Telling it Slant

Thank you for (not necessarily in any order but for sure)

2006-11-23T13:01:00.001-05:00

coffee
chocolate
King Tut
rain
USA
sunshine
Charles my beloved
tattoos
my family
red-headed nephews
my friends

women who want to save the world

men who agree the world is worth saving

beauty (beheld)

art (eye o eye)

style (vogue baby vogue a la mode)

diversity (=coexist=)

color (infinite spectrum)

soul (infinite spectrum its worth saying twice)

men with grace
women with will

both with strength and love.

to the rest of the world i say thank you for your forbearance while we work out how to do this thing.

egb

Tearless in Tampa

2006-08-02T23:44:00.000-04:00

As usual, 'willing' oneself to 'sleep' is somewhat mutually exclusive, so I gave up and got up. It's not even really that late as I start this, but it's been a long grueling day and another ahead tomorrow, but my mind just won't shut up so I'll spill it here and then go stretch and hope for sleep.

In spite of my fear and loathing of all things avionic, I am still going to get on that flight tomorrow and fly to TN for a weekend of family and ancient Egyptian artifacts at the Frist Museum. I got up thinking I might go ahead and pack but a few moments in front of the open suitcase and a pile of clothes was just more organizational wherewithal than I have at the moment. Besides, C's asleep and I don't want to rustle around the house when at least one of us is able to get to sleep.

I miss Pappy this evening. Mama gave me a photo of him from perhaps the mid '60's when he was art director at Opryland. It's black and white; he's sitting in his studio, a small statue of Napoleon on the bookshelf behind him. He's looking off into the middle distance, every inch the art director- opinionated, creative, observant.

It's just shy of a year since he left and tonight there's a waxing moon spilling into the bedroom reminding me that it was two days waning when he passed last year. I was watching "National Treasure" on pay per view the night he died and my cousin S called me from the death watch and gave me updates. I felt entirely disconnected from it at the time, and then even more surreal when I went out to breakfast with C's family the next morning because they wanted to take me out for my birthday. Not that I felt like celebrating being born that day, but sometimes you don't have much say in these things and you suck it up like a well-raised daughter.

To my complete non-surprise, I started menstruating almost the moment I arrived in Nashville and then bled like I was going to die myself for days on end. Every female in my family did the same for the next five days. Biology is freaky. So I drank a lot of Jack Daniels to compensate.

The night I arrived, my brother drank himself from obnoxious bravado into silent sobbing on the front porch, while my cousin S held his shoulders. The house was too full of mourning family, so we younger generation and the smokers sought refuge on the front porch and yard. I could not cry that night, did not really cry that much the whole time. Tensions snapped back and forth between mothers and daughters, cousins, brothers and sisters, inlaws, and I could feel tangibly the threads snapping between us all and knew that Pappy would be distressed to know this.

I got lost in my rental car everywhere I went in Nashville that week. My mother needed me most of all and I was not there for her - 'her father's daughter', she let my brother know when I had let her down somewhere in that nasty grieving week, and my brother let me know. Ouch. Sometimes even a quarter of a century afterwards, divorce wounds rip their ugly little scars open to remind me of the vulnerable needy kid I once was wanting to get away from the venom of motherly spite known to be borne out of disappointment and grief but still just wanting to be away from it and her - and into the calm but ineffectual compassion of fatherly silence.

My husband was a rock. He didn't get lost, even though he had only been to Nashville a handful of times. He got us to the church on time, got us to the wake on time, got us to the graveside on time - or just after, where they were all waiting for us in the hot morning sun, single red roses for each of us to leave with him in the grave. A small heavy metal urn was his coffin, his tall able frame reduced to a box of ashes to be buried in the August sunshine.

Perhaps Pappy is watching from that side, pulling those snapped threads back together; we've woven ourselves into new configurations over the last year. Or perhaps he really is gone, obliterated except for our memories of him. I don't care to speculate- coming from a long line of doubting Thomases, I prefer to rely on what I can put my hands on and through. Pappy would understand, I'm fairly certain.

I have not shed many tears even since then. I don't know why this is - I miss him terribly and feel the empty spot where just knowing he was alive is now gone but tears, though hot and big, are not frequent, lengthy or noisy. There is a part of me that hopes and wishes he is looking out for me as a guardian angel but the larger part of me suspects that when he left he took it all with him and would expect that we are to look after ourselves in his absence.

Right now, I'm just going to aim for that same mindset I see in his photo - opinionated, creative, observant.

Catching up

2006-07-16T15:20:00.000-04:00

I jogged in mom's posh neighborhood today in my ratty running shoes and cut off gymwear and no deodorant, after having coffee and English muffins with the ladies of my family at a ridiculously early hour on a Sunday morning. The run about did me in - I'm used to flat Florida and these North Carolina hills are NO JOKE. Burn, thighs, Burn!

They all went out antiquing again today; without me, thank you very much. Couldn't do it two days in a row, I just don't have that female stamina for shopping. My Aunt B called me a shopping wimp. Hah. Instead, I read a fashion magazine from cover to cover and napped on the sun porch. It was delightful. Quiet house, at least for now. They'll be back before long and then my aunt Anne will be here to add to the female squadron that is my family. There will be trout for dinner and lemon-drop martinis and velvet hammer conversation.

I just want more Pirates. Yo ho.

From the Smoky Mountains with love

2006-07-14T20:23:00.000-04:00

I seem to have found my voice again.

I know the last post might seem a little corny. I care not. After all the years with C, I never had the words to fit what was in my heart but last week they came to me in a complete spill over the course of three days. I was preparing to fly to North Carolina to visit Mom for her birthday and was utterly convinced that my plane would go down in flames over Georgia, so I showed it to him last night before I shut my computer down so that he would know that I after 15 years was finally able to write a love poem that did him justice. And I posted it today after my flight landed safely - for all the world to know in case my return flight is the one that goes down in flames. Or even in case it doesn't and we really do end up old folk together so the world will know that it really is possible to have a love like that. Rock solid, fierce and real.

Have spent the day with Mom, Nanny and Aunt B. Lovely in every way. Wine and gourmet lunch after we arrived; a visit to Mom's renovation project and garden; coffee and espresso beans and dishing over fashion at Port City Java and now at M's house listening to old school Linda Rondstadt.

Keep the faith. It's an ugly world but still the beauty shines through. We are all but pilgrims on our way to higher ground.

2006-07-14T20:12:00.000-04:00

For My Beloved Charles:

I heard my soulmate before I saw him.

Summer 1991

His voice rumbled like iron and velvet through my skin and into my spirit

And then I saw his face his eyes like deep water his mouth an impertinent invitation

he stood and walked that long legged walk and I was aflame

with the knowledge that I would be his to toy with and he mine

Not too so many days later I stood next to him in a borrowed kitchen on KP duty soapy

hands grabbing his shirt and sticking my face in his and leaning him hard into the refrigerator while

my tongue asked him and he answered yes to my delight while

just on the other side of the wall sat a room full of people watching Monty Python and The Holy Grail

And after many years

tears

throes

scratches and laughter

bruises and banter

and love like nothing else matters

making us strong his voice still rumbles like iron and velvet in my heart.

I love you Charles always

Whistling in the Graveyard

2005-12-08T00:23:00.000-05:00

I haven’t had a damn thing to say lately.

I went to my grandfather’s wake on my 35^th birthday. We buried his ashes in Lebanon Tennessee two days later on a sunny Wednesday. We ate leftovers at my aunt’s house afterwards and I watched my nephew Sam play in the sprinklers on a hot August afternoon, while my husband good-naturedly tolerated the ribbing of my aunts and grandmother.

There are days when I feel as if a hat that’s been on my head for a long time has suddenly blown off and I’m in the wind. Days when I forget to whistle.

My grandmother gave me one of his paintings, taken from a photo on their trip to Greece. A small herd of sheep, a tree next to them, a low white stone wall behind it, and beyond lies a field of orange wildflowers.

He once said to me while we sat on the beach together listening to the surf, “Listen to that, that’s the heartbeat of the earth.”

He once said to me, long after most of his eyesight was gone, while we sat at the little round glass table in the kitchen, “Anyone can look, but an artist really sees.”

He also worried that the blacks and the ignorant immigrants were taking over the country. He thought the only answer to terrorism was to ‘kill every last one’ of the Arabs. He put a boycott

France

bumper sticker on the van during all THAT brouhaha. This, after many highly praised trips to Paris with my grandmother. Fox news got into his blood toward the end as badly as the cancer that killed him. He would watch it – or rather listen to it – while lying on his bed in his converted room on the first floor, set up for him because he could no longer get up and down the stairs.

Even while the cancer ravaged his body, and the chemo poisoned him, that fucking channel ravaged his keen mind, like a splinter too far dug in for a needle to extract it. He’d emerge from his little room, shuffle out and sit at the table asking his Ruthie – my Nanny - for a cup of coffee, then spend what was left of his energy spitting venom sucked from O’Reilly and Hannity. But only a few days before he died, he asked my uncle Paco to remove the bumper sticker. “I’m over it,” he said.

Katrina roared through the Gulf coast at the end of that week and the world turned on its axis. I flew home the night she pounded New Orleans, feeling the outer edges of her fury at 35,000 feet. Too high for that, I know, but try telling that to my white-knuckled, panicked self while sitting in the exit row willing myself not to scream at the top of my lungs, repeating under my breath Hail Marys hard-fucking-wired into my Catholic-school raised brain as if She might intervene on my behalf and save me from death by hurtling airplane into the sea. Perhaps She did because I’m here to write about it now. I don’t care to speculate.

Pappy taught me how to whistle. I thanked him for that when I put a single rose in his grave. His painting is propped against a vase on our china cabinet, right next to the empty Mexican candle of the Virgin which burned every day and night after I returned to Florida.

Years ago, Pappy painted a portrait of me, taken from a photograph made of me in London at a swank salon, right after I’d had a great new haircut. The portrait is unfinished and I have no face. The photograph is taped next to the painting, a reminder of high school daze, where the look on my face reflects the fact that I knew it all. I think I shall leave the painting unfinished.

Her of the blank face I know.

Monkeywrench

2005-07-27T21:04:00.000-04:00

Been away recently.

Not easy sometimes spilling thoughts into electronica.

Especially when they seem irrelevant or just damn conspiratorial or just fucking contrary.

I wonder if Cassandra felt that way? Poor Troy.

Several things, just pick the most recent:

Twin Towers felled. Pentagon penetrated.

Color codes installed.

Iraq invaded.

Icecaps melting.

London bombed. Then London almost bombed again. Then trigger happy deputy shoots Brazilian who oops ended up being not a terrorist. Our sister city cracked open from below to reveal her angry hurt heart.

Egypt bombed. My ancient soul home that I've never laid these eyes on ripped open by hatred and fear.

Truck bombs daily in Baghdad. Truck bombs daily in civilization womb.

Toxins in our mamaearth, in our mamawater, in our childrenbodies.

What we wrought? We = all, not W, not Rush, not Rove, not queers, not breeders, not vegetarians, not ___fill in blank with insult of your choice. We = all. I been a liar and a cheat too, so I throw no stones.

What we wrought?

To bring what?

Politics NOT= solution.

Solution = elsewhere.
Hope yet:

Yoda said: Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter.

bullshit:
Democrat or Republican,
Liberal or Conservative,
Terrorism or Anti-Terrorism,
Abortion or ProLife,
Family Values or Gay,
US or Them,
either/or; all a/k/a: Newspeak

Real = soul center. Real = heart speak.

false dichotomies = fallacy
fallacy = misconception resulting from incorrect reasoning

:( fallacy that WORKS.
WORKS: steers dialogue with power.

Monkeywrench:

Lets be real.
Life is in the center.
Not on the edges.
Edge-thinking leads to desparate thinking.
Desparate thinking leads to bad decisions.
Bad decisions lead to bad shit happening.

From center all views possible.
Free will in action.

Yoda said: Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.

Don't wring your hands over things out of your control.
Don't whine about things in your control.
Don't cry.
Just be.
Just do what you must to make your soul whole.

To make their souls whole, good Catholics confess. I admire confession for its cleansing power. Mortal sins are sins for very good reasons. They also lead to bad decisions and bad shit happening either to yourself or to others or both.

Mortal sins = Pride, Covetousness, Lust, Anger, Gluttony, Envy, and Sloth

Been guilty of every last one.

Confession in the Catholic catechism isn't just about spilling your guts with all the gory details of the bad shit you've done or thought. Confession is about admitting the sin itself and then going forward with prayerful meditation and a firm resolve not to repeat the sin.

Lest you think I count myself a good Catholic (I admire many tenets of Catholicism but will not insult truly good Catholics by calling my existential pagan self one), I only use the sacrament of confession that as a specific example because I grew up and am intimately familiar with Catholic rituals and teachings. Bhuddists and Hindus and Moslems and the rest all have ways of making the soul whole. Do yours. I just did mine.

Yoda said: Do. Or do not. There is no try.

May the Force be with you.

Monday in Amarna

2005-06-22T18:46:00.000-04:00

And yet more time goes by. Does it ever seem like it goes faster the older you get?

On Monday this week, physically I sat in the Hillsborough County Courthouse awaiting to fulfill my civic duty as a juror. The room was too cold, the seats uncomfortable, but I was happy to bear the burden of my duties as a citizen- it really is one of the finest and yet remaining cornerstones of our government, more so, I begin to believe, than even voting or writing letters to our congresspersons and senators.

But before I go off on a rant because I just cracked that door open- the corruption, lack of foresight, lack of sound judgment, greed of our elected representatives and the corporate media, etc etc ad nauseum...I can see it through the crack, I recognize it, and it repulses me no end. Others have expounded on this far more eloquently than I could (thanks Andi), and so I will slam that door and say only that on Monday, I did my part, even if it was only to warm a seat for 7.5 hours and then be sent home without deciding any of my peers' fates.

But really, I must be honest here and say that altough my pinstripe-skirted bottom sat in an institutional chair, my heart mind and soul were across the globe and a few thousand years distant in Akhenaten and Nefertiti's city.

The Saturday before Jury Duty, I discovered the Old Tampa Book Company, a little gem of a used/rare/out-of-print bookstore in downtown. I dug through the stacks, feeling quite at home, delighting at the smell of old books. There is really no smell quite like it- comfortable and just the slightest bit musty, the smell of a collection of minds upon dusty shelves. And upon one of these shelves, I found a book by the irrepressible Mary Chubb called Nefertiti Lived Here.

Come Monday, I escaped the drudgery of jury duty along with the Miss Mary. The book itself, its physical dimensions, typeset, paper, are charming. A hardback, it is small enough to read in bed, and lightweight. Its cover is a delightful recreation of a painting of ibis among lotus plants taken from an Amarna pavement painting. As I read, I delighted not just in Miss Mary's retelling of her experience, but also in the wide margins, old fashioned typeset (1954), and pen/ink illustrations that are charmingly reminiscent of St Expery's The Little Prince. Best of all, the paper itself has some sort of sparkle in it so that when the light shines on the paper, it glows.

Page 75 has an upside-down 'j' in the word 'just'. I am well over half-way through the book now, and so far, that upside-down letter has been the only mistake. The book once belonged to a John Morris of 57 Blake Court, South St. Gosport, his inscription tight and unobtrusive under the jacket cover on the outer left corner of the front cover.

Nefertiti Lived Here is a memoir of Miss Chubb's time at an archaeological expedition to Amarna in 1930. Her memoir opens after a year of secretaryship at the Bloomsbury Egyptological Society; she is bored beyond compare and dreads yet another day in the dreary offices of the Victorian restored house trying to make sense of the archaeologists' field reports and accounting records. In the basement on a rainy Tuesday in February, she discovers a tile from Amarna that likely hasn't been touched since it was brought back from Egypt.

That one little tile, as it spills Egyptian sand through her fingers, suddenly clears the clouds in her mind and she is completely hooked. As she writes:

"I don't suppose any one of them [archaeologists] would have said, 'I saw a beautiful thing made by an ancient Egyptian, and that was enough for me to decide on this for a profession.' but something, some accidental chance even, had once set that self-same nerve thrumming, so that there was nothing for him to do but go back in space and time and search patiently for the truth."

I almost wept as I read that line.

She finagles her way into accompanying the next expedition to Amarna as the field secretary, and the rest of the book is a lighthearted, highly readable but intellecually luminous recounting of her adventures as part of the dig to uncover the mystery of the Heretic Pharaoh Akhenaten and his lovely Queen Nefertiti.

And here's the amazing part: I bought this out-of-print edition for $6.50. I did an amazon.com search for it, and the out-of-print version was listed for $99- and one not in as good a condition as mine. Holy Heiroglyphs Batman, what a steal! It's a priceless little gem I am proud to have added to my new and growing Egypt library (what Charles has taken to calling my "book binge". HAH. If only he'd looked at my amazon.com Wish List, he'd know what a real book binge looks like).

Tuesday in Alexandria

2005-06-14T22:47:00.000-04:00

A week goes by.

I read of Nefertiti Hatshepsut and Cleopatra - oh my.

With my morning coffee I dig beneath the sand to find stone temples.

I come home late from drudgeday and eagerly snatch open the mailbox.

And trudge to the house disappointed that it hasn't arrived.

Ordered from someone in Miami or Phoenix or Seattle a book they no longer want but now I must have. A book that will unlock the secrets of the long dead language I seek.

Cleo was a Ptolemy anyway and NOT a pharaoh nor even really Egyptian, but notwithstanding all that, I wonder: did she really commit suicide?

Surely not a woman of her talent, ambition, determination, political savvy, willingness to commit murder for her own political survival?

Isn't it just possible that Octavian being a brilliant strategist saw that a queen of Egypt being paraded as a POW through the streets of Rome would not be the same coup d'etat as dragging a captive conquered king? Surely he knew that there would be no policital advantage in it? Political advantage, on the other hand, would indeed be manifest in a trapped queen romantically taking her own life as she saw the walls of the Roman Empire closing around her. Consider what a hugely symbolic gesture Cleopatra's suicide indicated: that Egypt in all Her feminine decadence had reached the end of Her power and knew there was no other way out than to be poisoned by the 3,000 year old symbol of Her own royal power, the cobra.

Cleo dead, she would no longer be around to connive against him- which he HAD to know she would do if she lived, even as a captive. She had seduced both Julius Caesar AND Antony - that is a sure sign of a political survivor, if ever there was one (Lady DeWinter comes to mind). But, Octavian couldn't just have her openly murdered either- this would not be politically circumspect. Octavian had her trapped in her own quarters, indeed had control over all Alexandria. Therefore, he had control of the 'crime scene.' He could have orchestrated events any way he saw fit.

There are no first hand accounts of Cleo's death, so it's all speculation, but what a tantalizing "What if?" it is. At least to me- this is the kind of thing that keeps me awake at all hours.

Here's what sparked my mind in the first place:

Mysterious Death of Cleopatra

Mistress Mosquito Thwarted

2005-06-07T23:05:00.000-04:00

The original Invasion of the Body Snatchers was on Turner Classic Movies tonight. Memories of one Halloween weekend in high school, while I hastily made a Roaring Twenties flapper dress from remnant fabric, flooded back to me as I half watched it tonight while browsing Amazon.com for books on Egyptian heiroglyphs.

I have this clear memory of standing in the dining room ironing my costume, watching the later version with Donald Sutherland on TBS (when it was still a UHF channel in Atlanta back in the day). The original is better. Twenty years on (eek), I sit with my information-age laptop watching the original 1950's version, having memories from two decades ago when I watched the remake, while searching for books to teach me how to read a 4,000 year-old language. And so life folds in on itself again, even in the dawn of the 21st century.

Our A/C unit is making horrible clunking noises as it shuts off, followed by a bizzare high pitched wizzing noise. As I write this, it has just come back on, and the house is thankfully still cool and yet I am troubled that I can smell burning plastic. Perhaps it is only my laptop protesting at all this use of a sudden, when I had left it alone for so long.

Loki has taken to whimpering in the morning. I cannot decipher this behavior. Food, water, affection, time outside to take care of business- all these things are provided him. But as soon as I sit down to eat my breakfast and drink my coffee or check my email or iron my shirt or any other task, he begins the low-volume whining. Being a dog, he has no vocabulary to articulate the whining, and so I am left to wonder what it means- we call him old man these days. He will officially be 9 years old in just a couple of days; I begin to wonder if he has arthritis or some other ailment that affects him in the mornings? He only does it in the morning. I think I may have to take him to the vet and see what she thinks. Poor old guy. Such a capital dog Loki is- I will be completely brokenhearted when he passes. I hope he'll wait for me on the other side when he gets there. In the meantime, if he all of the sudden acquires language and tells me what all this whimpering is about, I'll report in immediately- and then check myself into the nearest asylum. I only mention this because sometimes he really does look as if he's about to speak.

The tomato plant I started back in February just recently yielded another six tomatoes. Last night, to celebrate Charles' major promotion, I made bruschetta from these tomatoes, and also made pesto from the basil that I finally cut way back. Given the weather recently, I have a feeling it will spring back up pretty quickly. For dinner, I tossed the pesto into some angel hair pasta and served that with a caesar salad (I count chopped Romaine and Newman's Own Creamy Caesar dressing as a Caesar salad) and bruschetta from homegrown Roma tomatoes. I served it with DaVinci Chianti, which Charles didn't really like but I thought was a pretty good accompaniment to the food. He said one of the rules about purchasing wine is never buy a bottle with the name of someone famous. Oh. Oops. Well, I'll be sure to avoid the Einstien Pino Grigio and the Michaelangelo Merlot next time. I'm no connoisseur, but I know what I like (said the woman who actually really does like the Dogs Playing Poker paintings, much to her mother's horror).

The astroturf now lining our freestanding "back porch" is a welcome addition to our Redneck hacienda. It is the beginning of hurricane season around here, and the summer afternoon rains have started, so it's a 50/50 chance that we actually get to sit on the 'porch' in the evenings. This morning I drank my first cup of coffee and watched the male and female cardinals at the feeders- this is the first year since we moved to south Tampa four years ago that I've seen them in my neighborhood, and I'm delighted to see them in my backyard.

I noticed a mosquito darting and smacking against the outside of the screen, desperate to get through to my sweet sanguine flesh. I couldn't resist shooting her a bird. Our addition isn't completely bug proof, as evidenced by a random mosquito and some interesting beetle species I've noticed inside the screenhouse, but hey it's better than nothing. Our kitchen gecko isn't chirping tonight. I hope he hasn't abandoned us for greener pastures. I read somewhere their favorite meal is roaches and in spite of keeping a pretty clean kitchen- well, this is Florida, after all and I'm not a fan of the Orkin man. My coworker, in spite of fifteen plus years of Florida living, still screams bloody murder if she sees one (a roach that is, not the Orkin man)- even across the room. I feel sorry for her- I got over that particular heebie jeebie after a year of living off campus. As to hurricane season, I hope they pass Tampa by- I'll be pretty sore at Mama Nature if I have to dismantle my newly constructed porch. But She's in charge around here this time of year, so que sera sera.

I woke up this morning just before dawn to the sound of a mockingbird singing its heart out as it perched in an Arbor Vitae just outside our front door. I read they love to eat beetles and wasps. More power to them- and they sing prettier than the Orkin man too.

Summer rolls

2005-05-31T19:47:00.000-04:00

Wow. An entire month and a half slid right on by without my touching my computer. Shocking. I can't even account for my whereabouts.

It is full blown summer here. Hot hot hot, and dry as the desert until last night. Thunder rolled in around four a.m. and the rain followed shortly after and kept going until sunup. The dogs were in a slight panic about it, but I found it soothing.

We harvested our first homegrown tomato over the weekend; I made eggs benedict (sort of)- English muffins, sliced homegrown tomato, scrambled eggs, then all toasted with havarti dill cheese. I plucked the second ripe tomato yesterday and will serve it slice with just a little salt. The basil LOVES the heat and I've had to repot it twice in the last month. And another tomato ripens on the vine, with several more on their way.

Charles and I put together a free-standing screened gazebo yesterday and laid it right up against the back of the house. Bingo bango presto, instant screened in back porch, made with pride in India from faulty parts and constructed by newlyweds with a grudge against the neighbors who listen to Classic Rock at full freakin' volume at 1am. We grilled shish kebobs, drank Newcastle and listened to Social Distortion until the sun went down. Maggie, poor idiot that she is, tried to go after a mourning dove and crashed into the screen house, tearing three holes into the screen, flopping around like a fish in a net. Not fifteen minutes after we'd set it up. Knocked it right out of square she did. As I contemplated sewing the tears back up with my superstrong white thread, Charles took one look, turned around to the tool drawer, pulled off some duck tape and slapped it on the holes. "There. It's fixed."

As we sat on the porch this evening, contemplating further Redneck improvements to our new patio such as astroturf flooring and an electric bug zapper (just kidding about the zapper, I promise- but not the astroturf), the seat of my captain's chair gave way and my ample ass hit the cement. Luckily Newcastle was safely on the table, its cool brown ale condensing early evening dew on the bottle. I got another chair. The crickets sang their loud symphony and the blue jays lighted on the feeder. The dogs were still. Bring on the hot.

Near Misses and Bullseyes

2005-04-15T08:57:00.000-04:00

I usually drive my beachy teal '97 Chevy Cavalier, unless I am chauffeuring Charles to and from the airport. I love my little Cav. Comfy, handles well and best of all, it's paid off.

The XTerra, on the other hand, while a great vehicle for someone as tall as my husband, is in all honesty too much vehicle for me. Not long ago, during late rush-hour I was driving north on South Dale Mabry, which is a tight, skinny four lane road lined with strip malls, banks and gas stations. People always go too fast on it. Including myself.

The XTerra has a nasty little blindspot on the passenger's side. I was in the left hand lane and checked my mirrors before coming into the right lane. Just as I was about to sideswipe a small blue sedan, I saw it, and its passengers just in time. I yanked back into the left lane, my heart pounding. The woman driving was making gestures at me, which at first I took to be obscene, but as she drove alongside me I realized were gestures to pull over.

This defies all common sense, I know, but I could see that the woman had a girl in the passenger seat and was looking quite distressed, so I pulled over as she did. I got out of the XTerra and came over to her, my hand over my heart, before she even began to speak and apologized profusely. I explained that I was driving my husband's car, which had a blindspot for me, and that I was so glad that they were not hurt. She stood there looking at me shaking her head. I think she intended to scream and holler at me for putting herself and her daughter in danger, but my immediate contrition- which was believe me completely sincere- caught her off guard. She said, "That's my daughter in there. You could have killed us." I acquiesed to this and asked her forgiveness.

She shook her head again. I could see that she was frightened and angry, and there was something else in her eyes- a realization that I meant what I said, and that we really were all okay. Her daughter leaned towards the open driver's door and said, "Mom, come on, she said she was sorry. Let's go home." The woman turned, got in her car and drove off. I went back to the XTerra and continued on my way.

Does my story change if I tell you the woman was black? As she turned and got in her car, I heard her mutter something about 'white folk'. I ignored it and kept going.

Sometime before that, I was walking the dogs in my neighborhood and passed a house, rather rundown, with a large white van in the drive. There was a sticker on the bumper that read "Tattoed White Trash". I cringed. Tattoed and white, that's me. Only I don't believe I'm trash. And I'm not really white, either- I'm really a sort of plushy-pink-tan color.

In the yard next to the front porch was a black lawn jockey holding a lantern. I cringed again. This person or people lived only four or five blocks away from me. Just around the corner from the Tattoed White Trash live a large Mexican family who hang out on their front porch and listen to music and tell stories, and just around the corner from them lives a Phillipino woman with two little yapper dogs and a penchant for thorny flowering shrubs and trees. And just down the street from her live a black couple who have the loveliest yard on the street- the husband is out there day and night tending to the shrubs and perennials, fertilizing his lawn and generally tending to it like a master gardener. I often see the wife sitting at her desk at the front window late at night, concentrating mightily on a book or her computer- a student perhaps? Or just incredibly diligent about the family finances?

Not too long after the dog-walking expedition to my neighborhood diversity, I was awaiting a prescription at the drugstore around the corner from me. There were two other people sitting and waiting. One was a lovely elder black woman dressed to the nines in a deep purple suit, golden silk blouse and a gorgeous crown of tightly woven purple to match her suit and golden flowers along the brim. She sat straight up in her chair, knees together, as regal and proper as she could be, a descendant of African queens, of that I had no doubt. She was reading the newspaper and studiously ignoring me and the other person. The other person waiting was a white man, unkempt in dirty jeans, white wife-beater and unshaven face. He slouched in this chair, his arms folded defiantly across his chest, while he stared at the floor. On his left arm was a tattoo of -I kid you not- a black man hanging from a noose tied to a large tree, a glorious sunset in the background.

I don't think I've ever been so horrified or uncomfortable in my life. Perhaps he was the same guy who owned the white van and the lawn jockey. Perhaps the woman was the mother of the wife who studied late into the night.

I desperately wanted to go and sit next to the woman in purple and tell her that I was not of his ilk, that although my skin isn't dark I felt more solidarity with her than with him. Perhaps I should have. But the terrible, gut-wrenching truth is that the tattoed man was just as much part of me as the woman was.

We're all in this thing together, descendants of African queens, descendants of German potato farmers and descendants of Irish/Saxon/German/Cherokee/African folk like myself. The blood of the oppressor and the opressed both runs through my viens and I cannot separate myself from either.

The Taxman Cometh

2005-04-11T11:46:00.000-04:00

Oh boy. No beachtime this past weekend. No sound of the surf, no toes in the sand, no ocean water in my hair.

Friday night I drank rum with Lime Diet Coke (yes, yes, yes, I know, horrible but I was looking for a no-calorie solution to my end-of-a-ridiculously-savage-week blues) while doing laundry and other assorted chores, then fell asleep in front of the telly at 11pm. How sad is that? If that isn't bad enough, I was awoken by C around 215, after which I attempted to go to bed but gave up at 445. I got up and finished the laundry while watching Cold Comfort Farm (wonderful little movie where everything ends up just peachy) and then Buck Rogers reruns.

The sun came up most cheerfully and I took the dogs for a long long jog/walk. Loki, the elder, protested mightily the last eight blocks on the return trip by just sitting in the cool grass and refusing to budge. Or better, rolling around in the grass until he pulled the leash from my hand, then laying upside down on the St. Augustine with his tongue hanging out. No dignity. Just willful stubbornness. I finally managed to drag him back home and then turned to cleaning out my office desk which is an old, ratty, disgusting particle board monstrosity that is destined soon for destruction by my handy axe. I am hoping to replace that out-of-date piece of sawdust with a coolbeans studio table instead. Once this cleaning job was done, C had awoken and it was time to do our taxes for the first time as a married couple.

As I entered my information in TurboTax and watched the "AMOUNT YOU OWE" box jump upwards exponentially, even the fantastic omelet C had made me couldn't assuage the corrosive pit my stomach had become. I had failed to set aside enough money last year from freelance contractor work so that the amount we owe was a kick in the teeth. That studio table I was hankering for just jumped beyond the horizon. The little anniversary getaway we'd been planning went 'poof'. The car maintenance, vet visits and furniture investments went 'poof'. The Taxman gets it all now.

That rum and Lime Diet Coke is sounding pretty good again right about now.

Wildlife and other strange forms of sentience

2005-04-07T11:20:00.000-04:00

I think I killed a lizard this morning. That it was an accident made it no less distressing. I opened a garden gate and she must have gotten caught somewhere. She fell off the gate and hit my shoulder before going to earth. I picked the tiny creature up- she was still alive, but stunned, and I could see that just behind her right eye was badly damaged. She wouldn't let go of my finger when I tried to put her down, and fell over on her back when I gently pushed her off. She didn't move, although I could see her breathing. Bosslady saw me at the gate and called my name, and I had to leave the lizard to her fate.

Perhaps I just stunned her- I am compelled now to go check.

Returning from the gate, I see no sign of her anywhere. I hope she recovered and stays clear of my lumbering self from now on.

In more cheerful news, a mockingbird has taken up residence in a tree outside our front door. She sings her heart out every night for an hour or more. I think she might have chosen our spot because the acoustics between our house and the neighbor's is fantastic- her birdsong bounces back and forth across the street. Last night I sat in the dark on my front porch and listened to her while being ambushed by mosquitos. I hope I don't catch West Nile as a price for listening.

The orchid trees, bougainvillea, amaryllis (including my own), orange trees and jasmine are in fantastic bloom right now. Although the robins have left, we are still visited by ibis, pelicans, mourning doves, blue jays, cardinals and gulls. The pelicans don't come near our house, but all the rest of them do- at least until the cats chase them off. The weather has been amazing for the last two weeks and I long for a trip to the beach for the day. It is my intention to sneak away as early as possible on Saturday morning for Fort De Soto and spend the morning walking the shore. I might not come back, considering that if I do I have to do my taxes. JOY!

After watching the hoople-heads in the Senate and Congress and other cheeseheads of State on CNN, MSNBC and FoxNews for the last two weeks, I'm not sure the federal government deserves another damn dime of my hard-earned money but what the hay- just because they are behaving badly doesn't give me an excuse to.

Speaking of CNN, MSNBC and Fox- I try to watch all three every once in a while (apologies to the broadcast networks for not EVER watching you) to see how the news spins. Just a personal observation here- Fox and MSNBC are infotainment wearing the mask of news channels. All that slick music, gorgeous eyecandy reporters (excent for Fox News "liberal" analysts, who all look a bit squirrely and sickly, what's up with that?) with their pithy commentary pretty and all those snappy graphics do NOT substitute for substantive journalism. Fox leans so far to the right that my house tilts and the dogs bark when that channel is on, and MSNBC leans just enough to the left to put my house to square again- but they are both guilty of making a mockery of good solid journalism.

Once I've glutted myself sick on their 'news' I switch to CNN for what passes for decent investigative balanced journalism. Having said that, CNN still shies away from covering the real world. Democracy Now is very very good, with really interesting, controversial topics and guests- they don't water things down to make it palatable to frightened Americans. But DM has its own agenda as well, and sometimes the reporting can get a bit strident.

But how scary/ironic/appropriate is it that a "fake news" comedy show- The Daily Show seems to be the one real source of news out there that comments on the scary shit going on without becoming part of the problem? Or are they?

I don't claim to have any of the answers- just a pilgrim soul's observations on the life she finds around her.

Peace.

Silent Dawn

2005-03-31T23:28:00.000-05:00

Even the birds were silent that St. Patrick's Day morning. I crunched my way down to the little creek below our campsite with the dogs just after the sun came up and got this shot on my way back up the trail to our campsite. It's so lovely and yet so deadly- you can marvel in the quiet cold and not really notice how quickly it seeps into your bones- until your fingers can't move they're so frozen.

Fall Creek Falls State Park is located on the Cumberland Plateau in Tennessee and although the snowfall reached about three inches that morning, by the time we reached Nashville that day only two hours later, the sun was shining and it was 60 degrees.

Deer at Dusk

2005-03-31T23:25:00.000-05:00

St Patty's Snowman

2005-03-31T23:20:00.000-05:00

Charles threw snowballs at me until his bare fingers couldn't move anymore. This didn't take long. St Patty's Day was our last one at the campground and we finished packing up long before the others did, so Charles put this charming fellow together to cheer up Dad&Co. while they finished packing up.

Bridge over Troubled Waters

2005-03-31T23:08:00.000-05:00

I was so proud of her bravery getting across this bridge. The entrance does not mention a load limit, so as we came off at the other end, we were a bit dismayed to read the sign on the opposite end that we had overloaded it by about six people. Ooops. I was utterly terrified of this bridge and they were all lucky I didn't scream the entire way across.

Cable Trail to Cane Creek Falls

2005-03-31T23:03:00.000-05:00

I was convinced at first I would not be able to make the climb down to the bottom of Cane Creek Falls, but it was really exhilirating once I was convinced to give it a try.

Cane Creek - Fall Creek Falls, Tennessee

2005-03-31T23:01:00.001-05:00

What's missing from this photo is the sound of the water rushing over the rocks on its way over the falls and the spray of chilly water in the air.

A steep climb

2005-03-31T22:47:00.000-05:00

Taken from the bottom of the cable trail in Fall Creek Falls State Park. You have to hoist yourself along the cable along the rocks, which are almost but not quite a staircase.

Surviving the Waterfall

2005-03-22T15:11:00.000-05:00

In some ways, Tennessee is heaven. Creeks full of burbling cold water and earth colored stones, pools of emerald green, earth muddy red and aromatic like no other earth, waterfalls that spray the air with white and green, reminding me of Ireland in winter. Deep green spaces that stir and calm the soul in a single breath. Awoke on St Patrick's day to almost three inches of snow- magical sparkling quiet, the birds even silent in reverence.

Other ways, disappointment, frustration and angst. All human-borne, like illness. I put my bare feet and hands to the bare earth, eyes to the sky and pray for redemption that will likely not come, but I pray anyway, just in case the universe decides to listen.

Returned to the swamps of Tampa, with pictures to post soon. Glad of the fierce sunlight, heat, humidity and that late afternoon promise of rain. Lizards in the window, mosquitos at my bare feet. The passion vine outside the office window is a riot of blooms.

This is just to let you know I'm back in Tampa and back in cyberspace, once again stitching my little hole in the space-time continuum. I promise more later when I'm caught up.

Peace Joy and Love to All.

DUCK!

2005-03-08T21:59:00.000-05:00

Shot yesterday during lunch in the Publix parking lot. There's a retention pond near the parking lot, and these ducks are always looking for handouts.

I gotta thing for ducks. Daffy was my first toon love. I am particularly fond of the very early Daffy toons- in the ones previous to 1945 or so (before he started playing second fiddle to Bugs, and long before he degenerated into the greedy freak), he is the black guy, the gay guy, the crook, the geek- the subversive.

The Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art in NYC did a fantastic online exhibit called simply 'Duck'. The various interpretations of this word are wonderful.

An unlikely totem, the duck. But I think this humble little waterfowl might be mine. And they may have just led me to my true calling.

Recently, I was reading an article by Barbara Mertiz, a/k/a Elizabeth Peters, author of the novels of Egyptologist Ameila Peabody. She was discussing her life life as an Egyptologist and author, and just like *that*, I knew what my focus in archaeology should be. Duh. It's been in my face for years.

Back to the duck:

"Because of its connection to water, [the duck] is linked to the feminine energies, the astral plane, and to the emotional state of humans. Water is necessary for all life on earth. Nothing can live without it. Ducks can remind us to drink of the waters of life as well as to nurture our own emotional natures....

On land they do not move as well [as on water]. For those with a duck as a totem it may reflect an inability to feel comfortable with most people in your life. It may reflect a need to find comfort in your own element and with those of like mind and spirit. Ducks can remind us that we are going to have such an opportunity.... The Egyptians were the first to domesticate ducks."

- Ted Andrews, Animal-Speak: The Spiritual & Magical Powers of Creatures Great & Small

The image of the duck is the Egyptian heiroglyph for the sound "sa". (Thanks to Joseph & Lenore Scott, authors of Egyptian Hieroglyphs for Everyone.) This doesn't really connect with my recent tiny epiphany. Just found it in the book and wanted to share.

I announced my intention of attempting to get my degree from University of Chicago back in February to C. Since then, Chicago has popped up all over the place. C went there recently for business trip, and was absolutely game for moving there. I then heard it mentioned on TV several times, seen it mentioned in the newspaper, NPR did a recent segment on Chicago jazz, watched The Sting tonight- takes place in Chicago. OKAY OKAY, I get it already. You ever feel like the universe is banging you over the head trying to get your attention?

If the Chicago thing weren't enough, I innocently began to post my duck picture, and was only going to mention the Daffy and the Duck exhibit by MoCCA. But NO, I had to pull out my shaman's book and discover that this humble little duckie led me right back to Egypt- again. And I get to Egypt through Chicago (the Oriental Institute at UofC being the logical choice for a masters in Egyptology).

Another hero of mine, Egypt's keeper of antiquities Zahi Hawass, has said that he loves Egpytology because "There is always something new under the sand to be discovered."

It's a good thing, because that lowly little duck has confirmed my instincts that my path lies down Egypt way. Here's hoping I take to it like a duck to water, because everything else I've done, although I've been competent at it, hasn't really felt like the right fit.

Why do we sabotage ourselves? I'm still trying to unravel this one- a couple of years ago, when I decided to go back to school to get my degree in archaeology, I dismissed Egyptology out of hand- "a glutted field" I claimed to myself and anyone who would bother to listen to me prattle on about it. This was my reasoning for not pursuing Egyptology as a focus.

Mind you, I had no basis in fact for this assumption, and I hereby retract it. Wow, do I feel better.

Wangari Matthai ROCKS

2005-03-08T12:59:00.000-05:00

Once again, sitting at home having a little lunch, listening to Democracy Now. To honor International Women's Day, Amy Goodman is interviewing Wangari Matthai, a Kenyan woman who has spent thirty years promoting environmental protection, sustainable development, women's equality and international democracy. In 2004, she was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. She was the first African woman to receive the Nobel Peace prize.

Thirty years ago, she started the Greenbelt Movement in her homestate of Kenya by planting nine trees to alleviate the deforestation of her country. She's been arrested, beaten and threatened with her life- all for planting trees and demanding equal rights for women and an elevation out of poverty for her people and all poor peoples.

Her genius, I think, is her making connections between seemingly disparate phenomena- women's rights, democracy and environmentalism.

Passionate, articulate and inspiring, this woman my hero.

Put her right up their with Desmond Tutu and Nelson Mandela.

RocknRoll Weekend

2005-03-07T22:48:00.000-05:00

Social Distortion in Orlando Friday night.
Bricktown 54 Saturday night.
Social Distortion in St Pete Sunday night.

PUNK ROCK! ROCKABILLY! pop pop music- 80's!
Ebbie is a band whore!
Ebbie loves to shake her bootay on the dance floor!
Ebbie still loves to make the big boys cry-
Though they try and try-
Poor dears just don't understand that she gotta man,
He don't let her walk out that door
Without cell phone, cash money, ID, keys, and orgasm.

(Koko Taylor growling "I love a lover like you...." come to mind.
Ebbie KNOWS which side her bread is buttered and honeyed on.

;)

C & I left work early on Friday in order to beat the I4 traffic to Orlando. It was a good theory. Some f#$%wit dumped a load of drywall across the interstate and shut it down for an hour. It took almost three hours to get from Tampa to House of Blues at Downtown Disney- 60 miles. We didn't miss the show, however, so that was all good. I wore a black flirty knee length skirt with an enormous white crinoline underneath, black stockings, combat boots and the rockabilly tshirt I got free for being a band whore at the Rockabilly Ruckus back in February. A fantastic outfit for the show- but HOT as HELL in the House of Blues. Talk about crotch rot.

MOSH PIT broke out the second Social D began- a girl a little larger than me either got knocked out or passed out in the mosh pit and was carried overhead hand to hand by the crowd to the security guards. C & I stayed safely at the edges of the mosh pit, which surged towards us occasionally, but never on us. Much fun- brings out the rocker chick in me to be that close to ridiculously loud live music. The ringing in my ears and having plucked the first gray hair from my head on Friday aside (other grays have been discovered elsewhere that shall remain nameless), I felt like a 17 year old again.

Saturday night, I joined several friends to celebrate Kelly S's birthday at Bricktown 54, an 80's club, complete with Rubick's cube and disco balls hanging from the ceiling, garish colors, multilevel dance floor and all that bubblegum pop from the 80's. Black eyeliner, a sparkly top over jeans over high heeled sandals that by all rights I should not be wearing at my age was my outfit. I danced to Joan Jett in a dance club- something I don't actually ever remember doing, even when Joan was on the radio NOT on our generation's version of "Golden Oldies". I admit to having found that station on my radio dial, and have it preset.

Saturday night fever: C stayed home- his exact quote when I mentioned 80's pop music was "I'd rather nail my head to a table. Have fun." The poor Guidos who always seem to gravitate towards me and other dark headed, dark eyed women didn't understand how a man could stay home with his woman looking like THAT. It's flattering, but you know, at the same time, I just don't care about their feelings any more. I look back and wonder why I ever felt sorry for them in the first place. NOW, I understand that they were looking to dip into something luscious, they were not head over heels in love. I look back and wonder sometimes how I made it this far in one piece, to be perfectly honest. But I had a fabulous time nonetheless because the girls I was hanging with are just f$%^ing cool. We all had a wee bit too much to drink- Whiskey Sours, Buttery Nipples, Jello Shots- but we took a cab down and back, so we were smart and safe, and everyone arrived home in one piece.

Sunday I didn't wake up until 1 p.m. Something else I haven't done since, uh, I don't really remember. Sunday night, yet again- Punk Rock Rockabilly's finest, Social Distortion. Mike Ness, the band's lead singer and guitarist, although not a good looking man, has a charm all his own and they put on an even better show than they did Friday night. Charles bought me an SD tank- I'm racking up quite the collection of band tshirts these days. I'm far more of a groupie in my 30's than I ever was in my 20's. Go figure.

In my enthusiasm to repair the black studded belt I wanted to wear on Sunday night, I managed to staple my hand with an industrial stapler. Not so smart, you say- and you would be correct. I managed to fix the belt with industrial staples and duct tape- very punk rock of me, so C tells me. Apparently, so is stapling one's own hand before the show. The belt broke on the other side halfway through the Sunday night show. Oh well, easy come easy go. I prefer the easy come.

They put on a great show, although it was a little shorter this time because Jannus Landing has to adhere to a strict noise curfew- 11pm, or they get heavy fines from the city. Sister in law was there- a woman who has known me for fourteen years. Who KNOWS that I cannot stand to be tickled. And YET. I was, in my sheer joy at listening to great live rocknroll, standing on tip toes screaming at the top of my lungs, my tshirt free from my belt and belly bare, hands in the air. S-i-L reached over and began to tickle my belly. AARRRRGH. I have little impulse control these days when it comes to people putting unwelcome hands on me- related by marriage or not.

I grabbed her wrist and using a little remembered jui jitsu, dug my fingers into that soft flesh just inside the arm and looked her right in the eye and shook my head. I let go pretty quickly, only wanting to make a point, not hurt. It was too loud for words, but I think she may have finally gotten the idea. After over a decade of my telling her over and over and overagain that I didn't find tickling amusing- being held down as a child and tickled until you pee yourself by a cruel aunt will cure you of that right fast- I finally associated my emphasis with physical pain. Did I make my point? I certainly hope so. Perhaps the next time she thinks to reach over and poke my ribs or belly, she will remember the pinch I put on her at a punk show and stop before her hand goes any further. Because next time I'm leaving marks.

Keeping my promise

2005-03-03T08:25:00.000-05:00

Great Egret- March 1, 2005: taken while driving on Barcelona Drive to my afternoon shift.

What with all the bad news spilling out on the airwaves, I promised in an earlier post to pay attention to the good stuff. I started bringing my camera with me to work for just that reason, and was rewarded the same day.

Another reason why I love living in south Florida: great egrets wander through people's yards and then pose when I stop the car to snap pictures of them. This lovely bird actually stopped his progress across the yard when I stopped my car to take this picture: he then turned his head obligingly - or maybe just to keep an eye on me as a potential threat. In any case (isn't he gorgeous?)---

Holy Blooming Tree Batman!

2005-03-03T08:22:00.000-05:00

Orchid tree - along David Blvd, Davis Island, Tampa, Florida. March 2, 2005.

Reason to love living in south Florida: this tree has been in bloom for two weeks, spilling flowers all over the sidewalk. I took this shot on my way to morning shift just after the sun came over the tree line and lit this lovely tree up like cotton candy. I thought it was an orchid tree, but after googling flowering trees, I'm not so sure. In any case, it makes me smile every morning.

Snatched

2005-03-01T09:21:00.000-05:00

The latest news around my neck of the woods is that 4th grader Jessica Lunsford of Homosassa Springs Florida is missing since last Wednesday, with not a single lead as to her whereabouts. Just disappeared from her bed, no signs of struggle.

I talked to sister SAZB on Sunday. She had lots of questions about the missing girl. SAZB is 12, will be 13 in June. I could hear the worry in her voice. I could hear the awakening to the scary scary place this world can be, especially for girls, in her voice, although she put a brave face on it.

I was at a loss for words. What can I possibly say to her to assuage her worries? There is nothing. I want to teach her to be fierce, to be fearless, to be watchful. You cannot teach those things without acknowledging the existence of evil in the world, and teaching youth about its existence. How awful is that. How do you fight the monsters without becoming a monster? How do you teach the young about evil without scaring the bejesus out of them?

Here's an ironic twist for you: she loves scary movies. So did I- still do.

All those horror movies I watched were a defacto education in the evil that existed in the world. The lectures I received by my mother and father about kidnappers, rapists and murderers were academic and futile compared to the hack-n-slash horror flicks in teaching me about the relentlessness of evil in pursuit of its prey. Somewhere along the way, as I grew into womahood, the fear I felt watching those movies- mixed in with real-life news of rapes, murders, etc etc etc ad nauseum- morphed into rage. A rage which I knew- and still know- would enable me to disarm, disable and most likely maim whatever would try to damage me or mine.

Perhaps that is the value in those movies. I have pondered this for many years. These horror movies- not the ghost stories, mind you, only the hatchet/chainsaw/butcher-knife/torture-chamber-killer flicks- serve a purpose and fill a gap that loving parents or big sisters cannot.

In the horror movies, the girl-woman is rarely rescued by a shining knight on white steed. Those shining knights are either in league with monster, unbeknownst to the girl-woman, or they are turned to the monster's side, or they are killed in their ineffective attempts to kill the killer. The girl-woman then either dies at the hand of the attacker, or she uses her own wits and her fear-turned-rage against the monster to destroy him herself.

Shortly I will have a conversation with Dad about this. I will encourage him- strongly, not to be denied- to put sister SAZB in martial arts lessons. Now that she is becoming aware of evil, she MUST be given the tools to fight it.

Desmond Tutu ROCKS

2005-02-24T12:46:00.000-05:00

I have to get this down before I go to work so I won't forget:

I stopped by a little local nursery on the way home and bought more herbs. Since I'm currently broke, I raided the piggy bank for quarters to buy them. :) This time: rosemary, thyme, lavendar and arugula. Yeah!

As I ate my lunch of lentil soup and cheese toast, I listened to Democracy Now. They placed a portion of Tutu's acceptance speech at Fordham University for his honorary degree of Human Letters. Last month, I saw him being interview by John Stewart on The Daily Show, and was completely impressed by his incredible mix of realism and unflagging hope in humanity.

Today, as I listened and the tears rolled down my face, I began to understand how he has become such a revered figure. He spoke about South Africa and its struggle for freedom; he spoke about defense budgets ("death budgets" he called them) and how only a fraction of that money could completely cure hunger and homelessness around the world. He spoke about the Arab and the Jew and the family of God. He told jokes. And he appeared on The Daily Show- how cool is that? What other Nobel Peace laureate would do such a thing?

It was not his words that struck me, although those were inspiring by themselves. It is the incredible humor and strength in his voice. Preach on, brother Tutu.

This poet’s résumé

2005-02-23T21:29:00.000-05:00

Or, The Things I’ve Done for Money

I’ve:

crunched numbers

saved spreadsheets

peddled plants

brokered books

cleaned cages

scooped ice cream and squeezed lemonade

delivered drinks and dinner

swung a hammer

laid some tile

dug a hole

planted a tree

danced topless

attempted to enlighten indifferent adolescents

Sold:

kitchen knives

drugs

words by the quarter

my books

my CDs

my car

my vintage black velvet dress that made me look like a movie star

Answered the phone and:

sold tickets for motivation (it’s a great day at Peter Lowe International My name is Beth how may I help you?)

been called a stupid cunt (not a great day at Peter Lowe International, but at least it was my last)

transferred executives

gave advice about rotten roots

listened to the tenant’s 4am complaint about her Vesuvius toilet, then called the plumber

solved the problem

I’ve been a handywoman and a horticulturalist (you can take a whore to culture, but you can’t make her--- stop me if you heard this one…)

I’ve been a banker, teacher, waitress, dancer, and an ice-cream scooper

But the best job I ever had was the one that paid me no money and cost me no pain.

2005-02-22T22:31:00.000-05:00

egb

Magdala

2005-02-22T21:25:00.000-05:00

What follows is an essay that I originally wrote on June 2, 2001. This predates two things that upon rereading and reflection give me the freakin' willies: 9/11 and The DaVinci Code.

As a further preamble to this essay, it might be useful to know that the Saturday night before 9/11, I was cleaning out files in our office, and I was throwing out ream after ream of obsolete records. I was suddenly and potently smacked in the brain with an astonishing sense of remorse, and this thought: "What if this is it? The end of all?" I just as suddenly dismissed the idea as not a little ridiculous.

The following day was a football Sunday, and it being the Buc's only superior season in two decades, we were going to some friends' house to watch the game. It was pouring rain in sheets. As we came off the expressway and up to the first light, I was suddenly and completely overwhelmed with fear, remorse, and horror. I burst into uncontrollable sobs and began babbling to Charles about what fear I had about Ariel Sharon and his policies in the Gaza Strip and the Arab world hating us so much and what could we possibly do about it. Charles was aghast and sternly told me to get a hold of myself before we got to our friend's house. I managed to, somehow, but I was still confused about why I would have such a bizarre outburst, a propos of nothing. We had not been having a conversation about geopolitics at the time, just innocuous football chat.

Two days later, driving to my job at Citibank, I was listening to NPR Morning Edition. They were announcing that W was in Florida promoting his No Child Left Behind Act, and began playing part of some W speech. It was 8:11 a.m. I switched off the radio in disgust, not wanting to hear his voice, and so disgusted, I didn't even want to hear music. I arrived to work twenty-five minutes later. I arrived at my desk, went to get some of the bleak breakroom coffee and chat with my boss, and by the time I returned, I saw Angelo standing at his cubicle with tears rolling down his face. He had family in NYC. I can't even remember Angelo's last name, but I will always remember that he was the one who told me that a plane had struck one of the towers of the World Trade Center. We went home early that day and a week later a hurricane rolled through- not bad, but enough to make me aware that we now lived a lot closer to the water in South Tampa.

Anyway, without further ado, here's my June 2, 2001 essay:

2,001 years of history since the resurrection of Christ?

What if during that 2,001 years a cover-up: the Magdalene was the Beloved Disciple of Jesus? A jealous Peter became the rock upon which the Church was built, a Church which spent a good deal of its time and energy making an especial argument that women were not fit vessels for God or mankind, instead a cesspool of corruption, to be avoided at penalty of your very soul.

Jesus never spoke such words, and yet. And yet. Jesus loved the women in his life, and lifted them up. And yet. And yet. Women and men died by the hundreds of thousands for being witches and warlocks. What if, I ask, those women and men were not evil at all, nor even non-Christian, nor even Satanic, but people who believed in the teachings of Christ as the first true democrat, Christ and his Beloved Disciple as the First Couple. The first couple to heal the breach that bred hatred of womankind and woman’s fear of man. To heal the breach of gender that is the binary code of our species’ creation.

The disappointment of the Magdalene as she realized the her Lord’s teachings were being undermined even before her generation died out. Undermined for the sake of her apostle brother Peter’s envious soul. He could not stand the thought of Jesus loving her more than him, than the other disciples. Not even worthy of life, as he supposedly proclaimed in the Book of Thomas, taken from the Nag Hammadi Corpus found in 1945.

Is it coincidence that these documents were found after hundreds of thousands of Jews, gays and other “undesirables” were exterminated in World War II? 2,000 years after the initial cover-up, new evidence comes to light that subverts the doctrine of female suppression. Did millions of people have to die for that to happen?

A woman, hero and founder of the greatest faith on Earth?

Isis reborn through her son and lover Osiris. Goddess = Holy Spirit. Osiris become Christ, Christ reborn into the light of the Ess.

Magdalene must have wept to see her hopes dashed. Her Lord and Master lit a fire in her heart, a fire that would bring to all humanity the love of equality and the equalizing force of love. Women have access to the Source, indeed are the Source, as men are the Source. That God is Us, the magnificent US that is only known through union with each other, man and woman, in spirit, not only in procreation.

And yet, before she was martyred herself, she knew that her Lord’s teachings would be corrupted and the full Word would be unknown. How convenient that the four pages of her revelations of Christ’s words to the apostles are missing from the Nag Hammadi Corpus. They rejected her words, asking how could Jesus reveal things to her and not to them. Did Christ fear that his disciples would desert him if he revealed it to them? Did he confide those revelations to her alone so that she would recognize him when he was Risen? Did he have such faith in the Magdalene and in his disciples that he did not know they would squabble after he was gone?

It is precisely because women have been refused access to the ministry of Christ that so many women turn to other means and ways of accessing the source of divinity in ourselves. What if there had been no cover-up? What if Mary Magdalene’s place in the beginning Church had been accepted, if her position as teacher and minister and founder of the Church had been allowed? Why has patriarchy done men and women both the disservice of denying a woman’s place at the altar?

Kali reborn among our century. In her more terrible aspect, she might resemble Satan, the divine adversary to beset humankind, to test humanity’s limits. Kali, bringer of destruction and wrath

Athena, in guise of and in aid of mankind, moreso than a hope to womankind. Craftiness. Spiderwebs. Aegis, strength divine.

Artemis/Diana, huntress and lover of animals, not necessarily virgin, but definitely a maid on her own. Mary, mother of Christ, also a maid, not necessarily a technical virgin. If the Holy Spirit, and the Holy Spirit = Goddess, then..... Mary a vessel for the Ess’ child.

Inanna, bitch-Goddess reaping what she sowed. Ishtar Astarte demons become because denied their rightful place. Eris welcomes destruction under her feet.

It is time for the divine Family to step forth and for us allow the divine Parents to assume their rightful place. Mother, Father, Child. We are all children of the universe/god/goddess. Every last one. Each time this knowledge is suppressed and the Logos is burned, this knowledge must be relearned by the entire species. Why are the four pages of J’s revelations to Magdala missing from the Nag Hammadi library? What was so inflammatory about them?

It is time to rework the tapestry that has come unraveled. Unraveled because it was not woven correctly in the first place. It denied the great parenthood of creation. 01 binary code gives the perfect solution. You could not encode the information without the 0 or the 1. The zero the red egg and the one the fastest sperm zygote blessed be savior come. It must be both or none at all. But none and one together make all.

There is a legend in the Eastern Orthodox church that Mary Magdalene held an egg and it turned red. Another legend, in China, originating on Dragon Boat Day, says that on 12 noon of Dragon Boat Day, if you can make an egg stand on end, you will have good luck for the rest of the year. Lining up the zero with the one. A line and a circle creates the entire geometry of the universe.

Understand this, love is gravity and gravity is love. Holds the planet together and us on it. We must understand it to travel the universal highway or we will never get off the planet.

Just over the horizon.

2005-02-22T20:34:00.000-05:00

Cayman Islands, April 2004. This was the view from the balcony hammock of our condominium on remote part of the island. How lovely it was. We were unbelievably lucky honeymooners.

Day 42: The meaning of life

2005-02-21T08:00:00.000-05:00

"We may know what we are, but not what we may be."
Hamlet, Shakespeare

Hunter Thompson shot himself last night.

I woke up to hearing that report on the radio; Charles has his alarm set to NPR (very loud), so Morning Edition comes blaring into the bedroom every morning at 640 a.m. My first thought, which I said outloud in a hoarse voice was "I don't want it to be Monday yet."

This sentiment was confirmed when I got up and went into the kitchen. While filling the coffee pot, I looked out my eastern kitchen window and saw the sunrise. Pale blue sky was streaked with pink and orange sherbet clouds and bolts of sunlight shot through the trees into the dewey air. I definitely do not want to go sit inside at a desk on a day that starts with that kind of beauty.

I know that the human world is flawed, sometimes horrific (more often than it should be) and tragically ridiculous. But on this Monday morning as I sit here at my dining room table in the morning sunshine with a delightful cup of coffee and the dogs at my feet, it is easy to ignore it all, even after waking up to hearing that HST shot himself. Which was of course followed by all kinds of bad news from elsewhere in the world. I'm sorry Hunter is gone. He had important things to say, and his perspective will be missed.

But over the radio's stream of reports on humanity's shortcomings, I can hear the mourning doves rustling in the oak leaves, a dog barking in the distance, squirrels battling it out and a bird singing from the overgrown ficus tree in the south part of our yard. The morning sunshine is lighting up my house with great cheer and fills me with hope. I feel like it is important to note these things- we all know what the bad news is, and it is easy to forget that there is still beauty and loveliness in the world. I am paying attention.

But it is still Monday and I still have to go to work. I promise to hold onto that magic that greeted my eyes when I opened my front door to the dawn.

2005-02-20T17:43:00.000-05:00

The finest women in all the world standing in one place.

2005-02-20T17:38:00.000-05:00

Dorothy and Bill Brackman, date unknown, but sometime in the late 1940's. My paternal grandparents.

Dorothy Brackman (nee Dorothy Boykin) was a fan of the movie star Barbara Stanwyck, who was later in the Western TV show Big Valley.

Mimi, as my brother Trey and I called her, died of breast cancer when I was five. This was back in the 1970's, when the medical establishment believed that preventing addiction to narcotics was more important than alleviating a terminal patient's pain. She died in unbelievable pain.

One of my only memories of her was of her laying on her couch as my brother and I left our grandparents' house. In her typical fashion, she winked at us, giving us a little "chick chick" sound as we left.

Many many years later, I think it was near Thanksgiving in the late '90's, I was watching the movie Fireball on Turner Classic Movies. Barbara Stanwyck plays a streetwise dance hall queen who happens to also be a gangster's moll. In an attempt to hide from the authorities to protect her gangster fiance, she hides out in the boarding house of a band of professors who are working on the latest edition of an American encyclopedia.

Gary Cooper plays a professor who is working on an entry in the encyclopedia on recent American slang, and brings in Barbara Stanwyck's character in order to study her use of slang. In one scene, she is alone in the bachelor pad. As all of the elderly gentlemen encyclopedia writers pour into the room where she is adjusting her stockings, she flirtatiously hoists her leg up onto a chair, looks at the elderly professors and then winks, giving that same little "chick chick" my grandmother gave to me and my bother, to the gentlemen, who are flabbergasted.

As I watched that scene, I was transported back to a time long before my grandmother's suffering. I saw a moment in time that she enjoyed, and was inspired by it. It was like reliving one of her own memories.

2005-02-20T17:36:00.000-05:00

Frank and Ruth Lovell, September 20, 1947: my maternal grandparents on their wedding day

2005-02-20T17:28:00.000-05:00

White Sands, NM April 2003: Kelly took the original picture and then I played around on photoshop to get the sandwriting to show up better.

2005-02-20T17:25:00.000-05:00

Clearwater Beach, February 2004: Charles and I went to the hotel where we were going to be married and he snapped this picture of my toes at early sunset.

2005-02-20T17:18:00.000-05:00

Little sister Julia- she tasted the RAINBOW!

Day 41 2005: after the Rockabilly Ruckus

2005-02-20T09:39:00.000-05:00

Wow.

Rockabilly music is just plain good fun. A little country, a little Elvis, a little punk. The blend makes for infectiously fun music. I'm a fan.

Last night, after a gorgeous 70 degree, sunny breezy day of playing in the dirt, I went with my husband to the Rockabilly Ruckus, hosted by our local community owned and run radio station, WMNF. It was held at Skipper's Smokehouse, a local seafood dive with a great outdoor stage and audience area under the trees.

The bands were completely awesome. I danced until quite literally my legs and feet ached and drank beers until I peed like a racehorse.

Hot Rod Walt and the Psychodevilles lean over into the psychobilly category from time to time (aka punkabilly). Being the wild woman I am, the lead singer's wife, also the band's photographer, pointed at me while I was whipping around at the front of the stage during a particularly wild set and asked me to come on stage. So there is now photographic evidence of my latent bandwhore tendencies- even got a free tshirt (thanks guys!) for my efforts. If you don't believe me, go to the website in the next few days and check it out for yourself.

Slip and the Slipknots played traditional rockabilly with a classic country feel to it. Very very talented.

Cigar Store Indians also traditional rockabilly- but they are just the slightest bit insane- especially the lead singer. I was right up front for that set too. They played a tribute "Ring of Fire" to Johnny Cash, when Charles finally joined me up in the throng. They slipped easily from this into the Ramones of all things (Hey Ho Let's Go!), during which a slight mosh pit broke out and a poor aging hippy woman practically got trampled. WMNF, you see, being our truly local, truly community owned and run radio station, is home to all the hippies who are still living their dreams, and unfortunately for this woman last night, she ran into the hard rumbling truth of our generation's tendency towards brawling at wild concerts. She was unharmed, except for her humor. All's well that ends well though:

The Dempseys, a mad trio of drummer, bassist and guitarist (but they all switch around and play each other's instruments, and the guitarist also plays the trumpet) all but brought the house down with their INCREDIBLE playing and onstage insanity. Oh my God. Truly, if you ever get a chance to see these psychobilly extraordinaires, do so. Out of Memphis TN, these guys are literally one of the best bands I've ever seen play- regardless of genre. They climb on the acoustic bass, they play a double-necked guitar simultaneously, and they do tribute to all the great guitar players in a 10 minute medley that is a show all on its own. But their talent on their instruments is really unsurpassed.

I am grateful that I get to enjoy such excellent performances from such talented musicians. What a night. The ache in my legs is gone this morning, and I escaped the hangover I should by all rights have at this point. Came away with two tshirts and two new CDs instead. Life is good.

I'm going to go play in the dirt again today.

Much love to all.

Day 40 2005: Valentine's Day is bad for dogs

2005-02-19T06:02:00.000-05:00

Valentine's Day can be hazardous to your dog's health.

After a week of the flu, I had finally started feeling like a normal human being again by Monday the 14th. I actually went to work that day, but didn't work too late- I did, however, wear a bright pink sweater in honor of the manufactured holiday. A day for Hallmark and FTD, really, more than the rest of us. Charles and I decided that our anniversary was more meaningful, it being our specific day. (It was also the day Ford released the first Mustang in 1963, which I take as a good omen.)

In spite of our collective cynicism- Charles, sweetness, in an effort to outshine all his colleagues' spouses (several of his coworkers are married women, many of them recently) made dinner for me. This consisted of seared sushi-grade tuna encrusted with sesame seeds for an appetizer, which was followed by caesar salad, lobster tail (oh oh oh I do love lobster tail), t-bone steak, green beans and a side of angel hair with alfredo sauce. Yellow Tail Cabernet Sauvignon topped it off, along with a vase of bright red tulips- because "roses are fucking boring" in his words.

I'm getting to the part where Valentine's Day hazardous to your dog's health. Caution: this won't be pretty.

Charles, sweet chef, made enough food for a family of six. This is par for the course when he cooks. I, in spite of my plumpness, (which has much more to do with having sat on my ass in front of computer for the last 5 years than binging), am not a big eater. By the time I'd eaten the lobster tail, which was half the size of my arm, the salad, seven green beans, two bites of pasta and two bites of steak, I was disgustingly full. So the rest was leftovers.

Tuesday for lunch I had leftover pasta- not as good heated up in the microwave, but hey, it was fast and cheap and I got to eat at home in the peace and quiet.

Wednesday I had cream of wheat for lunch. I know, but it's comfort food and Wednesday sucked.

Thursday I had more leftover pasta, and pulled out the t-bone and ate it cold with worchestershire sauce. Since Loki got Charles' leftover t-bone on Monday night, I thought it was only fair that Maggie get my leftover t-bone Thursday. She seemed quite delighted.

Alas- we come to the ugly part. Friday morning I departed for work at my first office around 810am. There wasn't much to do at LHC's office, so I left around 1120 and arrived home at 1130 to discover that the poor dog had explosive diarreah inside her kennel crate. Loki, who has almost never relieved himself in the house, pissed all over the floor next to the sofa- I am guessing in distress over Maggie's plight. It was a sight and smell to behold. I hadn't eaten breakfast that morning, and was pretty hungry, so my nose was particularly sensitive at that point.

Maggie started out life a street dog, skinny and seriously undernourished. She was found by some good samaritan in the middle of very large and busy Tampa intersection and was taken to the humane society, where we picked her up only a few days after her incarceration. She is, I suspect as a result of this very early malnourishment, a bit soft in the head. To which Charles usually replies, "Ebeth, she's an idiot." She is also wont to relive her streetlife in the house at times, and has a tendency to go AWOL any chance she gets. If we lived in the country or even the suburbs, this wouldn't be a problem. But we live in a very compact neighborhood in the city limits very near two busy multiple lane roads, so I panic every time she gets loose. As she has a tendency to piss or shit on the floor on occasion, we have kept her kenneled when we leave for the day.

Friday the kennel was carefully carried outside and hosed off during my lunch break. The, uh, rest of the mess that was deposited outside the kennel in a three foot radius around the front entrance of the house was another matter and pretty much ruined my appetite for the day. As the kennel was now outside, wet and drying off in the sunshine, I decided to barricade the dogs in the front entrance (linoleum floor) in case Maggie was still in the process of being ill.

She was.

I came home from my afternoon shift at BLM's office around 7pm to find that Loki had hidden himself behind Harry's chair, and sort of under our bikes, which are in the foyer next to Harry's chair (Harry is Charles' late grandfather on his mom's side, and who gave us a lazyboy recliner many years ago). I saw him first and then slipped and almost fell as I came in, since the mess was directly in front of the door. Maggie was standing with her butt in the farthest corner of the foyer, with a bizarre expression on her face.

Sigh.

Poor dog. Poor Ebbie.

More cleanup.

Oxyclean, antibacterial soap, the last of the papertowels, three pairs of latex gloves, open windows and four hard ciders later, I was feeling swell.

Charles had beers with coworkers last night and arrived home long after all this had taken place, so he got the story and a faint whif of the day's adventures. He was buzzed, and I was buzzed, and we chatted for an hour or so, then fell asleep together on the couch. He says I drooled on him. I didn't drool. The phone rang and woke us up around 1030, at which time we ignored the phone and went to bed- partiers, we are no longer. Gone are the days of clubbing until 4 am. Now, we are buzzed after a few beers/ciders and alseep before 11 on a Friday night.

Charles snored like a goddam freight train last night, and I had strange dreams all night, so I didn't sleep particularly well. Around 515 Loki began wimpering, so I got up and let the dogs out and couldn't go back to sleep.

So, now I sit at my newly assembled dining room table (purchased a couple of weeks ago to fill up the dining room which has been devoid of furniture for a year- but that's another story), drinking lovely, rich dark Peruvian organic coffee and wait for the sun to come up.

On my way home last night, I decided to go to the Home Despot and pick up some topsoil, peat moss and a new hose (the connector of my old one broke yesterday during the cleanup). The dirt is to fill in the large sand pit created by the dogs over the last two years. When I say sand, I don't mean the lovely white sand you get at the beaches a half hour from here. I mean filthy gray sand that tracks its way into my house daily and covers every surface and makes my housekeeping a nightmare. So, this morning, as soon as it is light enough for me to see by- not long from now- I am going to begin filling this hole.

I am going to pick up grass plugs and mulch as well- and I guess some orange temporary fencing to barricade the canines from the area so it will have a chance to fill in and become green again.

Ah, life with dogs.

So, moral of the story is that Valentine's day can be hazardous to your dog. Okay, not necessarily VDay, but t-bones. Loki was undamaged by his bone, but bones are now on Maggie's verboten list. We stopped feeding them Beneful dogfood a while ago, because Maggie was disgustingly flatulent as a result, which often was bad enough to have to evacuate the area for at least ten minutes. A sensitive constitution she has, poor creature.

Day 14 2005 Again

2005-01-14T19:12:00.000-05:00

I am taking the dogs for a quick jaunt- they deserve it after getting baths last night after coping with fleas which they have because I haven't taken them to the vet because I spent all my saved money on going to Albuquerque for Thanksgiving then New Orleans and Nashville for Christmas.

New Orleans is the coolest American city I've ever been to. Go there if you ever have the chance. Stay in the French Quarter and eat breakfast at Petunia's and have lunch at the Napoleon House and dinner at Nola. Stay at the Biscuit Palace and go to the Cafe Du Monde for beignets and cafe au lait. You will not regret it. If you love books, go to the Faulkner House bookstore on Pirate's Alley. If you love croissants, eat them at La Madeleine. You will not regret it.

Day 14 2005

2005-01-14T18:32:00.000-05:00

Can you hear me?

So very very glad it's Friday.

Loki is sleeping in front of the door. Maggie is asleep in Harry's chair.

Music is seeping from the computer in the other room where I abandoned it to check my email on this computer.

It rained today and now it's clear and cold.

My husband sweet man that he is is sharing beers with coworkers after his week.

I am enjoying this little quiet space in my ratty yellow chair and thinking about the iced coffee awaiting me in the refrigerator. I hope that all my friends who read this are doing well and that they know they are well loved from this woman in her 35th year from her little quiet space in south Tampa Florida while Loki snorts in boredom.

I am sure that he and Maggie would be thrilled if I gave up this infernally boring (to him) keyboard and took them for a walk. He's telling me that telepathically right now. Can you hear him? I sure can. Occasionally he'll actually express it verbally with a heaving sigh. Just so you don't worry about me, the canine telepathic communication is a metaphor.