Writing about writing

Desert Moon

2006-03-17T09:40:00.000-07:00

Desert Moon,
originally uploaded by ObedientMuse.

I love my world! This moonset is a wonderful occurrence in my space, in my back yard. I can't believe I'm here; I am alive in this world. I wish you could know where I came from, you'd know what an amazing process life is when you have hope. Just a little, a smidgeon of hope can keep one going until something changes. It's not always a dramatic change, but those little changes ever flowing toward some destination that keeps the river moving, carving stone and making a difference in a person’s landscape.

The most destructive thing one human can do to another isn't on the outside. It's more intimate, more personal, more evil than any physical scars can show. The invisible scars: only visible to those who also process similar scars. We can recognize each other in a crowd, by the avoidance of eye contact, the bow of a head, the acquiescence of personal space, the half smile of someone who wants to beam a smile but is too afraid to let their inner self show. When one human usurps the personal power of another, makes them second guess themselves, makes them not trust their desires or intuitions, that is life destroying. No therapy will repair that kind of destruction. That is equal to putting a human on the edge of a mighty precipice and saying, ‘if you feel you’re going to fall, don’t trust it, but stand still, do not try and save yourself’. That is torture of the worst kind. You, eventually, are your own jailer.

Possible rain

2006-01-15T13:52:00.000-07:00

Possible rain,
originally uploaded by ObedientMuse.

Is there a moral god?

2006-01-14T16:08:00.000-07:00

If God is moral and just then who’s morality and justice does he/she follow?

I have a neighbor boy who has a quad. He rode it all day yesterday until dark, which was from around 9:00 to about 5:30. I have been sick and so I thought my level of intolerance was due to that, being sick. I wanted to open the windows but all I could hear was his brrrr…. brrr-room…… brrr…. brrr-room… as he drove his quad round and round his little acre of dirt and jumped hills. For eight hours. Okay, the neighbor boy between us got a drum set for xmas and I figured that would die out too. After two full days of drums until 9:00 at night it did. Now I’ve hardly heard any drumming. I never said a word. My usual tactic.

I began to pray. I prayed his quad would seize up and he’d not be able to repair it, or that he’d grow tired, or that he’d wreck. Now, the last I’m not proud of, I didn’t want him hurt really badly, just enough so he’d stop. I mean, he’s about 10 years old on a full size quad anyway, isn’t that illegal? I know I'm rationalizing.

That’s when it hit me, what if my prayers were answered? Who decides? I live a good life, I don’t cheat people, I tell the truth even when it doesn’t suit me, I try and live as honestly as possible and live a life of integrity and continuity. I’m a good person. I don’t steal, I honor the land, and my neighbor’s land, I am kind to animals, I do volunteer work (rescue animals, rehab them, find then healthy homes and never ask for a penny), I pick up trash that isn't mine, I don’t drink, smoke or eat fast food. Don’t deserve to get what I want too? I mean, there are plenty of religious people out there saying tons of prayers for whatever it is they want, they live hipocritacly, lie, tell the truth when it’s to their advantage, cheat, throw cigarette butts on the ground, let their trash blow away and prentend it’s not theirs, ignore trash when it’s not theirs, look the other way when they could help, and dishonor their animals and children. And they get their prayers answered. So, why not me?

Around 11:00 I spoke to my husband. I realized that I usually shut this off, the annoyance, and try to emulate a holy person by showing compassion. I’m not that compassionate! I want to be compassionate toward myself. What about me? When is someone going to say, You know, I’ve been making noise for the whole weekend, maybe I should give my neighbors a break. Why can’t I have a voice? I don’t want to make my neighbor upset… but the drum boy’s parents finally told me my dogs were barking like crazy when we left. I had no idea. I put a stop to that immediately! Now, all I want is one day to write, read or hang outside without the constant varrooommmm, brrr-room… I didn't agree to live on a racetrack.

Off I go. I figure I’ll speak with the boy. Not his dad, since he's making the noise.

The walk two houses down is long. I feel like I'm being watched.

I motion for the boy to come over. He does. I say, listen can we find a compromise? You rode all day yesterday, how about give me today for a little peace and quiet? Is that fair?

The boy knods in agreement.

Good, thanks. I say and walk home. I take the dogs to the river back behind my house. I can’t think of anything else, but how I might have started something. Something that I could have let eat my guts up. What right do I have? I'm not telling him to day anything, I just want a compromise. I can ask, right? I can just ask for what I want. It doesn’t mean I’ll get it. Or should I keep praying?

I'm back in my office.

It’s been 45 minutes of quiet. He’s riding again. What should I do? Pray he breaks his neck? Or do I call the cops? He’s thumbing his nose at my request. No compromise at all? Do I stand up for what I want or just be passive and let it go? Or do I sell my house?

I explain this to my husband. He says lets go over. We walk together. The boy drives up to his dad and says, Dad their here!

His dad, skol cap, denim shirt tucked into too tight wrangles and boots, stands tall stoic and has one foot on the quad tire rolling it back and forth.

He asks us, how ya’ doin?

Fine. And you? I say. My husband says something similar.

Good, how ya’ doin? He says again.

Good, thanks. I say again. He’s nervous.

My husband presents out case, asks for a compromise and leaves it at that.

Quad boy's dad says, what about compromising with me? The boys only here ever other weekend for two days.

So many things make immediate sense. The boy rides his dad's guilt away, is spoiled, or dad wants to be the cool parent...

Okay, I say, so he’s going to ride his quad all day for two days straight? Is that what I can expect?

Mister looks me up and down like he’s sizing me up.

I wanted to have a talk with you, find out what to expect. When it’s going to end.

I’ll be honest with you, Mister says, I’ll tell him to take a break but he’s going to ride it again.

I say, so, there’s not going to be a compromise? Is that it? I can expect him to ride all day for eight hours four days a month?

Well, I was going to take him to the airport to ride, but I was cleaning up here… He sweeps his hand toward the yard of junk.

My husband says, it’s loud and we’d like not to hear it all day. My wifes been sick...

Mister looks my husband up and down, sizing him up. Mister scowls. Is this how he compromises?

I’ll be honest with ya, he’s going to ride it. (I’m thinking, no, lie to me. Please don’t be honest with me. This is the most ridiculous thing someone can say).

This goes on with more words, he says this is the first time he’s ridden this bike. I say, it can’t be the first time, look at the track it’s worn down from one time? I'm not going to stand here and let him blantantly treat me like an idiot. I can see it's not his first time.

Well, no, but… then he says that neighbor so and so has ridden his and neighbor so and so rode his etc.

I say, they don't ride all day for eight hours. Listen, I’d like to open my window without hearing this thing. I’d like to know when this is going to end, what to expect. Now that I know it’ll be for eight hours two weekends a month… Is that right?

I’m going to take him to the airport road… Just cleaning up here. I'll tell him to take a break.

Thanks. I’d just like a day of peace too. I gave yesterday for eight hours and he rode until 5:30 last night.

Mister looks at me like he’s surprised I’d know that bit of information. It’s odd, when you live your life so “out there” and don’t expect people to know details about your life.

I say, okay, then thanks for listening. I appreciate it.

A Two Headed Fish

2005-04-21T08:09:00.000-07:00

I’ve not felt like writing for some time. My shoulder has been bothering me again. When I say, “bothering” I mean it is in a constant spasm. It is so painful I want to vomit and can’t concentrate on anything else. I’m not going to get into it here, but I’ve tried just about everything logical and reasonable. Yesterday I went to a guy in Sedona. I’ll keep his name out of it until I see the results, but so far I’m a bit better. I feel somewhat confused about it since I can’t get my head around what he did, but then I don’t fully understand astrology either. That’s why I study.

Yesterday the moon entered Virgo. I studied astrology over my lunchtime yesterday and before my doctor’s appointment. I’ve gone into that headspace again. With the moon in Virgo we can expect practical adaptations. (Maybe that’s why I study astrology in a way to see the practicality in it, see how it actually works in my life.) Nice time to refine emotional reactions to perfect expression. (Paraphrased from Stephen Arroyo’s Chart Interpretation Handbook.) This would be a great time for an actor to take a workshop, or anyone to work on things that have previously been emotionally overwhelming. I’m going to the H.E.R. Weekend tomorrow. We’ll see how this works for me. I’m going to look at my “shadow” self, to heal anything left I cannot see. Although I know there will always be “stuff” it doesn’t have to rule my life, like I know it does sometimes now. Can we heal all wounds? I believe we can, even those deep psychic, soul damaging ones. I’m here to prove that to myself. I survived for a reason. Even if that reason is only to heal. Now that’s a bummer and a paradox. I sometimes think that my successes will be equivalent to my damage and wounds. Maybe that’s why I dream so big, why I have such high ideals and hope for myself. I’m the only one who can believe there is no limit to what I can do. No one else is going to do that for me. It’s my role as a human, as the parent of that past child who no one protected, as the one who is doing the clean up work after another parent’s neglect.

I’m reading Spontaneous Healing by Dr. Andrew Weil. It’s fascinating and hopeful. I believe too, that all physical maladies can be at least changed with nutrition. What goes in must effect the body. Most people treat their bodies like garbage disposals by finishing off the bag, or what’s on their plates, so it won’t go bad, so they won’t waste the food. But isn’t it a bigger waste to stress the body and then pay the consequence in a large health bill later? What if every time you cleaned off your plate you had a headache? Isn’t it possible since your body is dealing with an overload of food, working too hard to process all the processed food? We talk about toxic waste in our waterways, but what about the toxic waste in our guts? All that processed food: chips, soda, protein bars, cereal, anything that has two or more steps in preparation and more ingredients than you can rattle off, is processed. That’s my rule of thumb. Those types of toxic foods do not clean the body, are not alive, but so dead it takes preservatives to keep them from rotting BEFORE you eat them. So, what happens to that in the body, in the gut? Does it nourish? Does it make for beautiful skin and hair? OR does it stop the hunger/emotional desire from sending the message your body needs NOURISHMENT? The goal is not to just stop the symptom, but address the source. That’s our culture’s way, stop the symptom and we think we’re cured. But what if the symptom just mutates in a way that is not detectable at that time? What if it changes the body chemistry and goes deeper, some place that the effects aren’t seen for years and years until one day you have a lump? Or are 100 pounds overweight? What if that’s what’s happening to our world? We don’t see the trash so we think it’s all being taken care of, but then our fish grow two heads and are so full of mercury poisoning they are no longer edible for us or other animals? What if we are not living with all of our senses and our intuition is our greatest source of understanding?

I believe that all things begin with the self. If we are living at our greatest potential, then we can give more freely. It’s of greater service to mediate on “Self” on the God that lies within, then it is to wash someone’s feet. That’s a long way from the nutritional aspect I was writing about, but that’s the jump I go to. I know I’m my best physician, but I can’t seem to understand what is going on with my neck and shoulder. I’ll keep reading and keep working to understand how my body responds to foods.

Thanks for listening. With love- OUT!

Dog tired

2005-04-17T20:00:00.000-07:00

I’m dog tired. Why is that a saying? Dogs get more tired than the rest of us? They sleep harder? They are sleeping one minute and barking the next… how is that possible?

I saw pictures of Mariah Carey in a magazine and I’d like to know why she stirs up an unsettling feeling in me. I see her and I’m nervous. Maybe I’m afraid one of her breasts will fall out, but then so what? Or maybe I’m afraid some weirdo guy is going to jump her. What is that to me? It’s what she represents to me, her archetype. But what is that? Is she the sacred prostitute? Don’t get me wrong, I think she has an amazing voice, but I’m not referring to that right now. I’m more interested in what she represents. I don’t care how she dresses and there are other celebrities who dress like she does and it doesn’t evoke the same feelings, Mariah and Britney Spears generate the same unnerved feelings. Why is that you think? I see Angelina Jolie I think she’s doing her own thing and that she’s her own person. I think she’s an Artemis. What is the difference? I also think there is some hidden information about myself if I could uncover the “why” I feel this way about these types of women. There are other not-so-famous women who evoke similar feelings and if I could get to the root feeling, the core, the essence of this feeling it could change my point of view on a lot of other things I don’t even know yet.

That’s about all I have tonight.

Out.

509 Phone calls

2005-04-14T20:36:00.000-07:00

I’m tired, my shoulder is burning again and I have to brush my teeth and go to bed.

I answered the phone today, did two loads of laundry, scooped the yard, (dog poop) made a ton of phone calls for work like “is my 941 correct?” and then faxed the payroll journal to my bookkeeper, put calls into the realtor, answered the phone at least 509 times (okay, only about 50 times, but it felt like 509), went for a quick walk (keeping my stretch with my sisters), watered the front and back yards, made myself lunch and some snacks all the while standing at the island, went to Office Max, and then to Mt. Hope (eggs, toothpaste, etc.) and home again. Oh, did billing, made a deposit (thank god) and about five or six hundred other little things I’ve forgotten.

Before I did any of that I emailed furiously this morning, comments about my friend, Taryn’s, brilliant short story, which is essentially an excerpt of her larger work. It’s really good. I know, everyone says that about a friend’s work, but I’ve watch her write this over the last four years and it really is a world of it’s own. I can see this having a cult following. I can see it grow beyond all reason. I feel the heart of the story and the talent is most defiantly there, along with the desire and discipline. I can’t wait to hold her book in my hand and know that I saw this come along. Anyway, I couldn’t help but jump in the conversation this morning since I read her story last night. I can see that world. The streets, the characters, the mammoth Spirit Tree- now I can see the tree, finally- it’s amazing!

So, for anyone who I should have written too and haven’t, I’m sorry. I know I owe Brooke an email. She wrote the nicest email and so vivid. Her paintings are fun and clever and light hearted but clearly backed by a gifted painter. I’ll write, if you’re reading this, soon. This is all I can do before I crash.

Maybe tomorrow won’t be so busy.

Sprinkler heads

2005-04-12T17:37:00.000-07:00

I pulled out onto the highway (small highway) and had to pull over immediately. The huge truck in front of me stopped. For a second I was confused and thought the truck stopped because I pulled out in front of him. Then I saw the ambulance coming the other way. I felt stupid for about 13 seconds.

I want to tell everyone to stop looking at my house if you’re going to have a shitty attitude. (I’ve had bad attitude many times maybe this is my karma.) If you’re going to smirk and make side-ways comments make sure you’re not standing near an open window to where I’m sitting. “Oh, this must be there sprinkler system” the last looker said with his legal note pad under his arm. I stood up and said to the real estate agent outside, “just so you know a new digital timer was installed for the irrigation system. There is a dead spot right there and we didn’t think it a good idea to trench up the yard to install a new head while we were showing the house.” He looks down and sees the sprinkler head. “Oh, I see it.”

Cripes! I wanted to say, take your smirking ass and get the hell out of my house! I wouldn’t let you live in my house or swim in my pool or eat at my new granite island. GET OUT!

But I didn’t. I just felt really sad and lost and like we’re never going to find the right people for our home. Maybe we shouldn’t sell it now. Maybe the house we’re in escrow with isn’t our next house. Maybe we aren’t meant to live in that town. Who knows.

Cannon Beach

2005-04-10T20:33:00.000-07:00

Cannon Beach,
originally uploaded by ObedientMuse.

This was my favorite day from our time in Oregon. Donna took us to Cannon Beach one day and we spent time there just walking, looking for sand dollars, and taking pictures.

Sept 17, 2004

2005-04-10T14:13:00.000-07:00

Sept 17, 2004,
originally uploaded by ObedientMuse.

Before I cut my hair. This was at Scott and Noel's wedding rehearsal party in the park.

Desert sky

2005-04-10T14:05:00.000-07:00

Wedding beauty,
originally uploaded by ObedientMuse.

This is the sky I live under.

Blog surfing

2005-04-10T12:52:00.000-07:00

I’ve been surfing blogs for the last two days. Holy cats are there a ton in languages I don’t understand! And not just that, but holy cats are there a ton that don’t make any freaking sense! I can’t make heads or tails of some of them. What is the purpose? Why so many fragmented thoughts? What are they saying? Why so many bizarre incongruent links? (Like that word, incongruent?) And why are some people posting naked pictures? What’s up with that? I thought this site explicitly said, “no pornography”. Or is nudity not considered in that category? I am, after all, living in a culture that believes oral sex does not count as sexual relations.

Okay, so I’m new to the blogging world, I’m not new to html or website layout. I had a website when people couldn’t figure out how to turn on their computers. That was bragging, and only supportive of ego, because I feel so lost about the anarchist-type websites out there. Isn’t there some idea, some guiding force behind their creations? There is tons of art I don’t understand as well, but that isn’t as mind boggling as these blog sites. I question the creative drive behind the sites. Is it just me?

Since no one is reading my blogs, I can ask these questions and not fear the answer. If nothing else, I’m consistent, so some day someone will read this site and then I’ll have my answer.

Nagging Shadows and Clear Mirrors

2005-04-09T10:51:00.000-07:00

Some days overwhelming insecurity stalks me. Today is one of those days. It began a few days ago. Mostly PMS, but then, I had a vision of Joe leaving me. I saw it clearly, he would become emotionally void, shut down like he does sometimes when I touch an emotional nerve and then, it would be over. We would no longer be we.

We’ve been married for 11 years.

I do my best when this creature lurks around. Well, more sulks around, hanging on me like a needy two year old begging for a toy or a treat or some emotionally wellbeing I’m incapable of giving. My best today was to ignore the child until it became preoccupied. I just don’t know what it wants or needs. Something. I can feel the pull, the tug, but I don’t have any ideas on how to meet those needs, so I preoccupy myself with something other hoping the need will dissipate.

Today, after a shower, it did. When I walked into the desert next to the house where Joe and some Warriors were collecting Grandfather Stones for their sweat, he pulled me to him and kissed me. Better. That is better, not completely right, but better. For all Joe’s faults, all those things I see in him I wish he’d change, all those things that not one female friend would fault me for asking him to change like doing dishes, or having better manners when we go out to eat, I only have to look into the mirror. I hate that awareness, but it has such truth and this mirror is becoming so clear I can no longer deny that it is MY mirror. Any criticism I might have I can reflect back onto myself first. Is it going to help him, or make me more comfortable? Is it for his benefit? Or to satisfy some twisted need my mother planted in me? Will it quiet the nagging child?

This is the stuff other couples break up over. This is the stuff that one partner will feel justified in leaving a relationship about and then years later seeing the very same traits in the new partner and wondering if they had made a mistake? With wisdom can all things be worked out? With sincerity in self-reflection can all treasures be unearthed from those irritations and insecurities? This is my hope.

So, I move through the day, doing what I do. Write. I keep pushing forward hoping our treasure hunting continues.

The Ocean, Grand Canyon and a Sitka Spruce

2005-04-08T13:12:00.000-07:00

I've been busy catching up, cleaning the floors, fighting with Joe and dealing with Soma's seizure yesterday- that's why I haven't written. And we were in Portland, Oregon visiting Donna.

Portland is full of color and flowers and greenery like no other place I've seen. Too much drizzle for me.

The first day we got in was a drizzly afternoon. Donna was giving a lecture in Seattle and left a list of things we could do, all written in Crayon, which I've kept. (Donna = very cool sister-in-law/friend is a physical therapist and owns New Heights Therapy ). Her friend, Katie, picked us up at the airport. We figured she was the one holding a crayon written sign that said, "Joey and Tami".

Katie is very kind and sweet and talked freely with us about her travels etc. on the way from the airport to Donna’s house.

I didn't want to waste any time hanging around so we called a taxi and went downtown to the Saturday Market - arts and crafts and food. The jewelry was great and I wish now I'd bought a pair of earrings I saw from Moonrise and at least tried on a ring, faceted garnet in a Celtic style setting, all custom work and very clean handed, by the Acton’s .

We walked around until we were over stimulated, which didn’t take long. I took a picture of a Westie dog being held up to drink from a water fountain. Joe and I heard that Powell's , the worlds largest bookstore, wasn't far, so we walked the 10 blocks to see it. On the way we saw a dragon and an elephant. Of course I can prove it, I took pictures!

The bookstore was overwhelming too, but if I lived near by I'd spend hours there and surely become desensitized. We went to the Pearl room were antique and out of print books are kept. Joe found an original unproofed copy of Iron John, which is one of the founding books of the Mankind Project's philosophy, by Robert Bly . That was exciting, but the letter from the publisher to the distributor was what caught our attention. The belief this person had for Bly's work was breath-taking and palatable. We walked away from it at first – me arguing price, more with myself than Joe. I wondered at the chances of us finding this book. Of all people to find it, and where would we ever be able to duplicate this connection? Its not just one of a kind, but to hold something that had such belief in the beginning that changed so many lives was magical.

It is sitting on a bookshelf in my office, not sure what to do with it yet. We'll frame the letter for sure.

The next day, Sunday, we shopped. I bought on skirt on sale at REI on sale. I did not know that Portland is the home of Columbia Sportswear. A very knowledgeable taxi drive told us that and that Portland is called the City of Bridges and much more trivia than I’m sure anyone wants to know. I, however, have remembered most of it so feel free to ask me later.) All day, in and out of stores and all we bought were that skirt and Joe's work/hiking boots. Just didn't feel it. Maybe I don't get high from buying things any more.

Donna gave us drum lessons that night. Drumming reaches deep inside and draws on those ancient roots we all share.

Monday, we set out for Cannon Beach . The drive was full of thick forests, clear cuts too, and rolling green hills. Amazing! We stopped to see the oldest Sitka Spruce we know of, 750 years old. Then we spent the day walking along the ocean, stopped in a coffee house to write, where Donna fell asleep on the sofa and Joe took pictures of her, then looked for replacement earrings for Donna since she'd lost one of her favorite the day before trying on clothing.

Ate and went back to the beach. I saw Ravens stalking the beach to dig furiously into the sand and pull something out. Then pick at it until satisfied and move on to the next unmarked stop where they'd repeat the process. I walked to an abandoned site and saw a gutted crab. While the gulls were battling the surf and eating blue tiny jellyfish that had washed up looking like blue foam, the Ravens were fine dining. Smart, smart birds.

The wind was brisk. Okay, really cold by the end of the day. It was the coldest I'd been since I moved to Arizona. Donna gave us jackets and hats and gloves etc. but I was still freezing. I had no idea it would be that cold and didn’t bring enough of my own warm clothing. Some people were actually walking bare foot in the water. Joe was one of them! He had removed his shoes and walked the waters edge, got caught off guard and his pants got wet. I thought all those people had gone off their feed. What were they thinking?

I was happy to see the Grand Canyon as we flew over it. I was also happy to be on the ground, since I hate landing. The desert was welcoming and I love our large skies. I belong here, but I should always vacation near water. I feel so refreshed, but that could be the company we kept too.

Life and Death on Easter

2005-03-28T17:24:00.000-07:00

Joe and I almost didn’t survive Easter.

We visited with Carol and Ginger in the Village. Tina met us there. Carol made a lovely lunch of Terry’s soup, ham, cheese- Tina made egg salad with Carol’s instructions, fresh baby lettuce and a variety of condiments. Carol even had rice bread for Joe and I. Very thoughtful. Afterward we drove from there to Prescott for the ManKind Project open house. Stores were closed so we came directly home. I took the long way, 69 to I17 and off at Hwy 260, which is a two lane road one going each way. If you get behind someone who wants to talk on the phone or isn’t paying attention and drives 50 miles per hour, you have to be patient until there’s a passing zone. And there are a few passing zones, but too many hills for my liking. I’ll wait until I know it’s safe. There’s always an accident on that highway over the holidays.

I was the first car behind a BMW who was driving 48-50 and then occasionally the person would creep up to the speed limit, which is 55. I tried to stay back far enough to give this person room and entertained the idea of passing since there wasn’t a ton of traffic and there was a line of cars behind us. Just as I settled into being okay with what was instead of trying to change it into what I wanted to be, a car began to pass. It was a Ford Taurus two cars behind us that I thought I’d seen on Highway 69 out of Dewy. The car pulled past the car directly behind me, creeping along in the opposite lane, I could see an on coming car up ahead so I slowed way down to give the passing car room to slip in front of me. I could see there was not enough time or distance for the car to pass the BMW. But he was going for it anyway! I slowed down and pulled off to the side of the road and said to Joe, “Oh, my god! He’s going to hit!” I knew the impact would be horrendous. The on coming red car pulled off the road and almost stopped as the Ford Taurus slipped between the two cars. I don’t think we would have been able to avoid the accident. The guy in front of us would have been tangled in it and the other two cars would have been destroyed. I saw it happening.

I wonder what the person was thinking. Did he not see the coming car? Did he have a death wish? Was he fighting with his wife? Did he find out he was terminally ill and just didn’t care? Is that what happens right before impact, all those involved see it coming?

He stayed only a few car lengths ahead of the pack the entire way along Hwy 260 to the first light, which was another fifteen minutes or so. I caught up to the car and pulled along side to see if I could understand what happened. It didn’t make any sense, but I wanted to see the people who almost took lives back there. I wanted to look on those reckless humans with no regard to anyone but themselves. It was as we saw, an old man and a tiny old woman. They could have killed a lot of people on Easter Sunday. Where they coming back from church? Was he too old to be driving?

That’s the second time Joe and I have escaped being in an accident from some one trying to pass. The other time we didn’t have anywhere to go and we all crested a hill together, the guy behind us who didn’t see the guy in his lane coming head on, the guy head on and us getting ready to go over the side. What are people thinking? That they can make it? How do they figure they can gamble our lives too?

Maybe next year in honor of Easter we’ll stay home.

It looks like a nail

2005-03-25T14:42:00.000-07:00

When the only tool you own is a hammer, every problem begins to look like a nail.

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Bulimia. A friend of mine...

2005-03-24T14:15:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine, actually one of the sisters, said she heard Terri Schiavo collapsed as a result of bulimia. That was the first I’d heard that part. I’d visited her foundation Terri's Fight site last year and didn’t see anything that mentioned why she collapsed, just that she had and that was the beginning of her coma.

What I find most interesting is that in her life she struggled with weight, struggled with body image, self worth (intrinsic value) and making healthy choices, then, because of her struggle she ended up without any choices and is now in a powerless to feed herself. Is that karma? Is that how we have power in all we do? Is that an example of the long-term effects of our choices? How powerful we actually are, that we can make choices that affect us so dramatically.

"We are what we eat" is a true saying, but what about what we don’t eat?

It hit me hearing that Terri Schiavo was bulimic. I was bulimic. I felt like someone grabbed me by the arm and said, "hey, look over here!" I binged and purged for 13 years. Some days vomiting up to ten times a day until my throat bled and I’d burst blood vessels in my eyes and face.

Not all of the 13 years was spent in full-blown addictive behaviors, mostly until I was 23 and I went into treatment the second time. The first time dampened it, opened the door and created the possibilities for “recovery”. (And I met a swim suit model who I became friends with and eventually relapsed with.) I also realized I could become the size of a house and never do it again. Both options paralyzed me with fear. Bulimia was the secret “me” and the food never failed to make me feel better for a time. The argument to quit doing both would have to be compelling. I eventually got sober when I was 23 and that “treatment” took, but the bulimia lived on.

Just to be clear, here is the European definition, which I found more helpful than the American definition:

“F50.2 Bulimia Nervosa

Bulimia nervosa is a syndrome characterized by repeated bouts of overeating and an excessive preoccupation with the control of body weight, leading the patient to adopt extreme measures so as to mitigate the 'fattening" effects of ingested food. The term should be restricted to the form of the disorder that is related to anorexia nervosa by virtue of sharing the same psychopathology. The age and sex distribution is similar to that of anorexia nervosa, but the age of presentation tends to be slightly later. The disorder may be viewed as a sequel to persistent anorexia nervosa (although the reverse sequence may also occur). A previously anorexic patient may first appear to improve as a result of weight gain and possibly a return of menstruation, but a pernicious pattern of overeating and vomiting then becomes established. Repeated vomiting is likely to give rise to disturbances of body electrolytes, physical complications (tetany, epileptic seizures, cardiac arrhythmias, muscular weakness), and further severe loss of weight.”

Bulimia is baffling, even to those or especially those, who are walking that path. I think it’s a joke to put eating disorder patients on the psyche ward. Although it may very well be a psychological disorder, it’s no different than alcoholism. Which came first the chemical imbalance or the behavior? Is it a self-medicating behavior like addiction can be? Or is it the most creative adaptation to the circumstances at hand? And, by the way, no one is to blame. (Some sites are blaming Terri’s husband, her doctor or her parents.) It wasn’t the doctor’s fault. I don’t know all the details of the case, but I kind of feel sorry for her doctor. Bulimics are skilled at covering it up even while asking for help. (I saw women carry on with their eating disorders in the hopstial right under the doctor’s nose.) Most people, (those addicted to drugs or food) won’t get help until it’s close to the end, until death is on the horizon. Otherwise why would the behavior be so powerful? If it were easy to say, “hey, I need some help”, why wouldn’t the bulimic/addict do that in the first place? The shame of being fat, the shame of craving food, the shame of getting rid of the food, is the “secret” that keeps bulimics from telling, and from becoming who they were meant to be without the behavior. To say that it’s “simple” is reducing the bulimic to a weak individual and diminishing that adaptive and creative ability. Bulimics aren’t weak but determined. No matter that the behavior does not serve the person in the long run, it was seemingly justifiable at the time. One must prove to the bulimic (and her psyche) beyond a shadow of a doubt there is a better, healthier way to not gain weight and deal with the emotions she is avoiding. There is always a counter balance. The power and weight of recovery has to be significantly greater than the power and allure of the behavior at hand. Other wise don’t waste your breath.

When people point their finger in blame, what follows is usually about the pointer. I don’t see that blaming anyone is helpful, but figuring out how to take responsibility for one’s self is helpful. Determining how this outcome can be prevented is helpful. We live in a country were people want to sue McDonald’s for making them fat! Freaking ridiculous! They are diminishing their ability to make choices. They aren’t taking responsibility for their choices; they aren’t owning their behaviors. And most of all they aren’t honoring the divine power that resides inside to make the choices that will best serve them. Everyone has that ability. It’s innate. If fat people are victims of McDonald’s then why aren’t average weight people?

This is the world we’ve created. Why would someone feel powerful enough to stand up for themselves and say, “I could use some help here”? Asking for help implies you deserve to be helped. When I was throwing up I didn’t even think I was worth that much. Not on the surface thinking level, but deeper, nearer where dreams come from, was void of self-value.

Now, in Terry Schiavo’s case it’s ironic that her life would stand for so much now. You just never know how valuable your actions are even when they look negative on the outset.

To know when

2005-03-21T14:39:00.000-07:00

I've recently quit a class. It was an incredibly difficult decision. I don't take quitting easily. I agonized over it until I was sick of hearing myself talk about it.

How do you know when to quit?

I picked a path and on the outset of the journey it looked good. (The class.) The sky was clear, the path was made, the trees were parted to allow me to pass, but after some time on that path the light faded. I could no longer see the sky and it became gloomy and dark and threatening.

But that was just how it felt. Not a fact.

I wasn’t getting what I needed. Doesn’t matter what that need was, it wasn’t being met. I could blame the class. Or I could take responsibility and change my course. Before I changed my course, I took outside counsel.

I passed it by the "sisters" and they supported me in dropping the class. Actually they, along with a writing group sister, suggested it first. I entertained the idea for two weeks. Then I did the unthinkable. I quit the class! Oh, horrors… Even though I agreed to stick it out, to follow through with the requirements, I quit.

What else have I quit?

I've quit smoking all things smoke-able
I've quit drinking alcoholic beverages
I've quit mentally abusing myself
I've quit blaming others
I've quit eating wheat (occasionally slip ups)
I've quit eating sugar (again, occasionally slip ups, but hell everything has sugar in it!)
I've quit starving myself
I've quit boyfriends (I didn’t put up with crap when I was single, except two guys which that’s another thing I quit. Being treated like shit in trade for sex.)
And... Well, so many other things that I'm going to _quit_ here.

So, for the teacher who called me a "quitter" I guess I am. I think being called a quitter isn't the worst thing in the world, but not knowing when to quit is the worst thing. Who wants to say right before they die of lung cancer, "God, I'm glad I stuck that out. I'm no quitter!"

I’m out.

The Exam

2005-03-18T06:40:00.000-07:00

Who doesn’t hate their yearly? Except for men, I suppose.

I show up at 3:35, when my appointment is for 3:40. I no longer come early in hopes they’ll get me in sooner. They'll keep me waiting. They have on every appointment I've had for the last six years. I sign in then pick up a National Geographic and settle in to reading about the Artic Polar bears from a 2000 issue. In one picture the mother bear is laying with her paws tucked up under her and one of the triplets is flopped on her back like a rag doll.

How are babies of any sort so adorable? So we keep loving them until they can take care of themselves? Or because they are innocent?

Just when I settle into reading about the photographer shivering from standing still in 20-degree temperatures, I'm called in. The woman who takes me back is stoic, has her gray hair knotted at the back of her neck and wears those shoes with the exposed spring for a heal. I can't stop staring at those shoes. How do they feel? Why in gods name would someone wear something so ugly? Maybe they are really comfortable? Bizarre.

“Put your things there,” the older woman points to a chair and part of a table next to the baby scale.

“Step up” she says and I know she means the adult scale. This scale is heavy by seven pounds and even though I know this I agonize over it every year. This time last year I was just getting over an illness that lasted almost as long as our first employee. Both were so stressful I lost five pounds. I’ve since gained that back. She stops pushing the weight-thing back and forth- only two pounds more than last year. She repeats the number over and over as she motions for me to follow her to the examination room. Is this meant to be tortuous? Don’t jump to conclusions yet; try not to project a negative out come.

I sit down. She finishes writing down my weight and smiles a bit before sticking a gadget in my ear. It beeps almost immediately and she shows me the number. My temperature is 97.1.Then she sticks a blue clip device on my finger. It is attached to a piece of equipment that looks like a black ipod, which she sets in my lap. It shows my heart rate and my oxygen level- 85 and 95 respectively.

Finally she takes my blood pressure with a contraption I’m used to. She says, “You’re ready for a nap”.

“Why? What’s my blood pressure?” I ask.

“84 over 50,” she says as she walks to the sink to write it down on her clipboard, and then steps out in the hall.

I’m closer to dead, not just needing a nap. “I think we should implement nap time for adults.”

“That will never happen in America. Rush, rush. Everything is too fast paced.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But it would be nice. We’d be happier, don’t you think?”

She smiles and steps into the hallway, then comes back and drops two pieces of material on the examination table, which is complete with potholders on the stirrups. “Take everything off. Put one on top and the other one over your lap.” She closes the door behind her.

Which one is on top? Oh hell. I’ll figure it out. Can I leave my underwear on? Oh, guess not. That’s what I’m here for. I begin to take my clothes of in a hurry so no one walks in on me bare-assed. It’s one of my fears. I always lock the bathroom door no matter where I am except home. I leave my socks on. I figure out how to put the gown on and grab the National Geo I’d brought in with me, always bring reading material to a doctor’s appointment. I maneuver myself onto the table and wait for the fun to begin.

I get lost in the article about polar bears. It feels like a lot of time has passed. I look at the blue flower clock that is stuck on 10:10. Is that a joke? What time is it? How long have I been waiting? I’m tired of being treated as if I don’t matter. Don’t they get it? If I made my customers wait every time, and didn’t call them, they wouldn’t call back. Cripes, and my customers aren’t even naked. On top of all that, there isn’t any one else here but me! Are they catching up on their paperwork and phone calls at my expense? I can sit here and be angry or change it. I’ll give them five more minutes and get dressed and leave.

I hold my coverings to my body, still holding my National G, I slide off the table and reach down to dig my cell phone out of my purse to check the time. My ass end exposed. There’s a knock and the door opens.

I stand straight up. “Uh… just a second.” I say to the nurse practitioner (who's name I'll leave out) peekingher head in, and then try and scoot myself back on the table. I am so void of grace I feel ogre-like. My stocking feet slip on the metal step and I have to set the magazine down and struggle back up on the table.

“I didn’t know you weren’t ready.” She says and enters.

I’ve been ready for thirty minutes I think but I say, “I was going to give you five more minutes and then leave.” I say this before I can edit myself.

She looks at me, eyebrows scrunched and slightly worried. She sits down on the short rolly doctor's stool and opens my chart.

“Every single time I’ve been here your office is late. I figured if we teach people how to treat us then I’m saying it’s acceptable to make me wait every time. Why not make the appointment 40 minutes later?”

She stops writing and says, “You’re right, that’s not acceptable. I don’t want you to think my time is more important than yours. We do need to do something differently." She pauses and looks back at the chart. "I don’t know why I wasn’t told you were here, I didn’t have any other patients" and continues to write in my chart.

Great, write in there I’m a nut job. I can’t believe she didn’t make excuses or give me grief. I say, “Thanks. Thanks for saying that.”

She smiles at me, warmly, and begins with the questions about the intimate parts of my body. (I’ll leave that part out.) After the examine is done, (and how can you be angry with someone who is manipulating your breasts or looking in places you haven’t seen?) (Oh, forget that, women do that all the time.) I say, without apology, “I’m trying to do everything differently. I’m approaching each situation in a new way.”

She nods agreement.

I get dressed and open the door. She comes back in to give me my first mammogram order. Whoo-hoo! I’ll be 40 this year and this must be part of the initiation.

I say to her, “thanks for putting up with me.” Sort of dampening the fire of what I said earlier, but I don’t want to piss people off in the process of learning how to take care of myself.

“Oh, hey,” she says pulling me toward her in a warm hug. “Thanks for putting up with us…” She continues to speak but I don’t hear her. Over her shoulder I see a man in the hallway looking at us. I wonder if he’s the doctor she works for and if she’s hugging me for his benefit more than mine.

My Sunday

2005-03-14T15:27:00.000-07:00

I spent my Sunday at a tattoo shop. Not just anyone, or with just any body.

We laughed most of the day. I laughed when I shouldn't have. I laughed when a needle jabbed in and out of my side too near my ribs and so close to my heart I wanted to scream. My ring of fire exposed for everyone to see. It wasn't so bad, really. But then, it was horrible at one point. When it was over, after 11 years of waiting to fix something I thought unfixable, I was beautifully fixed.

Out.

Homework

2005-03-14T15:25:00.000-07:00

Joyce and I laughing and talking and filling the space between us with images of boys and clothes and questions. We walked up the path around the corner through the foyer door; anxious to share our newfound boy-excitement with my mom I gave a soft announcement knock, then turned the old brass knob and opened the door. There she was. I froze. Joyce froze. Time froze. She, mom, did not. She continued the task at hand. We could see her head bobbing between his knees. I shut the door as quietly as physics would allow and walked upstairs behind Joyce to our apartment. Joyce went to her room and I went to mine.

Beautiful day in the neighborhood

2005-03-12T08:29:00.000-07:00

I woke up at 4:00 to go to the bathroom. (We ate cabbage last night for dinner. Cabbage makes you pee, or can.) As I washed my hands I saw in the mirror a brownish spot on my goldenrod colored t-shirt. Not wanting to turn on the light for fear of jarring myself out of that half sleep state that can make you walk to the bathroom but not fully wake up, my curiosity got the upper hand. I turned on the light. It looked like a small hairball on my sleeve. I cut my hair off months ago. It couldn't be mine. I looked closer. It was a smashed up spider. That's when I got it. My fidgetiness while trying to fall asleep wasn't dry skin, but a freaking spider biting me, probably, trying to stay alive. I felt sorry for the spider and wondered where my bites were about the same time.

I went back to bed, but could only think of the new house. I dreamed of buying something for $250. I got up to go again and this time it was 5:00 AM. I stayed up. Did last night's dishes, put water on for tea, took my vitamins and settled down to write. It was pitch black. I wish another thought about how dark it is outside would come to mind, but all I could think is, "it's pitch black." I should just cut to the chase and write, "it was a dark and stormy night..."

I hate clichés.

Out.

This made me think...

2005-03-10T15:22:00.000-07:00

I surfed around, trying to not check my email, and found this site.

Teguila Mockingbird

I used her outline... the answers are all mine.

Out.

Ten things I really liked when I was a teenager that I don't much care for now:
1. Doritos and French onion dip
2. Crushed saltines mixed in a Wendy’s Frosty
3. Head banger hair on men
4. Diet soda
5. Lee jeans
6. Getting drunk
7. Cheap Trick
8. Getting high and laying in the sun
9. MAD comics
10. Boris Vallejo

Ten things I didn't much care for when I was a teenager that I really like now:
1. Not getting drunk
2. Being alone
3. Writing
4. Being honest
5. Watching a creek/river over flow
6. Honesty
7. Making money
8. NPR
9. Talking slowly
10. Being quiet

Ten things I’ve never much cared for and very likely never will:
1. Dishonesty
2. Living in a city
3. Extremely large flags
4. Tight clothes
5. Cloudy days
6. Loud noises unless it’s about blowing something up
7. Narrow mindedness
8. Govt. rules
9. Regular jobs
10. Being told what to do

Ten things I’ve always really liked and very likely always will:
1. Astrology
2. Drawing
3. Painting
4. Coffee
5. Blowing things up
6. Watching large amounts of land being moved
7. Great tattoos
8. Creative people
9. Art of all kinds
10. My ability to think things through

TAKE IT BACK!

2005-03-06T16:31:00.000-07:00

You ever say something and then wish you could take it back? I just did that. I said, oh horrors, the "f" word on the phone to a customer/friend. I was on a roll, a rant really, and I've felt unliked and under pressure. Oh, hell.

What I said keeps rolling around in my head and I want to leak it out or make it stop.

A woman who didn't seem to have a care to responsiblity or timing asked to see the house at noon today. At 11:50 I put the dogs in the garage and turned on all the lights in the house. At 12:30 when I called her she said, "I have been on the damned phone all day and haven't been able to get the hell out of here." As if that's my concern, lady! You said you'd be here, my dogs are in the garage, it's Joe's only day off and now we have to wait until 2:00?

When she called to tell us she was on her way, I took the dogs and drove around. I didn't trust myself with her. She didn't want the house anyway, just wanted to see the inside.

Argh! Does she think she's privliaged or is she simply a dumb ass? Either way, I'm glad she didn't make an offer.

If I could only keep my mouth shut to the people who matter.

Out.

Off the Mark?

2005-03-05T17:16:00.000-07:00

I have recently voiced my opinion about something to my local city council and the neighborhood association. I resigned as co-chairperson. I will soon be formally a citizen of the town too. Now I’m the leper of ideas. One person on the board of the association said that I am, “way off the mark” and that I did not know what I was talking about.

Well, not only did I not get any praise for foreword thinking, pushing myself outside my comfort zone or thinking beyond what those who came before us, but I feel a lynch mob on the horizon. I can see them now… the long shadows coming from the sheriff’s end of town heading toward the O.K. Corral.

Well, it’s not that bad, but I also made my opinions known in my writing class. Now, no one is writing/talking in there and teacher hasn’t responded to any of my questions.

I feel I should just keep my mouth shut, but then on the other hand, I want to shake these people and say, “if I can think this through there are far wiser and smarter people who probably have better ideas except they don’t want to be rebuked either.” Or am I way off the mark?

Feeling alone and lonely and so different from my species that I’m only pretending to be the same.

Out.

Using the time given

2005-03-04T20:24:00.000-07:00

When is your peak? When have you done your best work? Have you become the best you'll ever be? I have a belief if you are learning, and growing and taking a clear-eyed look at yourself, you'll never reach that peak.

It's not so bad; you'll always have a better day the next.

I can't wait to move to the next house! I'm so excited to be in another place. I like it here, but I've already left emotionally.

Worked this morning, answered the phone, paid bills, then went to the village and bought the cat's special food, went to the factory outlet mall, on the way Lisa called, we spoke of the Red Violin movie, then poked around at the mall, went to Judy's to get my hair cut. Afterward stopped at Carol's to see how she felt. Not so good.

Now, I'm watching the numbers show. It's okay, not near as good as CSI with Grisim.

Out.

Turtle doves, lobster tails and heart breaking migrations

2005-03-02T19:02:00.000-07:00

This morning I took a bag of frozen chicken thighs out of the freezer for dinner. Set the bag in the sink and checked on it about noon. Still hard. Curious. I left them thaw a little longer and then forgot about it.

As I passed the French doors off the TV room this afternoon I saw a turtle dove sitting on the deck. It was fluffed and blinking it's eyes slowly, not moving. Healthy birds don't rest on the ground or low places and when they blink slowly it can some times mean they are ill. I sat down and stayed still, wondering if I should do something. What? Throw a box over it? Give it a heart attack and kill it? I sat for 10, then 20 minutes, keeping quiet so the dogs would stay asleep. I remember I have binoculars in my writing office and went to retrieve them (them, it? Bi equals more than one, right?) Anyway, I peeked out the study window and saw another turtledove sitting on the railing. One was lighter in color so I concluded they were mates. Maybe one was watching out for the other while one rested. It was odd and disturbing, as I couldn't figure out a way to help them. I stood and watched for a long time, it seemed. How could I help? The phone rang and the dogs startled at something and the birds flew off. That was it. They were gone.

I figured I'd start dinner about 6:00 since Joe wasn't home yet. I opened the bag of still hard chicken thighs, wondering what they'll be like. They could only be 6 months old since we made sure to clean out the last fridge when we moved six months ago. I opened the bag and a strong sea food-fish smell attacked my nose. Ick! Lobster tails. Joe won't be happy and now the house smells like... fish. Well, that explains why they felt hard all day.

I sat down to watch TV and the preview of 60 minutes came on. A guy was flying an ultra light plane, coaxing whooping cranes to follow him so he could teach them how to migrate from Wisconsin to Flordia. He was asked what it was like, and he said, "to see a string of pearls off the tip of my wing... " And I stopped hearing and cried. It struck me so profoundly the effort it took not just to save these birds lives but to make them what they should be, and build trust, and work at helping them have a quality life. It made me feel something for a moment, seeing the birds’ fly after the plane in pure trust was amazing.

So, now the house smells awful and Joe isn't home and the bird segment is on next.

More later, count on it!

Out.

At one point there were 15 left Whooping Cranes left. After they hatch they play plane sound so they'll follow the sound. The feeders dress like whooping cranes so they never know they're being fed by humans. God! Amazing! They fly 1,200 miles! The first time Duff (that's the guy) takes off the birds form a "V". Oh, MY GOD!

Going through the motions...

2005-03-01T10:09:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had to stand up for myself. Someone said it doesn't matter if you're right or wrong, just that I take a stand. So I did. At first I was sick and uncomfortable. No psychological jump rope would ease the edginess I felt. I wrote about it, talked about it and finally came to some peace with it in myself. I figured, even if I'm dead wrong I did something different, I said, my voice counts. My feelings count. My ideas count. As a matter of fact, I don't care who you are, I'm equally as important. All of me. All this without putting someone else down. At least publicly. What I do in my head is my business!

I'm proud of how I handled that situation. I will refine my techniques for next time, try and not repeat any patterns that are disconcerting or harmful and keep giving power to my voice. I feel incredibly peaceful and good today. Not happy, joy, joy, kind, but centered and calm. I feel stronger too.

If I don't give myself permission to speak, who will? I'll die waiting. I'll die with a request in queue. And who is my final authority anyway? This is for all those times I had to eat crow of lose my job, all those times I had to smile and think something ugly in order to get through the moment, all those times my guts twisted when someone lied to my face.

On top of that yesterday someone actually insinuated I was a liar. Well, I did not let that slide either. I know what I said and I called them on it, even if it meant that I'd have to deal with their childish attitudes in the future. And these are grown men! I'd hope that the guys at this supply house would want to mend this situation, but they've never admitted to a mistake and I should not assume they would now. I said, "don't order it until I call you back. Stop! Don't do anything". But I guess they heard, "order it and I'll smile while you screw me on the piss poor delivery time and on the fact you tried to lien a job of mine and on the fact that you should have had this ordered a week ago." But then, lets not talk about that part. What a load of shit.

How do you deal with people when they are so immature, so childish there isn't any reasoning with them? I don't have children for a reason. I do business with them.

Today, I'm good with my creator and I'm good with myself.

I'm out!

Writing about writing

2005-02-24T10:25:00.000-07:00

Joe and I went to the NORAZ poetry Slam in Sedona last night. It was at the Canyon Moon Theatre. We arrived about 25 minutes till 8, which it was supposed to start at 8:00 PM or so we thought based on the NORAZ website. The information was wrong, it was supposed to begin at 7:30 PM. However, as it was in Sedona mysterious things happen and we arrived at the right time to get two seats together in the 2nd row where as they, at first, were going to turn us away because they'd been sold out since the morning. Lucky us!

Some younger poets had too much blame in their art, and not enough life-experience to back it up and others were too rap-like. Our cultural strange attractor at work. One was so theatrical I could hardly watch without being embarrassed or annoyed. If she'd not been so ballerina-like I'd have taken her work more seriously. There's a lot to be said for maturity. Our culture lends so much attention to the young artist, the one who's finding his or her way, that older artist who have deepened in their craft can be over looked or taken for granted. A teacher, her first slam, allowed us to be a fly on the wall of her life; for that I was grateful. She didn't push her ideas on the audience, but showed us how and why she felt this way. Some of the anger in other's poetry over took their meanings and I was lost in the pool of chaos. However, the sardonic humor was ever present and that kept the whole thing moving along. The MC was, as always, clever and sarcastic and funny, most of the time.

One woman's work with the Hindi (I suspect) accent was lost on the audience. I felt she had a deep and profound meaning that wasn't picked up on. I was engaged not only by her, almost, fluid poetry, but by her unique accent. She did not make it through the first round.

The next new poet was a young man who seemed in an altered state with his work. Hopefully it was only his work that put him there, but he had such a rhythm, a meter, that it was hypnotic and I got lost in the beat and stopped listening to these words, which were rapid fired without hesitation.

Over all some of the poetry lacked sophistication but the underlying creativity and open exploration of worlds outside the "box" was stimulating. I rooted for the young man who won. He lost his job earlier in the week and his car blew up, so I felt it was the Universe meeting him half way. His work has grown and evolved over the last year, he was less angry then the last time I saw him and therefore concluded he'd surrendered to his destiny.

I'm grateful for such creativity in my area.