Cool rainy night in Seattle, listening to Carrie Newcomer. Sore, stiff knee from a collision with a running dog this afternoon. Damp puppy snoozing on the floor across the room. House is very quiet.
Orcas Island theme on Gmail usually represents a foggy, gray island world. This reminds me of a trip to the BWCA years ago. Early morning, thick fog on the water. So quiet. I took a canoe out, and one of the women with me snapped a picture of my silhouette in the gray.
We have forgotten that sort of quiet in this noisy, city world. I have forgotten it, but wake occasionally at 3 a.m. to stick my head out the window. I enjoy the moments when the city is closest to that peace.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Dreaming An Ancient Land
The Mountain was out this afternoon. Stevie and I went down to the dog beach on Lake Washington. While he herded Chuckits and puppies, I contemplated the buildings that populate the shore on Mercer Island, and watched clouds play tag around the peak on the horizon.
I have been to wilderness lakes, where there are no buildings among the trees, and the touch of humans, while still present, is lighter. Still, it is difficult for me to imagine these hills as they must have been before the Europeans came. I picture dense forests, cut by paths, but no paved roads or freeways. I picture abundant wildlife, probably including species now extinct. I think there must have been a few canoes on the lake, especially in the early morning quiet, but certainly no sea planes taking off and landing, over and over again.
I have a hard time imagining this land with no cities, no clear cuts, no freeways. If Jean Auel's Clan of the Cave Bear series did nothing else for me, it provided hints of a landscape that was in balance, where humans existed, even thrived, but were still small potatoes in terms of their destructive effect on the Earth. In spite of this inability of mine, I still find myself trying to picture such a verdant wilderness every time I sit on the lake shore. That world is lost to us forever, and as I do not expect to live long enough to see us populate some other planet -- as yet unruined -- I feel that loss deeply.
The Mountain sometimes used to appear on the horizon with a clarity that I have not seen in many years. There is too much city and smog between the beach in northeast Seattle and the volcanic mountain that rises one hundred miles to the southeast.
Smog fills the valleys once filled by trees. A sunny day does not remove all of my sorrow.
I have been to wilderness lakes, where there are no buildings among the trees, and the touch of humans, while still present, is lighter. Still, it is difficult for me to imagine these hills as they must have been before the Europeans came. I picture dense forests, cut by paths, but no paved roads or freeways. I picture abundant wildlife, probably including species now extinct. I think there must have been a few canoes on the lake, especially in the early morning quiet, but certainly no sea planes taking off and landing, over and over again.
I have a hard time imagining this land with no cities, no clear cuts, no freeways. If Jean Auel's Clan of the Cave Bear series did nothing else for me, it provided hints of a landscape that was in balance, where humans existed, even thrived, but were still small potatoes in terms of their destructive effect on the Earth. In spite of this inability of mine, I still find myself trying to picture such a verdant wilderness every time I sit on the lake shore. That world is lost to us forever, and as I do not expect to live long enough to see us populate some other planet -- as yet unruined -- I feel that loss deeply.
The Mountain sometimes used to appear on the horizon with a clarity that I have not seen in many years. There is too much city and smog between the beach in northeast Seattle and the volcanic mountain that rises one hundred miles to the southeast.
Smog fills the valleys once filled by trees. A sunny day does not remove all of my sorrow.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Dog Beach
The beach at the dog park is never a dull place. Dogs love the beach, and there is always a lot of action. With the coming of warmer weather, the beach has become even livelier.
A tiny Pomeranian urges his person to throw the ball so he can swim after it, even though the wind is kicking up significant waves.
A lanky Great Dane wades out far beyond where the labs start to swim. Flip, the little Jack Russell Terrier, swims after his orange ball, nothing above water but his head, his tiny stump of a tail ruddering behind him.
Joe, the dog walker. wades out with his pack, looking forward to the warmth that will make human swimming possible. Two puppies play tag over and under the benches and driftwood logs, king of the mountain as much a part of the game as chase-me.
A beautiful Golden Retriever puppy, half grown and chubby with baby fat, scampers her way into every group of people and dogs, too young to worry about manners, human or canine. In my book, even a wet, sandy puppy is worth a cuddle. Doggie smiles are joyful by definition.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Spring Alley
Stevie wanted to go stare at chickens this morning. Border Collies may choose not to bark, chase, or show wriggly excitement but they ALWAYS stare. The chickens stare back. . .
When I gave into this side trip from our morning walk, it led me to a spring adventure. The morning was crisp, but the sun was warm. The sky was oh so blue and the forsythia outside the window was brilliant.
I’d noticed an alleyway in this neighborhood of no alleys, right across from the chicken coop, I couldn’t see where it lead, where it ended, so we had to explore. I am an alley walker from way back.
We woke the neighborhood with barking dogs who bellowed from behind wooden fences. A sweet Golden Retriever with a gray face dashed the fence and then sat for pets. Nothing sweeter in this world than an aging Golden.
The crows didn’t follow us too far up the alley, so aside from the dogs, it was quiet. I took mobs of pictures of spring flowers, wooden fences creating patterns, light and shadows created by early sun on profusions of fruit tree blossoms, of ivies and ground covers, of tree trunk textures and roads leading into distance. Unfortunately, my cell camera wasn’t up to the job, and most of the photos didn’t live up to their potential. I still had a great time.
The morning sparkled with sunlight, with night-fallen raindrops, with promise for a gorgeous day and impending summer heat. Stevie and I have a new morning route to enjoy.
The crows didn’t follow us too far up the alley, so aside from the dogs, it was quiet. I took mobs of pictures of spring flowers, wooden fences creating patterns, light and shadows created by early sun on profusions of fruit tree blossoms, of ivies and ground covers, of tree trunk textures and roads leading into distance. Unfortunately, my cell camera wasn’t up to the job, and most of the photos didn’t live up to their potential. I still had a great time.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Familiar Faces, Forgotten Names
Sometimes, late at night, when I’m too tired to do anything more constructive, I google the names of people I used to know. My searches are limited to those whose last names I remember, to the few women whose names didn’t change, to those whose names are uncommon enough that I have any hope of finding the right person.
I remember some names from grammar school, including that of my seventh grade locker partner, but most of the names from my college dorm are lost to me.
My efforts are most rewarding when I can find a picture; it is fun to see how people look twenty-five years later. Sometimes names are familiar, but I don’t remember the faces or the personalities. Sometimes, I know I recognize the face, but there are no memories to give the picture a story. Other faces prompt a surprised response of, “OMG, I’d know her anywhere!”
One friend I looked for was someone I couldn’t picture in my memory, but when I finally found a picture, I was like, “Oh, of course!” I found the class clown from high school (now a statistician and physicist :^), and I recognized him immediately, but another classmate didn't have a clue.
I also enjoy finding out what kind of work people do; does the geeky boy with the black-framed glasses work as a scientist or computer programmer? Is the girl who was such a good artist working in a field that showcases her talent? And as a lesbian, I always need to read between the lines, “Are any of those folks gay?”
This week, I found a blog about a friend's fight against Inflammatory Breast Cancer. The blog ends suddenly just a few months ago. I have found no obituary, so I hope she's busy fighting hard, and is still out there, hoping to share her gifts with the world once more. I had rarely thought of Suzanne in the past few years, and I have only a handful of memories reminding me who she was, but those sparkling eyes and that impish smile should have another 50 years to brighten this world. Inflammatory Breast Cancer is nasty stuff.
I remember a slightly chubby woman with auburn curls, but I’d forgotten the heart shape of her face, the smiling blue eyes, and the liveliness of her personality.
I first met Suzanne at the Peace Camp. As I remember, she showed up and slept there alone one night and wrote something memorable in the camp log. I remember people talking about how wonderful her log entry was, although I don’t remember its content. I think it was spiritual and poetic, all about the dreams the focus of the camp inspired for her.
She gave me a couple of bowls and a small pitcher that she’d made; she was an artist and a potter. I kept those for years, always carefully placing their earth-toned colors on my maple-stained bookcase.
I remember hanging out in the big house she and other women from the Peace Camp rented off Franklin Avenue. I don’t remember where she was from, or if she had an accent, but I remember that she phrased things with intensity and clarity.
Suzanne was close to her father. I was visiting a college friend in Chicago when he died, and I thought about Suzanne all day; somehow I knew that she was in pain, even across the miles. When she changed her name to reflect her lesbian identity, she kept the initial of his name in his honor.
We went camping together once, but I don’t remember where. Maybe Lake Maria State Park, although it was horribly buggy in the summer. I remember a night when I woke up to autumn frost and dawn beauty at Lake Maria, but I think I was alone that trip.
Vague memories, and not very many of them. When I saw her picture on the blog, I was surprised to see that her hair is now completely gray, but that those blue eyes, eyes I hadn’t thought about in thirty years, are still intelligent and full of life. I’d forgotten the shape of her face, the crooked smile when she was up to something, the warmth of her personality, but all that came back when I saw the pictures.
I wasn’t surprised that she lives in the country; we all wanted that back then. It took me a few minutes to get the joke – I didn’t realize she had nothing on under that apron – but I laughed at the playful picture of her ironing, eyes aglint with humor. Apparently “Naked Therapy” is a crucial part of her treatment!
The blog is full of pictures of, and comments from, the many friends who accompany Suzanne to chemo treatments. She is often dressed in the brightest of colors. Clearly she is very loved (that doesn’t surprise me – if there is anything that comes back to me, it is the warmth of her personality), and I’m glad for that. I downloaded a couple of pictures for mementoes, choosing the ones with the smile that identified her as the friend I knew long ago.
I’ll probably think of Suzanne more over the next few months than I’ve thought about her in 25 years. I hope she is still fighting, and hopefully winning. I wish her the best.
The web is ever-changing. I've learned from experience that it pays to continue those late-night searches. Every once in a while I am rewarded by a glimpse of someone I knew long ago. These glimpses give me history, perhaps a bit of closure, a continued feeling of community.
I am especially touched to find that we idealistic feminist activists are graying, mature, laughing and living in a world we helped change just a tiny bit for the better. We are writers, teachers, activists, mothers, sisters and lovers. We are women and we still roar.
I remember some names from grammar school, including that of my seventh grade locker partner, but most of the names from my college dorm are lost to me.
My efforts are most rewarding when I can find a picture; it is fun to see how people look twenty-five years later. Sometimes names are familiar, but I don’t remember the faces or the personalities. Sometimes, I know I recognize the face, but there are no memories to give the picture a story. Other faces prompt a surprised response of, “OMG, I’d know her anywhere!”
One friend I looked for was someone I couldn’t picture in my memory, but when I finally found a picture, I was like, “Oh, of course!” I found the class clown from high school (now a statistician and physicist :^), and I recognized him immediately, but another classmate didn't have a clue.
I also enjoy finding out what kind of work people do; does the geeky boy with the black-framed glasses work as a scientist or computer programmer? Is the girl who was such a good artist working in a field that showcases her talent? And as a lesbian, I always need to read between the lines, “Are any of those folks gay?”
This week, I found a blog about a friend's fight against Inflammatory Breast Cancer. The blog ends suddenly just a few months ago. I have found no obituary, so I hope she's busy fighting hard, and is still out there, hoping to share her gifts with the world once more. I had rarely thought of Suzanne in the past few years, and I have only a handful of memories reminding me who she was, but those sparkling eyes and that impish smile should have another 50 years to brighten this world. Inflammatory Breast Cancer is nasty stuff.
I remember a slightly chubby woman with auburn curls, but I’d forgotten the heart shape of her face, the smiling blue eyes, and the liveliness of her personality.
I first met Suzanne at the Peace Camp. As I remember, she showed up and slept there alone one night and wrote something memorable in the camp log. I remember people talking about how wonderful her log entry was, although I don’t remember its content. I think it was spiritual and poetic, all about the dreams the focus of the camp inspired for her.
She gave me a couple of bowls and a small pitcher that she’d made; she was an artist and a potter. I kept those for years, always carefully placing their earth-toned colors on my maple-stained bookcase.
I remember hanging out in the big house she and other women from the Peace Camp rented off Franklin Avenue. I don’t remember where she was from, or if she had an accent, but I remember that she phrased things with intensity and clarity.
Suzanne was close to her father. I was visiting a college friend in Chicago when he died, and I thought about Suzanne all day; somehow I knew that she was in pain, even across the miles. When she changed her name to reflect her lesbian identity, she kept the initial of his name in his honor.
We went camping together once, but I don’t remember where. Maybe Lake Maria State Park, although it was horribly buggy in the summer. I remember a night when I woke up to autumn frost and dawn beauty at Lake Maria, but I think I was alone that trip.
Vague memories, and not very many of them. When I saw her picture on the blog, I was surprised to see that her hair is now completely gray, but that those blue eyes, eyes I hadn’t thought about in thirty years, are still intelligent and full of life. I’d forgotten the shape of her face, the crooked smile when she was up to something, the warmth of her personality, but all that came back when I saw the pictures.
I wasn’t surprised that she lives in the country; we all wanted that back then. It took me a few minutes to get the joke – I didn’t realize she had nothing on under that apron – but I laughed at the playful picture of her ironing, eyes aglint with humor. Apparently “Naked Therapy” is a crucial part of her treatment!
The blog is full of pictures of, and comments from, the many friends who accompany Suzanne to chemo treatments. She is often dressed in the brightest of colors. Clearly she is very loved (that doesn’t surprise me – if there is anything that comes back to me, it is the warmth of her personality), and I’m glad for that. I downloaded a couple of pictures for mementoes, choosing the ones with the smile that identified her as the friend I knew long ago.
I’ll probably think of Suzanne more over the next few months than I’ve thought about her in 25 years. I hope she is still fighting, and hopefully winning. I wish her the best.
The web is ever-changing. I've learned from experience that it pays to continue those late-night searches. Every once in a while I am rewarded by a glimpse of someone I knew long ago. These glimpses give me history, perhaps a bit of closure, a continued feeling of community.
I am especially touched to find that we idealistic feminist activists are graying, mature, laughing and living in a world we helped change just a tiny bit for the better. We are writers, teachers, activists, mothers, sisters and lovers. We are women and we still roar.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
I. Want.
I’m pissed off and depressed. My toes are definitely fat, on both feet now. Is this the beginning? Will I have any time past this summer to do the things I want to do?
I want to drive over to Winthrop and watch the stars at night. I want to go to the beach, maybe even down to Oregon see two of my favorite Border Collies. I want to take Stevie for lots of walks on Whidbey Island; me, who barely has the energy to walk the half mile to the lake and back. I can breathe better over there. Maybe I’ll be able to walk a little; if I ever get it together to go.
I want to ride a horse wild along the sand. I want to sled down a snowy hill and have it be fun; I want to do all those bumps and tumbles without my back hurting. I want to drive a long, long way and see new places. I want to see the East Coast in all its autumn splendor. I want to see what is so beautiful about New Hampshire and the White Mountains, the rustic parts of Vermont, and the rural beauty of northern New York State.
I want to brush and love an old horse, and feel the warm solidity of an equine hug. I want to play with kittens and scritch a cow and make Stevie very, very happy several days in a row.
I want to go back to Colorado, sit on the porch in Bun Gun Zhing Wak and watch the fog make all the ridges visible, ridge by ridge by tree-crested ridge. I want to sit in the woods in Idaho and talk to the chickadees. I want. I want.
I want to eat anything I want to eat and have it feed me. I want to have a steak, not too well done, and eat some really good chicken, not that shit in the QFC deli. I want eggs and potatoes over a campfire that I built and tended. I want to sleep in the truck and wake to the cold morning having slept well through the rain. I want to write poems of which Phebe would be proud.
I want to go to Alaska, in the winter, and ride a dog sled. I want to go kayaking somewhere warm, where the water is an impossible shade of turquoise and porpoises play around my boat. I want to go swimming with dolphins and have conversations with Orcas. I want to know that I’m going to go to the Bridge, and see all my kids again. What I wouldn’t give to hug Lucky again, laugh at Little Girl’s antics and feel her warm little body solid against my chest. I want to run my hands through Myrddin’s silky hair. God I miss those guys.
I want to know that what I’m posting is really awesome writing and that my soul is bare for all the doubters to believe. I want to feel a running horse between my thighs and see blue and golden Columbines parted in a swath beneath our feet. I want to be tumbled by the waves on a Mexican beach, and play with tiny sand crabs while the sun and surf wash over my naked body.
I want to see England’s Lake District, eat cheese in Paris and watch a Mediterranean Sea lap the hull of a small sailboat that I can guide with skill and grace. I want to fly above the clouds and swim below the waves. I want to explore a coral forest and see all the tropical fish. I want to ride through the Methow until I’m so dirty and so brown and so strong and so wiry that the tourists mistake me for a native.
I want to live to be an old woman. I have to live to have silver hair; it is my birthright. I want to stand on the cliffs of Dover, feel the wind against my goose-bumped arms, and hear Vera Lynn singing to the gulls. I want to go to a Holly Near concert and sing with the women. I want to sit on a Michigan hillside and hear Cris’ voice reaching for the most distant of planets.
I want to raise my voice and sing along, hearing the effortless harmonies in a roomful of women who love women. I want to sit by my lover and hold her hand and lean against her shoulder and feel laughter bubbling up in my throat because life is so wonderful and women sing together so well. I want to go home from the concert, still high on all that energy, and write poetry until dawn, with my lover asleep next to me in the bed.
I want the world to see me for who I really am, and know that finally, completely, the lies have been vanquished. I want to grow, I want to live, I want to dream, I want to write, I want to sing, I want to sign, I want to dive through the waves like a flying fish and come up laughing for more, again and again and again.
I want to drive over to Winthrop and watch the stars at night. I want to go to the beach, maybe even down to Oregon see two of my favorite Border Collies. I want to take Stevie for lots of walks on Whidbey Island; me, who barely has the energy to walk the half mile to the lake and back. I can breathe better over there. Maybe I’ll be able to walk a little; if I ever get it together to go.
I want to ride a horse wild along the sand. I want to sled down a snowy hill and have it be fun; I want to do all those bumps and tumbles without my back hurting. I want to drive a long, long way and see new places. I want to see the East Coast in all its autumn splendor. I want to see what is so beautiful about New Hampshire and the White Mountains, the rustic parts of Vermont, and the rural beauty of northern New York State.
Bryce canyon at sunrise by Jon Sullivan
I want to sit in a desert bare canyon, near a warm shallow stream and I want to see Bryce Canyon in the snow. I want to feel the sun hot on my back, like I almost felt today. I want to hold scads of wiggly puppies and get lots of kisses, paws-in-the-face love. I want to hold a bunny.
I want to brush and love an old horse, and feel the warm solidity of an equine hug. I want to play with kittens and scritch a cow and make Stevie very, very happy several days in a row.
I want to go back to Colorado, sit on the porch in Bun Gun Zhing Wak and watch the fog make all the ridges visible, ridge by ridge by tree-crested ridge. I want to sit in the woods in Idaho and talk to the chickadees. I want. I want.
I want to eat anything I want to eat and have it feed me. I want to have a steak, not too well done, and eat some really good chicken, not that shit in the QFC deli. I want eggs and potatoes over a campfire that I built and tended. I want to sleep in the truck and wake to the cold morning having slept well through the rain. I want to write poems of which Phebe would be proud.
I want to go to Alaska, in the winter, and ride a dog sled. I want to go kayaking somewhere warm, where the water is an impossible shade of turquoise and porpoises play around my boat. I want to go swimming with dolphins and have conversations with Orcas. I want to know that I’m going to go to the Bridge, and see all my kids again. What I wouldn’t give to hug Lucky again, laugh at Little Girl’s antics and feel her warm little body solid against my chest. I want to run my hands through Myrddin’s silky hair. God I miss those guys.
I want to know that what I’m posting is really awesome writing and that my soul is bare for all the doubters to believe. I want to feel a running horse between my thighs and see blue and golden Columbines parted in a swath beneath our feet. I want to be tumbled by the waves on a Mexican beach, and play with tiny sand crabs while the sun and surf wash over my naked body.
Rocky mountain columbine by Dr. Thomas G. Barnes, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service
Just once, I want to wear a bra bigger than a -AAA, and feel like a girl with boobs. Just once, mind you; I’m sure it will be a passing fancy. I want my hands to find the words easily, signing quickly and gracefully, and learn how to mimic a cat trotting across the street.
I want to see England’s Lake District, eat cheese in Paris and watch a Mediterranean Sea lap the hull of a small sailboat that I can guide with skill and grace. I want to fly above the clouds and swim below the waves. I want to explore a coral forest and see all the tropical fish. I want to ride through the Methow until I’m so dirty and so brown and so strong and so wiry that the tourists mistake me for a native.
In The Wood by Petr Kratochvil
I want to travel back in time and swim through Glenwood’s pool underwater, eyes open and soothed by the minerals, still unsullied by chlorine. I want to laugh with my aunties and tease my uncles just once more. I want to hold a baby, laugh with a toddler and answer a four year old’s questions every night for a year.I want to live to be an old woman. I have to live to have silver hair; it is my birthright. I want to stand on the cliffs of Dover, feel the wind against my goose-bumped arms, and hear Vera Lynn singing to the gulls. I want to go to a Holly Near concert and sing with the women. I want to sit on a Michigan hillside and hear Cris’ voice reaching for the most distant of planets.
I want to raise my voice and sing along, hearing the effortless harmonies in a roomful of women who love women. I want to sit by my lover and hold her hand and lean against her shoulder and feel laughter bubbling up in my throat because life is so wonderful and women sing together so well. I want to go home from the concert, still high on all that energy, and write poetry until dawn, with my lover asleep next to me in the bed.
I want the world to see me for who I really am, and know that finally, completely, the lies have been vanquished. I want to grow, I want to live, I want to dream, I want to write, I want to sing, I want to sign, I want to dive through the waves like a flying fish and come up laughing for more, again and again and again.
brain storms
I'm taking a class about getting around writer's block. Last week's lesson was about brainstorming.
* * *
brainstorm
* * *
brainstorm
brain storm
write about storms
wind, wet slashing down, thunder
I should not be out playing
on a hillside
during a lightening storm
what do I remember about storms
on summer afternoons in the mountains?
the thunderheads, white clouds turning dark,
the intensity of that summer sun,
intense color, deep blue sky
I haven’t seen that color in decades
not since riding my horse
galloping across columbine-laced meadow
riding ornery Goldie was something
of a storm in itself
storms
snowstorms are my favorite
dramatic in such a silent way
silent drama
like an ASL signed
play in three acts
Deaf Theatre
silent drama
the drama of gay kids,
their pain silenced
ignored
until they die long before they should
so much talent and love and hope
wasted and gone
kids should not be dying
write about storms, huh?
Did I ever see a thunderstorm
boil across Lake Superior
and slash the dorm windows with rain?
Did I ever dance
in the dewdrop sweetness
of early morning at Cedar Lake?
I remember hanging with the dogs
one early morning,
when those kids were
shooting that soft porn film
“Move your shorts so we can see your buns. Melody.
You have reeeally nice buns; I think it will be allllright.”
That kid,
the one with the camera,
the only male
(an important observation
when watching half-naked women
and men with cameras
and directorial aspirations)
that kid said that a lot, “allllright”.
So mellow and pretend-gentle
for someone shooting porn.
I might call it erotica
if he hadn’t told one of the women
to pretend to drown…
“put your face in the water and your butt in the air”
two women played like lovers
as they slipped on summer shifts,
translucent, white, long skirts barely covering
tanned wet bodies
I have skinny-dipped in that lake
at night
when the only white was
naked breasts
stomachs
butt cheeks in the star light
some storms are softest of rain
some are pain and blood and thunder
I have seen both
brain storms
brain storms
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