More bad dreams.

Another bad dream last night.

In the dream, she'd cheated on me with a male friend of ours. The harder I cried, the harder she laughed.

How's that for strange..

Bad Dreams.

Last night I had the strangest dream.

I was face down on the floor in my grandfather's office in their house in Baltimore. I think I bled to death. I got up the next morning and went into the bathroom; when I looked in the mirror I had a big purple splotch where blood had pooled in my face. I realized I was dead. My loved ones were devastated but they couldn't see "me" - I can only assume the me that was wandering around was my "soul" or "spirit" or ghost or whatever - so I had no way to tell them that I was really alright, that everything was fine, that my death was only a physical one. They were in such grief, and I was standing there watching them, completely unable to comfort them. As a spirit, I felt the same as I had alive - it seemed no different, only that there was no tangible bodily form. 

I wonder if that's what really happens when you die. You're really still there, and you have no way to tell your mourning loved ones that even though they'll miss you, you're really okay, that everything is fine. 

Poems of the Skin.

I wrote these one day in anatomy class and wanted to share them here. 

____________________

206 living stones

   give or take

8% of our genes

   are viral

only takes a microscopic

   nothing to cause

disease, disability, death.

   Bones are 25% water

nerve cells bear no repair

   But the body bears 

no worry, for all its duties.

   It may not take a break

Have a coffee and a smoke

   Take a day off from

blood production, 

synapse,

mitosis,

And we have so little appreciation for

the fact that

we.are.so.fragile.

__________________________

God has a nucleus,

membranes and mitochondria

And divides

all the time.

__________________________

Every single day

It is a miracle

That we are alive.

__________________________

For Visions

Some of us dance for life

Some of us dance for death

All of us cry for a vision.

Whether we realize the changes we make

Are the steps of the quest

Whether we sit on the hill

In our minds or on our asses,

We cry for a vision.

Sitting at lunch, locked in the cubicle,

Just before sleep, just after waking,

We are lost in the mire of decision-making.

We close our eyes tightly

Rub the bridges of our noses

Take a deep breath

And wish for light on the path.

We cry for a vision.

___________________________

Fast Eddie

The words on his water bottle said, "Fast Eddie."

And he lost his "r"s due to an origin somewhere

      near the Eastern seaboard.

In his email are hundreds of scientific newsletters

And if he realizes mid-sentence

      that he does not know

Then mid-sentence he'll say

      "I don't know."

And we'll laugh,

Because honesty breaks hearts and barriers

And lowers the the bar of expectation

Between humans.

He could see up close, but not far away --

But I suppose that's true for all of us.

We liken our worlds to glass bowls 

or thin-skinned balloons,

and only a few people are given 

the sharp pins of our trust and hope.

I don't possess a word to describe

the softness of her skin.

Her long fingers stained with nickel and ivory

Her life a delicate composition.

Once I loved a boy with eyes 

like moving water.

But he was smart the way glass cuts.

Our paths diverged before they'd met.

Before him was Eve's counterpart;

volatile, but soft

On the insides of his heavy black clothes

We were exactly what the other needed.

But you, my sweet, our dreams 

are already written

in the lines of our eyes and tired voices

Where has all your joy gone?

The recovery time 

for this kind of amputation - 

a separation of parts - is so long that

I can't see the end of it.

Before you, I wanted to draw the blinds on love

It's too messy and it blinds you

so that when it's gone

You're in total darkness.

I dreamt last night that I was 

searching for you in a tall house

And when I finally found you at the top..

You were happy to see me.

Stupid white people.

Part of a reply I made in daisysdeadair blog. Just felt like saying it here, too.

_________________

Daisy, when I first started reading Rose's comments, I was almost sick with fury. Then I read your comments, and I felt much better. Thank you for expressing the hidden-in-the-textbooks facts that all white people are immigrants, and we were welcome here (unlike the way we whites welcome the 'brown' people in every way, in every century) by the vast majority of the aboriginal peoples until we started acting like assholes. My family came here only a generation ago, but I will still take a white person's responsibility for our ancestors' big fat fuck-up, because if we don't, who the hell will?

I can't stand this right wing, privileged and blind white person bullshit. It makes me sad that people like Rose are so completely disillusioned, that they could possibly think immigrants are making an attempt to enter and ruin our country. If I was living without clean food and water, and watching my family members die in the streets, you can bet your ass I would come to another country for the promise of a few dollars to send home. Which, in my experience, is what most of them are doing. And they aren't happy. They're not happy being separated from their families, and they're not happy being treated like the shit on the bottom of the white man's shoe. (See: blacks from Africa, Natives from "America", and any other non-white culture.)

Why are people so blind to racism? I'll tell you why. Because they've never spent one fucking moment of their lives looking at real, true poverty. And I'm not talking homeless people on American streets. I'm talking kids dying from literal starvation or malnourishment, mothers dying of rape-caused AIDS and no one gives a shit, I'm talking about shacks built out of metal scraps and cow shit, about people with healthy cultures and respectful religions who now live with alcoholism and drug addiction in poverty-level reservations - and, Rose and all you other ingrates - NOT because they're lazy, NOT because they'd rather sit around boozing, NOT because they didn't try hard enough. 

You know why Rose? Because of US. Because of white people. You have a whole hell of a lot of reckoning to do, and most of us white people are afraid. Afraid to look in the mirror and see that where we came from shed more blood than we could ever consciously handle. WE are the ones taking. Takers. Wasichu. Lakota word for white people, roughly meaning 'takers.' It's no coincidence. We take the natural resources, we tell those people their cultures and religions are wrong, and we destroy them. Then we show pictures of them on TV and feel a moment of pity before changing the channel.

Why must copying and pasting in Blogger be such a pain in the ass.

An Ode to My Grandmother.

Grandmother, way up in the sky

Large and round like all grandmothers were at one time

Full with child.

Your light, a translucent layer of fine milk

Laid across all my skin, and cool like an evening breeze.

Your face pure and imperfect.

Silent guardian, tugging the waves back and forth

As Grandfather rises to bring us heat and light

A different kind of light.

And you, like all good women

Know that sometimes, regularly, you need

To go away for a day or so.

And when you return, bulging at the seams

People stop to look at you, and remember

In their own silent way

Whether they know it or not,

That they are deeply, desperately

Related to you.

Since you were born you have tugged at us

Showered us in the concealing illumination

Of your tender but not consuming embrace.

We have prayed to you, we have torn you away

From the breasts of all women, shot them down

As the men thought they could do to you too.

Still you shine. Still you rise.

And so it goes with all women, 

All over the world, for all time.

siiiiiiiiiiigh.

So I just applied for another interpreter position at the High Desert Museum, the most prestigious museum in Central Oregon (one of the only museums), which has natural history, live unreleasable animals, and a huge Native American section. I love this museum. I would love to work at this museum. This museum is closer than the Nature Center. However... I have also applied at this Museum half a dozen times already, and they have never once even called me for an interview. They are probably sick of seeing my resume by now.

But, goddammit, that won't stop me from trying. 

Sigh.

Useless bitching.

Call me lazy, but I hate this process of trying to get a job. I hate rewriting my "Employment History" a thousand times to no avail. I hate not getting a call back for a simple barista position, or having to have two interviews (Starbucks) and then not get hired. I hate, moreover, that I have to apply to Starbucks. 

I hate that this entire society is based on a 40-hour workweek. That you can only be successful and financially independent if you drive yourself into the ground for at least 25 years of your life. I hate that after applying and interviewing for jobs for TWO ENTIRE MONTHS, I am still unemployed. I hate that I have to worry about money and about being employed. I hate that as a student, I still need to struggle to find a job, when the government should be helping me through school so I can be a more productive citizen. (In fairness, I did receive financial aid and that's the only way I'm paying my bills; but if it weren't for my AmeriCorps Education Award, I would have had to use that money to pay for this term, and would still be jobless.)

At the moment, I make about $40 per week walking two awesome dogs on Tuesdays and Fridays. Once I reach 30 hours of work on my internship, I will make another $100. If only this was enough.

My spiritual teacher firmly believes that all things are as they should be; that any lag in employment is reasonable. Just not within our understanding of reason. And to her credit, I must admit that whatever higher power is out there has definitely taken care of my broke ass for the last year. When I hurt my back and couldn't work full time (then, couldn't work at all and had subsequent surgery with a recuperation time), I somehow managed to never be late on a bill or miss a payment. This time around, my bank account actually did hit zero dollars, but not before I was able to deposit my financial aid check. It's a bloody miracle on both accounts; I believe that.

So, obviously I'm being taken care of. My spiritual teacher also says that in these times, instead of driving ourselves in the ground with worry, we should view these in-between-jobs times as "vacations." Now that sounds totally ridiculous, but in fact, it's quite brilliant. It doesn't mean you stop searching for a job or applying, or trying to take care of your finances; what it means is mentally take a break from the worrying and enjoy the free time. Because, quite frankly, once you have a job, that free time will be gone. This of course only works if you have enough money in the bank to last you a month or so, or live with a sexy firefighting girlfriend who makes buttloads of money and is happy to help out when times are hard. 

To be honest, I don't want to have a job. I don't want to work under the thumb of someone under the thumb of someone else, and be underpaid for what I can offer. I hate it. I hate the whole process. So I've tried keeping myself to a standard, but so far that has gotten me nowhere. I have applied to a Nature Center about 30 minutes away (makes me want to vomit to think of the drive) but so far have heard nothing. My problem, besides not wanting to work in this society (underappreciated and underpaid), is that I yearn to do something somewhat important. I can handle slinging coffee, but it would be nice to contribute to society too.

Unfortunately, society is not hiring. 

Empty.

I am so incredibly frustrated. 

Sure, it was only a house, but that house really represented freedom. There was an enormous yard - for gardening, for a dog, for composting, for praying, for having company over, for birdhouses and birdbaths and birdfeeders. There was a fireplace, because we love to heat naturally. There were hardwood floors and a sweet little kitchen. There was a garage for storage so we could spread out a little more, and pack things away that we don't use all the time instead of squeezing them into the small spaces of an apartment. There was space in the garage for the four bikes we have, so they don't have to take up our entire dining room because there's no where else to put them. It was off the main street, it was right in our price range. 

It was perfect, and we didn't get it. 

Sure, it's only a house. But it took us a year to find the perfect one, that allowed pit bulls, and had a huge yard and a beautiful inside. All the others we've looked at that allow pit bulls in our price range have, quite frankly, been dumps. This was a dream house. And we didn't get it. It was freedom - a release from being told what we can do and what we can't do, because as mature adults there is nothing more frustrating. 

Yeah, it was only a house. But I feel like I had it and then lost it. Fuck.