that’s painfully hilarious or heart breaking. Nope. I’m smiling. It’s funny. But, wow, what a waste of energy.

So, today, I thank the gods and God the Father that “after great pain, a formal feeling comes” and “Peace comes dropping slow,” so I can go take pictures of the snow as it falls on the river, the six-inch tufts on my deck posts, the bird and deer tracks, and it will be a good again-—for a while. I don’t know how, but the trees and river, and Patch chasing a squirrel, spraying up powder, will make it good again, so I can breathe-—because ...where else is there to go?

My biggest fear all my life has been that I would die before I died, and that is the actual battle I’m fighting through. How strange. And how stupid! Did I know this before? If I did, I wouldn’t have chosen it. Tanner Stellmon, in all your arguments about free agency, I think whoever chose this is either a total masochist or someone who had false grandiose illusions about her own strength. It wasn't moi. I just can't be that stupid. Right?

I’m going now...going to Innisfree to take pictures of shadows on the snow. (Count them—-four prepositions in that last sentence).

Dying is as constant as living

Cool green shade
slides across the river.
Even mosquitoes are sleeping.

But bats zip in the nights,
blind, like military jets
heading straight for warm blood.

"The Times they are a Changin'" (Bob Dylan)

I'm not going to say anything about the politics of the situation because I know my political views are different from others. Politics aside I'm looking at the big picture. Sister Morgan summed it up best with her Facebook status:

"Sharon Morgan is crying because she saw race riots in person, and now for the first time in 38 years, she feels proud of her country again."

Amen. Amen.

"Yes We Can."
"Yes We Did."
"Change has come to America."

All of these phrases marked tonight, which I would say is one of the more historic moments in the history that I have witnessed. Though it's not saying much it still says something. In my lifetime I have witnessed things like the Tuesday morning of Sept. 11, 2001. I remember coming in through the door after seminary, and shock as I stood next to my dad, eyes glued to the TV as the last of the twin towers fell to the ground, thousands of pounds of concrete peeling downwards. I knew then that the world would end. All chaos was about to be unleashed upon the nations of the world because people out there were evil enough to throw planes into buildings. And for what? What a contrast today is to that day. Two different Tuesdays.

I'm Canadian. Though American politics is fun to watch and follow, it really is like watching a sport to me. I follow it the same way I would follow a favorite sports team--slightly detached and rooting for a team that really doesn't mean much. That's not to say the issues aren't important, but they don't affect me directly because I'm not American. Sad truth though is that having spent the last five years in America, I know more about what's going on here than back at home. The issues here have more relevance (if not relative importance) to the issues at home.

Today, I saw a million people gather in a place that was the site of racial riots 40 years ago to support a new President. I saw in the smiles of the anonymous million waiting for President Obama to make his acceptance speech, the shadow of hundreds of years of civil rights atrocities and injustices lift from the face of America. I saw in the hugs of jubilation that differences can bring us together: history doesn't have to dictate the future. I saw in their tears the visual expression of the hope that I felt.

I'm not a very optimistic person. I'm a person that loses faith in humanity more and more as I get older, but tonight it was different. In those people's expressions I felt hope, I felt hope in humanity because I knew that America had gone a long way to overcome it's own past. America elected an African-American man to be its president.

I don't know how long this hope I feel will last, but I know that at for at least one night, I can be proud of the human race again. Ivor Lee



Well said, Ivor. This win was breathtaking; I am overjoyed, but probably for different reasons from those of my friends and colleagues.
No one could say McCain isn’t a sincere man after listening to his gracious concession speech. But, as the Prime Minister of England just said, “This day will go down as one of the most significant days in history.” I do not think people realize yet what has happened.

Except you're wrong, Ivor, when you say American politics don't affect you. What happens in this country is always global. The eyes of the world are always upon us. And, for many years, I've ducked my head because of that, wanting to clain I was Canadian, Irish, an alien from Mars. We have a constitution that says we will live under a true democracy—which means we are supposed to be a country who gaurentee human rights for every single child of God—whether that person is Jewish, Hispanic, White, Black, or Chinese. In case anyone forgot— Democracy is “for the people and by the people.” Yet, when I was your age, I saw that we spoke out of both sides of our mouths. We were the greatest of hypocrites. I saw Afro-Americans (what an ironic term) beaten by police and spit upon, humiliated by white people; whites who then walked home to eat family dinners as if they had just been swatting flies. I saw little girls with black hair and skin hide behind their mother's skirt when a caucasian came near them. I saw more than I could stomach--more than I wanted to see. And I can never forget it.
More importantly, I saw massive discrimination happening in a critical arena— minorities had to fight to get an education or even be admitted to our universities. No wonder so many just gave up. Is it possible that people in this country think this did not happen? I was ashamed to be an American for many years, as I witnessed abuse of authority (Nixon’s deceit; Clinton’s blatant and embarrassing immorality, Bush’s stupidity), our genocide in Vietnam as we protested genocides in other countries, our division and petty politics, our cruelty to each other as children shot other children. (How did you make it through your high schools without severe mental damage? Uhh, never mind. I take back that question.) There was no United in the United States I grew up in--except for a brief time under J.F. Kennedy (the first Catholic to be voted president), but he was assassinated, as was Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy shortly after.
Disillusioned with my country? That’s too mild a word. I have felt guilty, ashamed, angry, and embarrassed—and responsible for its condition—until the tragedy at Kent State when my feelings turned into a bitter cynicism, which I have tried to keep to myself (unsuccessfully) for many years.
The point, for me, is not so much the next four years: most people realize that whoever won (won? another ironic term) the presidency, whether it was McCain or Obama, would be extremely limited in what he could accomplish in the White House. We know the next president inherits a narrow isle, in which he can operate, from the presidency before him. Obama‘s presidency (or McCain’s if he had won) will succeed or fail by the choices he makes in his cabinet. If he surrounds himself with good, EDUCATED advisors, and if he listens to others and pays attention to what history has taught us (or not taught some of us), he may be able to pull us up a notch or two. And, in this area, maybe his inexperience will be an asset, since he will need to listen and learn. But, it’s naive of some to think that either McCain or Obama could fix what’s wrong with this country— either economically or politically, nor can they fix our relationships with foreign countries. We are in a mess that we ourselves have created. And it’s our value system that is at fault. Our heroes are movies stars and sports figures. We idolize the rich and despise the poor. We celebrate army tanks in our parades. We give away our right to privacy. And we do not respect each other. Blah Blah Blah.
But, last night I saw a shift in American values. I am elated about the historical change in the American people. For me, this signals the beginning of the end of racism and prejudice. (Dr. King only brought attention to our hypocrisy.) To me, this means other countries can finally view us as a place where EVERYONE does have a chance to pursue a dream and actually reach it. Maybe they will view us as a democracy again rather than a group of white skinheads—rich ego elitists. I have hope that in my next trip to Europe, I will not ridiculed for being from the USA. I saw young people filling Times Square; cameras showed them pouring out of dorm rooms at colleges celebrating their country for the first time in 35 years. Why? Because we all want to change. We want to be proud of our country. We want to be unified. I saw a long dry apathy blowing away in the wind.
I was in graduate school when President Kimball received the revelation that Afro-Americans could now receive the priesthood. You cannot imagine the pure joy flowing within the halls of an English Department where it was always difficult to reconcile a discriminatory ideology. I had such a hard time understanding how we were ALL children of God, when some of us—even though worthy— were denied full temple blessings. But, I knew the church was true, so I swallowed this paradox and kept my faith high anyway. When the revelation came through President Kimball (who prayed long and hard, because he was also troubled), my sister’s husband, who is anti-Mormon, said, “Of course, this decision was made. It was completely political. The church has to APPEAR to go along with the Civil Rights movement.” Soon after, at an LDS Conference, the Lord let us ALL understand the revelation was held back because WE were not ready to receive it. (And it’s true that many in the South left the church at that time because it was too hard for them to think of taking the sacrament sitting next to a colored person.)
If the American people can vote in an Afro-American, they may have no problem, someday, electing an L.D.S. president, which could never have happened before this. Those who have lived all their lives among the saints find this hard to believe, but it's true. It may not be Mitt Romney, but whomever (?) will have a chance.
I am overwhelmed, absolutely stunned, astounded—I cried and cried— not because I think Obama will lead us out of this mess—we will have to take responsibility for that—but simply because Americans finally grew up enough to elect someone without discriminating against race (maybe we can add gender later). Even just to see young people politically alive again makes history. And by the end of the week, everything I'm saying will be cliched. But, for me, right now, I finally understand patriotism.

However, a small bubble of cynicism still sits right under my ribs. I am still afraid that those who oppose the status quo will be assassinated and was glad to see the thick protective glass surrounding both candidates last night.
But, . . . Wow. It finally felt good to vote again.

Changes--Beautiful Women

Lodge poles

Living is throwing a rock at a car.
Kicking a cat.
Tossing toothpaste and socks in a bag,
grabbing keys and driving

somewhere, no where for a week.
It’s a silent scream
at winter coming before you say it’s OK.
It’s sin that cuts both ways.

Wear a scarf over your blond hair
or someday some creep will scalp you
and hang it from his lodgepole.
And they will praise his name in the hallways.

You will never be safe, yet you must act safe
And never tremble to face the day.
The sun will not shine when you want.
And the rains won't come.

But the sea rolls in
and out again. And you breathe
whenever, wherever you choose.
It’s true. Ask anyone.

Recent pics of Henrietta Pew--beautiful

Question? Which picture looks like Brian? Which one is Emily, Emily, Emily?

"Peace comes dropping slow"

My friend reminded me today of a character in a story I told her about. He was hurt and dying, trying to crawl along a desert floor toward his daughter. An evil Shaman stood over him and said, "I see two wolves at war in your heart--both powerful--one is dark and stained; one is light. Which one will win?" The man squinted at him through the blood running from his eyes and said, "Whichever one I feed the most."

I love this.

The Shaman spits on him and leaves. Then a beautiful bird lands by the man, and the man whispers, "Little Brother, I have treated you well all my life; help me now. Show me the way."

After conference weekend, I am humbled at the clear power of the Prophet to show us the way. I wrote down questions and fears I had. After the first session on Saturday, all had been answered and peace filled up the room. I took pictures of the leaves reflected in the river, of the trees, and sunset. I am amazed at all I have been blessed with, and at how fast my life can change. I am well. I am happy today. And I am stronger than I have been in a great while. This is not bragging. I am just back on the path I started many many years ago, and it feels safe, and it looks beautiful.

Scavenging echoes

I don’t know when I’ve felt so empty. As I count my days, I see many I’ve spent alone—more than most, but I can’t remember emptiness. I was always filled up with friends from my books, with their pain and ecstasy; in fact, maybe that was a curse. I attached only to a few close friends right in front of me. The friends I knew intimately were homeless or aristocratic, wandering, or frantically engaged, peaceful or catastrophic and always bigger than life itself. I walked around with Anna Karenina’s silent wail, Gatsby’s unshakable dream, My Antonia’s yellow wheat fields, Tess’s lost eyes looking down such dark roads. (Scattered roses weren't enough. How did Hardy know that?) I never waited for a doctor’s appointment without traveling to an Italian loggia or London garden from Howard’s End or Room with a View. Numb? I ran to the moors with Heathcliff.

The emptiness is huge, chrome-like, all in shades of silver, gray, and black. It’s standing in a carved out circle with ten hallways extending off of it, without ceilings. And they wind away from the circle with nothing in them but air. I feel like a tiny piece of gravel, because the empty is bigger than standing in front of the sea, bigger than the universe. It’s vast.
And I’m surprised. I never anticipated its constant insistence on making itself known. This quiet encircles people, crowds, the earth and goes on forever. I feel people moving around me, hear them talking, but it’s jargon. I could grab the words out of the air and shape them into steel spears to drive into the moon or carve them into willows to roast marshmallows.
I drive through Idaho fields toward home, and there’s just the steering wheel. I can feel the highway rolling under the tires, but even the sounds are all low like far away thunder. I don’t look up anymore to search for the hawks. It feels like drifting away from chatter and chaos, from endless busy-ness—just drifting—floating, sort of evaporating.
Still, I have been blessed. There are traces of opera left—I can hear it like I hear echoes in a canyon. Narrow Italian streets with crumbling tangerine plaster. Pigeons in Venice too thick to walk through. Winding staircases and cicadas. The horror of the coliseum. The hot walk up through the bored shopkeepers to the Parthenon. We could barely make our way through the ghosts and barely sense their grandeur.(What did they want? Why did they build this pillared massive stone monument? In hopes that the gods would smile on them? And who was I next to these lost people?)
And the bright, sharp, Van Gogh light in Southern France with strangers sitting at tables eating strawberry crepes. We said we’d make love in every town across Europe to make it our own, though we fought once in Florence—my most favorite pile of stones in the entire world. I don’t know. I thought it was his fault because he wanted to shop for leather, but maybe he couldn't live up to my expectations of a Medici moon. Maybe everything else paled beside the harps floating up from the restaurant beneath the sculpture garden.
I have loved some good men; my heart is full of great children, but knowing them has made the quiet bigger and wider.
I always believed in the sweet surrender of a someday-death, but there is no death. The real tragedy of suicides is that we live on forever. No one will ever die; we go on and on whether we like it or not, though we move into phases in life that we don’t anticipate. New landscapes that someone at sometime somewhere must have whispered about, but I was too blind and deaf to understand them. Now, I hear the empty spaces even in the books and their depths spin my head, along with the courage of the authors, who attempt to uncover them. There must be a way to become comfortable with changes, to live with the empty quiet gracefully and “first do no harm.”
I want to stop the car at the railroad-crossing, drift along the tracks to the Snake River, ease through the wild wheat to slip into wet, smooth coldness and swim clear to China where red and yellow flags hang in streets smelling of fish and poppy flowers. I want to crush through a mass of people, watch children flying kites, or chase rabbits through the sagebrush. And I see Streisand turning in circles in The Way We Were saying, “I want, I want, I want.” What I really want is to be past this phase or at least walk through it with grace and clarity.

Memories--Sweet Summer Day

(Play the song; the last clip is Young Dylan on Johnny Cash show: "once I had mountains in the psalm of my hand" ... whew.
Redondo Beach, California. 1967. A Summer night by the sea.
Danny’s three room apartment is painted deep blue. A red silk scarf from a flea market drapes down crazy in a corner--not where one would expect. Something written in Chinese calligraphy hangs over the couch; sounds of Leonard Cohan, Moody Blues, Janis Joplin. Someone smokes rolled cigarettes. This room is filled with good friends--though we don't know names. Our baked skin from a long ocean day brings us close, brought us here. My lips still taste like salt. I comb sand from my hair onto a towel and slide down to lean against a couch, the only furniture in the room. A dark-haired girl lights Sandalwood incense. People move around in muted talking, cooking in a tiny kitchen. Sandals scrunch sand on the tiles. Kat, from Idaho, pulls my hair back and braids it into strands, tying the ends with string. Another girl weaves the braids together with pieces of thin cloth she cuts from a blue scarf. There is no fear in this room. (Most of my life, I’ve been blessed with good friends. Sometimes they seem to come out of nowhere.) Faces shine in the dim light. My muscles release into drowsy--from running in sand, sea spray, sun and more sun, waves breaking over my shoulders. The dark-haired girl hands me a plastic fork, ice water, a hand-painted dish filled with cheesecake and warm raspberry jam. Someone else comes out of the shower. I trust these people--all of them. Here, I am not just what I can do. I am not my face or wit. I just "am" to them. We listen to the end of “Nights in White Satin.” For a moment, it’s quiet: a soft kind of easy stillness that no one wants to break. I hear a spoon scraping a bowl and seagulls on the beach. Danny picks up a guitar. Long-haired-blond-guy by the window wipes a harmonica on his shirt. He blows three or four notes, licks his lips, drinks water, while Danny picks at strings. He hits a certain chord. The blond person glances over. They strum and blend, and we sing--just because we want to, just because it’s a good day. In this twilight room, there is no Vietnam, JFK, Dr King, or Lyndon B. It’s just us and “Take a Load off Fannie.” Then, for the first time, I hear Bob Dylan's "Girl from the North Country." Even now, when I grow up I want to be Bob Dylan. The music could go on forever, floating out over the sand, over the ocean, straight up to the stars. I think good memories must be rocks we step on to get over bad ones.

Opening Ceremonies--A Celebration of the Human Body.

OK. Yes, my heart hurts over Tibet (it has for a long time), and yes, I'm aware that a family member of our Volley Ball coach was murdered by a Chinese man on Saturday (who immediately committed suicide), and of other sundry events taking place as I write,but I'm still in awe over the opening Olympic Ceremonies.
Can we argue that some of the money spent should have gone to other causes? Yes. Of course. Is it strange to see Pres. Bush playing volleyball in Beijing while Russia blows Georgia off the map? Yes (enough said on that issue). But, I feel sorry for any who missed the opening ceremonies (except for EmPo and Bradly, whose wedding is a very good excuse). What an amazing event!
Zhang Yimou (director of HERO, HOUSE OF FLYING DAGGERS, etc.) gets most of the credit. Maybe later, he will regret aligning himself with China's official authoritarian state identity, since he's been at odds with China's leaders most of his life, but he is an incredible Chinese Artist--maybe "he" will be the future China, as he tries to move his beloved homeland out from under Mao Zedong's shadow, or, maybe he's in the process of selling out his old beliefs--but, right now I don't care, because he gave those who saw it an amazing gift of art, vision, theology, harmony, and pure beauty. I heard two newscasters today, who have covered over 25 opening ceremonies between them, say they have never seen anything like it, not only in the Olympics, but also in any art form, ever; nor did they expect to see such an event again in their lifeimes. One said, "There are no words for it."

Today, I got addicted, forgot about politics, watched volleyball, swimming, and cycling--yuk--but I loved it all--even found myself routing for Lithuania's long-haired Samoilovs against US almost-seven-foot giant, who should have won, but didn't. And good for Spain for winning the cyclist race, which was painful to watch because of the tortuous route. The point? The celebration of the physical human body is the center of the Olympic Games. My body hurts all the time now, but I remember how it feels to be healthy (though none of us will ever reach the training heights of Olympians. Hardly). I love this celebration, no matter where it's held, but, there's no doubt that Zhang Yimou artistic portrayal will be hard to beat--ever. If you missed it, try to pull up some news coverage re-runs--but not from YouTube--don't wade through the hate mongers; go to a reputable news source--that is, if you can find one.

Twins Fawns across the River--Late Summer Afternoon

Your children's courage comes from you...

I love you, Mom. And I love these beautiful souls you've found in your students. And I love how much they love you. You're post isn't depressing; it's just truth. Our truth... None of us saw the holes we've fallen in. It was an impossible situation for us all. But your children are crawling out of them now, looking to you for our way, though. Because you are our strength, our comfort, the reason that we are brave and alive today. Don't forget that. I love you with all my heart.

GM, pain can't be "silly," because it hurts too much. (Don't read; very depressing post)

GM, I love your comments because they push me further. One thing I know for sure-- I don't know how God thinks. I don't know His perspective.
When He says, "His ways are not our ways," I think this sentence is filled with the deepest kind of implications. He knows us, but we cannot comprehend Him. However, I wish I knew more, because I get so impatient with Him.
And it doesn't pay to get impatient with God. In fact, maybe that's the whole trip. (Sorry, if I sound a little bitter today.) I think feeling long-lasting pain just doesn't pay off. It’s simple economics. Nature says if you don't grow, you can't just stay the same; you wither and die, or someone has to cut off the brown withered part and throw it away. My problem is that I can't seem to cut off my own "withering" parts. (Wow. Poor analogy.)
Pain is familiar, but I hate it. Some parts of my past can still make me gasp and actually double over from the sharp edges of memories: the comfort of laying my head on a husband's shoulder during a dull sacrament meeting, waking up to a full house of laughing kids, barking dogs, and the smell of pancakes, racing a fox on my own horse on our own land— so much of it is washed over with false sunshine that I even forget the dark holes I skirted--big holes that Megan and Beau fell into. Some of my pain is "long lasting" because I still stare it in the face while I watch them suffer from MY decisions. This pain--the pain over your father, the ache over lost relationships, or sharp betrayals that should not have happened-- can't be "silly." It's too physical, too busy etching scars on our universe. But, I believe getting lost in it wastes our time. However, sometimes I get so lost in those dark corners, James; it takes me weeks to fight back out. If God could tell me how to cut this away--even if He said to use a knife--I'd do it in a second. That would be easy. (I think motivation for most “cutters” is to get rid of pain. Too bad it doesn’t work.)
Can God cut away pain? I believe He can, but it's conditioned on more spirituality and more obedience than I can give Him. To me, this is the great tragedy: The Atonement can heal and is able to work now--not just to redeem us from sin, but to bring us peace--but I'm not strong enough to claim it. I have grown old, all frozen up with fear, and I don't think, anymore, that the “mermaids will sing for me.”
But, James, you are young and creative, and, for you, nothing is set in stone yet. Faith can still move your mountains. I, at least, strongly believe in you (just so long as you don't point out mixed metaphors in this post). In fact, I predict this: you will stay faithful to your wife, you will greatly respect your own sons, you will teach others to be honest, and I will live to see your name in print (Oh, also, you will dedicate your second book of poetry to me for predicting such a wonderful future).

Hey, Tanner

STELLMON. That would be Tanner Stellmon I'm talking to--my nephew (though I guess he's not technically my nephew anymore), NOT Tanner Warnick, whom I am not talking to right now, since I had to find out about his wedding from his little brother (Whoops. Sorry, Chan. His "taller" brother) even though I planned on dancing--on the table tops--at his wedding, since I personally had to suffer so much from his troubles with Melissa, who was probably just sent to get him ready for his real wife.
Soooooo, Tanner STELLMON, I was wondering if you have an office, and if you do, is it F.S.? I tipped over rock salt today, which I had in all four corners of my house to suck out bad energy. Wow, I bought that rock salt with Serena--that's how long ago it was--it seems like I dreamed it.
Remember when I had you and Jared move my desk around so it faced exactly SE, which meant it sat triangular to the door? Whew. Did my F.S. work? I don't know. I think I'll try it again and pay attention this time. I think it did though; I'm normal more than half the time now; but I was wondering if yours did.
I wonder if the Lord ever gets irritated with our silliness.

yael naim new soul clip

PERSPECTIVES--It's always interesting to see how others view us. I'm usualy appalled at another's perspective, or surprised, sometimes amused, or irritated, disappointed, or just plain happy that someone actually understands me.
On another blog, Sarah (just had baby girl--Ella) posted lyrics from C.Crows song, "Marjorie is Dreaming of Horses." She says it reminds her of my life. To me, the lyrics paint a depressed loser. Whew (though I DO often dream of horses and related).
Today my daughter sent me yael naim's "New Soul" and said, "This is you, Mom." I relate again, especially to the lyrics "to learn to give and take ... but make so many mistakes." Also, in our 100 moves, I could never unpack boxes unless I decorated walls with my DI art and posters first, even if it meant we slept on floors and ate off crates. I relate to her scribbling in her own reality between the lines until it bursts into her vision, and if this is what J. Watson refered to as my habit of changing reality to fit what I want it to be, then he may be right. It's possible I was wrong. This looks like a younger me. (Yeah for the resurrection-the day after, I'm going to run and dance to Santana.)
But, I see pieces of me in everyone and everything. So much for identity--it's over-rated anyway.... I know I DO love this video and daughter Megan.

4th of July--White Kittens and Chainsaws.

I'm glad to have friends who hop in the car--without thinking--at midnight to help Megan and me run disaster kittens to a drop box at a Humane society. I'm glad I have that kind of a daughter. It's late on a long holiday. Em and I are sitting around a fire, and she's telling me some fascinating mystical story when I see a white kitten through the smoke--sitting perfectly still--watching us. I'm sure it's not real; it's a flashback spirit-guide from Peyote dreams of long ago, but it whines and moves. I pick it up to find its twin sulking in the shadows (marking in my mind the spot where Em needs to finish her story). They're tiny and hungry and look like they've been beaten up by raccoons, so I know what's going to happen when Megan sees them. I automatically go to the garage to cut air holes in a box. Then, we three leave son-Taylor, Jessica, and Ben and drive 15 miles over construction roads to help two mutilated kittens. Em sticks out her hand to pet white guard dogs, who happily jump in the open car door after we wouldn't let them eat the kittens. It's even later now, but time has evaporated, so we buy soda and ice cream at an all-night truck stop. For some reason, it's the best ice cream in the world.
Lil' Emily Pew, does this justify having Ben let Em practice with the chainsaw? Who knows? Yes, it's possible we'll see her name in lights for the next Chainsaw Massacre movie. But she wins heavy points for just being there, supporting Megan's thin-skinned heart--without questioning--and for being who she is (WHATEVER that is).

The Beatles - In My Life

Couldn't resist this.

Patty Griffin- Heavenly Day

Oh, Heavenly Day. Emily Pew finally broke down and BLOGGED. I'm in shock and may have to duck my head in the river to recover. Wow. This video is for you. Now throw on something you've written, Girl.

I think you're right about Em and the chainsaw, though chainsawing through this huge tree would be great therapy for her.
I'm going to take shots of my cat and post for H. Especially if you post. C'mon. Even just a small poem would keep us happy.

Beavers and Black Swans

Sunday afternoon, and I'm lying on my porch swing reading and watching the birds dive bomb over the river, when the cat's tail starts to wag slowly in her "hunter-killer" mode. I glance toward the river and see a black swan, with a neck like a snake, swim by the small island, next to the new beaver dam. I've never seen a black swan out of captivity, and I spend the rest of the afternoon watching it glide back and forth and dip its head in the river. Once it came up to swim next to my canoe--what a treat.

Next, after dark, Patch is barking frantically enough to pull me away from another book. The idiot has something pinned down in the garage. I draw back to consider, since last time it turned out to be a small skunk, who sprayed. But I finally reach my hand around the door and hit the door opener. Does Patch chase the "thing" OUTSIDE? Nope--that's too easy for him. Instead, I hear them running directly back toward me as I dash for the door, just in time to see . . . what? A raccoon? It ran like a beaver, but it was too big. My first thought was "It's a porcupine," but Patch would have quills sticking out of his nose by now. Whatever it is scrambles over the cat, who jumps to my shoulder (with claws,of course, open); I scream, and Patch barks this brown lump, three times his size, clear to China and back. What a grand day. I think it was a grizzly bear or a lion, maybe a tiger.

Red-Letter Morning and Apricot Pits

Thurs.
Last night (Well, technically early this morning), I’m reading a piece out of Replacing Memory by Barry Lopez. I’m tired, but he has me in a trance. He's visiting Whittier, CA and tries to find two of his childhood homes.
At one place--he's guessing though--he walks across a perfectly flat lot: trees, bushes, numbers on mailbox, beehive--all "swept clean, empty," except for "the tread marks of a single tractor." He finds an apricot pit at the back of the lot and puts it in his pocket. But he finds the next house still standing, occupied by an elderly woman he once knew, says an old neighbor. She doesn’t answer his knock because “she's inside dying of cancer."
I'm leaning against pillows on a white feather quilt. My dog is draped over my feet, and Cat is curled up under my arm as close as she can get. She doesn't like it when the wind blows hard enough to swirl the birds outside. I'm wrapped up in the smell of lilacs I picked earlier—a sweet, slightly syrupy smell like getting off the plane in Hawaii the first time. Tori Amos plays on the IPod: Piano notes as light as raindrops:
"Excuse me, but can I be here for awhile?
. . . And sometimes, I said sometimes, I hear my voice, and it's been here -- Silent All These Years.
. . . So you found a girl who thinks deep thoughts. What’s so amazing about deep thoughts? Boy, you best pray that I bleed real soon. How’s that thought for ya? My scream got lost in a paper cup. I think there’s a heaven where the screams have gone.
. . . But I don’t care.
. . . Years go by and I’ll still be waiting for somebody else to understand. Years go by, even stripped of my beauty and the orange clouds raining in my hand. . . . Easy. Easy. Easy.
. . . Your mother shows up in a nasty dress, and it’s your turn now to stand where I stand, and everybody looking at you. . . . But, I don’t care.
. . . And it’s been years. And I’ve been here, I said I’ve been here, silent all these years.”
Whew. Amos is a morning gift. Vaguely I hear the birds start in and wonder again why they can’t wake up one at a time. It’s like some big bird conductors taps their wand on a tree branch, cough, and say in chirp talk: “Ready? Hit it.”

I turn back to Lopez, feeling that dull dread of the day coming after I haven’t slept, already anticipating sore eyes, a stiff neck:
He writes, “I told her something Wallace Stegner wrote: whatever landscape a child is exposed to early on, that will be the sort of gauze through which he or she will see all the world afterward. I said I thought it was emotional sight, not strictly a physical thing.”
Duh. Why did Lopez have to add his own thought? Couldn’t he just let us hear Stegner, since what he adds is obvious?
Back to the page, where he walking around the side of the house, which holds the woman dying of cancer, and I’m suddenly whisked away from this Idaho dawn to California where Leonard Cohen feeds me “oranges that come all the way from China”:
Lopez says, “We were standing on a concrete path, where I squatted down to peer at a column of ants going in and out of a crack. I had watched ants in this same crack forty years before. These were their progeny, still gathering food here [Ah, I love that line].The mystery of their life, which had once transfixed me, seemed in no way to have diminished. [Don’t like these two sentences, but love the last one, except for the word “deliberately.”] I felt tears brim under my eyes and spill onto my cheeks. The woman touched my forearm deliberately but lightly, and walked away.”
It’s those ants. Those ants get me every time because they’re such a minute detail, and they remind me how small I am also. My problems fall away, sort of shed downward like dead skin, for a moment, although I wonder if this generation will have the luxury of noticing that some parts of life always stay the same.

In her sleep, the cat scoots toward the bird sounds, but then slumps, like bones dissolving into milk, rolls over, and twists her head in a circle, with paws curled in the air. She makes me laugh. How can she sleep like that? And I notice I feel happy. Completely happy.
For a fleeting second, I realize how long it’s been. Whew, so long that the feeling is strange--unfamiliar, but I relax into it (because who can predict when it’ll come again) to watch the dawn, which does not come up over the river. It’s nothing swift like the “rosy fingers of dawn.” It’s more like slivers of color flow into gray then dissolve the darkness, like water filling up an empty sink. No, not quite like that. The light does not even “push” the dark out; it blends with it until it’s just more there than the dark. Dawn moves into another day smooth and soft, like the best kind of quiet. And now Santana plays his guitar in the background. Ha. Mmmmmm--sound of pleasure to hear that Black Magic guitar with dawn birds as grey moves into day—I have to smile again. I mean, people pay big bucks for moments like this.

Latest WC Party and Waikiki

So good to see Steve Bell even if he is quitting teaching to go into dentistry. Good party with lots of singing around a fire against a sunset, but seemed strange not to have guitars.--Chan, Kaitlin, and Jami tipped over my canoe, but they dragged it back in snow run-off water, instead of leaving it at the bottom of the river, bless their hearts (or I would have killed them).
I had a strange feeling as I watched the fire and their shadows against the twilight. I think this was our last party by the river. Don't know why I feel that way. And it made me sad, like the end of a part of my life--another end.
Sometimes (excuse self-pity), it seems I've had more ends than beginnings.

If I could go back and do something over again--make a new beginning--where would I go? Whew. Never mind. Too many answers to that question. But . . . were there simple, small beginnings I missed? Probably thousands.
. . . Tonight, I'd go to Waikiki (1967 or '68) when a soldier on RR (Rest & Relaxation--ha)from Vietnam stopped me on the street to ask where I was from. (Funny this memory should surface now? Wafting up from those romantic days when most everything was golden--and whatever wasn't gold, we'd throw away by morning.)
I remember I looked up into the most beautiful green eyes, shy, clear, and lonely, and I couldn't think of one cleaver thing to say; I just pulled away from him and walked toward the beach sunset. Later I saw him eating alone at a sidewalk table. His eyes were looking at something far away--maybe the war, his little brother, or a girl back home. He sat hunched over, wasn't interested in his Patty Melt sandwich, and barely glanced up when I sat down. Somewhere between the clouds rolling in and his shiny military shoes, he turned into a human being instead of a hustler. "When do you go back?"
His eyes focused in, but he didn't smile. "Two days, but it doesn't matter."
"Are you okay?"
He smiled, "I am now."
"OK, listen, I'm from Idaho, love the color gray, lobster, and registered quarter horses. I'm sorry, but I don't trust guys very much, and I won't sleep with you, but if you want, I can show you a ledge outside the Hawaiian Hilton where we can hear some good music and watch the surf?" It all came out in a rush of jumbled noise because he had these amazing green eyes that seemed to really SEE me when he looked at me. And I wasn't used to talking to soldiers; they were too hungry, too rushed, too scared. But he seemed so . . . I don't know. Familiar?
"Are you picking me up?" Now he was grinning.
As usual, a defensive irritation shot up my spine. "Geez, I've never picked up a guy--whatever that means--nor will I ever have to or want to pick up a guy. Excuse me; I read you wrong." I marched away and ducked down an alley and into the back door of a bar I knew about to lose him.
But what if I'd stayed? What if I hadn't grown up with a hair-trigger temper, and I'd just laughed along with his joke--which I'm sure it was now. I missed a walk along the beach, maybe a swim in the always-warm water--I could have shown him the thick yellow rope to swim under where we could check out the million dollar boats on the other side tied up in the harbor; we could have played at picking out the one we'd sail away in tomorrow morning. We could have strolled through the International Market where I would show him the knife with the elaborate carved Ivory handle I was saving up to buy. I could have shown him where we could buy broiled shrimp for a 50 cents. And when it got close to his curfew, maybe I would have kissed him, since he was flying back to jungle rot and hutches where they tried to stay sane by smoking MJ mixed with Jimmi Hendricks. And because he had green, very green eyes.
Yeah, I ended that one before it began. And what a nice walk down the beach that would have been. Sometimes we eat our bitter fears for breakfast, like burnt toast.
Or maybe he was a serial killer in disguise, who had just slit the throat of a poor RR soldier for his uniform and planned on chunking me up for shark bait.
Naaaw. I don't think so. Otherwise, I would have forgotten those green green eyes by now.

Roy Reynold's sketch of a Hipster

Late 60's. I was in Moscow, Idaho looking into the church, and I read the scriptures for hours at a time. My artist friend Roy sketched me reading the Bible. I glued the sketch on a cutting board, so as not to lose it in the next 22 moves. The sketch looks like I felt at the time--scared, unsure, reluctant--praying all the time that I wouldn't find the Mormon church was true. "Please don't let it be true." But it was true then and is still true-blue now.
I splashed my favorite colors on the sketch. It makes me feel good to remember those slow diamond-like discoveries.

Bright Spots of Time

Wow. You knew I would love the poem. I really love it. Where is this museum? And how was the poem in a museum? In what form? Or were there just poetry books lying around on every surface and decorating the floors? This is how I would arrange a museum: I'd lay my friend’s sculptures on slabs of marble and hang art pieces suspended from the ceiling to eye level; our chairs would be books.
I hope you get the job. It fits you, but how did you feel when you interviewed? How come I’m always in the middle of what you’re doing? Rachel is calling me early early in the morning because she can't reach you, so she turns from Utah to Idaho to find you in AZ.? Logic? I'm trying to find you with zip luck as she's in a panic on the other line. I finally told her that I had shouted--not gently nudged--but shouted at you through text and e-mail. And even though I personally knew you were in a fetal position somewhere under sagebrush, cuddling with the snakes, I didn't tell her that. I told her I was sure you would contact her immediately. And I knew you would, since the job fell obviously from heaven into your un-deserving lap.
How is the desert? I think it wears your name, but so does a graduate program.

Hey and thanks for bringing me back here. I’m looking around, and it feels good. Jaren blew me off this site a couple of months ago like a dark wind from hell with his condescending remark about changing reality. Now, he’s sent me an essay to read, which I’m dying to open, but won’t until I get an official apology from Tuscan. I love Jaren, so I’ve wondered why his snooty comment caused grief, since I realize he completely missed or willfully ignored my point. But, no matter what he says, he, Greg, and James were a delight to be around. Jaren and Greg pulled up chairs in my office to sit in on my interview with James, coaching him in what to say either before or after (can’t remember, Jaren, and it doesn’t matter anyway) because his answers read like textbooks. “I don’t need to hire another EGO, James. Looking at Jaren and Greg, I said, “We have enough egos already at the WC. Don’t need more, thank you very much.” Whoa and what if I hadn’t hired James? Makes me sick to think I might have missed knowing James Best.

Time is a strange animal. As I grow older, it speeds up and passes like a Technicolor dream. Memory is even stranger. Summer and fall semesters blend like falling leaves. However, at times, I DO choose to have a selective memory. I remember only good times in my marriage unless I’m with other people, since it’s a safer way to live. I locate bright spots and ask why they are bright? My memory of knowing James and Greg and Jaren (“around” the same time, Jaren) has sunlight about it—Why? Because I enjoyed their cynicism? Hardly. More because I loved their ability to let go of cynicism and see the present, see “now” like innocent children. They have keen minds and love to use them. (However, Jaren’s mind suffers lately from sunburn.) James and Jaren usually live at the front edge of their lives while, all the time, both investigate their darker pasts. Greg’s mind needs a hook like a large crochet needle to pull it in, but once in the vicinity, he sparks up any landscape.

In my writing, I compress time and blend characters together. My mother becomes part of my grandmother. Randy becomes part of Jim. You--Em G. -- and Em Little often blend in your exclusive brilliance. But I don’t mistake the center of reality, Jaren Watson. How could I? It has often slapped me side the head –even while I pulled mountains down to hide my home--with its continual harshness, complicated paradoxes, and forever beauty. Here’s why I think I felt insulted: 1) My life’s goal is to find exact reality; without that goal, I’m aware that I cannot find God. 2) I’ve been a long time at it. 3) It’s important to me because I spent time in a landscape where I wasn’t sure which reality to believe. Is the paint really dripping off those walls? Should I walk over and touch it to find out? Did that radio really come on before I turned it on? 4) It’s almost as exciting as being in love (but not quite) to find what really “is” underneath the 1000 illusions we pile on top of truth. 5) I’m aware there are 1000 truths inside one truth, and I love the hunt.
Enough. I love the poem

At the Heard Museum today......

.....I bought a book of Louise Erdrich's poetry and found a poem that made me wish I were reading it with you, Sharon. So I thought I'd post it on here so you could read it. I was really impressed with the museum....I'll have to talk to you about it someday. Hopefully I will get Rachel K's job in Utah and not be so far away, although my heart is settling nicely in the Sonoran Desert....I'm afraid I will always be returning to pull a week on the trail here and there. I definitely need to purchase some artwork while I'm here.



Grief


Sometimes you have to take your own hand
as though you were a lost child
and bring yourself stumbling
home over twisted ice.

Whiteness drifts over your house.
A page of warm light
falls steady from the open door.

Here is your bed, folded open.
Lie down, lie down, let the blue snow cover you.


Love you, Shar. --Em

"Snow Woman"; Criticism; and J. Grifter

Stressful day. Actually a bad, bad day; Nothing goes right, and I ache to drop this life flat and run to search out old hipster friends--just to hear someone sit quietly and pick a guitar. So driving home from work at 12 a.m., I'm looking forward to seeing deer in my yard. But, tonight, when I need them, the deer are across the river eating my neighbor's hay. Worthless deer. Tears move close to the surface, when I turn off the loud 4-wheel drive truck. But one thing I know--for dead certain--is I'm not going inside to sit in a pool of self-pity. I'll stay out in this ice land all night before I'll sit on my floor and fall face-forward into a "woe is me poor victim stance." Solutions?--none. First, I want the key to unlock my 22 to shoot at the moon, which I can't see behind the clouds. But I now it's there. The moon won't desert us like some famliy and friends do. It can't walk away. It's got to run the tides, the hecks sakes. But the key to my pistal is lost; Thank heaven. So I fall out of the truck, since I'm too short to step out gracefully, and stand to squint at the trees where the deer bed down. I'm emotionally stuck. But, slowly like small drops of water rolling off my roof, I hear the Quiet of my farmhouse laid out in the new snow, and walk in a circle.... I've never been able to find the exact words to describe snow falling past my big yard light.
It falls soft and light as if the flakes barely disturb or move the air. Quiet. The only sound tonight comes from ice breaking up in the river. The world begins to shift and change and fall back into reasonable places.
I can hear my dog, Patch, clawing at the door to get out. He loves me, can't wait to see me, needs contact with me, or he stops eating, drops into severe depression, which makes it hard to have my oldest son babysit him when I travel. I change into boots and my Minnesota coat, wondering if he got this disease from me. Patch jumps around my boots; I watch the sky for a break in the clouds. The snow falls straight down and makes the trees look like they float above ground. I study the sky again and remember making snowmen with the kids on nights like this: a familiar ache churns into it's fiamiliar pattern. I feel like spitting out a swearword. Surely, there's a way to live without constantly grieving the loss of people I have loved--some I'll see again; some are gone like they've been blown out of the universe by a hurricane--before I had time to wake up and say a proper, dignified good-bye....

Geez, I sound like a Carol King song. And who am I talking to anyway--the trees? the covered-up moon? or to God? I'm disgusted and throw a snowball at Patch. He runs around me, barking; he thinks we're playing. So . . . we do play. I roll the first snowball to make a snowman--Never mind. It'll be a snow woman (I hate all men tonight including my dad and my boss)-- mindlessly, roll it too big, I suppose forgetting that it was my boys who lifted the packed-down snow, forgetting that Patch is obviously too small to help me, and he's worthless anyway, since he's over by the river barking at ducks he can't even see but knows are there--somewhere. He trots back, tilts his head at the snow ball and heads for the trees to flush out the deer, who, for some reason, are usually there, but are not there tonight. This is life--animals, things, family, friends should be there, but, really, are not ever in a close enough landscape. The cat, who lives with us so distantly that I haven't even named her, is trying to get across the snow to where I'm standing. I wonder how she can see me through the flakes as she jumps daintily from one pile of snow to another with a faint, pitiful meow before every jump. She loves me also, but is a worthless cat who crawls up and sleeps by my neck as soon as she hears Patch snoring. If she makes it across the snow field, I realize I'll have to carry her back, and since she's not used to being carried, or even touched, she'll scratch the heck out of my neck. Wow. Geez, life is complicated for those in a bad mood, who like to complain. Turning back to start over on the snowman, I leave Patch to bark at phantom deer and by 3:00 am, I've made a very anorexic snow "woman" with small Christmas bulbs for her eyes, nose, and mouth--they shine--(I don't want her to have ears). She wears a cowboy hat and a tie-died red scarf, and though she tilts to the left side, she is one Picasso of a snow woman. "She's so fine," my artist friends are going to be jealous; Sculptress Friend Ann, move over and eat your heart out. I pat more snow underneath her left silver-ornament eye to keep the wind from sailing it into the river, since it's not real silver. It's not even plastic, but more like glittered egg shell. Nice. So nice. This Snow Woman is taking grand art prize of the year. I'm certain; they'll freeze her, wrap her in cellophane, and ship her back east to a famous museum, probably the one where Meg and I learned that J. Best is the only male we know who loves Wuthering Heights as much as we do. Even her stick arms still have dried leaves on them. A western Madonna. A Greek goddess. Just before I reach for the cat, who is now crouched against my boot, watching every shadow in tight fear, I'm proud--I'm feeling very proud--especially proud that--tonight--I beat back the Big Bad Blues, sans Ipod, sans late night TV, sans Alive PM.


Note to Em: Sorry I yelled at you during the whole phone call. I can't do that anymore. Just way too expensive for the minutes. Really. Sorry. You'll just have to come up here if you want criticized like that again.

Joe G. came to take me to lunch and left a note that was better than any mere lunch. Has anyone seen Grifter's hand writing? It looks like calligraphy. When I grow up, I want to write like that. But the cynical, music-lover that he is cannot write a straight-up note if it kills him. He turns everything into satirical drama, which makes life more fun. What a treat.
I, myself, would have written: "Hey. J. Came to take you to lunch." Not Joe. He starts with no salutation and turns the note into poetry: It's rings faint like "Forgive me; I ate the plums . . ."

Sharon
I stopped to take you to lunch.
You were gone.
Rain check. . . .

I also want you to know
That I would have bought
dessert.

Next time, dessert is
not an option.

PS
I was also tempted to
steal your checkbook.

Joseph Wyatt Griffin

New York 2008