Art of Seeking

When I was in college, I was witness to one of the most controversial moments in Utah Valley University’s history when Michael Moore, the liberal icon of Fahrenheit 911 fame, was a guest speaker. The whole campus was in an uproar. There was a film made about it, called This Divided State. I was sure I had written about it somewhere, but I can’t find any evidence of that. Anyway, the whole thing led me to follow both Michael Moore and Sean Hannity for a short time before my brain exploded from the drama fest bullshit. I don’t want to go into too much detail on this post, but the few moments that really got to me were, first of all, during Sean Hannity’s UVU speech he strutted around goading “here, liberal liberal liberal!” at the audience, and made a show of plucking an (obviously planted, as far as I could tell) guy from the audience while completely ignoring our most famous resident liberal (although I’m not sure how he would react to that designation), Dennis Potter, who was trying to flag Hannity down.

The second thing that struck me was how un- impressionable Michael Moore was in person. He really wasn’t a very good speaker, though he had a couple of points, I guess. Mostly I found him boring. His films were another story.

Third thing: In Bowling for Columbine, he makes a brutally manipulative attempt to use emotions against the audience in a way that was so obvious to me that, although I agreed with the overall point he was trying to address, I could not justify in my mind the means by which he manipulated people to try to get his point across.

Fourth: Also in Bowling for Columbine, the absolute most intelligent person I heard from in the entire ridiculous debate makes his appearance: Marilyn Fucking Manson. There he is, in all his freakish glory, speaking with such depth of mind and reason and vitality that he makes every political personality in every sphere of politics I had seen in that particular three- ring circus, look like defunct kindergarteners trying to explain why all the Lincoln logs should belong to one or the other. It shed some light on something else entirely, for me.

The power, and the uselessness, of offending people.

You see, I’d heard of Mr. Marylin Manson before. I have friends who are big fans, but I could never get into the music. I love metal, but his shit just wasn’t my thing. No matter, really. What I had heard more about was his outlandish style and stage acts that are not for the squeamish. And that’s what it is. An act. He is offending people for the purpose of offending people, because once their eyes are wide open and staring in shock, maybe their ears will open, too. Maybe there’s something in the recesses of the human mind that gapes at staged train wrecks because it is wired to gather information on survival.

Unfortunately, folks like Michael Moore and Sean Hannity- cut from pretty much the same cloth, as far as I can tell- use offense in a different way to provoke people to listen and to act. They point at train wrecks that were staged (or real, with staged effects), and tell people they are real, what caused them, and why they should be angry and who they should be angry at. They completely re- route that thinking thing the brain is supposed to do, and plant conclusions so people don’t actually have to look and listen and discern. They dress in tuxes or in blue- collar clothing, a visage of “normal” that fades into the background as they point and shout at those people you are supposed to hate for what they are doing, for what they did. Don’t think, there’s no time! Act now! Be Angry.

It is very effective, especially when it comes to vulnerable people. The elderly, the mentally ill, the socially isolated, the disadvantaged. These are the people who are targeted because they are the ones who are the most easily manipulated. And they are our parents, neighbors, children, and friends. The more desperate a society becomes, the easier they are to manipulate. Soft, mushy, stressed- the- fuck- out brains for sale.

Then there’s the useless form of offense.

They call it trolling these days, I guess. These folks are all over the internet and in your face in public, now and then, being offensive for the sake of being offensive. As it turns out, in my experience, they are also the most easily offended. Usually by you getting offended by their being offensive, because offending people is a fundamental human right. Well, sure, have your say. But there are actual consequences for saying offensive things, because free speech does not begin and end at “I have a right to offend you.” Other people have a right to speak, too. One hopes that the voices of reason outnumber the voices of the offensively offended, but more and more, it seems like the likes of Moore and Hannity (there are way too many just like them) and their ubiquity in the media have swayed so much of the population, that reason is a dull murmur in the background of all the screaming about who to hate and why.

So now there’s just this horrible background everywhere of insane political views so polarizing that I have finally figured out why people pay attention to shit like the Kardashians.

To get their eyes off the omnipresent staged farce of a train wreck that is our political system; a haphazardly painted backdrop of red, white, and blue to the constant bickering between these cartoon elephants and donkeys. Turn your eyes instead to the sparkly people on the red carpet and their pseudo- problems. Then, the two intertwine, and it all becomes the same- it’s all Celebrity Death Match with celebro-politicians. And everyone is yelling on stage, and in the audience.

We need more Marylin Mansons.

Milk has been one of my arch- nemesis for as long as I can remember. I had tummy trouble all through my childhood and was cut off from dairy for a little while and my parents replaced all dairy foods for me with stuff like Mocha Mix ice cream, but that shit was expensive and we couldn’t afford it for long. One day when I was 13 and my dad had a really good job, my mom noticed me throwing up any time I ate anything dairy, and took me to the doctor’s. This was the glorious era of my childhood that included health insurance. Torturing me at a doctor’s office for four hours led to the eventual discovery that I am lactose intolerant.

I had no idea that this lactose intolerance testing entailed that I would be made to drink a poisonous (to me) substance of pure lactose, and my blood would be drawn every half hour for several hours until I became a dried husk with no sense of space- time and a loud whooshing sound in my ears, incapable of walking or uttering a coherent sentence. Finally, the doctor phased into my blurry, half- conscious vision and emphatically informed me that I would never enjoy ice cream pain- free ever again in my life.

I immediately decided he hated me.

Then my mom drove me straight to school so I could zombie my way through the rest of the day and not learn a fucking thing except that, according to all my nerdly friends, I was really pale and should probably lie down.

I was sentenced to a dairy- free life with no possibility of a baked Alaska, ever. I still occasionally destroyed my innards with a sneaked little bowl of Tin Roof Sundae, but eventually that became impossible even to do rarely. No cream in the coffee anymore, either.  No lasagna or pizza or manicotti. No cream- of- any goddamn thing soup.

And more recently, no soy anything, either. That stuff hurts me even worse than dairy. But– glory be! I can still have nuts. Almonds, hazelnuts, pecans, cashews… and that means, nut milks!

My first cream- of- something soup that I consumed without bloating up and floating away consisted of almond milk and some vegetables. Last week, I created this: a hemp milk- based three onion soup with quinoa and toasted almonds. This is the closest I can remember to how I made it:

Three Onion Soup

1-2 leeks, sliced

1 diced yellow onion

three diced shallots or green onions

1/3 cup quinoa, rinsed and rubbed

4 cups hemp milk

1 tsp salt

black pepper to taste

basil to taste (fresh is best)

1/3 cup Sliced almonds

On medium heat, bring your milk and quinoa to a boil. Toss in your vegetables and reduce to a simmer. Cook on low, covered, for about 20 minutes. Meanwhile, pan- fry your almonds in a bone dry skillet until they are lightly browned, put them into a bowl immediately and set aside. When all the onions are cooked through and the quinoa is tender, ladle the soup into serving bowls and top with the almonds. As far as regular portion sizes, this might serve four. More accurately, it probably serves two. Realistically… I ate the whole damn pot.

You can use millet instead of quinoa, whatever things of the onion family you want, whatever sort of milk you want, and experiment. It’s fun. Really. You know, if you’re not really busy all the time doing fifty other things and just want to sit down and eat some damn soup.

I found an ice cream maker for fourteen bucks at a thrift store. I can do yogurt- especially if I throw in extra probiotics- so I will let you know when I come up with a really cool frozen yogurt recipe.

When I grieve for you

when I see your face, I see a time

when I was on a path I thought would lead

to my security and freedom

and in that time

on that path

Your voice lingers, your eyes stay focused

as they encompass a world

of green and of night, larger than Earth

that is at once familiar and alien to me

A moon that shines on this old path that

did not lead to security

or to freedom.

To explore the planet in your eyes now

seems more plausible to me than

following that path again, it seemed

So practical

but it was a lie to the end that

A vision in the eyes

of a dead man,

a stranger and an artist

seems more truthful and real.

I grieve for you.

I grieved for me.

I wander through the forests of an alien world

glimpsed in a reflection

of a half- awake dream

in search of a new path.

It’s amazing how much your health can effect your mood.

I haven’t let on much about my health problems. That’s more private to me than… whatever else I’ve been complaining about. Maybe complaining is more of a way to distract myself from being in pain all the time. But, things change.

I’m feeling a lot better, for one thing. With the help of some wonderful herbalist/ holistic healing ladies I’ve been working with for the past year, I’ve finally gotten the supplement regimen I need down. I’ve still got a way to go before I’m out of the woods, but I’m no longer in the danger zone.

I am, however, very tired. I hit this wall of sleep around 3 p.m., I take some B vitamins, and I’m good for another few hours before I hit it again. Right now, I’m pretty much half asleep- but still feeling a hell of a lot better than I have in years. Maybe all the cumulative lost sleep is catching up to me.

Sleep will be challenging tonight, as a death metal band will be recording in my basement. My husband may join them, band #2 for him- funny as he’s never been the black metal fan. That would be me. Oh well, I’ve slept through many a Delphic Quorum jam session, I’ll be fine. Maybe, like the Quorum, I’ll find it another kind of lullaby.

I want to try picking up drums again. There are two kits in my basement now, mine and my husband’s bandmate’s. Mine is in much better shape, but his has cymbals, and we don’t have room to set up both kits. We might try combining them. Hooray for double bass drums, but what the hell are we going to do with the destroyed heads on the small toms?? Drumstick holder?

Lately I’ve been narrowing down the list of people I’m willing to hang out with. I’ve discovered that negative people make me feel negative and then I start feeling like shit. So, for the sake of my health, I’ll be pleasant to them and all but I won’t be around much. I’m spending more time with people who help me feel better about the world and- very important- offer intelligent conversation and insight from various points of view. I need that in my life. I need that a lot.

Enough of my rambling. I have to line up my chlorophyll, noni juice, colloidal minerals, magnesium, pau d’ arco tincture, and royal jelly and chase it all with some jasmine green tea.

Funny how so many of my supplements are in liquid form that I use shot glasses more now than I did when I drank.

Is this real, I thought all day.

This movement of my arm. This tin of tea.

Is this thought a real thought,

Is this emotion a true emotion,

Is this person

That I am

This body, these cells

This mind, these impulses and actions

Voluntary and involuntary

My pulse, is it real.

I take the tea from the shelf and

He draws another breath with

The help of a machine.

I turn the stove off.

His liver, kidneys, heart begin to fail.

I pour the boiling water.

They look at his blackened face

The horror that is our friend,

Our rock hounding buddy,

Our percussionist,

Okay fine… our Juggalo.

Our martial arts expert and a hard worker.

What will his boss do without him?

What will his mother.

What will we.

I’ll be brief, as my eyes are burning along with my sinuses and even with screen brightness on the lowest setting, it’s still not easy to focus.

I’m thinking about letting this blog die. At its peak it was doing alright, but for the most part of the past few years I’ve had about four readers that I know of who weren’t spammers. I get spam bullshit all the time, still, but very few actual people who give a shit about what I write.

Obviously I haven’t been here much, anyway. I’m a bit burned out. I used to write a lot more about myself in the hopes that people who liked to fuck with my life for their own entertainment might eventually see me as a human being. Obviously that logic is flawed, as people will read whatever the hell they want into whatever I say or do, anyway, and continue to be fucked up in the head. That’s okay with me, as playing stupid, fucked up games just because it’s the only amusement you get out of life says a lot more about you than it does about me. You know who you are. If you read this at all. I really don’t give a shit if you do. My attempts to show you who I am have shown that I actually see you all as human beings. EQUAL human beings. I don’t think I’ll ever get that much respect from you, considering that I dress funny, I don’t cut my hair, and my past is as checkered as that of two thirds of the other people on this planet.

Anywho.

It’s more likely that the spammers will be the only ones who ever see this, most of them are computers, most others don’t know Americanese from Spaymara, and I’m typing lonely, influenza- fueled words into space that will fade away like so many childhood dreams of flying through space in box cars that are really F- 16’s.

I’m going back to sleep.

I’ve always been a bit long- winded. It’s because I’m afraid of being misunderstood, but people misunderstand anyway. Or just hear what they want to hear. Or all they hear are a series of excuses. Well…

It’s gotten to the point that I’m sick of explaining things, especially as so many people seem to think they should be my first priority. When people see you as inferior, they see everything you say as something trite and useless compared to their inherent quality.

Then there are my poor, long- suffering friends and family. The people who actually matter. I feel bad for them for getting caught with everyone else in the blanket statements I have to use to keep myself from going crazy, and won’t explain things to them anymore.

Most people don’t understand shit about me, anyway, no matter what or how much I’ve told them. My severely restricted diet, for example, makes food preparation time consuming, and time is something I’ve never had a whole hell of a lot of in the first place.

Sometimes, I just don’t want to say “Sorry I couldn’t hear the phone, I was beating some frozen papaya chunks apart with a brick so I could have breakfast,” “Sorry I didn’t get right back to you, I had to smash a few hundred pine nuts for a recipe” “Sorry I couldn’t answer your thirty messages in a row, I had to work then run errands and comfort an emotional teenager and do laundry and fix the dryer door and make a bunch of curried rice and explain Freecycle and no- shows to an irritated landlady wondering what all the crap on my porch is doing there…”

It’s not worth it anymore.

Most of the time, I’ve been on my feet all day, and they hurt. People’s demands turn into white noise in the back of my head while my body demands reprieve.

If folks can’t handle that, too fucking bad.

I’m bloody tired, and I’m putting my feet up.

The problem with a kid growing up and moving out isn’t just that you can’t get them inside and keep them safe when there’s a storm coming, or that you’re pretty damn sure they’re unprepared for the real world. Just like you were when you threw yourself out of your own parent’s home and were really excited for the next week or so, until things got really hairy.

The real problem is, they leave a lot of crap behind. In the case of this particular munchkin, she left almost EVERYTHING. The room she moved into was smaller. She took her mattress and a little table, her favorite tapestries and a few clothes. And now that I’m claiming the room that was once hers, I have a big mess on my hands.

I worked on the floor most of the day, boxing her crap and sweeping. I wasn’t looking forward to opening the closet door, but the closet wasn’t nearly as bad as I had expected. There’s only one box left. A box of things left to her by her grandmother and great- grandmother, whom she never really knew.

Her father and I divorced when she was two. Well, that’s when the divorce was final, anyway. I won’t go into too much detail. I moved out of state with her and her siblings shortly thereafter. Of course, THAT story is far more complicated, too. Read previous posts. Anyway, her dad and his folks eventually moved to Arizona… well, he was all over three states for a while, I don’t know where he is anymore. Frankly I don’t care much. But his mother and grandmother settled in. I last heard from them at least a decade ago, when his older brother died. I sent his mom and grandma cards, talked to grandma on the phone a little.

My daughter talked to her great grandmother on the phone a few times, I’m not sure if she talked to her grandmother. Probably. They never saw much of each other after she was three.

I got a phone call from a guy named Russ a year ago. Grandma Judy had died, and he was sending my daughter a box of her things. I was thinking, a few heirlooms. Maybe jewelry and little things…

What she actually got confused me a bit.

Her purse, untouched, the way it was when she passed away. About seventeen dollars and a few coins in her wallet- her driver’s license, library card… the only thing that had been taken were the car keys from the key chain. Her cell phone. Even her long- johns. There was also a box of embroidered pillowcases and knitted potholders and things.

Great- grandma Dorothy died a few months ago. Another box came in the mail. It was the same deal- her purse, her glasses. An umbrella with puppies on it. A few hair pins.

I was thinking at first that Russ (Judy’s significant other) just hadn’t known what to do with all their stuff, and there was no family around to help him. So he’d shipped it all to the only (available- I won’t go into detail there, either) family she had.

Then I poked around a little and noticed some things. Little notes with items about what keychain Judy used. A picture of a humble little house with a scrawled message: “This was your grandmother’s house.”

I think he really wanted my daughter to know something about the family she never knew, to know them a little better although they were gone. He took extra effort to write those notes, to let her know that these people, were her people. He did his best to keep their memories and histories intact.

For someone who wasn’t related to her, he sure went out of his way. It shows how much he cared about Judy and her mother, and my daughter, as their granddaughter in a distant world. He built bridges for no benefit of his own, but for a teenage girl he didn’t even know.

All I can think of to say is, what a cool guy.

And yeah.. it still is kinda weird…

And I’ll put this box somewhere safe until I can get her a hope chest for all the pretty embroidery.

(Then I get to shampoo the carpets. Yeehaw.)

It’s been quiet. Rather peaceful, really. I’ve just been reading, studying, working (studying mostly at work, a practice my dear colleague Allyson refers to as “literature maintenance”), and trying to get my cluttered house in order.

Sorry about all the poetry. I know it’s not necessarily a bad thing but, I was having serious issues not only communicating through writing but communicating with myself on some of the deepest levels of my being. For the last four years I’ve felt bombarded by influences of people who were toxic to me, but I had convinced myself I needed them if I were going to have the career of my dreams. That dream became a nightmare, then a joke, and finally, the past. I refused to acknowledge and admit to myself for the longest time that it was an unhealthy situation for me. There are other dream careers to pursue, and regardless of some people’s opinions (a.k.a. excuses for treating their fellow human beings like trash), it IS possible to make it in life without playing stupid games. I’m a lot stronger now, I have a lot of good people in the wings. I don’t have to be suffocated by other people’s inflated egos anymore.

I bought myself a book on the psychology of self- deception (okay, and four other books). My daughter Ana is borrowing it while I finish the two books I’m already reading. Although I might start reading Guns, Germs, and Steel too. I will read the psychology book soon, though… it is important to me to understand how my brain works against me, so I can finally stop other people from fucking with it.

I’ve made other, more joyous discoveries. Crio Bru, HCL Pepsin, recipes for teas, a new hill to watch the sunset from, and as always, my husband’s arms. I re- discover them all the time, and every time I hold him I’m in another time and space where there are only us, the earth, and the sky, and we all embrace.

I like the quiet. I like my garden, the mountains, soaking my feet, snuggling with my hunny in front of yet another Star Trek episode. I like my laid- back job, where there is rarely a rush (although it does happen) and people appreciate the information and help I give.

I’m going to get back to my books and flowers and husband and enjoy this day.

I want to go see you.

Although all I can see now is a

stone on the ground

with your name.

Not far from there, your mother,

and Charles

and I drove in the canyons

and saw the ice crystals in the stream

the frost on the pine needles.

She felt at home.

I want to go see you.

There is only a picture here

Of a stone in the ground, bearing your name.

I can almost feel you smiling beyond it.

I can almost feel your embrace

and hear your laughter

and smell candy corn and roses.

I almost want to go see you…

I have somewhere

on an old computer, or maybe an old email

a picture of that

stone

in the ground

with your name…

Cold and dense in the California sun

like you were,

like you were.

I almost want to know

what happened to the trans am

what you wore on your last day

How she felt,

her eyes always so sad.

Maybe you abandoned her, too.

I almost want to see

to feel the ocean breeze again

like on that day

at the beach in Malibu

where you left me with nothing

but all I felt

was freedom.

Do you

feel

freedom,

too?