So I have to spend 3 hours with a group of 10 year olds on Tuesday morning, and the topic is "Geology and Prospecting."
So I'm trying to look up some information on geology, since I know virtually nothing, and trying to find some activities. All I want to know is which impurities cause which colors in common minerals (i.e. iron causes red coloration, copper causes blue coloration, etc).
This is the sentence I just came across, thanks to this Wiki article on iron: [Iron] is produced as a result of stellar fusion in high-mass stars, and it is the heaviest stable element produced by stellar fusion because the fusion of iron is the last nuclear fusion reaction that is exothermic.
God. I think I need a nap. Learning is hard.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
aggravation.
I'm sure I'm blowing this way out of proportion. I'm sure it's nothing. But I'm still annoyed.
Today I mustered the gusto to go to the gym after work. Whilst getting a drink from the water fountain, I noticed a legal-sized questionnaire entitled, "Application to Date (Gym Owner)'s Daughter." What followed were a list of questions and mildly entertaining multiple choice questions such as, "How long do you think it would take me to bury your body?"
In the section of personal questions like birthdate and social security number, one question asked something about parents. The following query is what caught my attention: "Is one male and one female? Y___ N___" Below that, "If "No," explain: _____________."
Now, it wasn't like it said, "I hate homosexuals." But that, combined with the "Can I pray for you? (just ask)" tshirts that they sell at the desk and the fact that Fox News is on 24 hours a day on at least one television, all comes together to put a bad taste in my mouth. Not to mention the maker of said application isn't particularly pleasant when you have to interact with him.
One of the gym monkeys that works there saw me looking at it and laughed out loud. "That's great, isn't it?" says he. I wrinkle my brow and reply, "Actually I find some of this offensive." He asked what and I told him, explaining that "not everyone hates gays." He replied, "Well, those are just his beliefs." I placed the application back in its holder, said, "Well, this is public place and people pay to be here," and stalked off like an angry housecat. My headphones were still in so I didn't hear what he said, but I was so aggravated I cut my workout short and left.
Maybe it's meaningless and maybe the gym monkey was right - the owner does own the gym and who's to say he can't publicly display his conservative ignorance? I just don't remember signing something in my membership agreement that said so.
This probably wouldn't have aggravated me so much except for watching this video last night about a young girl completely rejected by her family because she doesn't agree with some of the views held by the Westboro Baptist Church (the people that picket funerals of gay people with signs that say "God Hates Fags"). After watching this video, I sat back for a second and pictured myself at an event where they people were picketing. Although it takes a great deal for me to become violent, I almost immediately pictured myself attacking someone, holding onto their hair until I was dragged off by others. This is a group of people that could make a relatively peaceful person hatefully, hatefully violent. Watch the video and maybe you'll understand.
Anyway. Maybe the whole gym thing isn't a big deal, but it annoyed me. As though if you had two parents which were not one-male/one-female, there would be a need to explain.
Today I mustered the gusto to go to the gym after work. Whilst getting a drink from the water fountain, I noticed a legal-sized questionnaire entitled, "Application to Date (Gym Owner)'s Daughter." What followed were a list of questions and mildly entertaining multiple choice questions such as, "How long do you think it would take me to bury your body?"
In the section of personal questions like birthdate and social security number, one question asked something about parents. The following query is what caught my attention: "Is one male and one female? Y___ N___" Below that, "If "No," explain: _____________."
Now, it wasn't like it said, "I hate homosexuals." But that, combined with the "Can I pray for you? (just ask)" tshirts that they sell at the desk and the fact that Fox News is on 24 hours a day on at least one television, all comes together to put a bad taste in my mouth. Not to mention the maker of said application isn't particularly pleasant when you have to interact with him.
One of the gym monkeys that works there saw me looking at it and laughed out loud. "That's great, isn't it?" says he. I wrinkle my brow and reply, "Actually I find some of this offensive." He asked what and I told him, explaining that "not everyone hates gays." He replied, "Well, those are just his beliefs." I placed the application back in its holder, said, "Well, this is public place and people pay to be here," and stalked off like an angry housecat. My headphones were still in so I didn't hear what he said, but I was so aggravated I cut my workout short and left.
Maybe it's meaningless and maybe the gym monkey was right - the owner does own the gym and who's to say he can't publicly display his conservative ignorance? I just don't remember signing something in my membership agreement that said so.
This probably wouldn't have aggravated me so much except for watching this video last night about a young girl completely rejected by her family because she doesn't agree with some of the views held by the Westboro Baptist Church (the people that picket funerals of gay people with signs that say "God Hates Fags"). After watching this video, I sat back for a second and pictured myself at an event where they people were picketing. Although it takes a great deal for me to become violent, I almost immediately pictured myself attacking someone, holding onto their hair until I was dragged off by others. This is a group of people that could make a relatively peaceful person hatefully, hatefully violent. Watch the video and maybe you'll understand.
Anyway. Maybe the whole gym thing isn't a big deal, but it annoyed me. As though if you had two parents which were not one-male/one-female, there would be a need to explain.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
wealth.
A message to myself, and, by proxy, to you:
Listen, if your thoughts about money focus on your complete lack of it, you will not gain more. When you feel the feelings of lack, the feelings of not-enough, of I'll-never-get-ahead, then you are ensuring that you don't have enough and will never get ahead.
When you recognize the wealth that do you have, are grateful for that wealth, are grateful for being taken care of, you will find more wealth in your life. If you focus on the feelings of have-plenty, have-so-much-I-can-give-it-away, you will see more wealth.
It's time to believe in your own wealth. It's time to attract what you want, not just what you need, into your life. It's time to stop agonizing, to stop spending tears on something as completely illusory as money. It's time to have as much as you want.
Listen, if your thoughts about money focus on your complete lack of it, you will not gain more. When you feel the feelings of lack, the feelings of not-enough, of I'll-never-get-ahead, then you are ensuring that you don't have enough and will never get ahead.
When you recognize the wealth that do you have, are grateful for that wealth, are grateful for being taken care of, you will find more wealth in your life. If you focus on the feelings of have-plenty, have-so-much-I-can-give-it-away, you will see more wealth.
It's time to believe in your own wealth. It's time to attract what you want, not just what you need, into your life. It's time to stop agonizing, to stop spending tears on something as completely illusory as money. It's time to have as much as you want.
landscape.
When I first moved to Central Oregon, I was startled by the monotony of the landscape. That is to say, I was horrified and was mildly concerned that I'd made a mistake by moving here. In Maryland, the land (that isn't taken up with buildings or highways, anyway) is saturated with green. And I don't mean just any green. I mean the green of life: deep, bright, lush. The Mid-Atlantic has a mild winter low in terms of temperature and an early spring, which allows a wide variety of plants to flourish.
Central Oregon, by comparison, sports frozen ground for part of the winter and extremely dry summers. We're only two inches of precipitation per year away from being an actual desert. Needless to say, moving from the doorstep of the Chesapeake Bay to a land that only sees a few violent thunderstorms' worth of rain per the three-month (and that's a pretty strict three months) summer was a shock to my system. I resented the gray-green of juniper and even the tall, majestic ponderosas that dominate the landscape. Even though they're completely different plants, the sagebrush, rabbitbrush, and bitterbrush all rolled together; a family of mid-sized shrubs that hurt if you brushed up against them and seemed to hold less nutrition for wildlife than the volcanic ash that covers the ground. The soil is dead, there's no water, and there are about five dominating plant species.
It was hard in the beginning. But I found that this year my love for the sagebrush steppe's plant community flourished because of one saving grace that managed to speak my language in a way I hadn't expected: wildflowers.
Splashes of blue, pink, red, and yellow against the sandy, gray ash tugged at my spirit until I realized that these tiny fireworks of vitality would not only save me from the painful disconnect I've felt from the floral community, but would teach me about survival in an unforgiving landscape.
My forests of home are mixed deciduous forests of beech, birch, tulip poplar (not a poplar at all, but such a beautiful name I can't discontinue its use), black walnut, and oak. Hidden pockets of ironwood enticed me to run my hands along sinewy branches, taut like the muscles of a young man in his prime. The breathtaking orange and yellow tulip-like flowers that gave Liriodendron its common name, which, when disturbed or spent, float to the forest floor from stories above like a floral rain. Magnolia trees stand not-so-tall so you can push your face into their huge, white, fantasy blooms. Grape vines hang, rose canes reach, raspberries secretly develop their drug-like drupelets.
Shortsighted man, once more, had produced exactly the opposite of what he'd meant to do. Now, because fires are completely stomped out instead of being allowed to burn, they're hotter, more intense, do more damage, and take the lives of firefighters and homes of civilians every year. Stifling fire allowed understory to explode which means more stuff to burn.
So, this is a forest that needs a haircut. Despite the legacy that the innocent Smoky Bear left behind, I have learned to love this forest of sand and little water. The shade is cool. The flickers are loud. The lizards are lightning-fast. And the wildflowers, against all odds, produce explosions of color and shape. Sulphur Buckwheat has round leaves low to the ground and literally neon-yellow umbels on tall stalks. Purple penstemon that bleeds into blue rise above the ground and seduce pollinators. Oregon Sunshine stands in yellow bunches, while Paintbrush rises delicately with its feathery red plumes lifting towards the sky. Globemallow is almost a dream, a confusion of red and orange blossoms on long green stalks that float above the parched earth.
Central Oregon, by comparison, sports frozen ground for part of the winter and extremely dry summers. We're only two inches of precipitation per year away from being an actual desert. Needless to say, moving from the doorstep of the Chesapeake Bay to a land that only sees a few violent thunderstorms' worth of rain per the three-month (and that's a pretty strict three months) summer was a shock to my system. I resented the gray-green of juniper and even the tall, majestic ponderosas that dominate the landscape. Even though they're completely different plants, the sagebrush, rabbitbrush, and bitterbrush all rolled together; a family of mid-sized shrubs that hurt if you brushed up against them and seemed to hold less nutrition for wildlife than the volcanic ash that covers the ground. The soil is dead, there's no water, and there are about five dominating plant species.
It was hard in the beginning. But I found that this year my love for the sagebrush steppe's plant community flourished because of one saving grace that managed to speak my language in a way I hadn't expected: wildflowers.
Splashes of blue, pink, red, and yellow against the sandy, gray ash tugged at my spirit until I realized that these tiny fireworks of vitality would not only save me from the painful disconnect I've felt from the floral community, but would teach me about survival in an unforgiving landscape.
My forests of home are mixed deciduous forests of beech, birch, tulip poplar (not a poplar at all, but such a beautiful name I can't discontinue its use), black walnut, and oak. Hidden pockets of ironwood enticed me to run my hands along sinewy branches, taut like the muscles of a young man in his prime. The breathtaking orange and yellow tulip-like flowers that gave Liriodendron its common name, which, when disturbed or spent, float to the forest floor from stories above like a floral rain. Magnolia trees stand not-so-tall so you can push your face into their huge, white, fantasy blooms. Grape vines hang, rose canes reach, raspberries secretly develop their drug-like drupelets.
The ponderosa forest is a very different one. For one thing, it's been around for hundreds of years; it was never leveled to create farmland, then replanted (or left to become a forest once more). These "ponderous" pines, at least some of them, have been growing for centuries. Granted, most of the old growth is limited because ponderosa is one of the leading lumber-woods in North America, but these Standing Ones are relentlessly impressive. Below them, depending on elevation, grows bitterbrush or manzanita. Before the invention of the US Forest Service, small or medium wildfires moved through, burning out most of the understory, leaving large, park-like grassy meadows between the sentient trees. Thanks to the shortsightedness of the people that took over this land, wildfires were halted for a good 60 years. For the ecosystem, that meant more underbrush, taller underbrush, and fewer pine trees which depend on intense heat to open cones and signal seeds. Wildfires, when they start from lightning strikes, now climb up the understory and into the trees. If the fire reaches the "crown," or top of the tree, the tree dies. The burning of matter on the ground replenished the soil and encouraged fleshy plants to grow, supporting wildlife.
Shortsighted man, once more, had produced exactly the opposite of what he'd meant to do. Now, because fires are completely stomped out instead of being allowed to burn, they're hotter, more intense, do more damage, and take the lives of firefighters and homes of civilians every year. Stifling fire allowed understory to explode which means more stuff to burn.
So, this is a forest that needs a haircut. Despite the legacy that the innocent Smoky Bear left behind, I have learned to love this forest of sand and little water. The shade is cool. The flickers are loud. The lizards are lightning-fast. And the wildflowers, against all odds, produce explosions of color and shape. Sulphur Buckwheat has round leaves low to the ground and literally neon-yellow umbels on tall stalks. Purple penstemon that bleeds into blue rise above the ground and seduce pollinators. Oregon Sunshine stands in yellow bunches, while Paintbrush rises delicately with its feathery red plumes lifting towards the sky. Globemallow is almost a dream, a confusion of red and orange blossoms on long green stalks that float above the parched earth.
And Bitterroot, of all, a flower that bears so little leaf that it's easy to miss altogether. White or pink blooms sitting on the ground with fleshy roots that served as food for the local First Tribes. These creatures became my salvation: when I find them, it's always a surprise. I stand and marvel, lay on my belly and gently stroke their petals, examine their throats for bees, take photo after photo. And, sometimes, they give me something besides beauty: two mornings ago I took the dog for a walk in the forest and a mosquito bite was driving me crazy. I found some yarrow, chewed a small piece of its minty, sticky leaf, and applied the poultice to the bite. It immediately stopped itching and shrunk down. Today, it's gone. I left a few strands of my hair on the plant to show my respect.
It's taken a long time, but the dry heat of the summer sun, the towering snow-capped mountains, and the perpetual surprise of wildflowers have finally tied this landscape into my heart.
Even the cactus, resented for its ability to stab, produces a profusion of beauty in the summertime. Creamy yellow flowers open unexpectedly on the fleshy green pads, amidst the long, sharp spines. A desert rose, to be sure.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
big decisions.
I am in a terrifying place right now, and I'm going to blog about it because when people are heartbroken, no one ever knows what to do and it's awkward. Well, it's human nature, and the best thing you can do is just something. I hate the phrase, "I don't know what to say." I get that often when I'm going through a hard time, maybe because I'm usually the one that does the saying when the roles are reversed. The fact is, you "not knowing" what to say makes it about you, when in fact, it's about the person going through the hardship.
What then, should you say? Your best bet is to say something comforting, or just to make physical contact and hold it there for a while. You don't have to "know" what to say; knowing is about the brain. Using your heart ensures that what you say won't be hurtful. Tell a story about your own life, your own hardship, and how you managed to pull through, and that no matter *what*, everything will eventually be okay. Maybe a lot of people don't want to hear, "Everything is going to be alright," but I know I do. It reminds me that - oh, yeah, - this isn't the end. Eventually pain fades and you are able to take the reins again.
My partner and I are facing a split. We've been together for four years and things just aren't working right for some reason. We can't pinpoint it, which makes it all the harder. If it was as easy, say, as infidelity, then things would at least move along. When you're in love but things aren't working, it's just flat out devastating. It consumes my thoughts; I'm not one of those lucky people who can put it away until later. I've been crying since I got up this morning, about an hour ago. And I cried for about an hour last night. My heart feels like it's full of lead: it's hard, really, to face anything. I don't think I could stay out in this small town if we parted ways, which means I would consider moving back home to the East Coast. This kind of ghost decision-making is absolutely exhausting. I really wish I could just pull the emotion out of me like a floppy disk and set it aside long enough to figure out the best thing to do next.
But now I'm going to tell you why this day of my birthday vacation has been really, really amazing. Even though I cried this morning and felt a great deal of heartbreak, I had a long conversation with my mother back home in Maryland. She was (is) not stoked on her daughter being "gay," (I'm not sure she's aware of the word "bisexual" or if it would make any difference to her), but because I'm her only child she was determined to do her best to support me. She's always been kind to my partner, which is all I can ask, and has listened to my pain with an open heart.
She reminded me that what I'm going through is normal, that heartbreak hurts, that it lasts a while and it's messy. She told me about her truest love that she'd been with for years, but they just couldn't work it out. They were better off friends than lovers, so while living in the same home, they moved into different rooms. Because they couldn't refuse being attracted to each other, my mother made the strong decision to move out. While she was telling me the story, she grumbled the last part: that, when she moved out, she ended up moving in with a friend of his who was into coke, cheating on his women, and being a poor father to his children. I believe her exact words were, "And then I had to move in with that fucking idiot." My mom's not a cusser in front of me. What's funny, however, is that the fucking idiot turned out to be my dad when he so manipulatively wooed my mother. Once he found out she was pregnant he told her to get an abortion and then abandoned her when she didn't.
To her grumbling, I replied, "Well mom, if not for that fucking idiot, you wouldn't have me." I could hear her light up on the other side without her saying anything. "Yes, I suppose that's true," she mused.
About the situation in my home, she looked at it from a very matter-of-fact perspective: either things don't work out and she'll fly out to move me back home to Baltimore for a while, or things work out and I stay here. Her factual, straight-cutting way of looking at the next few months made it that much easier to face today. She may not be the most diplomatic, sugar-sweet woman you'll ever meet, but goddammit, she's my mother and she always knows what to say to comfort me. Even if it includes a little dad-bashing.
Then, after taking some attivan to calm my brain down from being emotionally out of control, the dog and I took a drive out to the Cascades Lakes Highway, which is a stretch of highway winding through the central Cascade mountain range. On this highway there are dozens of alpine lakes, Todd Lake and Sparks Lake being my two favorites. Todd Lake was once called Lost Lake, and that's what I like to call it, because I HATE when natural things are named after people, especially if those names belonged to white explorers. At least if they're named after First Nations' people, they'd be local and make sense. Screw you, Todd.
Lost Lake is a 47-acre lake that is under snow most of the year due to its high altitude of 6100 feet, and is surrounded by moist meadows, which are then further surrounded by a coniferous ridge. At the far end of the lake, Mt. Bachelor rises above the treeline; it's really a purely magical place. This time of year, the lake is surrounded by shooting stars, paintbrush, and a couple others I can't identify.
I put the dog's backpack on to make him good and tired by the end of it all (which, fyi, worked because he's passed out right here next to me). Here's a recap of my awesome day.
What then, should you say? Your best bet is to say something comforting, or just to make physical contact and hold it there for a while. You don't have to "know" what to say; knowing is about the brain. Using your heart ensures that what you say won't be hurtful. Tell a story about your own life, your own hardship, and how you managed to pull through, and that no matter *what*, everything will eventually be okay. Maybe a lot of people don't want to hear, "Everything is going to be alright," but I know I do. It reminds me that - oh, yeah, - this isn't the end. Eventually pain fades and you are able to take the reins again.
My partner and I are facing a split. We've been together for four years and things just aren't working right for some reason. We can't pinpoint it, which makes it all the harder. If it was as easy, say, as infidelity, then things would at least move along. When you're in love but things aren't working, it's just flat out devastating. It consumes my thoughts; I'm not one of those lucky people who can put it away until later. I've been crying since I got up this morning, about an hour ago. And I cried for about an hour last night. My heart feels like it's full of lead: it's hard, really, to face anything. I don't think I could stay out in this small town if we parted ways, which means I would consider moving back home to the East Coast. This kind of ghost decision-making is absolutely exhausting. I really wish I could just pull the emotion out of me like a floppy disk and set it aside long enough to figure out the best thing to do next.
But now I'm going to tell you why this day of my birthday vacation has been really, really amazing. Even though I cried this morning and felt a great deal of heartbreak, I had a long conversation with my mother back home in Maryland. She was (is) not stoked on her daughter being "gay," (I'm not sure she's aware of the word "bisexual" or if it would make any difference to her), but because I'm her only child she was determined to do her best to support me. She's always been kind to my partner, which is all I can ask, and has listened to my pain with an open heart.
She reminded me that what I'm going through is normal, that heartbreak hurts, that it lasts a while and it's messy. She told me about her truest love that she'd been with for years, but they just couldn't work it out. They were better off friends than lovers, so while living in the same home, they moved into different rooms. Because they couldn't refuse being attracted to each other, my mother made the strong decision to move out. While she was telling me the story, she grumbled the last part: that, when she moved out, she ended up moving in with a friend of his who was into coke, cheating on his women, and being a poor father to his children. I believe her exact words were, "And then I had to move in with that fucking idiot." My mom's not a cusser in front of me. What's funny, however, is that the fucking idiot turned out to be my dad when he so manipulatively wooed my mother. Once he found out she was pregnant he told her to get an abortion and then abandoned her when she didn't.
To her grumbling, I replied, "Well mom, if not for that fucking idiot, you wouldn't have me." I could hear her light up on the other side without her saying anything. "Yes, I suppose that's true," she mused.
About the situation in my home, she looked at it from a very matter-of-fact perspective: either things don't work out and she'll fly out to move me back home to Baltimore for a while, or things work out and I stay here. Her factual, straight-cutting way of looking at the next few months made it that much easier to face today. She may not be the most diplomatic, sugar-sweet woman you'll ever meet, but goddammit, she's my mother and she always knows what to say to comfort me. Even if it includes a little dad-bashing.
Then, after taking some attivan to calm my brain down from being emotionally out of control, the dog and I took a drive out to the Cascades Lakes Highway, which is a stretch of highway winding through the central Cascade mountain range. On this highway there are dozens of alpine lakes, Todd Lake and Sparks Lake being my two favorites. Todd Lake was once called Lost Lake, and that's what I like to call it, because I HATE when natural things are named after people, especially if those names belonged to white explorers. At least if they're named after First Nations' people, they'd be local and make sense. Screw you, Todd.
Lost Lake is a 47-acre lake that is under snow most of the year due to its high altitude of 6100 feet, and is surrounded by moist meadows, which are then further surrounded by a coniferous ridge. At the far end of the lake, Mt. Bachelor rises above the treeline; it's really a purely magical place. This time of year, the lake is surrounded by shooting stars, paintbrush, and a couple others I can't identify.
I put the dog's backpack on to make him good and tired by the end of it all (which, fyi, worked because he's passed out right here next to me). Here's a recap of my awesome day.
Broken Top mountain from Lost Lake.
For some reason the dog LOVES to smear himself all over snow.
Mischief.
Shooting Star.
Paintbrush.
Baby Western Toads are finally out of the lake and making a break for it!
Wildflowers in bloom.
Mt. Bachelor behind the Lake.
Mt. Bachelor and the lake's outgoing stream.
In my immediate future? A get-together with my favorite craftsperson. Hopefully she'll be able to give me some tips on altering cheap clothes I bought but need a little tweaking to fit right. She's good at that stuff. Then, tomorrow, Portland is on the agenda. Although I wish my heart was in better spirits, my birthday vacation is certainly giving me a good mental break from work.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
wisdom.
Sometimes, when I obviously have nothing better to do, I ponder the meaning of "wisdom." When are you wise? How do you know you have wisdom? How come most wisdom resides with older people?
Here's what I've figured out so far: knowledge is all inside the brain. Knowledge is facts. Wisdom, though, seems to be those facts getting translated through the heart. Wisdom, it appears, needs some level of compassion or heartbreak or joy in its purist form, to be real wisdom. You can't be wise if you don't use your heart. One's knowledge, moved through the heart, becomes wisdom.
There's my deep thought for the week. I need a nap.
Here's what I've figured out so far: knowledge is all inside the brain. Knowledge is facts. Wisdom, though, seems to be those facts getting translated through the heart. Wisdom, it appears, needs some level of compassion or heartbreak or joy in its purist form, to be real wisdom. You can't be wise if you don't use your heart. One's knowledge, moved through the heart, becomes wisdom.
There's my deep thought for the week. I need a nap.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
sacred water
Jennie and I are good
at finding sacred water.
We don't know it at first
but the clean rushing earth-blood
swirling around us
pulls us
purifies us
cools us
awakens us.
We put the pepper of watercress on our tongues
and chew on wild mint.
We debate over sedges
and slide holy stones into our pockets.
We watch for rattlesnakes
and sinkholes that could suck us
into the bowels of the mother
and end our lives
by filling our lungs with hers.
When we are not watching
the water sweeps us away
opens our eyes, our hearts burst.
Beneath the big trees
Or by twisted juniper
I pull off my shirt
to be submerged.
I want to be
saturated.
I want to absorb the medicine
flowing
crashing
slapping around me.
To pull it through my flesh
Throw it up against my face
Blessing myself, water up over my head
Breathing the water through my arms and legs
like our ancestors before they left
the water for good.
Jennie asks to take my picture;
she's drifting in a daze
Stifled with beauty
Wordless with the heady mixture
of scalding sunlit air and
the cold spring.
The heat of the desert sets into your flesh
like a burn that won't go away.
In the sacred water places
We are reborn
rebirthed
pushed through the canal
bathed in the fluids of life
amniotic
The burn is soothed.
Jennie and I are good
at finding sacred water.
We climb over fences
Step carefully around hot stones
or lie on them flat like lizards.
We move in the water slowly
Naiads in a dream
as ancient as the water itself.
We reenter the womb.
Jennie and I are good
at finding sacred water.
We are safe in the sacred waters,
but strong medicine carries risk
and we are always
in danger of drowning.
To show respect, I cut off
some of my hair
And leave it in the wet sand.
When we are able to pull ourselves away
we are quiet.
There is nothing to say
after you remember that you're alive.
at finding sacred water.
We don't know it at first
but the clean rushing earth-blood
swirling around us
pulls us
purifies us
cools us
awakens us.
We put the pepper of watercress on our tongues
and chew on wild mint.
We debate over sedges
and slide holy stones into our pockets.
We watch for rattlesnakes
and sinkholes that could suck us
into the bowels of the mother
and end our lives
by filling our lungs with hers.
When we are not watching
the water sweeps us away
opens our eyes, our hearts burst.
Beneath the big trees
Or by twisted juniper
I pull off my shirt
to be submerged.
I want to be
saturated.
I want to absorb the medicine
flowing
crashing
slapping around me.
To pull it through my flesh
Throw it up against my face
Blessing myself, water up over my head
Breathing the water through my arms and legs
like our ancestors before they left
the water for good.
Jennie asks to take my picture;
she's drifting in a daze
Stifled with beauty
Wordless with the heady mixture
of scalding sunlit air and
the cold spring.
The heat of the desert sets into your flesh
like a burn that won't go away.
In the sacred water places
We are reborn
rebirthed
pushed through the canal
bathed in the fluids of life
amniotic
The burn is soothed.
Jennie and I are good
at finding sacred water.
We climb over fences
Step carefully around hot stones
or lie on them flat like lizards.
We move in the water slowly
Naiads in a dream
as ancient as the water itself.
We reenter the womb.
Jennie and I are good
at finding sacred water.
We are safe in the sacred waters,
but strong medicine carries risk
and we are always
in danger of drowning.
To show respect, I cut off
some of my hair
And leave it in the wet sand.
When we are able to pull ourselves away
we are quiet.
There is nothing to say
after you remember that you're alive.
I don't believe.
my father saw me first
as a weapon
and then
as an impediment.
my grandfather
with whom I built snowmen
with whom I caught the baseball
and whom I caught smoking on the cement back steps -
he stopped.
my grandfather saw me as a seed
but lost interest in tending the garden
when my bloom didn't take the shape he had anticipated.
the men I loved
crushed me
scared me
held me
loved me
hurt me
would have died for me.
but the fathers I had
left me with no notion
that I was something to be kept.
I watch other men
with their wives
children
and I don't believe.
they are caricatures
playing a game
illusions in cologne
holding plastic baby bottles
cradling their women in strong arms
protecting -
loving -
lusting -
but not real.
something missing.
I don't believe.
as a weapon
and then
as an impediment.
my grandfather
with whom I built snowmen
with whom I caught the baseball
and whom I caught smoking on the cement back steps -
he stopped.
my grandfather saw me as a seed
but lost interest in tending the garden
when my bloom didn't take the shape he had anticipated.
the men I loved
crushed me
scared me
held me
loved me
hurt me
would have died for me.
but the fathers I had
left me with no notion
that I was something to be kept.
I watch other men
with their wives
children
and I don't believe.
they are caricatures
playing a game
illusions in cologne
holding plastic baby bottles
cradling their women in strong arms
protecting -
loving -
lusting -
but not real.
something missing.
I don't believe.
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