Consciousness Conspiracy

A Heart in Search of Dreams

2010-06-27T18:37:00.000-07:00

"My heart is afraid that it will have to suffer," the boy confides to the alchemist one night as they look up at a moonless night.

"Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself," the alchemist replies. "And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second's encounter with God and with eternity."

~The Alchemist

Miracles

2010-06-26T18:09:00.000-07:00

Rory: Why am I here?

Doctor: Because you are. The universe is big, it's vast and complicated and ridiculous, and sometimes, very rarely, impossible things just happen, and we call them miracles; and that's a theory. In nine hundred years, I haven't seen one yet, but this would do me.

~Doctor Who, "The Pandorica Opens" and "The Big Bang"

I am not done with my changes.

2010-05-29T12:00:00.000-07:00

The Layers
~Stanley Kunitz

I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

Wandering...

2010-05-02T18:26:00.000-07:00

"Sly"
~Massive Attack

I try to believe what I feel these days
It makes life much easier for me
It's hard to decide what is real these days
When things look so dizzy to me

I already know my children's children's faces
Voices that I've heard before
There's always more
There's always more

Wandering leaving the sea behind
To my home which everybody owns
Wandering, wandering
Where we can do what we please
Wandering

I feel like a thousand years have passed
I'm younger than I used to be
I feel like the world is my home at last
I know everyone that i meet

Somewhere in the music I can hear the bells
I heard a thousand years before
There's always more
There's always more

Wandering is this then all there is
Since I was since I began to be
Wandering, wandering
Where we can do what we please
Wandering

The labyrinth is thoroughly known.

2010-04-13T09:53:00.000-07:00

"We have not even to risk the adventure alone for the heroes of all time have gone before us; the labyrinth is thoroughly known. We have only to follow the thread of the hero path; and where we had thought to find an abomination, we shall find a god; and where we had thought to slay another, we shall slay ourselves; and where we had thought to travel outward, we shall come to the center of our own existence; and where we had thought to be alone, we shall be with all the world."

~Joseph Campbell

A Banksy Christmas

2009-12-16T23:59:00.000-08:00

Maybe I am a King.

2009-12-15T23:59:00.000-08:00

A Story That Could Be True
If you were exchanged in the cradle and
your real mother died
without ever telling the story
then no one knows your name,
and somewhere in the world
your father is lost and needs you
but you are far away.

He can never find
how true you are, how ready.
When the great wind comes
and the robberies of the rain
you stand in the corner shivering.
The people who go by—
you wonder at their calm.

They miss the whisper that runs
any day in your mind,
"Who are you really, wanderer?"—
and the answer you have to give
no matter how dark and cold
the world around you is:
"Maybe I'm a king."

~William Stafford

Tunes for Bears to Dance to...

2009-12-14T22:56:00.000-08:00

"He could not understand that human language is like a cracked kettledrum on which we beat out tunes for bears to dance to, when what we long to do is make music that will move the stars to pity."

~Madame Bovary

BBC 7 Radio is running a dramatisation of Madame Bovary that's really good! Check it out here.

Meh. What Economic Meltdown?

2009-11-02T21:10:00.000-08:00

(Borrowed from PHD Comics...)

Mmm. Bacon.

2009-11-01T23:59:00.000-08:00

(This was borrowed from Bay of Fundie who borrowed it from somewhere else...)

The most interesting line

2009-10-27T00:28:00.000-07:00

"A straight line may be the shortest distance between two points, but it is by no means the most interesting."

~The Doctor

Hearts have the power to soar...

2009-10-26T23:59:00.000-07:00

"Everything visible has again been thrown into the tumultuous abyss to be melted down. The past is relinquished, the future shudders, the present lacks foundations, but the hearts, should not they have the power to soar and hover among the mighty clouds?"

~Rainier Maria Rilke, 1914

You have to find it yourself.

2009-10-25T23:59:00.000-07:00

"Truth has never satisfied me. You can't argue with it; you can't let its bicycle tires down to teach it a lesson. All you can do with truth is swap it for other truths, like a postage stamp kept in a collection by your ex-Army uncle.

"But there is something other than truth--something deeper and richer and altogether addictive. And that something is Meaning. You can't see it. You can't buy it. You have to find it yourself."

~Oneira

Movies... I see movies...

2009-10-10T20:17:00.000-07:00

I don't know why it took me so long to see The Seven Samurai, but yes, here I am seeing it for the first time at last. I loved it. I can see how it is named one of the most influential movies of all time. The acting, storyline, and cinematography are superb. I loved the little quiet moments and the big battles. Each character was unique. Perhaps the only thing that was missing for a Western viewer was a little bit of historical context, things that the Japanese would know as a matter of course. If this were a Western movie, we'd have more narrative about why the ronin were wandering homeless, why there were such significant class divisions, and why the women accepted their treatment as lesser citizens. But that is beside the point. The challenge and the pleasure of watching foriegn films is that you do not get these explanations; you must rely on what little personal knowledge informs you, and let the film play out, hoping that you will gather further understanding as you go. And if you don't, well, I guess that means you have some homework to do later...

Ahh, Dexter. What an enigmatic character. The show is already in its fourth season and I have barely dipped my toes in season one. There is something deeply disturbing and yet strangely satisfying about a detective who is an expert at finding serial killers because he is a serial killer himself. But a killer with a conscience; a vigilante seeking justice for the innocent. Fascinating.

Doctor Who: Carnival of Monsters

This was a good, solid tale set in the Who-universe of Doctor Number Three, Jon Pertwee. Like all good Doctor Who tales, it begins with a good story; so we can forgive the clunky special effects (which were actually quite good for their day) and the slow-paced dialogue. It's hard to step back from the high-octane adrenaline rush of the new series, but nevertheless it is a pleasure to see the Doctor save the universe no matter what incarnation he's in.

I Am Comfortably Numb...sort of.

2009-10-09T18:49:00.000-07:00

After a trip to the dentist today, I felt a bit like Steve Dallas here. Fortunately, I managed to get through the rest of my day without any mockery or misunderstandings.

Pointed.

2009-10-08T18:37:00.000-07:00

"It's not just the work. Somebody built the pyramids. Somebody's going to build something. Pyramids, Empire State Building--these things just don't happen. There's hard work behind it. I would like to see a building, say, the Empire State, I would like to see on one side of it a foot-wide strip from top to bottom with the name of every bricklayer, the name of every electrician, with all the names. So when a guy walked by, he could take his son and say, "See, that's me over there on the forty-fifth floor. I put the steel beam in." Picasso can point to a painting. What can I point to? A writer can point to a book. Everybody should have something to point to.

"It's the not-recognition by other people. To say a woman is just a housewife is degrading, right? Okay. Just a housewife. It's also degrading to say just a laborer. The difference is that a man goes out and maybe gets smashed."

~"Mike Lefevre, Steelworker," interview from Working by Studs Terkel

I love Studs Terkel's book. The voices are so vivid. Like this one. Here he is--Lefevre--a blue collar steelworker, and he gets it. He's a modern day philosopher for the common man. And he reads. He's not dull; he's fascinating. Read the whole interview. It's worth it.

Because it is bitter...

2009-10-07T23:34:00.000-07:00

I was digging around in an old poetry folder to find a selection of favorite poems to present in class and I came across this little gem. I have always liked this one. It reminds me a bit of Gollum from The Lord of the Rings. It is dark, but it is a comforting sort of darkness. I feel a kind of sympathy for this creature; perhaps the pity Frodo spoke of. It... eases me. I don't feel more bitter, but less, for reading this poem. It's like, I can know the bitterness in my own heart--even taste it--and it's okay. It's okay. The Gollum-creature--that Jungian-Shadow of us all--holds our heart in his hands and consumes it, so we don't have to.

In the Desert
~Stephen Crane

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.

I said: "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter - bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

Random Things Overheard

2009-10-06T23:30:00.000-07:00

You hear all kinds of strange things at a con--convention, that is; science fiction convention, specifically. Here are some things I learned as I casually strolled about the con last weekend...

6+2+1=42
The survival rule. Six hours of sleep; two meals; and one shower = the Answer to keeping your con experience happy and healthy. People around you will appreciate you more, too.

The 501st
Members of the 501st are *not* a bunch of nobodies that never left their mom's basement. Contrariwise, they are a group of amazing men and women who donate a considerable amount of time to doing charitable works. And they have fun to boot! Here they are at the 2007 Rose Bowl Parade. (How did I miss this?)

Poly Speed Dating
Yeah, you read that right. As if regular speed dating wasn't strange enough. As social phenomenon go, I thought speed dating was an oddity in the dating kingdom. But I guess if you are already in a relationship, poly speed dating adds twice, thrice, heck, even 10 times the fun! For those non-decision types, it takes the anxiety out of having to pick just one. Can't decide? What the hell-- bring home the lot! ( I may just have to investigate this... ).

The Rule of More
Whatever you are feeling right now in this moment, don't try to deny it, or escape it, or suppress it. Feel it. Feel it now and feel it more.

The Two Most Valuable Commodities: Time and Information
Time: Because once it's gone, you can't buy back a single moment.
Information: Because it's not what you know, but what you *think* you know that's going to get you.

And finally...

Always, Always Check the Angles
That nice young waiter you met at the bar may be just that, or...
He *might* be a spy hired by the government, or your ex-boyfriend, or the RIAA to see what you've *really* been up to.
Just a little healthy paranoia. Hey, it could happen...

Iceland Calling

2009-10-05T18:24:00.000-07:00

I am in love with Iceland.

I fell in love with Iceland even before my trip in 2007, before I stepped off the plane and felt the jagged rocks crunch under my boots, before I breathed the crackling, ion-scented air, before I gazed across moss-covered plains broken only by a volcanic horizon.

I fell in love with Iceland when it was merely a finger-tip dot on a map. I fell in love with it through the words of this man, William Jon Holm, poet and essayist. Sadly, I have just learned that Mr. Holm is no longer with us. But his words and his life remind me of why I'm here doing this thing I do. Because if there is the slightest chance--the slightest chance--that my life will be as rich as his, well... it will be a life worth living.

I will leave you, then, with an excerpt from one of his poems, of which, unfortunately, I have only this snippet copied out of a book I borrowed years ago. I came across the notepaper I had scribbled it down on and it reminded me that I had wanted a copy of that book for myself. Another book for my wishlist, and another destiny for my dreams.

Excerpt from "The Icelandic Language"

In an air conditioned room you cannot understand the grammar of this language,

The whirring machine drowns out the soft vowels,

But you can hear these vowels in the mountain wind

And in heavy seas breaking over the hull of a small boat.

Old ladies can wind their long hair in this language

And can hum, and knit, and make pancakes.

But you cannot have a cocktail party in this language,

It is so heavy you can't be polite and chatter in it.

For once you have begun a sentence, the whole course of your life is laid out before you,

Every foolish mistake is clear, every failure, every grief,

Moving around the inflections from case to case and gender to gender,

The vowels changing and darkening, the consonants softening the tongue

Til they are the sound of a gull's wings fluttering

As he flies out of the wake of a small boat drifting out to open water.

~William Jon Holm

Thought we'd be flying

2009-10-04T18:10:00.000-07:00

Baker Baker
Baking a cake
Make me a day
Make me whole again
And I wonder
What's in a day
What's in your cake this time

I guess you heard
He's gone to LA
He says that behind my eyes I'm hiding
And he tells me I pushed him away
That my heart's been hard to find

Here
there must be something
Here
there must be something here here

Baker Baker can you explain
If truly his heart
Was made of icing
And I wonder
How mine could taste
Maybe we could change his mind

I know you're late
For your next parade
You came to make sure
That I'm not running
Well I ran from him
In all kinds of ways
Guess it was his turn this time

Time
thought I'd made friends with time
Thought we'd be flying
Maybe not this time

Baker Baker
Baking a cake
Make me a day
Make me whole again
And I wonder
If he's ok
If you see him say hi

I think I can smell witches burning...

2009-09-29T23:59:00.000-07:00

Today in my freshman comp class we were reading "Black.White" in the Ideas Across Time text. This is the keynote address of Chapter 6 which discusses both race and gender. We were talking about how there is a common belief that racism doesn't exist and that it's "all in their heads."

Clever me, I tried to give them an example of how this applies to women's issues.

I said, "A man and woman go on a date. They have sex. Later, the woman reports a rape."

The class errupted. Gasps! Shouts! "That bitch!"

The most vocal of these comments were from the women.

The most vocal of these young women were the very ones touting the ideals of Christianity the week before.

How quick they are to make assumptions. How quick they are to place blame on the woman.

Wow. All I can say is... wow.

The Humans Are Dead

2009-09-13T23:17:00.000-07:00

For those of you worried about robots taking over the world, this song's for you.

Click here.

Remembering Paul McLaughlin: 1967-2009

2009-07-27T23:59:00.000-07:00

Death feels like a snipped thread; it echoes with the shocked silence following the collapse of a tree. Suddenly, there is this absence, the memory of a space once filled.

Paul McLaughlin was my friend. It seems funny to write that about a man I spoke to once, and only briefly, over the past 25 years, but it is true nonetheless. For Paul had that effect on people; I'm sure he has many such friends, and some probably closer and more qualified than I to write about him. But I remember him fondly, and when I heard of his sudden passing, I felt moved to record a few of these fond memories. Paul... made me laugh. And I find myself wondering if it is any coincidence that the word "laugh" is in his name.

I first met Paul when we attended Horner Junior High in our hometown of Fremont. I cannot recall how we first became acquainted, but I'm sure he must have said something funny. I remember being at ease around Paul. In the tumultuous years of junior high and high school where bonds were forged and broken like alliances between warring nations, Paul was a steady friend.

At Horner, there were these bins where students were instructed to dump their lunch scraps. I don't remember why we were supposed to do this. The end result were bins full of sandwich crusts and other leftovers that the seagulls would greedily battle over. I'm not sure how it started, but Paul had an ongoing joke about those bins. When I'd ask, "What are you doing for lunch today, Paul?", he'd sigh, a look of sincere chagrin spreading across his face, and say, "It's lunch with the seagulls again for me. Wish me luck!" For some reason, I found the image of him battling it out with the seagulls for a few scraps of sandwiches absolutely hilarious. It never failed to get a laugh.

Another ongoing joke we had was Snuffles the Mouse. Snuffles was a cartoon character and Paul could do an imitation of him that was spot on. Perhaps it was too good. Regrettably, I became something of a pest, requesting that Snuffles make an appearance any time we crossed paths. "Hey, Paul. Paul! Do Snuffles the Mouse!" I'm surprised he humored me for as long as he did. Later, when we were in high school, I remember asking him to do it again, for old times sake, but he didn't even crack a smile. "No," he replied, "I don't do Snuffles anymore." I don't know now if this was due to the joke having worn a little thin or if by this time he was already diagnosed with the disease that would eventually claim his life. In either case, it would seem that Snuffles was permanently retired.

Probably I spoke to Paul at the 10 year reunion, but my memory betrays me and I cannot recall what we spoke about or if we spoke at all. My last clear memory of Paul was a chance meeting at a mall, probably Newpark, because I remember an escalator. It must have been after graduation, because I remember there being an air of surprise and finality about it, an unexpected meeting of two friends about to go separate ways. Our conversation was brief, likely filled with vague and hazy plans about our respective futures. As he stepped onto the escalator, I couldn't resist a parting shot. "Hey, Paul! Do Snuffles!" He grimaced and rolled his eyes, but as he turned away, I think I caught the hint of a smile. Then the escalator carried him up and away from me and into the fog.

I hope you had a good life, Paul. I hope you had time to pursue your dreams and maybe even catch one or two. And I hope, in the end, there was someone there to hold your hand.

"So put a candle in the window and a kiss upon his lips
As the dish outside the window fills with rain
Just like a stranger with the weeds in your heart
And pay the fiddler off 'til I come back again

Oh it's time time time, and it's time time time
And it's time time time that you love
And it's time time time"

~Tom Waits

*****

I finally have the answer... 42!

2009-07-26T23:59:00.000-07:00

A Babel Fish would be very handy for finding all the answers, but if I'm going to dream, I might as well dream big...

*****

41 Days til the Burn

Happy Anniversary, Moon!

2009-07-20T23:59:00.000-07:00

I was 1 1/2 at the time of the moon landing, so I don't really remember it, but I remember watching the documentary "Moon Shot" in 1994 and weeping like it was happening for the first time. We need more noble efforts like this one, instead of endless, stupid conflicts. So that's my wish for today: A revived space program with scheduled trips to the Moon, Mars, and beyond...

47 Days til the Burn

Moving Pains

2009-07-10T09:17:00.000-07:00

For a good portion of the earlier part of this week, I was helping my friends R~ & M~ move into their new apartment. I haven't moved in about five years, which is about the longest time I've been in any one place since I was living with my parents. I tallied up the number of times I have moved in my life and came up with 19. Nineteen! Can you imagine? Granted, one of those moves was before the age of four which I can barely remember, but that means that I have moved 18 times since the age of 18, the second big move of my life. Thirteen of those moves were with my ex-husband. I will forego explanations here, but this fact will become more relevant as I go on.

As we were packing up the old apartment earlier this week, my friend R~ collapsed in the kitchen and grumbled something about having to do "80% of the work." Now to be fair, it is true that he and his buddy were spending a tremendous effort lugging heavy, awkwardly-shaped pieces of furniture down the stairs and placing them, tetris-like, into the moving van, and all in the heat of California in July. So I don't blame him entirely for voicing this sentiment. On the other hand, my friend M~, his wife, was responsible for packing up the kitchen, which is an equally Herculean task in its own way. By the time I had arrived there on Tuesday, M~ had already completed about half the job, and it took her and I together most of the afternoon and some of the next morning to complete the rest. I remembered, as I was packing, that this is a familiar pattern: the kitchen is always the last to be packed and the last to be unpacked, at least in my experience. So I found myself feeling a little nettled by his attitude.

But his comment brought back memories-- or not memories exactly, but more a resonance with many such moves and many such arguments. It got me thinking. So I'm going to propose a theory here which I hope won't get me accused of being sexist or solipsistic. Just remember that I am basing my theory on my personal experience of 13 moves with the opposite gender and what little I know of human nature in nearly 42 years of existence.

When it comes to moving, men think in terms of division of labor. I do this. You do that. It's a 50-50 split until someone starts slacking, and then immediately the male mind starts calculating the percentage. Now it's 60-40, now it's 80-20, etc.

In contrast, I think women look at moving as a community effort. We all work together and do what needs doing until the job is done. Packing for a woman is not a simple task. It is not a driven, linear task. Each item pulled from a cupboard or drawer (other than maybe the cereal boxes) is a potential emotional memory gravity well. You pull that old sugar bowl out from the back of the cupboard and wipe the dust off, and, oh, this was grandma's, remember? Or, you remember when we got this on that trip to... and so on. Packing for a woman is a constant battle with emotional currents. I would argue that it requires just as much effort to stay on task as it would to swim in a straight line across a raging river.

In terms of sheer volume, R~ may be right. Maybe he and the men he had helping him did move 80% of the apartment. But I don't think it's an accurate assessment, nor do I think it's a fair one. We're looking at apples and oranges here. We can't set up a scale and weigh furniture against kitchen appliances and fragile household items. And if we did, it would take the wisdom of Anubis to determine the difference.

In the end, I think R~ was searching for validation and perhaps a little well-deserved praise. I wish I had had the presence of mind to do so at the time. Packing a kitchen is a tedious, wearisome task, but one far more within the bounds of my capabilities than moving heavy furniture. Perhaps instead of justifying the delays in the kitchen packing, I should have praised his hard work and his contribution to the moving effort. But, then again, perhaps I was wiser to let R~ and M~ work things out on their own, as husbands and wives have done since the first people moved out from their caves.

57 Days til the Burn

House vs. Doc Martin (and Others)

2009-06-08T23:59:00.000-07:00

My parents always had this guideline, if you will, that if someone on TV wasn't the kind of person you would invite over for tea, then they probably weren't worth watching on TV either. Now granted, this doesn't always apply to serious drama, as found in films and theatre, and it certainly doesn't always apply to literature (from Gilgamesh on down, we'd be dealing with some very problematic houseguests); however, I think for television shows I watch regularly this is a fairly accurate rule of thumb. If I am going to devote an hour or more a week to this person, then he'd better be someone likable, someone with worthwhile qualities I can admire, or at least find humorous or diverting.

So my question is: How did an asshole like House get top billing?

He's taciturn, surly, is motivated purely by self-interest, has little or no compassion, and absolutely no manners. See, here's my problem with this guy. It's not like there haven't been characters like this before, but usually they've been relegated to a supporting role, making it clear that their behavior is not the norm. Making a character like House the star of the show sends out the message that it's okay to be a jerk when you're a genius and people need you to do what you do. I just don't buy it. We need more courtesy in this world, not less.

However, to be fair, I decided to look at some other characters whom I admire, ones that, if squinted at, might fall into the above category, but for some reason, I choose to forgive them.

Doc Martin. He's taciturn, surly, and lacks interpersonal skills. However, he does seem to truly care about his patients, even if he is incapable of expressing it. When he is careless of people's feelings, it's more from being oblivious than any deliberate malice. In fact, in most cases, he is exceedingly polite. I would enjoy his company for tea, but I have a notion I would make him nervous. The conversation would be stilted, and he would excuse himself early.

DCI Gene Hunt from Life on Mars and Ashes to Ashes. Sure, he's the kind of cop that thinks with his gut and is more likely to solve things with a fist fight or blazing guns. But can you blame him? He's only being consistent with what a man of the 70s or 80s would do. As long as he's got 21st century foils Sam Tyler and Alex Drake to keep him in line, he's an alright bloke. I might not invite him to tea, but I'd let him buy me a beer.

Bernard Black, Black Books. I will grant you that Bernard can be a jerk at times, but he is more likely to make an ass of himself than be an asshole. He is just So Appallingly Funny. I would drink anything with this man: tea, wine, whatever's going. But I'd send him home before he decided to do Belly Savales or, god forbid, Cobumbo.

I am noticing a bit of a pattern here: They're all British (well, Bernard is Irish...). Am I really so shallow? Just dress the jerky behavior up in a fancy accent and I will forgive anything? Well, no, not exactly, no. I think what it comes down to is that there is a certain smugness in House that I dislike intensely, this attitude he has that he is just untouchable; they need him, so he can act however he wishes. I don't believe these other characters have that much power. And, in addition, I believe they are balanced out more equally by their co-stars.

All things considered, I would just rather spend my evening with my favorite fellows from across the pond. May House fade into oblivion.

89 Days til the Burn

PalFest is a Success!

2009-06-07T03:14:00.000-07:00

I am really encouraged when I see things like this: a Palestinian Literature Festival in Ramallah. Violence and oppression raining around them, and there they are, those brave souls, reading poetry and stories and plays, keeping the dream of Palestine alive. Are these not Zamyatin's sailors in the mastheads?

Michael Palin was there. And Nathalie Handel, too. And many others. And the festival went forward as planned in spite of Israel's attempts to disrupt it. See news article here.

Art is a powerful tool, as we well know. It can transform the world. I hope the Palestinians pile word upon word upon word, subverting media misconceptions, undermining the wall, and transporting them to freedom.

90 Days til the Burn

Nanci Griffith and The Loving Kind

2009-06-06T23:49:00.000-07:00

Friday night was also a chance for me to see Nanci Griffith in concert at the Rio in Santa Cruz.

Nanci was so inspiring-- I just came away singing! She had a really sweet presence onstage and a good rapport with her audience as well as her band. Stylistically, she is a little more country than I prefer, but I have to admire her for her skill and longevity. She has been a singer/songwriter for many years. Her songs have been covered by many famous artists.

I especially liked her folksongs-- one was set in the Dust Bowl, another in Ireland. The title song, "The Loving Kind," tells the story of Mildred and Richard Loving, a black woman and white man who married in 1958 and ended up having to defend their right to marry all the way to the Supreme Court. They won their case and ended up setting the precedent for the nation. This song is a tale simply told and very subtly parallels the recent struggle of gays and lesbians to have their marriages validated. No obvious connection is made to this in the song, but Nanci did so when she introduced it onstage, and also mentioned that it was Mildred Loving's hope, right before her death, that her and her husband's story would serve as inspiration for those seeking the right to marry.

The opening act, Jenna Mammina, was good, too. She was clever and funny and did this amazing thing where she created a song on the spot from six words thrown out to her from the audience. I loved it!

91 Days til the Burn

Frolicking at Filoli

2009-06-05T23:59:00.000-07:00

Today, the weather stayed nice long enough for some friends and I to enjoy Filoli, an English estate and gardens in Woodside, some 30 miles south of San Francisco.

Filoli is created from the motto: FIght for a just cause, LOve your fellow man, LIve a good life.

I never knew this place was here. How did this go undiscovered for so long? It's like a little piece of Europe plunked down right in my backyard. Inside the house was a ballroom and a library and *huge* fireplaces and art... Outside were gardens with winding paths and secret doorways and trickily fountains. All the roses had names, and the trees, too. (Each had little nameplates to tell visitors what they were.) But one tree I had to name myself. I called it the Merlin tree because it looked like the tree Nimue trapped Merlin in.

It was a beautiful day, and we came away refreshed in spirit, body, and mind. We will return. Oh, yes. We will.

92 Days til the Burn

Laugh Lines

2009-06-04T14:39:00.000-07:00

Every so often I like to cull a few gems from student writing. Enjoy! (Or cringe, as you please).

"Only losers decide to go to the movies by themselves."

"My ex-girlfriend and I had a very happy relationship because I told her the truth no matter what."

"But the fact that you can hog the covers, or spend all your money on your twelve cats if you please makes being single all worth the while, right?"

"If you don't achieve the goal you always thought you wanted, as long as you are happy, you are successful in your career -- even if it's unemployment!"

"Furthermore, men and women were created as supplements of each other. Women need shoulders when they feel sad. Men need soft and warm voices when they feel stressed."

"Even the grandparents got evolved."

93 Days til the Burn

In Search of Cordelia

2009-06-03T23:44:00.000-07:00

I did the strangest thing tonight. I turned on the TV while I was cleaning house. I never do this because I find TV too distracting on the one hand, and on the other, when it's worth watching, I like to give it my full attention.

Even stranger, I let the channel rest on a reality show. I never watch reality shows; I'm allergic to them.

Even stranger, said reality show was Paris Hilton: My New BFF.

Did I mention I *never* do this? Never.

But this show was like a road accident. I simply could not turn away. It was so repulsive, I had to investigate to see what makes it tick. I do this for you, Dear Readers. May my sacrifice not be in vain.

First, a quick update. Paris Hilton is in search of a best friend (thus BFF: Best Friends Forever). Apparently her last one betrayed her in some vague, unforgivable fashion. So here she is: bereft. She doesn't look bereft. In fact, she looks rich, spoiled, and vulgar. But I digress.

Let the auditions begin. The young hopefuls line up to proclaim their undying love.

What's wrong with this picture?

I mean, besides the fact she puts these foolish, pitiable creatures through all manner of humiliation.

Besides the fact that the very idea of *auditioning* for a best friend is so patently artificial that it knaws at my moral center with a squirmy, maggoty determination.

Besides the fact that not once--not *once*--in all the effusive offerings of trueness and loyalty did anyone ask what Paris was going to bring to this relationship.

And as I watched on with appalled fascination, Paris up on her throne, surveying her little kingdom, suddenly it hit me: Well, it's Lear, isn't it? "Which of you shall we say doth love us most?" Except Shakespeare did it with style, taste, and a considerably better ear for poetry.

But it occured to me then what I was waiting for: I was waiting for Cordelia to step forward and say boldly (paraphrased), "Nothing. I give you nothing. No love, more or less, than what you deserve."

Of course, there is no Cordelia. And even if there were, Paris would never recognize her for her worth. Not until, Lear-like, Paris too was stripped of her power and left naked and raving in a thunderstorm. It doesn't bear thinking about...

Poor Paris. Poor thing.
For thy fake love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

94 Days til the Burn

The Paradox of an Imperfect World

2009-06-02T00:42:00.000-07:00

Continuing the earlier thread with the Zamyatin quote, I discovered this little jewel while reading Michael Moorcock's Sailor on the Seas of Fate featuring the penultimate Philosopher/Reluctant Warrior King, Elric of Melnibone.

"He ran his fingers through his milk-white hair and there was a kind of innocent anguish in his crimson eyes. He might be the last of his kind and yet he was unlike his kind. Smiorgan had been wrong. Elric knew that everything that existed had its opposite. In danger he might find peace. And yet, of course, in peace there was danger. Being an imperfect creature in an imperfect world he would always know paradox. And that was why in paradox there was always a kind of truth. That was why philosophers and soothsayers flourished. In a perfect world there would be no place for them. In an imperfect world the mysteries were always without solution and that was why there was always a great choice of solutions."

(Note: I read the first page of this book during the rehearsal of a high school play--I think Chris Saenz was reading it--It took me this long to get back to it. It was worth the wait: deep philosophical musings, pulse-pounding adventures, and some really beautiful prose. I never knew high fantasy was so much fun!)

95 Days til the Burn

Un-consciousness Conspiracy

2009-06-01T11:43:00.000-07:00

I used to believe that dreams were just the flotsam and jetsam of daily life rising to the surface. That it was the brain's way of repackaging the human experience and filing it away neatly for later reference. But it's very difficult to maintain that arch sense of aloofness when your brain spits out something like this:

I dreamed that I was taking a drama class at SJSU (this is a nice touchstone with reality because I have been considering this lately). So I go to class and the instructor is just, well, Gorgeous. And I develop an immediate crush on him to the point where I see him after class to tell him I'm considering dropping the course just so I can date him. ;-)

The creation of this dream "character" was very specific. He was tall, slender, dark-haired, American but of East Indian descent, beautiful smile... And I can assure you that I have never seen this man before in my life. Not in life, or television, or movies, or even a book.

So where did he come from?

I am reminded of Donna Noble's experience in the world library and how she was never entirely sure afterwards if her husband in that virtual world was real or imagined. (Ref: Forest of the Dead).

I am also reminded of that really marvelous conversation between Harper Pitt and Prior Walter in Angels in America:

Harper Pitt: What are you doing in my hallucination?
Prior Walter: I'm not in your hallucination, you're in my dream.
Harper Pitt: You're wearing makeup.
Prior Walter: So are you.
Harper Pitt: But you're a man.
Prior Walter: [looks into mirror and screams] My hands and feet give it away.
Harper Pitt: There must be some mistake here. I don't recognize you. Are you my... - some sort of imaginary friend?
Prior Walter: No. Aren't you too old to have imaginary friends?
Harper Pitt: I have emotional problems. I took too many pills. Why are you wearing makeup?
Prior Walter: I was in the process of applying the face, trying to make myself feel better. I swiped the new fall colours at the Clinique counter at Macy's.
Harper Pitt: You stole these?
Prior Walter: I was out of cash. It was an emotional emergency.
Harper Pitt: Joe will be so angry. I promised him no more pills.
Prior Walter: These pills you keep alluding to...
Harper Pitt: Valium, I take Valium. Lots of Valium.
Prior Walter: And you're dancing as fast as you can.
Harper Pitt: I'm not addicted. I don't believe in addiction and I... I never drink and I never take drugs.
Prior Walter: Well, smell you, Nancy Drew.
Harper Pitt: Except for Valium.
Prior Walter: Except Valium in wee fistfuls.
Harper Pitt: It's terrible. Mormons are not supposed to be addicted to anything. I'm a Mormon.
Prior Walter: I'm a homosexual.
Harper Pitt: Oh. In my church, we don't believe in homosexuals.
Prior Walter: In my church, we don't believe in Mormons.
Harper Pitt: I don't understand this. If I didn't ever see you before, and I don't think I did, then I don't think you should be here in this hallucination because in my experience the mind which is where hallucinations come from shouldn't be able to make anything up that wasn't there to start with that didn't enter it from experience from the real world. Imagination can't create anything new can it? It only recycles bits and pieces from the world and reassembles them into visions. Am I making sense right now?
Prior Walter: Given the circumstances, yes.

*****

So where do we go when we dream? Is it the Dreamtime? Is it Jung's Collective Unconscious? Is it echoes of the past, or through-a-glass-darkly glimpses of the future? Or are we, perhaps, catching sight of our infinite self in a myriad alternative realities? Hmm.

I don't know. But one thing is certain: I am definitely going to wander over to the theatre and see who's teaching drama this year...

96 Days til the Burn

Storm Warning

2009-05-31T23:32:00.000-07:00

"A literature that is alive does not live by yesterday's clock, nor by today's, but by tomorrow's. It is a sailor sent aloft: from the masthead he can see foundering ships, icebergs, and maelstroms still invisible from the deck.

"In a storm you must have a man aloft. We are in the midst of a storm today, and SOS signals come from every side. Only yesterday a writer could calmly stroll along the deck, clicking his Kodak; but who will want to look at landscapes and genre scenes when the world is listing at a forty-five-degree angle, the green maws are gaping, the hull is creaking? Today we can look and think only as men do in the face of death: we are about to die--and what did it all mean? How have we lived? If we could start all over, from the beginning, what would we live by? And for what? What we need in literature today are vast philosophic horizons--horizons seen from mastheads, from airplanes; we need the most ultimate, the most fearsome, the most fearless 'Why?' and 'What next?'

"What is truly alive stops before nothing and ceaselessly seeks answers to absurd, childish questions. Let the answers be wrong, let the philosophy be mistaken--errors are more valuable than truths: truth is of the machine, error is alive; truth reassures, error disturbs. And if answers be impossible of attainment, all the better! Dealing with answered questions is the privilege of brains constructed like a cow's stomach, which, as we all know, is built to digest cud.

"If there were anything fixed in nature, if there were truths, all this would, of course, be wrong. But, fortunately, all truths are erroneous. This is the very essence of the dialectical process: today's truths become errors tomorrow; there is no final number."

~Yevgeny Zamyatin, "On Literature, Revolution, Entropy, and Other Matters."

Ah, gotta love those Russians. Nobody does Revolution better... except, perhaps, the French. But I digress...

Zamyatin, along with the quote above, is referenced in Ursula K. Le Guin's book of essays, The Language of the Night (a book that I am proud to say I have loved into a state of near disintegration). He is primarily known for writing the dystopian science fiction novel We, which is credited as the forerunner of, if not the direct influence for, Orwell's 1984 and Huxley's Brave New World. I read 1984 in my teens and Brave New World in my 30s; I found them deeply disturbing. I have no doubt We offers more of the same. I have this sense of checked impulse; I am both fascinated and repulsed by the dystopic vision.

And yet, I do believe that Zamyatin is right in his assertion that Art should disturb, that it should ruffle the calm waters of complacency and question the very things we take for granted. Science Fiction does this especially well, when it is done right, and provides an answer, if not silences completely, those naysayers who don't believe genre fiction has anything to offer the world of Literature.

Zamyatin wrote those words almost 100 years ago, and they are no less true now. I am only left with more questions though. Who? Who are the ones in the mastheads today, the ones asking those "absurd childish questions"? The answer, I am certain, will be ongoing, with each new book I read. I'll try to find out for you...

97 Days til the Burn

Raumpatrouille ist Fantastisch!

2009-05-30T14:12:00.000-07:00

Last night I was introduced to Space Patrol -- actually, Raumpatrouille -- a German science fiction television series that was broadcast one year before the original Star Trek. It was really good! The costumes, sets, and special effects were all impressive, especially for Germany in 1966. The story was engaging: In the first episode, the crew of the spaceship Orion investigates what has become of the human inhabitants of a remote space station and discover an alien threat. The lead, Captain Cliff McClane, is something of a rule-breaker, just like Kirk, and is often in trouble with his own government. The story was, in turns, both whimsical and suspenseful, just like the original Trek. Actually, being German, the show may have taken itself a bit more seriously. Except we had to laugh at the futuristic "dancing" (if you can call it that) in the Starlight Casino-- that was hilarious.

I am looking forward to more; sadly, however, the show only lasted for seven episodes. It was very popular, but it became too expensive to make, so it fell out of production. But it has its own cult following in Germany, just as Star Trek does here in the States, so perhaps one day it will be revived.

See the IMDB page for more.

98 Days til the Burn

Memories of the AWP

2009-05-29T11:27:00.000-07:00

I went to the AWP in Chicago in February.

Yes, I know. I was thinking the same thing. Chicago? In February? Am I out of my mind? But I went. And it was... Amazing.

The weather stayed pleasant for us Californians; clear and cold. It didn't rain. In fact, we even got a little bit of snow at one point. But we were in the hotel for most of the event, so we didn't really notice the weather until we poked our heads out to take a look around.

Some favorite moments and observations:

The AWP is a writers conference. Now I've been to conferences before, but the clientele have been slightly different: scholars, professors, etc. And there were many of those here. But I could definitely sense that this was a different breed. These were the Artists. These are the Writers Who Take Their Work Seriously. A young poet I met put it best: He said that he could look around and see himself in all the different stages of his life: the young ingenue, wide-eyed with wonder; the determined student, building his skills and trying to break in; the published poet, confident and professional; then finally, older, fading, trying to stay in the public eye. And he was right. Everywhere I looked, I kept seeing people I knew, or thought I knew. Maybe they were reflections of friends far away; maybe they were pieces of me, from my future or my past. It was like stepping into an alternate reality, dizzying in its possibilities.

I met Gregory MacGuire.

I met the fellows from McSweeney's.

Most of the conference felt like a regular conference--I went to panels, listened and took notes on various aspects of the writing life--but I knew I was in a different world when I went to the reading by the guest artists. First off, the "reading" was held in a *huge* auditorium; it could hold 1000 people and they filled it to capacity. Next they opened the event with a "marching circus punk rock band"... Yes. That's exactly what it was. This was the weirdest, most appalling, excruciating, so-called "music" experience of my life. Do we really need opening acts for the reading of literature? Do we really need *this* kind of opening act? It's a reading, not a rock concert. (Listen to me; I sound like such an old lady.)

After the reading--which was brilliant--I went to an Irish pub and had a chocolate martini. An Irish band was playing live (*so* much better than that circus punk thing). Outside the window it began to snow--big, fat, fluffy flakes descending gently. It was magic.

In the park across the street there was an ice sculpture contest in progress. I walked around at midnight and the next afternoon watching the artists at work. There was a Chinese dragon, a wild horse, Max and the monster from the Wild Things, Einstein's brain, aliens, and so much more. I loved it.

I spent 2 hours in the Chicago Museum of Art before I realized that the reason it all looked so familiar was because it was featured in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. ;-)

On my last day in Chicago, I walked all the way from Grant Park to Navy Pier along Lake Michigan in 26 degree weather. I had to wrap my scarf around my head and face to keep my nose and ears from freezing. When I stood out on the end of the pier, the clouds opened up and cast murky sunbeams down on the skyline of Chicago. I ate a Chicago style hotdog with the best fries in the world.

On my first night in Chicago, I ate Chicago style pizza with a bunch of poets and out-"nerded" everyone at the table. Someone in the group had said we were all a bunch of nerds, and we were laughing and each one of us was insisting we were the nerdiest. And then I said, "No, I'm sure I can out-nerd anyone here. I've had Star Wars memorized since the 6th grade." So the guy sitting next to me says, "Okay, then, what's the first line?" Without missing a beat, I replied in my best C-3Po voice, "They've shut down the main reactor. We'll be destroyed for sure!" The table fell out. It was brilliant.

The saddest bit about all this is that I took loads of pictures, and then lost the chip a few weeks later because I'm such a ding-a-ling. So now the only pictures I have left are the memories. Sigh.

99 Days til the Burn

Golden Ticket, Golden Days

2009-05-28T23:44:00.000-07:00

So.

With a great sigh of relief, I can put the semester to rest. Oh, I still have a few loose ends to tie up here and there, but the whole of the work is done. I finished writing my seminar papers, finished my student grading, and can point to a really fine issue of Reed magazine (Issue #62) as having my stamp of approval as Fiction co-Editor. You know, sometimes I amaze even myself.

So it's back to the Blog-o-sphere for me! Oh, happy day! Have you missed me? :)

I figure I have so much to catch up on I could easily write an entry per day this Summer... til the madness starts again this Fall. I thought I'd start out slow--just ease myself back in with some delighted musings on this most auspicious day, my official First Day of Summer.

Wha? June 21st? Perish the thought! No, my cosmos now turns on the date of the Burn. I've got my ticket. Let the countdown begin. One Hundred Golden Days and Nights til I get to go Home again....

100 Days til the Burn

A Tattoo: A Tale

2009-01-25T20:52:00.000-08:00

Since getting my new tattoo (the picture will have to wait, since I seem to have the stupidest computer in the world) one week ago today, certain friends (Shari!) have requested I tell the tale behind it all. Some have also requested that I relay my mother's reaction (Paul!); however, I am still holding out the hope that if I play my cards right she may never find out at all.

Nevertheless, the tale deserves to be told. So, my dear Readers, gather around the campfire, build your s'mores in wee sticky fistfulls, and prepare to be entranced by not one but three tales; for the tale of my tattoo is a tale within a tale within a tale....

The Scar
First, I will take you back in time to the year 1994, the year of my first major car accident. We--that is, my former husband, my son, and I--were living in Hollister at the time. Hollister, as you may already know, is a little town way the hell away from everyplace else. This meant I spent a lot of time bundling up my 2-year-old into his car seat and racing back and forth along Highway 25 in my little Chevy Sprint. Honestly, I was up and down that road so many times I came to believe that I would meet myself coming or going along that route. Who knows? Maybe that's exactly what happened.

Here is what happened: On one of these many trips, I happened to look in my rearview mirror to check on my son, as I often did, and I discovered he had fallen asleep with a McDonald's milkshake in his hands. If that falls, that's going to make a really big mess, I thought to myself, little knowing how devastatingly ironic those words were about to turn. So I did what they tell you in driver's training courses never to do (here is the cautionary part of the tale): I reached into the back seat to obtain said milkshake. In the process, I drove off the road, then overcorrected back onto the road, and flipped my car. It flipped and flipped and flipped. I lost count. Eventually, it ended up on the driver's side, skidding down the highway.

Funny thing, car accidents. I mean, it really is like they say: time slows down or your brain speeds up or maybe both. Your mind has time to think of all sorts of things. So there I was, sliding sideways down the highway, and I was thinking about a story my dad had told me about when he was in a car accident when he was young, thrown from the driver's seat (pre-seatbelt days) and had only managed to save himself by grabbing onto the steering wheel and pulling himself back in. So, I'm thinking to myself, in the thoughts that I think, Okay. Are all my arms and legs inside the car? And it was then I noticed that my shoulder was dragging along the highway right outside my window. There wasn't any pain--shock or adrenaline was preventing that--only a kind of hyper-awareness which made me go, Hmm. That's not good. Better move that. And I did.

The rest, as they say, is history. Once I slid to a stop, some kind motorists helped me and my son out of the wreckage and waited with me until the ambulance came.

My son, safe in his car seat, didn't have a scratch.

I received twenty-two stitches in my left shoulder.

I was washing glass and strawberry milkshake out of my hair for three days.

My car was totaled beyond repair.

My scar is a physical reminder of this. It reminds me that this was a single car accident on a dangerous two-lane highway: The accident could very easily have involved one or more other vehicles. If it had, especially if it had been one of those big rigs that are often out there on 25, I may not have survived at all.

My scar also reminds me that when my husband learned of the accident, he only asked after his son. He asked nothing of me. His response, I'm told, was something to the effect of "Only my son matters." Yeah. Nice guy, my ex.

I am not a superstitious person, but I do enjoy dramatic gestures, especially if they are loaded with symbolic or poetic meaning. Since that time I have fancied the notion that, if I were to get a tattoo, it would be on that shoulder, and it would have to form some kind of circle to encircle that scar. I liked the idea of separating that space from the rest of my body, both isolating my brush with death and warding against future disasters. But for a long time, that's all it remained: an idea. Until....

The Ouroborus
For many years I've joked that I could never get a tattoo simply because I could never make up my mind what design to choose. I toyed briefly with the idea of a mermaid, because I love mermaids, but it just didn't feel right. There are other less specific designs I've seen on other people that I thought were really lovely--trailing ivy, tribal patterns, etc.--but those didn't carry the symbolic weight I was looking for either.

One day I was watching an episode of Red Dwarf (yes, I'm a fan) and the storyline centered on playing with the word "ouroborus." The word tugged at my memory. When I looked it up online, I discovered that this symbol--the serpent swallowing its tail--has been floating around in books and media I've been reading and watching for years. It's been on the X-Files and The Neverending Story and in numerous myths and legends.

One of my favorite stories involves a young man who is captured by a witch and made her servant. In the way of such tales, he is forbidden to eat the food hidden under a covered dish. One day while he is cleaning, he can't resist the urge to peek under the lid. He finds a baked serpent with its tail in its mouth. He decides to take a little pinch off of the tail. When he eats it, he discovers he can now understand the language of birds and overhears them talking of the witch's plans to kill him. He is then able to make his escape and earn his fortune with his new-found abilities.

The Ouroborus, depending on which story you read, can be a symbol for immortality, wisdom, and energy renewed, among other things. And it's a circle.

The Ormurin Langi
Now those of you who know me well are probably wondering why I didn't go for something a little more commonly recognizable, say, from The Lord of the Rings. Certainly, the ring is a circle. And the words that formed on the ring are often rendered in a circle. And certainly I am a fan of all things Tolkien. But. Think on this. Those words are a curse. Maybe I am superstitious, but I just don't fancy permanently inscribing a curse in the language of a malevolent entity into my skin. Not good karma. Or at least not good feng shui.

Plus, with the popularity of the movies, anything Tolkien has become... well... trendy, for lack of a better word. And I tend to shy away from following trends. What I wanted was something that captured the essence of Tolkien's poetry, that invoked a similar mythic power....

Copenhagen, 2007. Enter the boys from Faroe.

On my last night in Copenhagen, while finishing up an adventure in 2007, the summer I turned 40, I met these boys from the Faroe Islands. I call them boys, but, you know, they were in their early 20's. Anyway, I was coming back from a rather sedate night out with the girls, and there they were, sitting on the stoop outside the hostel. They asked where we were from, and we said America. And I asked where they were from, and they said Faroe. That stopped me in my tracks. I have always held a fascination for those little northern islands, and now here was my chance to learn about them first hand! The girls I was with didn't seem to find this nearly as exciting as I did, so they went on in. Nevermind them; I got to be entertained by half a dozen beautiful, beautiful boys as they told me all about their island home. And in the course of conversation, The Ormurin Langi came up.

The Ormurin Langi is a ballad of some 85+ verses that is sung while dancing in a circle. The ballad was written circa 1830, but it's based on an historical event that is far older. In the year 1000, Norwegian king Olaf Trygvason battled with the Swedish and Danish kings off the island of Svolder. When it became clear that he had lost the battle, he and his remaining men leapt overboard. Their ship was named the Ormurin Langi, the Long Serpent.

Copenhagen, 2:00am. Upon request, the boys from Faroe jumped up and formed a ring and danced and sang (in part) the Ormurin Langi for me. It's one of my best memories.

The Design
I can't tell you when all of this came together. I don't remember if I thought of the ouroborus first and the Ormurin Langi second, or vice versa. It just sort of came together in my head one day, the way such creative notions do.

I didn't like any of the ouroborus designs I found online, so I made up my own. I wanted something that looked like it had been lost at sea for 1000 years. I found a picture of a dragon masthead from a ship from the time of Beowulf, which is about right, give or take a couple hundred years.

The verses I have taken from The Ormurin Langi are from the chorus:

Glymur dansur í høll, dans sláði í ring
Glaðir ríða noregis menn til hildarting

Translation:
Glad sounds of song fill the hall as we dance and sing
Gladly ride the Northern men til Hildar rings (a famous bell)

Sufficiently joyous, I think. No curses here.

The Experience
I wanted to go someplace local, support local artists and all that. I checked online and El Toro Body Shop had the most impressive reviews. When I stepped inside, I felt right at home: The decor was made up of all manner of dragons and masks from around the world. The artist, Marty, did a brilliant job realizing my vision, piecing together my request from little more than my verbal description and the photo of the masthead. He was easy-going and friendly, and very accommodating when it came to scheduling my appointment. We had a great time talking about traveling: He lived in Norway and Holland for awhile and had all kinds of stories to share. I never even noticed the time passing.

I have always heard that getting a tattoo is painful, so I was expecting it to hurt. Nevertheless, I went into it with the devil-may-care attitude of, Hell, I've been through childbirth--I can handle anything! hahaha And you know, it wasn't that bad. I don't think it ever went past a medium level discomfort, if that. In fact, the experience was so pleasant overall that I might even consider doing it again....

And Now....
When I look at my shoulder now, I don't think about a car accident that nearly took my life, or an ex-husband who never truly understood or loved me. Instead, I think about a Norwegian King who would rather jump overboard than surrender. That's very me. Failure is just not an option. I must be the Captain of my ship; I will succeed because I must. And if I do not, then I'm going down with the ship.

But then I have the ouroborus to remind me that there is power in renewal, that there is a coming back from our lowest most destructive levels of existence. If I do fail, I will return and build again. This gives me hope.

And finally, I am reminded of those fair-haired, stormy-eyed boys from Faroe, who on a whim danced and sang for a stranger one Midsummer's night and stole my heart forever.

I've told my son that if he wants a tattoo, he'd better wait until he's 40 so that if he makes a mistake, he'll only have half his life to regret it. ;-)

But I do not regret it. No. Not one little bit.

Welcome, President Obama!

2009-01-20T18:30:00.000-08:00

On Tuesday morning, I joined a few friends and colleagues at Flames, a restaurant near SJSU, to watch the inaugural address. We drank mimosas and toasted the arrival of our new president. I thought his address was well-crafted, despite commentary from Fox (which was the bar's choice for news coverage, not ours). My impressions were varied, but overall positive. It feels good to be an American again.

* * * * *

Text of President Barack Obama's inaugural address on Tuesday, as delivered.

OBAMA: My fellow citizens:

I stand here today humbled by the task before us, grateful for the trust you have bestowed, mindful of the sacrifices borne by our ancestors. I thank President Bush for his service to our nation, as well as the generosity and cooperation he has shown throughout this transition.

Forty-four Americans have now taken the presidential oath. The words have been spoken during rising tides of prosperity and the still waters of peace. Yet, every so often the oath is taken amidst gathering clouds and raging storms. At these moments, America has carried on not simply because of the skill or vision of those in high office, but because we the people have remained faithful to the ideals of our forebears, and true to our founding documents.

So it has been. So it must be with this generation of Americans.

That we are in the midst of crisis is now well understood. Our nation is at war, against a far-reaching network of violence and hatred. Our economy is badly weakened, a consequence of greed and irresponsibility on the part of some, but also our collective failure to make hard choices and prepare the nation for a new age. Homes have been lost; jobs shed; businesses shuttered. Our health care is too costly; our schools fail too many; and each day brings further evidence that the ways we use energy strengthen our adversaries and threaten our planet.

These are the indicators of crisis, subject to data and statistics. Less measurable but no less profound is a sapping of confidence across our land — a nagging fear that America's decline is inevitable, and that the next generation must lower its sights.

Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real. They are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this, America — they will be met.

On this day, we gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord.

On this day, we come to proclaim an end to the petty grievances and false promises, the recriminations and worn out dogmas, that for far too long have strangled our politics.

We remain a young nation, but in the words of Scripture, the time has come to set aside childish things. The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness.

In reaffirming the greatness of our nation, we understand that greatness is never a given. It must be earned. Our journey has never been one of shortcuts or settling for less. It has not been the path for the faint-hearted — for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame. Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things — some celebrated but more often men and women obscure in their labor, who have carried us up the long, rugged path towards prosperity and freedom.

For us, they packed up their few worldly possessions and traveled across oceans in search of a new life.

For us, they toiled in sweatshops and settled the West; endured the lash of the whip and plowed the hard earth.

For us, they fought and died, in places like Concord and Gettysburg; Normandy and Khe Sanh.

Time and again these men and women struggled and sacrificed and worked till their hands were raw so that we might live a better life. They saw America as bigger than the sum of our individual ambitions; greater than all the differences of birth or wealth or faction.

This is the journey we continue today. We remain the most prosperous, powerful nation on Earth. Our workers are no less productive than when this crisis began. Our minds are no less inventive, our goods and services no less needed than they were last week or last month or last year. Our capacity remains undiminished. But our time of standing pat, of protecting narrow interests and putting off unpleasant decisions — that time has surely passed. Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America.

For everywhere we look, there is work to be done. The state of the economy calls for action, bold and swift, and we will act — not only to create new jobs, but to lay a new foundation for growth. We will build the roads and bridges, the electric grids and digital lines that feed our commerce and bind us together. We will restore science to its rightful place, and wield technology's wonders to raise health care's quality and lower its cost. We will harness the sun and the winds and the soil to fuel our cars and run our factories. And we will transform our schools and colleges and universities to meet the demands of a new age. All this we can do. All this we will do.

Now, there are some who question the scale of our ambitions — who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans. Their memories are short. For they have forgotten what this country has already done; what free men and women can achieve when imagination is joined to common purpose, and necessity to courage.

What the cynics fail to understand is that the ground has shifted beneath them — that the stale political arguments that have consumed us for so long no longer apply. The question we ask today is not whether our government is too big or too small, but whether it works — whether it helps families find jobs at a decent wage, care they can afford, a retirement that is dignified. Where the answer is yes, we intend to move forward. Where the answer is no, programs will end. Those of us who manage the public's dollars will be held to account — to spend wisely, reform bad habits, and do our business in the light of day — because only then can we restore the vital trust between a people and their government.

Nor is the question before us whether the market is a force for good or ill. Its power to generate wealth and expand freedom is unmatched, but this crisis has reminded us that without a watchful eye, the market can spin out of control — and that a nation cannot prosper long when it favors only the prosperous. The success of our economy has always depended not just on the size of our gross domestic product, but on the reach of our prosperity; on our ability to extend opportunity to every willing heart — not out of charity, but because it is the surest route to our common good.

As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals. Our founding fathers ... our found fathers, faced with perils we can scarcely imagine, drafted a charter to assure the rule of law and the rights of man, a charter expanded by the blood of generations. Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience's sake. And so to all the other peoples and governments who are watching today, from the grandest capitals to the small village where my father was born: know that America is a friend of each nation and every man, woman, and child who seeks a future of peace and dignity, and that we are ready to lead once more.

Recall that earlier generations faced down fascism and communism not just with missiles and tanks, but with sturdy alliances and enduring convictions. They understood that our power alone cannot protect us, nor does it entitle us to do as we please. Instead, they knew that our power grows through its prudent use; our security emanates from the justness of our cause, the force of our example, the tempering qualities of humility and restraint.

We are the keepers of this legacy. Guided by these principles once more, we can meet those new threats that demand even greater effort — even greater cooperation and understanding between nations. We will begin to responsibly leave Iraq to its people, and forge a hard-earned peace in Afghanistan. With old friends and former foes, we will work tirelessly to lessen the nuclear threat, and roll back the specter of a warming planet. We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense, and for those who seek to advance their aims by inducing terror and slaughtering innocents, we say to you now that our spirit is stronger and cannot be broken; you cannot outlast us, and we will defeat you.

For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness. We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus — and non-believers. We are shaped by every language and culture, drawn from every end of this Earth; and because we have tasted the bitter swill of civil war and segregation, and emerged from that dark chapter stronger and more united, we cannot help but believe that the old hatreds shall someday pass; that the lines of tribe shall soon dissolve; that as the world grows smaller, our common humanity shall reveal itself; and that America must play its role in ushering in a new era of peace.

To the Muslim world, we seek a new way forward, based on mutual interest and mutual respect. To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society's ills on the West — know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy. To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.

To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds. And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to the suffering outside our borders; nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed, and we must change with it.

As we consider the road that unfolds before us, we remember with humble gratitude those brave Americans who, at this very hour, patrol far-off deserts and distant mountains. They have something to tell us, just as the fallen heroes who lie in Arlington whisper through the ages. We honor them not only because they are guardians of our liberty, but because they embody the spirit of service; a willingness to find meaning in something greater than themselves. And yet, at this moment — a moment that will define a generation — it is precisely this spirit that must inhabit us all.

For as much as government can do and must do, it is ultimately the faith and determination of the American people upon which this nation relies. It is the kindness to take in a stranger when the levees break, the selflessness of workers who would rather cut their hours than see a friend lose their job which sees us through our darkest hours. It is the firefighter's courage to storm a stairway filled with smoke, but also a parent's willingness to nurture a child, that finally decides our fate.

Our challenges may be new. The instruments with which we meet them may be new. But those values upon which our success depends — hard work and honesty, courage and fair play, tolerance and curiosity, loyalty and patriotism — these things are old. These things are true. They have been the quiet force of progress throughout our history. What is demanded then is a return to these truths. What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility — a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation, and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character, than giving our all to a difficult task.

This is the price and the promise of citizenship.

This is the source of our confidence — the knowledge that God calls on us to shape an uncertain destiny.

This is the meaning of our liberty and our creed — why men and women and children of every race and every faith can join in celebration across this magnificent Mall, and why a man whose father less than sixty years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant can now stand before you to take a most sacred oath.

So let us mark this day with remembrance, of who we are and how far we have traveled. In the year of America's birth, in the coldest of months, a small band of patriots huddled by dying campfires on the shores of an icy river. The capital was abandoned. The enemy was advancing. The snow was stained with blood. At a moment when the outcome of our revolution was most in doubt, the father of our nation ordered these words be read to the people:

"Let it be told to the future world ... that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive...that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet (it)."

America, in the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship, let us remember these timeless words. With hope and virtue, let us brave once more the icy currents, and endure what storms may come. Let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations.

Thank you. God bless you. And God bless the United States of America.

Lost In the Cemetery of Forgotten Books

2009-01-07T22:11:00.000-08:00

The trouble with not writing in my blog for ages and ages is finding just the right tone and topic to come back in on. Do I write about what I did over the holidays? Do I rant about the economy or my ex-husband? Do I wax nostalgic over 2008 and make pithy predictions for 2009?

No, no, and no.

Instead, I am going to do you a favor and tell you about a wonderful book. It is the best book I've read in a long time, and quite possibly the best book I've read in my entire life.

No, really.

It has everything a book should have: earnest heroes, terrifying villains, mysterious figures of uncertain origin, damsels in distress, femme fatales, haunted mansions, and family secrets all told in exquisite, lustrous prose. Oh, and books. For it is a book about books. And the people who write them. And the people who read them and love them.

It's the kind of book you want to read slowly so you can savor every word. It's the kind of book you want to read quickly because you can't wait to see what is on the next page. It's the kind of book that you never want to end, but you can't wait to finish so you can read it all over again.

But why am I telling you all this? Read it for yourself:

"Welcome to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, Daniel."

[...]

My father knelt next to me and, with his eyes fixed on mine, addressed me in the hushed voice he reserved for promises and secrets.

"This is a place of mystery, Daniel, a sanctuary. Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens. This place was already ancient when my father brought me here for the first time, many years ago. Perhaps as old as the city itself. Nobody knows for certain how long it has existed, or who created it. I will tell you what my father told me, though. When a library disappears, or a bookshop closes down, when a book is consigned to oblivion, those of us who know this place, its guardians, make sure that it gets here. In this place, books no longer remembered by anyone, books that are lost in time, live forever, waiting for the day when they will reach a new reader's hands. In the shop we buy and sell them, but in truth books have no owner. Every book you see here has been somebody's best friend. Now they have only us, Daniel. Do you think you'll be able to keep such a secret?"

My gaze was lost in the immensity of the place and its sorcery of light. I nodded, and my father smiled.

"And do you know the best thing about it?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"According to tradition, the first time someone visits this place, he must choose a book, whichever he wants, and adopt it, making sure that it will never disappear, that it will always stay alive. It's a very important promise. For life," explained my father. "Today it's your turn."

The Shadow of the Wind

by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

Bugs... I Hate Bugs...

2008-11-16T22:07:00.000-08:00

...You know, like Indiana Jones and snakes? That's me with bugs. Snakes? No problem. They don't even have any legs. But bugs... who said six or eight legs was normal anyway?

So tonight I was making my way back from Manteca. My son had spent the weekend at grandma's, so we did the "meet you halfway" thing. I was running low on gas and pulled over to a gas station in Gustine, or thereabouts. And as I was pumping my gas, Something dropped out of nowhere right down my shirtfront and into my cleavage, beg your pardon. So I'm thinking, that's weird, what was that? I did a quick check and couldn't see anything. I did the little dance where you flap your shirttails and spin around. Nothing. Hmph. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just some piece of trash and it fell out.

So I get back in my car and turn back onto Highway 5. You know Highway 5? Remote, godforsaken, nothing for miles Highway 5? And as I'm driving, I feel something creeping in my right sleeve...

Of course, I react. I reach over and grab my sleeve and there is definitely Something In There. I shudder. The car shudders. And suddenly I realize what a precarious situation I'm in.

Did I mention I was driving on Highway 5? Dangerous, reckless driver filled Highway 5?

And. There is Something. Alive. In My Clothing. With Me. And. I. Can't. Pull. Over.

And it's seven miles to the next turn off.

Seven. Miles.

There are moments in life where I'm quite proud of myself, and I believe I deserve some bragging rights here. I stay calm under pressure. It's what I do. Calm. I mean, I ask you, could YOU drive Seven Miles with Something Alive in Your Clothing with You?

So I grip the wheel with a kind of grim determination and try to ignore the slight burning sensation spreading out from the spot where I think IT may have bit me, and I'm running worst case senarios through my head, thinking, Okay, Black Widow, if IT is a Black Widow then I've got one hour to get to the hospital and get the antidote... How far is it to the nearest hospital? About one hour... Shit. Not good. Don't Panic. Don't Panic. No, IT can't be a Black Widow because Black Widows don't wait on the ceilings of gas stations and then drop on you... BUT Brown Recluses could. Shit. Maybe IT is a Brown Recluse. Oh. That would be Bad. Those are Very Bad Spiders. Might not kill me, but IT's bite is very poisonous and very painful... Shit. Don't panic. Can't be a Brown Recluse. IT can't be. If a Brown Recluse bit me I would be in severe pain. And I'm not in severe pain. Am I. Maybe I imagined the whole thing. Maybe I just imagi...

And then IT wiggled...

Nope. Didn't imagine IT. IT is still there...

All this for SEVEN MILES.

And I'm thinking. I Will NOT let this thing beat me. I am bigger than IT. I am smarter than IT. I refuse to let some Stupid BUG get the best of me. My name will not be associated with a 10 car pile up on Highway 5 because of a Creature that is 1/nth my body weight.

Finally, we get to Santa Nella and I pull over behind a gas station. I calmly (Calmly, I say) remove my seatbelt. And then I rip my shirt off.

My son, the wiseass, quips, "Well, that was hot." Oh, and did I mention, his 16-year-old best friend is also in the car with us. Ask me if I care. Modesty means nothing in the face of Something Alive In My Clothes With Me.

So I raise up my arm and I ask my son if he can see anything, any swelling on the back of my arm, and he says no...

Then I hear a buzzing coming from my lap... I look down and there crawling out of my shirt is...

A BEE.

A Bee. In November. A fucking BEE. In My Shirt. With Me. For Seven Miles.

We dove out of the car. I felt along my upper arm, and sure enough, right at the crease near the pit was a small protrusion. This was where I really lost it, I'm sorry to say. I just couldn't bring myself to pull out the stinger myself. Oh, but this is me, remember. Me losing it is putting my head down on my arm and taking deep breaths while saying to my son, "I really can't handle this. Please take the stinger out." And he did.

Next quest: Capture the Bee. IT was still in the car. Fortunately, IT had decided to make friends with the dome light, so capturing it was a simple matter of popping a Starbucks cup over the top of IT and throwing IT, cup and all, into the trash.

My son says, "Good thing you're not allergic to bees."

And I says, "I AM allergic to bees."

But not the deathly, stop breathing and go into convulsions kind of allergic. I'm just sensitive. I swell up like a balloon. The last time I was stung by a bee, I lost the use of my entire arm. But that was when I was a child. I haven't been stung by a bee in years. WTF? What was a BEE doing lurking around a gas station at night in the middle of November?

Maybe I shouldn't have thrown that cup away.

Maybe IT was an African bee.

Maybe I'm going to die after all.

Is my right arm tingling? Is it going numb?

It's going to be a long night...

Nobody Ever Brings Anything Small...

2008-11-07T19:50:00.000-08:00

Harvey and I sit in the bars... have a drink or two... play the juke box. And soon the faces of all the other people they turn toward mine and they smile. And they're saying, "We don't know your name, mister, but you're a very nice fella." Harvey and I warm ourselves in all these golden moments. We've entered as strangers - soon we have friends. And they come over... and they sit with us... and they drink with us... and they talk to us. They tell about the big terrible things they've done and the big wonderful things they'll do. Their hopes, and their regrets, and their loves, and their hates. All very large, because nobody ever brings anything small into a bar. And then I introduce them to Harvey... and he's bigger and grander than anything they offer me. And when they leave, they leave impressed. The same people seldom come back; but that's envy, my dear. There's a little bit of envy in the best of us.

~Elwood P. Dowd

Gone to SiliCon!

2008-10-03T01:07:00.000-07:00

This is my first year serving behind the scenes at a convention. I'm really looking forward to it. It's kind of surreal when I think about that wide-eyed teenager walking into her first TimeCon in the old convention hall in downtown San Jose. And now here I am, in the thick of things, helping to make stuff happen. I like that. It just feels Right.

Excerpt from The Bunny Suicides

2008-09-21T22:05:00.000-07:00

I just discovered these today. Too too funny!

Click here for more.

Tough Pairings

2008-09-19T17:20:00.000-07:00

See Calamities of Nature for more....

The Story Oasis is Online!

2008-09-18T23:59:00.000-07:00

"The world is a fucked up place for a little friendly turtle."

~Anonymous, left at the Story Oasis, Burning Man 2008

You know how you wish for something, and then it appears, like a mirage in the desert? Only it's not a mirage; it's real. That's how I found the Story Oasis at Burning Man.

I didn't even know it was there. I was just out, walking the Playa, following whatever whim called to me. Strangely enough, I had been thinking of a story I wanted to write earlier that morning. And although I had brought paper and pen with me, I didn't want to sit in my tent when there was so much to see and do. And the story was unique to Burning Man as well. So I thought to myself, in the thoughts that I think, that there wasn't any rush; if I were ever to write it, it would only be for my own pleasure. Where would it ever find a home?

And so there I was, on walkabout, just barely conscious of the wish that there should be a place here for writers to write. And then there it was: a modest hut, providing shade, paper and pens, and typewriters. And you know. Well. I just had to, didn't I.

And right after I sat down, a lovely man on a bicycle, with an ice chest in tow, arrived and offered to fix me a drink. A gin and tonic, to be exact. So I sat there in the shade of the Story Oasis, drinking my drink as the desert winds blew and the sun began its slow descent, and I wrote.

About that same time, the owner and creator of the Story Oasis came along to change the battery which ran the typewriters. I was really glad I got to meet Ben and tell him in person what a brilliant idea his oasis was.

And now? The stories created there can be read online. I haven't found mine yet--I've only read through Wednesday morning. I think I was there Thursday or Friday afternoon. There is a wide variety of ramblings, quotations, stories, and poems. The quote above is my favorite so far.

So... go! Go see the Story Oasis and discover more. Click here.

iWanna iRoomba!

2008-09-14T23:59:00.000-07:00

I am convinced that this nifty invention will be the answer to all my household needs... Well, at least it will keep my floors clean.

I'm adding it to my wishlist:

One iRoomba
One automatic mind translator (put together from old hairdryer parts)
One droid that understands the binary language of moisture vaporators (and speaks fluent Bocce)
One Doctor Who Mini RC Dalek Battle Pack

Actually, I have that last one already. And. It. Is. So. Cool.

Go on. Call me a geek. I dare you. You just want my wonderful toys.

Living in the Trees, Part II

2008-09-08T23:59:00.000-07:00

Look! People more clever than me have designed and built actual treehouses! Click here for more!

Living in the Trees

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

I've always sort of fancied the notion of living in trees, like Lothlorien in Lord of the Rings or more humbly, perhaps, like the Ewok village in Return of the Jedi. Can you imagine it? Forests would thrive once more. Earthquakes would hardly be a problem; nor would floods.

And yet...

One does wonder where one goes to the bathroom. (I don't fancy climbing down the tree in the middle of the night).

And what do you do when it rains? Where does all the rain go? How could you keep it from coming in the windows and getting everything all wet?

Oh, and lightning. Hmm. Yes, lightning could be a problem.

And bugs. Can't abide bugs.

Sigh. My brave new world is once more deferred.

Top Ten Reasons Why YOU Should Go to Burning Man

2008-08-31T23:59:00.000-07:00

10. Playa dust is good for you.

9. You get to see naked people (some of whom are under the age of 60).

8. You can walk through a sandstorm and pretend you are Paul Muad'dib in Frank Herbert's Dune.

7. You might meet a vampire. Or a transvestite. Or a transvestite vampire.

6. You can have your fortune told in the middle of a storm.

5. Nice people will fix you drinks.

4. You will find some really marvelous places to take naps.

3. You get to see lots of oooh pretty sparkly glowy things (kind of like Disneyland's Electric Light Parade, only weirder and wilder).

2. You get to see lots of things set on fire (including but not limited to the flaming parasailers--Burning Man's answer to Tinkerbell, I suppose-- But it just makes me wonder who came up with the bright idea-- I know! Let's jump out of a perfectly good airplane AND set ourselves on fire! That will *really* get their attention!).

And the Number One reason why *YOU* should go to Burning Man is:

1. Until you do, you'll never know how *good* an Indian taco and an ice cold Coke tastes after a week in the desert.

boom.

2008-08-30T23:59:00.000-07:00

ONE...

2008-08-29T23:59:00.000-07:00

The cottonwoods in their simplicity

talk softly on, as hidden waters talk,

an almost silent singing in the tree

that says, here is another way to be.