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In the silence of consciousness I asked myself:
why did I reject my life? And I answer
Die Erde überwältigt mich:
the earth defeats me.

I have tried to be accurate in this description
in case someone else should follow me. I can verify
that when the sun sets in winter it is
incomparably beautiful and the memory of it
lasts a long time. I think this means

there was no night.
The night was in my head.

Louise Glück | from “Landscape”

looking beyond the horizon

looking beyond the horizon

where I dreamt

where I dreamt

downtown middle america

downtown middle america

grandpa's house

grandpa’s house – now abandoned

I want to lay to rest what I saw and felt when I went home almost a month ago. A home that was a desperate sanctuary during those teenage years of economic struggle, maternal abandonment, and good old fashioned repressions of thought, body, and spirit. I feel compelled to honor those sharp memories of family, community, and those intimate transgressions between loyalty and independence.

I’m old enough to know better that I should not force this process of internalization. I desperately want to name these experiences and own them.

The endless landscape connected by bridges and resistance shaped my core sense of self, an embodied joy in knowing conscious disobedience yields revolutionary results. I may have adorned myself with fancy theory and identities that I have fought to name in my own words but the class I was born into, that binding agent of perspective, is unescapable.

For now, I distilled these details:

  • my grandpa did buy a car with only silver dollars (two cars in fact!)
  • my value was defined by others who did not exist (husband and child)
  • survival is predicated on silent obedience of unquestioned rules
  • broken sidewalks paved a geography of constrained despair
  • if you look up and out, the clouds will guide you
  • I’ve always been this way
  • the consequences of choice matter and language continues to fail me

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gateways

Skirt Split, 2004, Rebecca Veit

Skirt Split, 2004, Rebecca Veit

Belonging is a complicated emotion when you believe in evolution. Some are left behind, they were meant to shape you in that way, some never leave.

The process of memory making is based on the function of desire. Some are created at will, curated for that purpose, some are forged from static circumstances.

There is so much to fear and so much to gain when home is retrograde. Crystalized as realizations – remember preferring light to sun and syzygy to eclipses?

If I continue to remember, it guarantees I never forget. There were words said, words that hurt more than touch, and the origin of my continued resistance.

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Artist: Cornelie Tollens Emotions, 1997

Artist: Cornelie Tollens
Emotions, 1997

We joke about taking it all the way as the planets revolve around us. Facing one another, like borders, we exchange memories as cash and carry each others extremes to calibrate our balances.

In What Is Found There, Adrienne Rich notes that the core of metaphors are “resemblance in difference.” And Gloria Anzaldua said, “The resistance to change in a person is in direct proportion to the number of dead metaphors that person carries.” There is much to explore within these spaces of similarity and syncretistic juxtapositions. Metaphors are essential ingredients, catalysts really, that shape how we will tell others what we see.

Navigating aspects of a culture, one that feels more about reading and performing than being, only partially explains my reoccurring dreams of stairs. Traveling east to the prairie to fulfill a mission that will close a chapter of home that has few memories that aren’t seeped in melancholic filters may be another immediate interpretation. It’s equally likely, and as obvious, this vision is based on that lost time in Chicago. The recalled memory is only violent sound: bones on concrete.

All these core stories want to be told.

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poetics of witness

photo by B

photo by B

The town where I was born has a museum that specializes in local history. The museum’s fame was ownership of a found prehistoric fossil. This piece of stone was remarkably well preserved, the spine of the evolved animal clearly intact. It turned out this grand jewel, this generational crowd pleaser, was actually a piece of broken feather from the statue of Sitting Bull, a Hunkpapa Lakota Sioux holy man.

Local assholes used to ram the monument with their pickup trucks knocking the bust of Sitting Bull’s head off its pedestal and they’d shoot into the Sacagawea monument for fun. We used to try to count all the bullet holes during those long summers we were lucky enough to visit my grandparents.

Grandma Nancy and Grandpa Pinky’s ranch was only a few miles from the monuments. Their house was a special and magical place. There were lamps that turned on by touching plant leaves and a dining table that was the go-to place to listen to the reporting of current events and visions of the future.

I remember summers where cousins divided themselves along the intractable wedge of Boy George’s sexuality and Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the USA blared from the back of pickup trucks that drove too fast down roads that were just tire ruts imprinted on the rich prairie soil. We killed and then saved the frogs, saw monsters rise from ponds, and were oblivious to the violence around us.

I want to tell my dying grandfather that I will never forget that burned cowhide is the smell of money. I want to tell him that his house was a refuge, a site of culture and learning about a world larger than I could imagine. I want to ask him if he remembers the fossilized feather and if he heard any of those shootings.

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artist: Love Light

artist: Love Light

Echos of news surround us.

That’s why we’ve learned to trust the sources that are closest to us; we assume them to be less distorted. There is catharsis in hearing our own voices.

Internalizing warm winter light’s revelations and recognizing our shadows are valuable endeavors this time of year.

I’ve recently calibrated how I think about boundaries; setting them and maintaining them. Initially, I saw boundaries as limiting. They had been described as methods to protect and ways to feel safe but that assumes too much maintenance on the individual end.

I am left wondering who holds the accountability.

In an ideal world, we would grow up learning about consent and boundaries from the minute we start breathing. So instead, we learn the hard way or not at all.

I now see boundaries as better ways to make choices. They are not barriers but starting points. The borders that defined my early existence – rural, isolated, working poor, father’s anger, mother’s depression, lack, distance – so clearly shaped my understanding of choice and, what was often the case denial, that I feel no shame in coming to such an obvious conclusion so late in life.

I wish only to revel in this renunciation of limits.

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If I tell you my identity, will you tell me what to buy?

Cleveland, OH (photo by Atlee)

Cleveland, OH (photo by Atlee)

Ask me questions. I want answers.

This time of year brings out a different kind of angst in understanding who I am. From pressures to BUY SOMEBODY SOMETHING to calibrating the dangers of assimilation (of all kinds), I appreciate everyone who has added to my voice and sense of agency.

I’m tempted to make promises that I can’t keep.

Oscillating between choice and denial has sparked new, and powerful, imaginary yearnings. I want that feeling of checking your assumptions; a feeling of being heard. Let’s practice justice everyday so that these memories are in our muscles, so that we are conscious when we fail.

Can you feel the rush for the end?

We report back different memories. Like when we visited her in the mental hospital and learned how tradition is precarious security. She sadly handed each one of us a painted gold angel made of plaster, which I still carry with me as evidence. It was the only thing she could provide to us, a product of her extreme sadness. You said we baked chocolate chip cookies in the industrial kitchen and have no memory of her angelic presentation. We both agreed that she was never coming home again.

How will you remember me?

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Did you hear that?
It was the collective sigh of those who bear their souls to empty rooms.

This week I did everything I wasn’t supposed to do and everything I wanted; sometimes they were the same thing.

On Friday, I spent the day in a space designed and curated to invoke imagination. The plan for action called for disruption not-so-cleverly disguised as profit. Some bragged about organizing “cockfights” and others advocated for righteous indignation. The ferocity of their arguments were fueled by unconscious privilege and unchecked assumptions about who would benefit from that specific vision of change.

A call to home confirmed this truth: struggle and hope are symbiotic. Like fog on a window produced from warm bodies and breath, redemption is a process.

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Do you think we can be radical anywhere? Even in spaces for the wealthy and in the streets?

I make positive: rejection and collaboration.

There are days where maintaining a perspective feels like a fascist project and other days when fracturing it feels barbaric.

I clear my mind: breath and absence.

artist: Endre Tot (1980)

Our public opinions are manufactured though seductive commentary and brazen keystrokes. What have we done by defining luxury as apathetic austerity? Oh Dakota, I thank you for those experiences to know how this rings true.

Operating from a belief of scarcity, those who have hoard.

The energy needed to perpetuate this obsolete system is fear, for which the supply is abundant. This is the real politics. For evidence, witness the events of dissent whose props were semiautomatic rifles and Chick-fil-A sandwiches.

Violence, blessed state violence, is the conduit for pro-life hypocrisy.

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This is what light from a dying star looks like.

When the train emerges, I see the setting sun’s light accentuate
pastel houses and barren back yards.
I see beauty in the same way that blight and despair intensifies
hope and transcendence.
West Oakland West Oakland West Oakland

The softest and loudest parts of my body need my lips.
Show me your teeth and I’ll tell you a secret.
Tell me how you understand and what you see.

Narrating from experience connects but does not always bind.
I seek magic and want desire presented as enthusiasm.
I don’t need precise illumination just authentic submission to integrity.

I think about infinite loops
unwanted gifts
the golden rule
generating polyarchs.

This season of sun and sweaters is ironic and familiar.
The prairie landscape, a shadowless ocean of empty and quiet disappointments,
propagated an innate knowledge that light can be seen for miles
even in the deepest flat darkness.

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The Angelus of Gala (Portrait of Gala) – Salvador Dali

There were places I was supposed to be this week.
Instead, I appreciated that my shadow was in front of me.

Living in bear country – a landscape of turn ons and fractured binaries -
I analyzed the world through a post-choice lens
and declared my love for the Datsun 510.

I remembered the 4th of July that was
an inappropriate miniskirt with a zenith of vodka tonics
followed by a drive home powered by a miracle and freedom.

Reminders of where I used to be frame where I see myself now.
They are the optics that position an erotic that begets joy.

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When you are so hungry that you’ll eat flour
delighted that the paste formed from your saliva tastes like a pastry
you can be confident that you have devised strategic rituals of survival.

Yellow light pulls through grayscale clouds
filtered above red, white, and blue institutions.
My thought of your death makes me think I need to get my affairs in order.

This isn’t the first attempt at this pattern of
push
pull.

Our bodies rotate, pivot and grind
undefined and repressed inside grooves
well-worn by culture, values and greed.

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satellite feed

I am an infrequently orbiting satellite.

I am an ambassador representing my landscape.

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retrograde

A journey home is in my immediate future.

It’s like this …

But actually more like this …

It’s about looking out and seeing nothing and then learning how to dream.

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confessions

photo by me

Erica Jong’s Is Sex Passé? rant was provocative. She certainly aroused me with her assertion that sex is a nostalgic trip for youth (she defines “youth” as mid-30s).

According to Jong, these youngsters are rebelling against their mothers old-fashioned quests for sexual liberation. She notes, “If their mothers discovered free sex, then they want to rediscover monogamy”. What does a son rebellion look like?

“Sexual passion is on life support” due to a desire to control the chaos in a depressing culture of war, conservative values, and persistent attacks on women’s rights. Ultimately, Jong calls for a feminism that unites both sexes which I wholeheartedly endorse. It’s her homogenous heterosexual perspective of rebellion (have babies) that I find limp and passé.

____________________________

I’m a singleton again (which unknowingly is a great segway from above). I stood at the nexus of nature versus nurture; evolution versus status quo. Intentions are questioned and desires to understand how we can be so different go unanswered. There are assumptions we both operate under which creates the distance. I miss her.

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Dry. Sometimes words dance and tease but never reveal themselves to me. There’s pressure to perform but I’m not a competitor.

Today, I found myself participating in a meeting that had laughter and the intentional use of a thesaurus.

In less than 24 hours, there will be two.  I will be whole.

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double spoon

found via jennilee.tumblr.com

I have a new address, new ID (with old address and sans glasses for some bureaucratic reason), and am living in my first apartment with a view; a deluxe apartment in the sky.

Leaving good friends, comforts, routines, and hard-fought marked territories has finally cracked the false bravado veneer that I had so carefully applied to propel myself into this new skin. It’s all part of the shedding process that has become my gypsy routine. There is familiarity in this angst.

Unwrapping newspaper from the coffee cups and strategically placing them on the new shelves that I should have wiped down but assumed were clean, reminded me of all the times we moved growing up. Making the makeshift bed crystalized how hard that must have been for my mother, four kids in tow. Annually, we’d pack up the horse trailer and drive from one nowhere to another equally desolate location.

With this innate and intimate knowledge, I unpack and find places to display the skills I’ve learned from the countless moves of my past. Like being double spooned, it’s going to feel familiar and comforting.

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home

summer (photo by me)

Anticipation, trepidation, and a little joy – all the complicated feelings of going home.

It’s been over a year since I last visited the prairie.

Much has changed: the Iraq war is over.

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color and satellites

Railroad workers, 1943, Iowa (photo by Jack Delano)

Bound for Glory: America in Color is an amazing color photo archive of Americans from the Great Depression. Bound for Glory contains some of the only known color photographs taken during this era. They are beautiful. There is dancing, sleeping, learning, eating, working, and amazing blue skies. And no plastic.

It reminds me of my childhood. It was a childhood of sparse landscapes, hard work, dynamic adult dinner table conversations, and frequent moving to new desolate locations. It was a life lived in the middle of nowhere; nothing but your imagination to keep you from accepting the reality around you. I managed to transcend the endless boundaries before me.  Now I’m able to orbit other spaces and places while occasionally transmitting new data to those left behind. I am a satellite and looking for other astronauts.

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we're special in other ways, ways our mothers appreciate


Where you live matters and happiness is subjective. Some lives are harder lived than others.

You are in oil country young lady, let’s not forget what makes America run.

Demanding to be what you are despite all the pressures to be contained, buttoned, and subjectified; it is a battle I don’t know how to not fight.

Being the same was apparently never an option. Sometimes I can’t tell acting nice versus well disguised contempt.

A mother who doesn’t acknowledge your birthday isn’t surprising. She was 50% this year.

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artist: Lorena Vigil-Escalera, found via design work life

artist: Rob Mongomery, found via girlafraid

artist: Sarah Small, found via 1000 words photography

Happy Mother’s Day!  And even happier day to those of us who choose not to birth or be restricted by our wombs.

Gail Collins’ Op-Ed column in last week’s New York Times, What Every Girl Should Know, is a stark reminder of how precarious our happiness is and how we all need to be advocates for our choices, lest they be made for us.

Sometimes it feels like change is glacial.  Yet it’s only been 50 years that the birth control pill was approved by the FDA, 45 years since married women were prescribed the pill, 36 years since single women could gain access to the pill, and it’s only been 37 years since abortion was codified. It can seem like menstruating women are measuring time by trimesters and months.

We often forget that transforming the cultural landscape is a modern project of progress. We assume that we can map out all the complexities of change and have thousands of theories of action to document these assumptions.  But this is a project where constant change is the chorus and trying to interpret the illogical can become an obsession. What we choose to focus on and obsess over matters greatly because if change is the constant, you may find yourself looking back and not recognizing where you came from.

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replaced rust with free spirit.

long distance communications wrapped up with:

“it takes balls not to have an abortion”.

the prelude of a non-spontaneous purchase of a 24 pack of colored pencils

to make it myself.

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