- Skyped with Ira Glass and Mike Birbiglia
- Hung an art show in Olympia, Washington
- Read Lonesome Dove
- Published a compilation zine with ... contributors
- Got stitches
Monday, December 31, 2012
Top 10 sweetest things I did in 2012
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Walk a Mile
There are too many factors to consider.
The microcosm. The ecosystem. The you, me, the finches, the plants in my yard, the burning candles.
How we get along. The things I love about you. The things I can't stand. Our angels and demons love and battle and push and pull. Looking closely into your eyes I know more, we sleep together, wake up with similar dreams. "How strange," we say.
You put eggs in the boiling water.
"I never learned how to make eggs that way."
You've made some beautiful things. Built them with your hands. You've climbed trees and tagged the baby eagles. Sent me a birthday package with a pink stone from Arizona. You wrote that song about her, because she hurt you. You're doing heroin, sometimes, but you have it under control. Dancing, always. Kissing people and breaking their hearts when you leave. Putting the children last and your art first. Borrowing money you'll probably never return. Of course we understand, your intentions are good. We understand. We love you.
Spreading into the streets, getting farther from a comfortable source, I wander. There are more stories, the complication becomes greater, like those Eye Spy books. Things become more complicated. I'm drinking now to not be so afraid and my heart cracks open dumb and wide. The stories blur. Crashing into the mass in parties I am held.
I think we all have these moments. When we're drinking at a party and we go to the bathroom and think, "how the hell does anyone like me?" and it happens all the time - this goodness. This true kindness of being surrounded by compassionate and caring beings that see a little of your demons and angels and see your face and say, "you're ok. You're alright. This world is troubled but for now we're here and it's good and it's real."
"Your friends will carry you home," he tells me as I stare in the mirror.
Farther out, away from the pallet fire and the tribe, spinning under the stars in the midnight, I stretch my whims and collect new names and faces. The streets and sidewalks, in the buildings, at the market. We smile, gesture, say. Our story is simpler. We use less words. Maintain a distance of a few feet. Little comments about the weather, the expectation of rain, a passing compliment on a bright scarf or carefully placed cap. Brushing against you here and there, we look like a mass, we maintain a polite distance, brief eye contact on occasion.
In yoga and the teacher says, "if you are comparing yourself to others, realize you don't know their story. Recognize you don't know what is going on in their lives."
Paris, 2006, in view of the Eiffel Tour dinner a group of international students are ranting about how ignorant Americans are. How they reckless, how cocky. Pigs. Assholes. The Hungarian is speaking above everyone. The Mexicans are the most scathing. Soviet Julie notices me and says we should change the subject.
"Horses" I say.
I don't defend my country. I don't defend myself. Their points are valid. Who am I? part Irish, part French/German, Vegetarian, Twenty, Writer, Illustrator, Zinestress, Dancer, Pisces, Democrat, Reckless, Watcher, Tiger, occasional Drunk, Hopeless Romantic, Reckless, Tall, Female, Oregonian, Cascadian, American, American.
I stumble, farther and farther away.
Going farther, my looks leash*.
I strain my eyes to see what is really there and not what they are saying beside me. Looking on, squinting, how can miss it? Though a distant observer, I can still see. I am careful, I try not to make up stories, but they come. The farther the look, the fiction flows, trying to make sense of this or that.
It is in the screen. In the pictures in the paper. From the farther points out I can't see the whole picture but only what they show me. I try to look beyond, see with my own eyes, beyond the limitations, but I can't. I can't be there. I form my opinions based on the half-story they tell me.
The farther they are, the more they become them. They are. They are not here. We are here. We have our own stories. They have their stories.
We have never met them.
Here you are beside me, telling me about them. A story you heard, of the things they did. Of all the hurt they spread. I don't know them, but I listen to you, because I love you.
"They are not like us," you say.
"They are not like us," the television says.
"Their stories are not the same. Their thoughts are not the same. They are the bad man. We are the good man. We are human. They are not human. Their atrocities are not our atrocities. They are different. They are sick. They act without reason."
There are so many words for them. Savages. Monsters.
When they do kill us, which they will, of course. Our last breath will be a curse on them, just as it was of their fathers and grandfathers before. They survived to make it right. We died and pass the hatred on, just one more generation, we promise. We'll get them, this time. Just give us the chance.
"You've forgotten," I say. We're lying now - beneath the stars. A reminder of out smallness.
"That they're just like us. They want to eat and sleep and fuck."
"Russians love their children too," Gordon says.
I turn into you, we don't know each other, do we? There might have been moments...
Look at the man in the eye to hate him.
I met a man from Iran. A doctor. We were riding the same bus to the airport. He made it clear to me the people in Iran don't hate Americans. The 2009 protests were an example of Iranians attempting to buck a government that further isolates them from peace-talks. Though he was only one person, he represented the larger picture. The side of Iran that isn't acting out of fear, but appreciation.
"We don't hate you," he said. We, Iran. Me, America. A summit of nations you might say, on the bus to the airport.
I know this doctor is there. He is them, a piece. I am, us, another small piece. What to make of it?
When the protests broke out in 2009, protesters used social media to broadcast their experiences.
For me it was the thousand voices of that doctor were saying, "HE (Ahmadinejad) is not US. We are our own voice."
And I call back, "THEY are not ME. I am my own voice. I am American, I don't hate you. I don't want to bomb you.
Our voices mesh, I can't hear you above the shouting.
it's hard to see the individual. The shouting is so loud, unable to make even words out of the scrum.
You can't meet a person and look them in the eye without loving them a little.
You see my demons, I see yours. We're apart of this.
"If you must, shoot a man. But don't hate him."
It's to goddam complicated to make these generalizations. Us and them. It's easy this way, but it's not the truth. Dole hatred out when you see clearly what it is. Judge a man, destroy a man, that stands in the way of truth, but don't kill his family.
*Plath, Soliloquy of the Solipsist
** 147, A Teenagers Guide to God, 12.17.1999 This American Life Episode
***Waking Life
She is nesting. He is sitting on the typewriter hanging out with me.
The microcosm. The ecosystem. The you, me, the finches, the plants in my yard, the burning candles.
How we get along. The things I love about you. The things I can't stand. Our angels and demons love and battle and push and pull. Looking closely into your eyes I know more, we sleep together, wake up with similar dreams. "How strange," we say.
You put eggs in the boiling water.
"I never learned how to make eggs that way."
You've made some beautiful things. Built them with your hands. You've climbed trees and tagged the baby eagles. Sent me a birthday package with a pink stone from Arizona. You wrote that song about her, because she hurt you. You're doing heroin, sometimes, but you have it under control. Dancing, always. Kissing people and breaking their hearts when you leave. Putting the children last and your art first. Borrowing money you'll probably never return. Of course we understand, your intentions are good. We understand. We love you.
Spreading into the streets, getting farther from a comfortable source, I wander. There are more stories, the complication becomes greater, like those Eye Spy books. Things become more complicated. I'm drinking now to not be so afraid and my heart cracks open dumb and wide. The stories blur. Crashing into the mass in parties I am held.
I think we all have these moments. When we're drinking at a party and we go to the bathroom and think, "how the hell does anyone like me?" and it happens all the time - this goodness. This true kindness of being surrounded by compassionate and caring beings that see a little of your demons and angels and see your face and say, "you're ok. You're alright. This world is troubled but for now we're here and it's good and it's real."
"Your friends will carry you home," he tells me as I stare in the mirror.
Farther out, away from the pallet fire and the tribe, spinning under the stars in the midnight, I stretch my whims and collect new names and faces. The streets and sidewalks, in the buildings, at the market. We smile, gesture, say. Our story is simpler. We use less words. Maintain a distance of a few feet. Little comments about the weather, the expectation of rain, a passing compliment on a bright scarf or carefully placed cap. Brushing against you here and there, we look like a mass, we maintain a polite distance, brief eye contact on occasion.
In yoga and the teacher says, "if you are comparing yourself to others, realize you don't know their story. Recognize you don't know what is going on in their lives."
Paris, 2006, in view of the Eiffel Tour dinner a group of international students are ranting about how ignorant Americans are. How they reckless, how cocky. Pigs. Assholes. The Hungarian is speaking above everyone. The Mexicans are the most scathing. Soviet Julie notices me and says we should change the subject.
"Horses" I say.
I don't defend my country. I don't defend myself. Their points are valid. Who am I? part Irish, part French/German, Vegetarian, Twenty, Writer, Illustrator, Zinestress, Dancer, Pisces, Democrat, Reckless, Watcher, Tiger, occasional Drunk, Hopeless Romantic, Reckless, Tall, Female, Oregonian, Cascadian, American, American.
Standing outside the venue, we're hot from dancing - slamming into one another, fist pumping. We are wild, we are young and poor and full of light. They walk by - mittens and boots and suit coat with the fur rim, silver tipped hair from the salon. Indicating to them, you mock. A nasally English accent with stick-up your ass you swing an imaginary cigarette holder and scrunch your nose, say something pretentious.
"You don't know them," I say. "That woman was in one of my classes in college. She's incredibly generous and sweet. We both wear size 10 shoes."
I stumble, farther and farther away.
Going farther, my looks leash*.
I strain my eyes to see what is really there and not what they are saying beside me. Looking on, squinting, how can miss it? Though a distant observer, I can still see. I am careful, I try not to make up stories, but they come. The farther the look, the fiction flows, trying to make sense of this or that.
It is in the screen. In the pictures in the paper. From the farther points out I can't see the whole picture but only what they show me. I try to look beyond, see with my own eyes, beyond the limitations, but I can't. I can't be there. I form my opinions based on the half-story they tell me.
The farther they are, the more they become them. They are. They are not here. We are here. We have our own stories. They have their stories.
We have never met them.
Here you are beside me, telling me about them. A story you heard, of the things they did. Of all the hurt they spread. I don't know them, but I listen to you, because I love you.
"They are not like us," you say.
"They are not like us," the television says.
"Their stories are not the same. Their thoughts are not the same. They are the bad man. We are the good man. We are human. They are not human. Their atrocities are not our atrocities. They are different. They are sick. They act without reason."
There are so many words for them. Savages. Monsters.
When they do kill us, which they will, of course. Our last breath will be a curse on them, just as it was of their fathers and grandfathers before. They survived to make it right. We died and pass the hatred on, just one more generation, we promise. We'll get them, this time. Just give us the chance.
"You've forgotten," I say. We're lying now - beneath the stars. A reminder of out smallness.
"That they're just like us. They want to eat and sleep and fuck."
"Russians love their children too," Gordon says.
I turn into you, we don't know each other, do we? There might have been moments...
So much of what we perceive cannot be expressed. It's unspeakable.
And yet, you know, when we communicate with one another,
and we--
we feel that we have connected,
and we think that we're understood,
I think we have a feeling of almost spiritual communion.
"
Look at the man in the eye to hate him.
I met a man from Iran. A doctor. We were riding the same bus to the airport. He made it clear to me the people in Iran don't hate Americans. The 2009 protests were an example of Iranians attempting to buck a government that further isolates them from peace-talks. Though he was only one person, he represented the larger picture. The side of Iran that isn't acting out of fear, but appreciation.
"We don't hate you," he said. We, Iran. Me, America. A summit of nations you might say, on the bus to the airport.
I know this doctor is there. He is them, a piece. I am, us, another small piece. What to make of it?
When the protests broke out in 2009, protesters used social media to broadcast their experiences.
For me it was the thousand voices of that doctor were saying, "HE (Ahmadinejad) is not US. We are our own voice."
And I call back, "THEY are not ME. I am my own voice. I am American, I don't hate you. I don't want to bomb you.
Our voices mesh, I can't hear you above the shouting.
it's hard to see the individual. The shouting is so loud, unable to make even words out of the scrum.
You can't meet a person and look them in the eye without loving them a little.
You see my demons, I see yours. We're apart of this.
"If you must, shoot a man. But don't hate him."
It's to goddam complicated to make these generalizations. Us and them. It's easy this way, but it's not the truth. Dole hatred out when you see clearly what it is. Judge a man, destroy a man, that stands in the way of truth, but don't kill his family.
*Plath, Soliloquy of the Solipsist
** 147, A Teenagers Guide to God, 12.17.1999 This American Life Episode
***Waking Life
She is nesting. He is sitting on the typewriter hanging out with me.
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