Spring in my walk

Today Lucky and I walked toward the stables where Skip the red horse lives, past a great blue heron hunting gophers at Deep Seeded farm. It was the first time my binoculars were around  my  neck when spotting a heron — a common sight — in the field of long green grass, thistle, Queen Anne’s lace, plantain, clover, mustard, dandelion, that makes up an average pasture near the Arcata Bottoms.

Lucky and I hadn’t been over to see Nick in awhile, instead focusing on getting out to the ocean as often as possible. For almost five years Nick had been penned away from the road, half the length of a football field away from me, but we became friends anyway. He had two stablemates, a white and a big black. The white disappeared, and the black is still penned in the back pasture, but lately — the past several months — Nick has been at the gate near the road, and I can hear him nickering when he hears Lucky’s collar, before we can peer around the hedge and see him waiting for us at the recessed access gate.

Nick must be some sort of show horse because he travels. But he hasn’t traveled lately, although his mane and tail are still neatly clipped. His tail would brush the ground if it hadn’t been cropped straight off  at his hocks. It’s a smart enough look, but he has a mohawk across his back and I think he should have a braided mane, and I think his tail should be done up beautifully too, and he should be regularly groomed and ridden and pampered.

I tell him this, and also that I have some red clover in my garden box, and it will be ready for him in about a month. He is patient with me as I get things off my chest, because he knows the real reason for my visit is to give him any grass, dandelions and clover I can rip up across the street outside of Skip’s pasture. Skip is way off in a pasture far from the road, but I wave to him and shout hello. Skip’s nearest pasture is overgrown with mustard. Skip’s stablemate, a thick-necked chestnut mare named Heidi, died a few years ago.

In autumn several years back, when I had been invited onto the property by the resident kid, I threw an apple toward Skip because I was in a hurry to be on my way, but I wanted him to have it. My aim was poor, and I hit Skip on the rear end, causing him to leap up in surprise and emit a loud fart. I couldn’t help laughing, and then I couldn’t stop laughing. Skip was sore at me for awhile but we became friends again after Heidi died.

Usually when we go to Nick’s there are dogs that go ballistic along the way, but this morning they ignore us. My visit with Nick is satisfying.

We became friends because he was a good listener when I sang to him from 50 yards away. He liked everything — songs Billie Holliday,  Amy Winehouse, Nancy Walker made famous gained a new appreciation from Nick, who most likely had never heard these songs before and would never otherwise have been exposed to the subtle yet rock-hard diamond artistry of these women. He was a great audience. It’s a godsend that he’s not penned away from the road anymore because I can feed him and pet him and show him how much I appreciate what a good listener he is.

 

Our parting was Death

It was like I had been absorbed by a comet hurtling toward the sun. To escape destruction, I bailed, and it was already too late to save most of me. My heart seems like a remnant, a memory of itself.

The fact that I could not be tolerated in the world as I went about my business, that my mere existing deserved punishment is an experience I share with a number of dehumanized victims of state genocide. This cruel targeting of the innocent happens in all levels of society. It happened to me in my own family. I was equally invested in my home and children, but I lost my home, and for a time, I lost my children. I lost my husband forever.

He hadn’t made me love him. I showed up when he needed someone to love him. He was fortunate. As for me, I was the luckiest woman alive. I could still say that, and mean it.

Today as I was commemorating our 20th wedding anniversary I realized all energy manifesting as matter is of divine origin. The ocean is undeniably beautiful, but matter is fundamentally miraculous, possible only by pure and honest love, joy, celebratory cosmic dance of ecstatic union with the Beloved. This is the birthright of everyone and everything. No invention or propaganda can change that, yet this common wisdom is rarely valued.

When you love someone you want them to be happy, so when Dave died, and as much as I hated that he was dead, I encouraged his spirit to not look back, to rely on me to be his friend in the afterlife, to be comfortable knowing I would always channel him, would always welcome his protection and intervention, would want him to rule the Underworld in his stylish fashion, and to know my heart was eternally blossoming with love for him. That even if his death was a mistake, he was not dead to me and never would be.

My feelings for my husband were so much a part of me that I grieve to not be able to hug him or send him a warm text and get one back. Even at court we sometimes got along. We were magnetized by each other, first one way and then the other. Knowing I repelled him was an open wound, so was knowing my love couldn’t help him, that it had a value of absolute zero to him.

There were some hints that things would change for the better. Dave dying did not signify change for the better. He was the kind of person you wanted to keep alive. He was really beautiful, intelligent, and funny. When he sang he ripped your feelings out clear down to your soles. How did he put so much feeling into his vocals? How could that much love live in such great measure in any one person, and how could that person yet be so obviously cracked?

That paradox troubles me more now than it did then. Holding Dave together was an honor because I was supporting a valuable artist. Losing that valuable artist, my children’s father, the love of my life — I guess these things happen. Did my kids deserve to lose their dad? Why wasn’t there a more unified response to his decline? Why the secrecy?

I still can’t listen to his voice very much. It’s too familiar. Not having that voice in my life — and having had it become for a time an instrument of terror — caused me to suffer PTSD, the chronic nature of it anyway. His voice was my sustenance. It was the fine structure constant of my universe, my family, my home.

I picked up this book the other day written by a woman who has relationships with dead people. It’s not a stretch for me, and it’s something I can do for Dave. He deserves me to be faithful to him, his nobility, his majesty. I can truly say that and mean it, and still wish he was here and giving me hell if it meant the kids still had a dad.

Dave, I’m betting you can read this. I am proud of you, and I stand by your ditzy incarnations, and grand iterations, and glorious recapitulations. You are so Boss, you are so YOU. I never met anybody like you, who thought you up, brought you into my life so I could so completely try and fail? I will always be solid for you. For thou art. Thou art. Thou art.

President Trump Stress Disorder

Women. Can’t live without ’em.

Yesterday was International Women’s Day. On Colbert it was revealed the light in the Statue of Liberty’s light went off accidentally. Rose mentioned the night before, just before we went to bed, that this light had been put out in the Statue of Liberty. It seemed deliberate because it had just turned March 8 in New York, and I thought, “Woah, interesting tribute.”

First of all, politics is an interest of mine, and I’m female. Raised in the Bay Area in the 60s and 70s I’m emerged from a left-leaning culture.

The only things I’m good at is parenting and writing. My driving record indicates I’m a good driver, but I’m more lucky than good. I need to acknowledge my spirit driver. His name is John F. Kennedy, and he was publicly executing the office of President of the United States when he was publicly executed on November 22, 1963, a date that will live in infamy.

Recently I dared to watch a 20-year-old documentary on youtube. I have PTSD so I avoid stressful topics like the Rothchilds. Then I watched Sissi, the lavish three-part Austrian film, dubbed French dialogue. (The original German is really beautiful too.)

My geneology is islandic — Azores, Ireland, Great Britain. Water is important to me and I’m a water protector, starting with the 65% water in me and my kids.

Recently the number 137 asserted itself so I’m officially unhinged from any prior reality. One hundred and thirty-seven really saved my bacon because Trump made the presidency trivial, which I admit hurt due to JFK being my driver.

Speaking of Bacon, I picked up a biography of him from Angels of Hope thrift store and fell asleep reading it last night. Judi Bari savages Bacon in one of her most famous talks about how men’s scientific method destroyed women-centered family and medicine cultures. As an average American I had no interest in European history, instead more concerned with earning enough money to pay my bills and getting enough sleep to prevent myself from getting sick and missing work.

As a disabled American and journalism student I caught up on my American and European history. Yes I feel more responsible to the wisdom of those who came before me, but that wisdom is elusive.

For example, I learned that my government declared Native Americans too immature to govern themselves, requiring that they be made wards of the United States. Their immaturity was obvious to everybody, since they had not accepted Jehovah as their one true God and their trial period was over. The United States Supreme Court marshalled this prejudice into law in the early 1800s, thereby permitting manifest destiny to begin its grim occupation of native soil and psyche.

The savage killing issuing from decades of this written and unwritten policy, the smallpox, alcoholism and betrayal thrust on native populations called for eventual justice in the form of reparations, calls unheard in the blaring brutality of the Dakota Access Pipeline.

Concerning the issue of maturity, we know that the prestige of the American presidency is, for mature people, non-existent nowadays, and we can see that the disrespect for women is at the heart of this epic fail that is the current POTUS. So if the light in Lady Liberty spontaneously went out on International Women’s Day, it makes sense to take it as a sign of the times.

Someone posted on last night’s Colbert: “Tourism is a huge part of small town America because they’re all the little places people stop on their ways to the big places. People who don’t think tourism is an American staple are wrong. Our economy, already not the strongest, is going to suffer as we continue to spend more money overseas than we are bringing in simply because we see no value in the world outside our borders. It’s so sad.”

Here’s what I replied: “The people of the United States are generally good but our image doesn’t reflect that, and we have yet to assert ourselves as a unit politically. Our lack of political unity is lamentable, but we should nevertheless organize locally under democratic, sustainable and just principles of governance.”