So FINALLY I have the sort of boyfriend who will lie in bed with me, being lazy and fantasizing about ...
... how GREAT it would be to have a tank*! Yay, me!
I was telling him that I’d always wanted one of those mini-bulldozers, anyway, and wouldn’t that make a great little cute little tank? (moogiemoogiemoogie!) I mean, it’d be really hard to actually hurt much with it... I probably couldn’t run over a whole bunch of po-lice (pronounced 'po-leese') cars or any, um, completely random and hypothetical auto body detailing shops... near Tryon. But actually in South Carolina....
... durnit.
Chris then said that it might be neat to just build something to squush**, and we began to dream up this GREAT "installment/performance art" idea.
What I would do is get some nice city to lend us a bit of park area (which we would take good care of while we did this). We would designate our work area, and then set up two building spaces in there (cordoned, and with good safety parameters, of course.). One corner would be the place for building the tank onto the minicrawler. The other would be for the building construction. I would get a crew together, six people total, maybe. Three for the buildings, three for the tank, (ooh, paintball gun turrets, loudspeaker…) and we could interchange between building projects as needed. For example, we’d probably need all six to lower the tank shell over the crawler frame... Maybe 8 people, who knows. Six seems about right, though. We could spend, say, 42 days, camping on site, and building this little tank and this little ‘city’. Maybe we could get an outside crew – like my brother – to build some little scale cop cars… mooowahahaha! The public could come and watch us do this, all throughout the process. At the end, I would get to climb into that little tank and RAMPAGE!!! RAAAR! YEAH! WHEEEEE!
Wouldn’t you like to come see that? And kids would LOVE it. We could take up donations to pay for the materials, and, and, and, maybe they’d let me keep the tank...
No?
Oh well.
So, if any wealthy art aficionados read this, or any brave city managers with something extra in the budget for community art, or anyone with a used minicrawler they’d like to donate, then please, sign my guestbook and let me know! We’d LOVE to bring this show to YOUR town!
Support the arts!
love,
-s

*you know, after reading this sentence, I thought 'wow. What a couple of weirdos. We deserve each other.'
**that’s pronounced "skwuhsh". rhymes with "mush", as in "rooms".

Today's rant is courtesy of Aunt Sue. I wrote her a long e this morning and realized that it encapsulated today's news just fine. I did edit out a personal thing or two, just so Susie and I could keep some things between us, but I didn't think she'd mind me sharing the news. I left in the good links I sent her, too.
Much love,
-Sam

Good morning, SusieQ!
Well, I got depressed last night and did something drastic. I did the SECOND worst thing a woman can do when she is down and craving change (#1 is getting married.) I cut my hair.
I've only ever trimmed my bangs before - never the "full nelly". My early attempts at cutting my bangs were TERRIBLE. I put up with months of bad hair after those miserable failures (one right before my wedding. *sigh*). I finally learned to trim my bangs nicely - and sparingly (thanks to Baron, my wonderful barber), but that took about 30 years!
Last night we were trying to get ready to go to Asheville to see our friends' sitcom, like we always do on Wednesday night, and I felt fat, and yukky, and discontent with my whole life. I cried, threatened to shave my head, quit my job, run away from home, etc. and poor Chris sat there with me and encouraged me to tell him all. I did - and he still likes me (go figure), but then I convinced him to go on without me, because it was his birthday-eve, and our friends were expecting us.
As soon as he was out the door, I got up, poured a glass of wine, and went straight to the bathroom and got the scissors. Nearly two hours later - the glass of wine still almost untouched (if you can believe THAT!) I had me one of the cutest little haircuts you have ever seen! It's a nice, neat little 20's bob, slightly longer at the front than the back, which is cut close to my hairline at my neck, in a little curving arch. Yes, I even managed to cut the back myself! I still have some chin-length curls to frame my face and set off mama's cheekbones, too. I can't wait to see Baron and ask his opinion. I don't think he'll be mad at me for cutting it myself. He has often told me that he believed I'd be a really good hairdresser. The last time I went for a trim, I told him that if I was a hairdresser, I would think of each head as a sculpture, and then cut the hair like that, so when I pulled out the scissors last night, that's what I thought about. That's also why it took so long - that, and trying to get to the !@#$ back! ;)
I thought you'd be proud of me for that. We both know that it could have been a TERRIBLE disaster, too. In fact, probability-wise, it should have been. I found out this morning, when I called to see if he'd be in after I get off of work, that Baron (and his parents, the other two employees of Smith's Barber Shop) have gone to DC, and won't be back for DAYS! :O Lucky me, huh? I would have had to wear a hat and scarves to work for the next three days!!! :D
I scared Chris to death last night, too. He knew I was sad when he left, so when he came home, I made him go in my room and sit down and turn off the light, while I waited in the bathroom. I told him that I had done something drastic - and he remembered me saying that I was going to shave me head - so he had to wait in the dark to find out. I played it all serious, too. I came in and sat beside him - he tried to feel my head to see if I was bald!!! I told him that I had cut my hair, and I wanted to prepare him. Then I turned on the light. I wish I had a picture of the look of relief on his face!!! :D You would have laughed SO hard, Susie!
Today is his birthday, and we have the whole day planned. This morning I got up early, bathed (put on a pretty dress and some lipstick to show of my new do), then got him in the tub, fixed him and iced coffee, and then out on Billy Joels' greatest hits (he LOVES Billy Joel. Man after your own heart, huh? :) He got dressed and said he was going to treat me to Waffle House.
On the way, I stopped by Mr. Camp's house at the bottom of the hill. He cut me a whole bunch of pretty gardenias so I could do my yearly "Gardenias for Ladies" day. He is such a nice man.
I had Chris drop me off at the Waffle House on his way to get $, I told him I'd get us a table. I had a little birthday candle in my purse, and I slipped it to our waitress and asked her to bring him a Honey Bun after breakfast with the lit candle. We had a nice breakfast. I talked with everyone around us, and gave away several of my gardenias. After we ate, Kat brought the Honey Bun out with the lit candle, and we sang happy birthday. Then she told Chris that it wasn't an official Waffle House Birthday unless he got "smudged", and she smooged whipped cream on his nose!!! THEN she told him his breakfast was on the house! Nice, huh?
Then he drove me to work, and headed back to the house. One of his presents from me was a video (that I got brand-new in the book sale for $1.00 - woohoo!) and he said he was going to go home, watch that, and nap. I worked on Tuesday morning for Gigi, so I get off at 1:30 today. He's going to pick me up, and then we're going to go to his mom and dad's for a cookout lunch and his favorite cake (another good reason to dress up a little. I like to impress his mom. :). After that, we'll go to the grocery and pick up some snacks for tonight. Stewart is running our first d&d game in MONTHS - maybe almost a year, at his nice house tonight. Sarah, my best co-worker girlfriend will be there, and our friends Jamie and Erin. We're going to make lots of bad junk food (Chris and I are making chips and queso and Texas caviar), and Chris has requested a store-bought red-velvet cake (Ingles, not Bi-Lo), which is also Stewart's favorite. And I will make my famous iced coffee. Woo! We are gonna' be awake all night! :)

Oo! We just had some minor drama in the library, too. This older gentleman came in, and he was looking a little... 'chemically distracted'. He started saying some wild - but not mean - things, and then HE STARTED TAKING HIS CLOTHES OFF!!! :O
He really wasn't a bad man, just a little drunk and a lot mentally ill, I think. But when he went into the children's section and opened his shirt to a sweet Grandma, Miss Ann Stewart, and her little grandaughter, Heather. He was asking them how old they thought he was and if his shirt being open bothered him - thank the Lord Jesus that Miss Ann had the wherewithal to nicely tell him "YES!", so he did button it up for a minute, but that distressed me, so I called the police station (which is maybe 100 yards from here). There was no answer, so I called town hall, and Doris sent our wonderful new Town manager, Ernie Williams down (he is absolutely fantastic. I keep telling him I wish he would run for president...).
Ernie came in and gently engaged the man in conversation, got him to sit down, put his shoes on, and then walked him down to the cafe for a cup of coffee. (Andy Taylor style. :) THEN, five minutes later, the Chief of Police, Kevin (who's also a very nice guy), and his sidekick ... (let's just call them Barney and Gomer) pulled up at the front door. I heard Kevin say "I'll go around the side!", like we were having a hostage situation in here or something! Then 'Gomer' came in the door WEARING RUBBER GLOVES!!! *sheesh*.
Well, that's our excitement for the year here in old Saluda! ;)
I love you SusieQ. Here are some fun word-puzzle sites to loosen up those cogs, and I think that, since this letter comprises all of today's news, I am going to reprint it as my 'rant' today. Thanks!
Wishing you an unrusty mind, some big love-feeling, and gardenias today [and that goes for all of y'all out in Day-Off land, too!),
-Sambolina

Ursula - one of my Non-Imaginary Badass, Smartass, Redhead, Frazetta-type (but with MUCH bigger... BRAINS, you perves) Heroines - said something really wonderful to me a few weeks ago, I think during Faire breakdown. She said that she'd been listening to this album lately, and every other song on it made her think of me. When I asked what it was she said "'Still in Hollywood', Concrete Blonde." What a fantastic compliment, Ursi. Thank you. Great album, too, but then neither Concrete Blonde nor Johnette have ever made a bad album, so there.
She mentioned this again at the party on Saturday and I told her that I would love to hear that album again (she had it with her, and she shared! YAY!). Somehow, mysteriously, every CB album I buy disappears. Maybe that just goes to show that (a.) they really are one fantastic band and (b.) I have had some pretty !@#$% acquaintances over the years. Oh, I forgot (c.) both of the above.
Johnette is one of those women - like Ursula - that I could not help but admire. Ms. Napolitano is certainly not the natural beauty that our Ursi is*, but they both are WAAAAAY smarter than the average bear, they are brave, tough as hell, and not afraid to say what they think. YAY!
Johnette also has a voice like no other, and their sound is like Johnette says in 100 games of Solitaire, "... a train from Mexico to New Orleans and back again..." and don't forget to throw in the bottle of Tequila, too.
I told Ursula that I could probably guess the songs that made her think of me, but after the bulldozer rampage rant, and my ensuing train of thoughts, I thought this might be a good one to share.

Probably Will


They say I may be crazy,
I only say I've had my fill,
They say I'll throw it all
I probably will.
They'll only give you what you're taking,
But lately I've been unfulfilled,
They say I'll probably blow it off someday I probably will.
The way they talk about each other,
The way they talk about themselves,
Well they could talk, talk, talk forever,
And they probably will.
You know they probably will.
Now I'm not really bitter,
You know I'm just a little chilled.
They say that things can just get better,
And they probably will.
And they will only make us stronger,
If they should try to keep us still,
And we could rise and take it all,
Someday we probably will.
The way they talk about each other,
The way you talk about yourselves,
Well you can talk, talk, talk forever
And you probably will.
You know you probably will.

***

GO BUY SOME CONCRETE BLONDE, PEEPS! And I will leave you with a few other lyrics of theirs, from a favorite - 'Bloodletting', that echoes my sentiments very well today - and lots of days:
"I got the ways and means
To new orleans I’m going
Down by the river
Where it’s warm and green
I’m gonna have drink, and walk around
I got a lot to think about oh yeah..."

(but you gotta have that bass line to get it all...)
much love, peeps. Meet you on the levee?
xoxox
-s

*though I do think she's pretty darned cute. She looks like Wendy O's baby sister... :)
here's some more Wendy O pics, just for comparison's sake... not just to up the Badass factor of this rant by 10,000 points. Really.
And not to just make 9 out of 10 moms mad, either.

In recent news:

The cast part at Bruffy's was GREAT! When we got there, there were about a MILLION people there. Ok, not really, but it seemed like it, and it was SO great to see so many of the crew and find that they were happy to see me - slave-driving director that I was. It looks like the plotting and planning for next year has already begun. In a subtle maneuver that might have moved even Machiavelli, I managed to help water the seed of next year's plot (suggested by Brett and Stewart), shift MY old job off onto - I mean into the capable hands of some folks who will enjoy it, and will kick some major BOO-tay at it. I made a few suggestions about cast structure and good ways to limit the main cast and number of shows and keep things simple, while still utilizing everyone who comes to audition; and otherwise generally passed the buck. Everyone that was in on the discussions seemed both excited and motivated about the possibilities of the plot, so yay. And it just happens to conveniently go right along with what we are planning to do, too. I also liked the suggestion of changing the ad-title to [in small print]
"Mountain Renaissance Adventure Faire Presents: [in large print] MountainFaire!" That is just SO much better, and it keeps the whole history-nazi issue at bay, too.
I joked that discussing faire AT ALL so soon after was making me twitch, but since I am just talking in a purely advisory capacity, it really wasn't so bad. I think people know that I have a good idea of what the headaches are now*, and I can answer questions and give suggestions on all the creative aspects, and it's nice of them to ask without expecting me to just DO IT. Those days are WAY over. Red tape and bad management in general have burned me out BIGtime. Plus, I've done my MRAF miracle for the decade. I just wanna play my scenes, busk my crowds, have a beer after with my cronies, and go home. [contented]*sigh*

In other news - LISA IS COMING TO DRAGONCON!!! For those of you saying "Who the !@#$ is Lisa?", well, Lisa was one of my co-miracle-makers (directors) this year - she directed the chessboard (which was FABULOUS) and she was also the lady with whom I took my overnight trip to Fat City last October. Lisa is gunna have a BLAST at DragonCon!!! :D Woohoo! One more Virgin!
Chris, MAYbe Kaysha, and Lisa! MoooWAHAHAHA! Looks like there's gunna hafta be a Geek Patrol Initiation Ceremony this year! (SHARKBAIT OOHAHA! SHARKBAIT OOHAHA!)
WHEEEE!
ok, time to go. More news later, taters!
xoxox
-sam


*HA! understatement of the week, at least!

Well, the non-frosted side of the Mini-Wheat that is my soul - the side that wants to be a cheery, positive person, a good example to the kids, etc. - wants to be able to say that the following news item is just sad, and that there is nothing positive about this, that the poor victims who suffered damage to their property and the poor family and friends of the "perpetrator" will have a hard time coping with the aftermath, and that the poor perpetrator did a foolish thing, etc.
However, the frosted side of the Sam-Mini-Wheat says "ROCK THE !@#$ ON, DUDE!!!"
I am sad that things were destroyed, and I am sad that this man felt that he had to do this and then take his own life, but he didn't hurt anyone else, and you all know how I feel about well-timed self-euthenization*. All that aside, though (and taking into consideration that no one else was hurt, and that - hopefully - nothing too precious was destroyed, this is EXACTLY how I feel sometimes, how a LOT of us feel sometimes. Man, the things I could do with a tank... I wouldn't want real guns, though. Maybe paint balls? But there are definitely some things that HULK WOULD LIKE TO SMASH!
Well, I'll just let you read this yourself, and hope you won't think I'm glorifying bad things. But I will say this - if you think this is a totally bad thing, I'll think you're fibbing.


Grand County Emergency Management Director Jim Holahan confirmed that the driver, identified by the town manager as Marvin Heemeyer, appeared to have shot himself.
Heemeyer plowed the armor-plated bulldozer into the town hall, a former mayor's home and at least five other buildings Friday before the machine ground to a halt in the wreckage of a warehouse.
City officials said he was angry over a zoning dispute and fines from city code violations at his business.
Authorities detonated three explosions and fired at least 200 rounds against the heavy steel plates welded to the bulldozer [whoa!], which looked like an upside down Dumpster. After the third explosion failed, officials cut their way in with a blowtorch, Holahan said.
A statement from Grand County Undersheriff Glen Trainor said the driver was found around 2 a.m.
Holahan said Heemeyer was armed with a .50-caliber weapon but appeared to be deliberately avoiding injuring anyone during the rampage, which began Friday at about 3 p.m. No other injuries were reported.
Trainor said the dozer's armor plates consisted of two sheets of half-inch steel with a layer of concrete between them [Jen, can I have a welding torch for Xmas?!?!].
Grand County Commissioner Duane Daley said Heemeyer apparently used a video camera and two monitors found inside to guide the dozer. Two guns were mounted in front and aimed through portals. Other portals were cut in the back.
It was unclear how many guns were found with Heemeyer. Authorities speculated Heemeyer he may have used a homemade crane found in his garage to lower the armor hull over the dozer and himself.
"Once he tipped that lid shut, he knew he wasn't getting out," Daly said.
Investigators searched the garage where they believe Heemeyer built the vehicle and found cement, armor and steel.
Residents of this mountain tourist town of 2,200 described a bizarre scene as the bulldozer slowly crashed through buildings, trees and lampposts, with dozens of officers walking ahead or behind it, firing into the machine and shouting at townspeople to flee . [you know those cops enjoyed the HELL outta this...]
"It looked like a futuristic tank," said Rod Moore, who watched the dozer rumble past within 15 feet of his auto garage and towing company.
One officer, later identified as Trainor, was perched on top, firing shot after shot into the top and once dropping an explosive down the exhaust pipe.
"He just kept shooting," Moore said. "The dozer was still going. He threw what looked like a flash-bang down the exhaust. It didn't do a thing."
A flash-bang produces a blinding flash and earsplitting boom designed to stun a suspect.
"Gunfire was just ringing out everywhere," said Sandra Tucker, who saw the bulldozer begin the rampage from her office on Main Street. "It sounded to me like an automatic rifle, firing about every second."
At least 40 deputies, Colorado State Patrol officers, federal park and forest rangers and a SWAT team from nearby Jefferson County were at the scene.
Town manager Tom Hale said Heemeyer was angry after losing a zoning dispute that allowed a cement plant to be built near his muffler shop. Heemeyer also was fined $2,500 in a separate case for not having a septic tank and for other city code violations at his business, Hale said [DOWN WITH THE MAN!!!].
When he paid the fine, he enclosed a note with his check saying "Cowards [HELL yeah!]," Hale said.
"We felt he was venting his frustration that he didn't get his way," Hale said of the note. "We didn't think he was going to do something like this."
Trainor said he believes Heemeyer spent months armoring the bulldozer, and investigators were looking into whether he had help.
Hale said owners of all the buildings that were damaged had some connection to Heemeyer's disputes.
The buildings included the cement plant, a utility company, a bank, a newspaper office, a hardware store and warehouse, the home of former Mayor L.R. "Dick" Thompson and the municipal building, which also housed a library [the personal home kinda' sucks, and the library is a bad no-no, but man, haven't you ever wanted to do something like this?!?!].
Crumpled patrol cars and service trucks lay in the dozer's path [WHEEE!!!!]. A pickup was folded nearly in half and had been rammed through the wall of a building [Maybe it was a Ford...].
Gov. Bill Owens traveled Friday night to Granby, about 50 miles west of Denver and 10 miles south of Rocky Mountain National Park.
State aid will be available to help rebuild local government buildings, and state officials will help businesses seek federal help, said Mike Beasley, director of the state Department of Local Affairs.
William Hertel, owner of High Altitude Audio, said the bulldozer drove by his business at mid-afternoon, crushing aspen trees and light poles after the rampage began around 3 p.m.
"I was up on the roof when he came by. I got down and got my wife and kids out of the back of the building," Hertel said. He said he had heard numerous shots.
The scene was reminiscent of a 1998 rampage in Alma, another town in the Colorado Rockies. Authorities said Tom Leask shot a man to death, then used a town-owned front-end loader to heavily damage the town's post office, fire department, water department and town hall."

I NEED A TANK! I wouldn't run over anything important...
HONEST.

FIGHT THE POWER!
-Tank Girl

*at least, I think you do - I'm all for it. I think that Dr. Jack Kervorkian is a saint.

I always wanted a little sister. And then, when I was 16, I got one (just a few days before my birthday), and then almost immediately lost her. It took me years to recover from the anger (and fear) and contact her, and by then I was very afraid that it would take her a long time to get over the anger that I'd night have caused by being absent almost all of her life. I've missed ALL of her important events so far... Even is she can and does forgive me, it may take me the rest of my life. It can certainly be a vicious circle. Parents who put their kids through this kind of shite should be put in some sort of work camp for a while - until they repent and make it all right.
She didn't hate me. I also think that she doesn't really understand all the why's, but that doesn't seem to faze her. Lucky me. Now I just have to hope that I can keep from dropping the ball.
Mandy is 16 years younger than me. She is a beautiful girl, I think we resemble in some small ways - we both look a lot like our dad and our brothers Jeff and Shawn*, but she is a lot different than I am, too. She is very tall, for one thing, and she is extraordinarily fair skinned, and then her hair (which is also thick and curly) and eyes are almost black. She's also really smart (which I think we have in common) and she's a good student and Nice Girl (which I think we don't).
We didn't really grow up together, sadly. For reasons that I won't discuss here (out of common courtesy to her), I was removed from her home before she was even a year old, and it is obvious that I have missed out on a LOT.
Today she sent me a link to her webdiary. It's pretty new, so I will be able to read it from the ground up. The best thing about it (besides being able to read my sissa's diary) is that I am learning little things about her, and finding out that she and I (and the rest of our sibs, Joe, Jeff and Shawn) have lots in common, despite the years apart. She likes hot wings. And good, odd music. And she cusses like a sailor, likes to talk music and film and poetry. She likes to read a lot, and she's boy crazy. She's interested in language, and she digs forensics. She likes to people-watch.
I can't wait to find out more.
I really hope that somehow time and tides conspire to bring us closer together. I want to know her. I want to watch her talk. I want to know what her hands look like. I want to become familiar with her voice. I want to know what she believes in. I want to be someone that she might like and maybe even respect one day.

Each of you that reads this, make a wish for me today, wish that this happens. I like the idea of the five of us being a Family. I want the chance for us to understand each other, and the past, to the best of our ability. I want us to be able to help each other, support each other, believe in each other, and not let the Big Shadows that the previous generation cast over us darken our world and diminish our chances any more.

To the Lovelace Kids - SLAINTE!
:)
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox
-sam

*though they all have dark eyes and darker hair and skin, like dad. Joe and I got mom's anglo coloring. pretty too, but different. mom and i are peaches, they are cocoa beans (dad) or brazil nuts (mandy) or hazel nuts (shawn) or just nuts (jeff... :D just kidding... well, sorta! ;)

Rant-o-rama fest, 2004

1. It’s probably pretty damned odd how many times I’ve been told "You know, everybody can’t like you, Sam..."
I’m usually told this when I am telling someone that I was hurt because I was treated badly by another person, and it was only this last time that some helpful soul said this to me that I realized cohesively - and was able to explain coherently - that I really don’t care if people like me or not – AS LONG AS THEY STAY THE HELL OUT OF MY FACE. I mean, if I don’t know, I can’t care. And if I am forced – by work or association (friend of a friend, etc…) – to be around that person, then why can’t they be civilized (like me, of course :) and just be civil and/or ignore me until our necessary transactions are finished. This can go for the smartarses who give me that b.s. about "Everybody can’t like you, Sam..." Gimme some !@#$ credit here, people. I started out my life with my own MOTHER not liking me, everything and everybody after that is just coffee stains on the old sweatshirt of life.

2. Perfume in public... PEOPLE, if it makes YOUR OWN EYES WATER, then you probably shouldn’t wear it around OTHER INNOCENT BY-SMELLERS!
(sorry, this is a very current - as of RIGHT THIS SMELLY MOMENT - rant. RAAR! *snork!kerchoo!*)

3. Floods. *sigh* My washer did it again last night. I’d repaired the busted pipe (how smart is X?* to bugger off to work while I’m doing these projects, anyway? ;) but then the damned run-off pipe busted, too. Raar. Well, not much more was ruined, as that pipe was in the bathroom – and I got my bathroom clean.
I’ve lost a lot of stuff in all of this - books, mags photos, art and art supplies, etc., and the deeper issue is raised now, that I need to get rid of the things that are holding me back emotionally and physically. It feels cathartic to even think about this – to even try... more about this in a bit.

Here’s something else I wonder. A lot of you read my page, and I am grateful. As I said before, it’s nice to think that someone thinks I have something word spending a few minutes considering, or is at least amused by me. But do y’all also think I am just sad? Do y’all read this stuff and think, "Man, she is just pathetic!" I hope not, but there are definitely some days when I couldn’t blame anyone for thinking that. As I said earlier, it doesn’t matter if people like me, or like my words, but it DOES matter if I do, and the world is a mirror.

On that note - and this ties in to my issues of loss and acceptance - "Amama", thank you. It is an honor to be loved and heard by you. Your attention and consideration of my words and beliefs as wisdom is an astounding honor.

You see, "Amama" was having a mother's very natural fears - especially at a time when the world seems to be a powder keg - about something happening to her beloved girl. I told her what I'd discovered through my own personal 'Iditarod' of loss and grief that began a couple of years before (and led up to) my moving here. What I am learning is that if you love someone or something so much that you fear losing it or them, then you will cling too tightly (which is a crushing, suffocating thing) and you will live in fear and dread. That automatically diminishes your ability to love, because so much of your energy is taken up with this bad stuff. Coming to the realization that life is really all about loss, that eventually you will absolutely lose everything is actually a good thing, because once you realize it, then you can accept it, get past it, and then you can love without any reservation. This is a basic zen principle, I believe, but it was the wonderful writer, Marge Piercy who first opened my eyes, in her poem:

To Have Without Holding

Learning to love differently is hard,
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
that thwack like rubber bands
in an open palm.

It hurts to love wide open
stretching the muscles that feel
as if they are made of wet plaster,
then of blunt knives, then
of sharp knives.

It hurts to thwart the reflexes
of grab, of clutch; to love and let
go again and again. It pesters to remember
the lover who is not in the bed,
to hold back what is owed to the work
that gutters like a candle in a cave
without air, to love consciously,
conscientiously, concretely, constructively.

I can't do it, you say it's killing
me, but you thrive, you glow
on the street like a neon raspberry,
You float and sail, a helium balloon
bright bachelor's button blue and bobbing
on the cold and hot winds of our breath,
as we make and unmake in passionate
diastole and systole the rhythm
of our unbound bonding, to have
and not to hold, to love
with minimized malice, hunger
and anger moment by moment balanced.

-MP

The greatest gift that I can be given is to be told that I have made a significant and positive difference in someone else's life. This little webspot may be pathetic sometimes. It may be shallow (01/31/03) or sad and hurt (12/03/03) or just plain mad and silly (11/12/03), but it is ME, nonetheless. I told Chris last night that I might be a "motor mouth"**, but I honestly feel that I don't say anything that I don't mean, and that I don't think is important. He said that he agreed - and he listens to me a lot.

"Amama", for you to say what you did in my guestbook is worth all the sparkly shiny things, all the trips to Tristan de Cunha, all the be-wife-beatered bohunks and all the Godiva truffles in the world, and THEN some. To think that I may have helped you and your little Ama (and of course my Bribro too) to have a closer bond, to have a bigger love, to have more peaceful days - there is NO greater joy. None***. You have honored me beyond the possibilities of even my preposterous imagination****. My prayer to our Big Mama in the Sky is that I just be worthy of such honor, and that I be given the grace and strength to keep trying.

Wishing you all Grace and Strength, folks - not to mention Hope and Honor,
-s

*and how CUTE, too. He cut his hair all off, and it is GORGEOUS. He was pretty damned nice to look at before, but he is just... phwoa! with this new short, messy, fancy rock-star do. It’s like having a brand-new boyfriend (in more ways than one, he looks younger, too) without having to go to all the trouble of GETTING one. This morning he went to the Bakery to get me a cuppa (decaf, of !@#$ course) and before he got back, my friend that works there called me and said "This REALLY cute guy came in to get coffee, and I was just talking to him (she was FLIRTIN’, y’all KNOW it! :) and then he said ‘Sam said to put this on her tab.’, and I thought ‘Oh yeah, I KNEW I’d seen him somewhere before!’ Man! (etc.)" Yeah, I gotta cute beau... who gets me coffee (and does a million other nice things too). YAY, ME!

**yet another $#*!!% thing my mother used to call me...

***I also believe with all my heart that your little girl will grow up and be a force for change and peace and inspiration, too. She already is, but I believe that she will be a right active little "Sunshine Soldier" all of her life. She will take all that rich unlimited love that you (and every single person that meets her) give her, that joy of being alive that shines out of her sweet little face (man, I wish I could post one of those new pics of her here!), and turn it into the energy that will hopefully help to keep this big old creaky machine-planet going. I HAVE to believe that (to stay sane), and I am doubly (ok, quadzooply) honored to think that I might be one of the tiny quantum forces that will inspire her. moo.

****this from the person who is still hoping for a spot in People Magazine's "50 Most Beautiful" issue someday... :D

Well, lads and lasses, I've been wishing for water, and I got it.
Chris, Stewart and I went to see shrek on Thursday night. When we got home, I opened the door, and over Luna’s excited noise and Chris' bonky boy noises (keys, big boots, fussing at Lu), I heard some horrible sound.
It was my washer. It was spraying a huge jet of water up into the air in my bedroom, directly onto the top of the cabinet where I keep my photo albums and onto the stacks of books next to my bed. The floor was an inch deep in water, and it was pouring out into the rest of the house. There was no light in the room because the power strip had cut off (thank goddess) and there is no overhead light. After going into a horrible, destructive rage, kicking over chairs, knocking the fan across the room (it exploded into parts), hitting the wall repeatedly, throwing the brooms out into the yard, storming outside and kicking all of my garbage cans into the woods*, then breaking down and crying until I was almost sick**, we assessed the worst of the damage, rescued as many books and photos as possible, picked my wet art up off the floor, and started laying it out to dry. Chris suggested calling Stewart and asking if we could come and crash. We did, and after Chris got out of class the next morning (he left early to come help me) we began to tackle the cleanup.
I managed to save most of my photos - all of the really important ones*** as well as my art. It will have to be ironed, and then I have to see if it is water stained. If it's ok, I’m going to sell it all on my web page. A lot of my books were ruined, but they were mostly easily replaceable ones. My heart was most broken at losing my beautiful art paper that was given to me by Paul and Diana for my birthday - fat flax clay coated Bristol board (this is Sam-porn paper), a whole huge pad, short one single page - and the big drawing pad that Sarah gave me for same birthday. Trying to save my photos and art and a few very important books was pretty intense and nerve-wracking, too. The photos are, of course, the most important, and I think that the damage to them will be undetectable. I also went and bought some new Rubbermaid tubs to store them in from now on.

So, what did I learn from this? Well, that I have a long way to go, Zen-wise, for one thing. I realized that I was SO angry and upset, raging and crying, because I was mad at myself for being so attached to STUFF. I broke down in Chris' arms and told him - almost to my own surprise - that my life has taught me that it is terribly dangerous to be so attached to anything, but especially STUFF. Some things really never change. I have been hurt in the past by being referred to by close friends as “broken”, but it’s true.
I was upset because I have so much stuff, and all of it means something to me. My house (the building, the yard, the stuff) is overwhelming to me, and I can’t have that. I can’t have the burden of owning so much that I can lose, so much that can hold me to a place, so much that I have to be responsible for. I have decided to try really hard to get rid of as much as possible. I have decided that there will be no limits on the amount of art supplies that I own – because that is my life and livelihood; and no limit on my Legos, because I just don’t have that many, and if I lost them, it wouldn’t kill me. Books are going to be hard – but I can do it. I can limit myself (one tub of National Geog's, 10 favorite Playboys, 10 key philosophy books, etc.) Same with my sentimental objects. I will just have to give them (sparingly – I don’t want to overwhelm all my friends and family either) to people who can and will appreciate them.
I will try to sell a lot of my art – because it is just not doing me any good sitting in my house, making me stress about something happening to it. Someone could be enjoying it (at least, I hope…).
I can’t limit my photos either – I’m a replicant. But I can scan and save and share many of them (Stewart has already done that with many of them) and try to keep them safe, store them "small" and portable. I can limit my sentimental stuff to two trunks, and the rest goes to yard sale or Ebay.

So, if you’re in the mood to own some bigger pieces of Sam art, let me know. And if you don’t want to be on my “SAX-list” - “Sam-Artifacts for Xmas” - say so. Otherwise, you may be gifted with some of my dearest possessions, whether you like it or not. I've gotten rid of a lot of things over the years (though OBVIOUSLY not enough), so the things that remain are very dear indeed, and I promise not to burden anyone with too much.

Wish me luck – and send good thoughts out to Chris, who really is one of the best guys in the whole wide world ever. He is patient, and kind, and beautiful, and he really knows me AND really likes me AND is still able to stand up for himself in the midst of all of this. He also turns me on (this is way important) and makes me laugh and isn’t afraid of me or my past and all it’s sundry fallout. He also knows EXACTLY what to do in the midst of Sam-rage, and this is amazing in and of itself, and he loves me, and I know this beyond a shadow of a doubt. Even after I kicked the chair and fan across the room****.

Peace, beloveds.
-Sam

*I’d like to professionally recommend this as a VERY satisfying form of venting with a minimum of destruction, by the way.
"9 out of 10 pissed-off psychos say..."
**Chris, bless his sweet heart, stood patiently aside (I suspect this was a form of possibly subconscious camouflage, ala hiding from the dinosaurs in Jurassic park) while I raged, and then when he realized that he was safe, even if the furniture wasn't, began to mop up the water. Then when I had gotten over the worst of the crying, he came and put his arms around me and said "It'll be alright, honey. We'll take care of it." moo. LOTS of boy-points for Mr. Riddle.
***Growing up in the !@#$'d up situations i did teaches you a lot of practical and amazing skills.
****props, too, to my beloved Rory, who survived a fit-flung TYPEWRITER rage. :(
Please let me say in my own defense that these rages are VERY rare, I can count them all on one hand, I think. I can’t even remember when the last one was, prior to this one. I am ashamed of them all, and yet I cannot deny the truth of them, the source of them, or even the necessity of them. And, not since I was a kid, have I hurt anyone in the midst of one. Apparently I did at least once as a kid, I saw the resultant scar on the human being I love most in the world last summer, and even if neither of us can forgive me for the injury, at least I know that both of us understand this rage better than anybody else ever could.

Today's rant is courtesy of Mr. Terry Jones, Python Extraordinaire. This is from the Observer section of the Guardian Unlimited site, which i linked to from Bartcop.com - an EXCELLENT news site. (click and scroll down for the picture of Viggo's handmade shirt. YAY, VIGGO!!!)
And here is Terry's article:

I'm losing patience with my neighbours, Mr Bush
Terry Jones
Sunday January 26, 2003
The Observer

I'm really excited by George Bush's latest reason for bombing Iraq: he's running out of patience. And so am I!
For some time now I've been really pissed off with Mr Johnson, who lives a couple of doors down the street. Well, him and Mr Patel, who runs the health food shop. They both give me queer looks, and I'm sure Mr Johnson is planning something nasty for me, but so far I haven't been able to discover what. I've been round to his place a few times to see what he's up to, but he's got everything well hidden. That's how devious he is.

As for Mr Patel, don't ask me how I know, I just know - from very good sources - that he is, in reality, a Mass Murderer. I have leafleted the street telling them that if we don't act first, he'll pick us off one by one.

Some of my neighbours say, if I've got proof, why don't I go to the police? But that's simply ridiculous. The police will say that they need evidence of a crime with which to charge my neighbours.

They'll come up with endless red tape and quibbling about the rights and wrongs of a pre-emptive strike and all the while Mr Johnson will be finalising his plans to do terrible things to me, while Mr Patel will be secretly murdering people. Since I'm the only one in the street with a decent range of automatic firearms, I reckon it's up to me to keep the peace. But until recently that's been a little difficult. Now, however, George W. Bush has made it clear that all I need to do is run out of patience, and then I can wade in and do whatever I want!

And let's face it, Mr Bush's carefully thought-out policy towards Iraq is the only way to bring about international peace and security. The one certain way to stop Muslim fundamentalist suicide bombers targeting the US or the UK is to bomb a few Muslim countries that have never threatened us.

That's why I want to blow up Mr Johnson's garage and kill his wife and children. Strike first! That'll teach him a lesson. Then he'll leave us in peace and stop peering at me in that totally unacceptable way.

Mr Bush makes it clear that all he needs to know before bombing Iraq is that Saddam is a really nasty man and that he has weapons of mass destruction - even if no one can find them. I'm certain I've just as much justification for killing Mr Johnson's wife and children as Mr Bush has for bombing Iraq.

Mr Bush's long-term aim is to make the world a safer place by eliminating 'rogue states' and 'terrorism'. It's such a clever long-term aim because how can you ever know when you've achieved it? How will Mr Bush know when he's wiped out all terrorists? When every single terrorist is dead? But then a terrorist is only a terrorist once he's committed an act of terror. What about would-be terrorists? These are the ones you really want to eliminate, since most of the known terrorists, being suicide bombers, have already eliminated themselves.

Perhaps Mr Bush needs to wipe out everyone who could possibly be a future terrorist? Maybe he can't be sure he's achieved his objective until every Muslim fundamentalist is dead? But then some moderate Muslims might convert to fundamentalism. Maybe the only really safe thing to do would be for Mr Bush to eliminate all Muslims?

It's the same in my street. Mr Johnson and Mr Patel are just the tip of the iceberg. There are dozens of other people in the street who I don't like and who - quite frankly - look at me in odd ways. No one will be really safe until I've wiped them all out.

My wife says I might be going too far but I tell her I'm simply using the same logic as the President of the United States. That shuts her up.

Like Mr Bush, I've run out of patience, and if that's a good enough reason for the President, it's good enough for me. I'm going to give the whole street two weeks - no, 10 days - to come out in the open and hand over all aliens and interplanetary hijackers, galactic outlaws and interstellar terrorist masterminds, and if they don't hand them over nicely and say 'Thank you', I'm going to bomb the entire street to kingdom come.

It's just as sane as what George W. Bush is proposing - and, in contrast to what he's intending, my policy will destroy only one street.

END.

GO, MR. CREOSOTE!
Maybe I will send Mr. Bush a link to THIS article in today's letter.
Much love - and more PEACE,
-s

*sigh*
blah.
Blar.
BLAR.

As you can probably tell, I'm feeling a bit, well, blar.
So, for therapy, I am going to attempt to pile 3 fifteen year old guys into my truck cab and go see Shrek2.
Yes, I know I am out of my mind, but you know what? Life is short.
If I didn't do this, I would almost 100% surely go home (after feeding Boo*), veg out, eat some blar food and watch Triplets of Belleville (again). Instead, I will be making 3 kids that I honestly dearly love (even though they*** can be some !@#$ brats sometimes) very happy, and I'll get to see Shrek2 with a suitable audience.
Wish me luck. And good traffic. And safe driving. And a minimum of fart jokes.
*sigh*
-s

*Boo is Stewart's A.S.B.** cat.
**Anti Social Butterfly(tm)
***Dusty, Ethan & Simon

I am trying really hard to keep a positive outlook.
I am trying really hard to keep a positive outlook.
I am trying really hard to keep a positive outlook.
...
There are so many good things in my life, and I am grateful for all of them. My dog is healthy and happy and loves me, my friends are some of the best people on the planet and they love me, Chris is veryvery good to me and he loves me, and I think his folks do too, my job is a good one, I live in a beautiful place, the sun is warm on my aching shoulders right now - and so on. It's a long list, and that's wonderful. But I can't help but feel like it isn't fair. How can some of us be so happy or satisfied and some of us be carrying our dead children out of the wreckage of a few men's nuclear- and money-powered dick-wagging contest?

I am still writing to Mr. Bush every day. And in some ways, it is helping me. I am really learning a lot about myself and my beliefs about peace and forgiveness. In today's letter, I told him about how, when Hamilton met Boonkie* and saw his precious face, and his thin little trembling, cowering body, he said "People who do things like this deserve a good thrashing.". I realize that this is the most natural way in the world to feel (of course I do, I am The Warrior, ferchrissakes) but then I realized that something I've been saying to the kids for sometimes is what you should DO. I tell them that the kids who are mean to them, or obnoxious, are the ones who need love the most. When Hamilton said that about the person who did that to Boonkie, I realized that they were probably hurt themselves and that they were taking their pain out on something more helpless than themself. Oh, god, how well I know this routine.
I told Mr. Bush that it is the hardest thing in the world to love that "bad" person, but it's the answer.
It was patient love that kept me from being an abuser, from continuing the cycle in my family. That doesn't mean indulgence, obviously, because discipline is important, too, but discipline doesn't have to be bloody. It doesn't have to leave scars. It should leave memories and strength. And appreciation for the person kind enough to set you straight without hurting you.

Peace is possible. I KNOW it is. I believe.
-s


*the little pup-pup i am helping to rehab. he was beaten and abandoned...

a very elderly friend sent me this (gee, i don't know WHY), and i appreciated it very much*. i thought y'all might appreciate it as well, and we can all use a little break from The Seriousness of Late.

RESIGNATION

I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult. I have decided I would like to accept the responsibilities of an 8 year-old again.
I want to go to McDonald's and think that it's a four star restaurant.
I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle and make a sidewalk with rocks.
I want to think M&Ms are better than money because you can eat them.
I want to lie under a big oak tree and run a lemonade stand with my friends on a hot summer's day.
I want to return to a time when life was simple, when all you knew were colors, multiplication tables, and nursery rhymes, but that didn't bother you, because you didn't know what you didn't know and you didn't care. All you knew was to be happy because you were blissfully unaware of all the things that should make you worried or upset.
I want to think the world is fair.
That everyone is honest and good.
I want to believe that anything is possible.
I want to be oblivious to the complexities of life and be overly excited by the little things again.
I want to live simple again.
I don't want my day to consist of computer crashes, mountains of paperwork, depressing news, how to survive more days in the month than there is money in the bank, doctor bills, gossip, illness, and loss of loved ones.
I want to believe in the power of smiles, hugs, a kind word, truth, justice, peace, dreams, the imagination, mankind, and making angels in the snow.
So . . . here's my checkbook and my car keys, my credit card** bills and my 401K statements**. I am officially resigning from adulthood.
And if you want to discuss this further, you'll have to catch me first, cause...

..."Tag! You're it."

xoxox
-s

*MUCH more than the coupon she sent me from Frederick's of Hollywood, along with a suggestion on how much A Certain Item would spice up my love life AND a story from her own past about these same items... :O
**as if i even HAVE any of these!
...at least, i don't think i do...

Our Elizabeth sent the following article to me, and I am sad to say that I could not agree more. All of this is true, undeniably so, but it is not too late to recover. It is not too late for us to show, if not through our Government and Administrators and Leaders, then through our nation of individuals, the people who REALLY matter, the people who REALLY make this country what it is, what it is SUPPOSED to be - that we can be better than those terrorists who - for whatever reason - committed the horrors of September 11. We can make a change, we can make a difference. We can do our damndest to heal the wounds of our own country and of the world. I know that 99% of the people I am close to (actually that number is false, I am close to only one person who defends this war) are sorry for what happened to us on that horrible early fall morning in 2001, and that we are sorry for all of the horrors committed since then - theirs and ours.
You may feel helpless and hopeless in the face of this huge mess, but the little candles that we each light in the darkness combine to make a light so bright that nothing can hide from it.
Love the whole world. It needs it, and it feels it.
I promise that this is true, because I experience this every day.
Sometimes standing up and speaking out are far more powerful than fighting.
Keep trying to make change, people. The future of the whole world depends on it.
-s
(I think that I may send a copy of this article to Mr. Bush as my letter for today, just in case he hasn't had a chance to read it yet.):

The War is Lost
By William Rivers Pitt
t r u t h o u t | Perspective

Monday 10 May 2004

We have traveled a long, dark, strange road since the attacks of September 11. We have all suffered, we have all known fear and anger, and sometimes hatred. Many of us have felt - probably more than we are willing to admit it - at one time or another a desire for revenge, so deep was the wound inflicted upon us during that wretched, unforgettable Tuesday morning in September of 2001.

But we have come now to the end of a week so awful, so terrible, so wrenching that the most basic moral fabric of that which we believe is good and great - the basic moral fabric of the United States of America - has been torn bitterly asunder.

We are awash in photographs of Iraqi men - not terrorists, just people - lying in heaps on cold floors with leashes around their necks. We are awash in photographs of men chained so remorselessly that their backs are arched in agony, men forced to masturbate for cameras, men forced to pretend to have sex with one another for cameras, men forced to endure attacks from dogs, men with electrodes attached to them as they stand, hooded, in fear of their lives.

The worst, amazingly, is yet to come. A new battery of photographs and videotapes, as yet unreleased, awaits over the horizon of our abused understanding. These photos and videos, also from the Abu Ghraib prison, are reported to show U.S. soldiers gang raping an Iraqi woman, U.S. soldiers beating an Iraqi man nearly to death, U.S. troops posing, smirks affixed, with decomposing Iraqi bodies, and Iraqi troops under U.S. command raping young boys.

George W. Bush would have us believe these horrors were restricted to a sadistic few, and would have us believe these horrors happened only in Abu Ghraib. Yet reports are surfacing now of similar treatment at another U.S. detention center in Iraq called Camp Bucca. According to these reports, Iraqi prisoners in Camp Bucca were beaten, humiliated, hogtied, and had scorpions placed on their naked bodies.

In the eyes of the world, this is America today. It cannot be dismissed as an anomaly because it went on and on and on in the Abu Ghraib prison, and because now we hear of Camp Bucca. According to the British press, there are some 30 other cases of torture and humiliation under investigation. The Bush administration went out of its way to cover up this disgrace, declaring secret the Army report on these atrocities. That, pointedly, is against the rules and against the law. You can’t call something classified just because it is embarrassing and disgusting. It was secret, but now it is out, and the whole world has been shown the dark, scabrous underbelly of our definition of freedom.

The beginnings of actual political fallout began to find its way into the White House last week. Representative John Murtha of Pennsylvania, the House Democrats’ most vocal defense hawk, joined Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi to declare that the conflict is "unwinnable." Murtha, a Vietnam veteran, rocked the Democratic caucus when he said at a leader’s luncheon Tuesday that the United States cannot win the war in Iraq.

"Unwinnable." Well, it only took about 14 months.

Also last week, calls for the resignation of Defense Secretary Don Rumsfeld became strident. Pelosi accused Rumsfeld of being "in denial about Iraq," and said U.S. soldiers "are suffering great casualties and injuries, and American taxpayers are paying an enormous price" because Rumsfeld "has done a poor job as secretary of defense." Representative Charlie Rangel, a leading critic of the Iraq invasion, has filed articles of impeachment against Rumsfeld.

So there’s the heat. But let us consider the broader picture here in the context of that one huge word: "Unwinnable." Why did we do this in the first place? There have been several reasons offered over the last 16 months for why we needed to do this thing.

It started, for real, in January 2003 when George W. Bush said in his State of the Union speech that Iraq was in possession of 26,000 liters of anthrax, 38,000 liters of botulinum toxin, 500 tons of sarin, mustard and VX, 30,000 munitions to deliver this stuff, and that Iraq was seeking uranium from Niger to build nuclear bombs.

That reason has been scratched off the list because, as has been made painfully clear now, there are no such weapons in Iraq. The Niger claim, in particular, has caused massive embarrassment for America because it was so farcical, and has led to a federal investigation of this White House because two administration officials took revenge upon Joseph Wilson’s wife for Wilson’’s exposure of the lie.

Next on the list was September 11, and the oft-repeated accusation that Saddam Hussein must have been at least partially responsible. That one collapsed as well - Bush himself had to come out and say Saddam had nothing to do with it.

Two reasons down, so the third must be freedom and liberty for the Iraqi people. Once again, however, facts interfere. America does not want a democratic Iraq, because a democratic Iraq would quickly become a Shi’ite fundamentalist Iraq allied with the Shi’ite fundamentalist nation of Iran, a strategic situation nobody with a brain wants to see come to pass. It has been made clear by Paul Bremer, the American administrator of Iraq, that whatever the new Iraqi government comes to look like, it will have no power to make any laws of any kind, it will have no control over the security of Iraq, and it will have no power over the foreign troops which occupy its soil. This is, perhaps, some bizarre new definition of democracy not yet in the dictionary, but it is not democracy by any currently accepted definition I have ever heard of.

So...the reason to go to war because of weapons of mass destruction is destroyed. The reason to go to war because of connections to September 11 is destroyed. The reason to go to war in order to bring freedom and democracy to Iraq is destroyed.

What is left? The one reason left has been unfailingly flapped around by defenders of this administration and supporters of this war: Saddam Hussein was a terrible, terrible man. He killed his own people. He tortured his own people. The Iraqis are better off without him, and so the war is justified.

And here, now, is the final excuse destroyed. We have killed more than 10,000 innocent Iraqi civilians in this invasion, and maimed countless others. The photos from Abu Ghraib prison show that we, like Saddam Hussein, torture and humiliate the Iraqi people. Worst of all, we do this in the same prison Hussein used to do his torturing. The "rape rooms," often touted by Bush as justification for the invasion, are back. We are the killers now. We are the torturers now. We have achieved a moral equivalence with the Butcher of Baghdad.

This war is lost. I mean not just the Iraq war, but George W. Bush's ridiculous "War on Terror" as a whole.

I say ridiculous because this "War on Terror" was never, ever something we were going to win. What began on September 11 with the world wrapping us in its loving embrace has collapsed today in a literal orgy of shame and disgrace. This happened, simply, because of the complete failure of moral leadership at the highest levels.

We saw a prime example of this during Friday’s farce of a Senate hearing into the Abu Ghraib disaster which starred Don Rumsfeld. From his bully pulpit spoke Senator Joe Lieberman, who parrots the worst of Bush’s war propaganda with unfailingly dreary regularity. Responding to the issue of whether or not Bush and Rumsfeld should apologize for Abu Ghraib, Lieberman stated that none of the terrorists had apologized for September 11.

There it was, in a nutshell. There was the idea, oft promulgated by the administration, that September 11 made any barbarism, any extreme, any horror brought forth by the United States acceptable, and even desirable. There was the institutionalization of revenge as a basis for policy. Sure, Abu Ghraib was bad, Mr. Lieberman put forth. But September 11 happened, so all bets are off.

Thus fails the "War on Terror." September 11 did not demand of us the lowest common denominator, did not demand of us that we become that which we despise and denounce. September 11 demanded that we be better, greater, more righteous than those who brought death to us. September 11 demanded that we be better, and in doing so, we would show the world that those who attacked us are far, far less than us. That would have been victory, with nary a shot being fired.

Our leaders, however, took us in exactly the opposite direction.

Every reason to go to Iraq has failed to retain even a semblance of credibility. Every bit of propaganda Osama bin Laden served up to the Muslim world for why America should be attacked and destroyed has been given credibility by what has taken place in Iraq. Victory in this "War on Terror," a propaganda war from the beginning, has been given to the September 11 attackers by the hand of George W. Bush, and by the hand of those who enabled his incomprehensible blundering.

The war is lost.

in case any of you want to know how the letter writing is going, well, here is my third offering. i just want you all to know that i am not being ugly. i am trying to be both honest and kind.
if you want to know how the faire is going - it's wonderful. today was most excellent, and the wedding truly was lovely.

and now i am veryvery sleepy.
goodnight - and god(dess) bless us all.
-s

"Hello, Mr. Bush.

Sam Lovelace again.
I work for an organization that puts on a small festival every year, the proceeds from which go to help local charities. It's kind of a "historical faire" (medieval to Elizabethan times). This year, we also hosted the actual wedding of a young couple as a part of the festival. It was a beautiful spring day, warm and sunny, even though it called for rain. The wedding was lovely and the festival went well.
I only thought of the horrors of this war a few times today. Unfortunately, I also spoke of them once, without thinking, though fortunately in a relatively appropriate place and time, and my graceful friends and coworkers seemed to understand, and forgive me. Being Southern sometimes seems like a grace itself, doesn't it?

I came home tonight, tired and sunburned a little, but I still had to prepare for tomorrow. There was some laundry and mending to do, dinner, and preparing tomorrow's things for the kids and pets - you know. It was a relatively peaceful day. I thought I might even skip writing to you, because I was tired, and my mind was not as troubled as it has been ( 'busy hands...' ). But I thought I might at least check my email, and when I opened my web-browser, this was the headline that greeted me.
"U.S. battles militia in Iraq; 5 GIs die"

Now I have to go to sleep, and then face tomorrow. And so do you, and so do the surviving soldiers, and the families of the dead, and all the people, all over the world, who are trying to face what's happening to all of us.
God(dess), bless us all.

-Sam Lovelace"

Hey, all.
First I want to give y'all this year's goose update.
For those of you who don't know, there is a little pond just down the road from my house, I pass it every day, at least twice a day. For the first couple of years here, the pond was unoccupied. Then one day I noticed a Canadian goose there. Soon, that goose had a friend, and for the next couple of years, it was just them. Before too long, one of the geese disappeared, and I feared the worst - until one spring day, I saw three little grey balls of fluff waddling around them and realized that they'd had goslings. I watched those goslings grow, though they soon lost one of the three. The other two spent the summer eating bugs and before fall, they looked just like their parents. The next spring, only two geese came back, and I worried, but then soon there were two more, and by the height of summer, they had a family reunion of SEVENTEEN geese! The next summer - last summer - there were lots of grown geese, but no babies. Then this year, as soon as spring began, I started looking for geese, but sadly, only one came. That one goose floated around alone for a couple of weeks, and then suddenly, one day, there was another. Then, the very next day, I looked for them and there were SIX teeny tiny, just hatched yellow goslings huddling near the parents! I've now watched those six grow for the last couple of weeks - and they are growing fast (they are all now the size of the first three I saw year before last, just before they lost #3). I check every day to make sure there are still six (holding my breath as I count) and there are. (I keep thinking that maybe, if all six get big enough, they'll all make it.) And this week, they had eight other big geese grandparents and aunts and uncles visiting them and their goose-parents.
In other - yesterday's rant-related - news, I had a really bad, sad night last night. I thought a lot about all of this that is bothering me, and before I settled down to paint (sleeping is pretty much out of the question unless I'm just too exhausted to move) I talked to Chris. I told him what was happening to me, and he suggested that I write a letter to George Bush every day. So, I am.
For those of you (silly people) who feel compelled to warn me not to say "certain things" (*sheesh*, HELLO. This is Sam, remember? I may be crazy, but I am not STUPID.) I have decided to print a copy of my first letter here. I also encourage you to write to him yourself. You may not want or need or be able to write every day, but even one letter may help.
His e-mail address is: president@whitehouse.gov, his mailing address is:
George W. Bush
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500
and his phone numbers are:
Comments: 202-456-1111
Switchboard: 202-456-1414
FAX: 202-456-2461
all of this information - as well as a lot of really stilted news - is available at http://www.whitehouse.gov/
and here is my first letter:

"Hello, Mr. Bush.
My name is Sam (Samantha) Lovelace. I am a public librarian in a small town in the not-so-rural South.
I don't watch the t.v. news - I gave up t.v. eight years ago, because of my strong empathic response to the suffering of others. Since the Gulf War, the insurgence of "reality t.v." and shows about people being arrested and suffering natural disasters, as well as the graphic media coverage of my own cousin's violent death at the hands of serial killers [nine years ago tomorrow], I cannot help but imagine everything I see and hear and read in the news very viscerally. I imagine the faces, their fear before they died, I feel the grief of the families, I can smell the blood.
In my job, however, I do have to see all of the major newspapers each day as part of my job, and I read the news on the internet and listen to public radio. Needless to say, the things that I am now seeing and hearing every day (for a few years, now) have led to a lot of physical and emotional problems for me. Especially the way in which things in the Middle East and here have accelerated in the last few weeks. I have lost the ability to sleep at night, I can not eat meat anymore because the smell of it reminds me of death and blood, it has become difficult for me to drive because when I am alone anywhere I am overcome by grief and cannot see the road for crying. I have fibromyalgia, a condition which causes intense muscle pain throughout my body. This condition is worsened by stress and sleeplessness, so I am also living in constant pain. This is affecting my job, and needless to say, any kind of real social life is simply not possible. I want to try to make the most of each moment, enjoy the spring and the sun, but I can't do that any more either, because I feel so guilty that so many people are suffering. I hold my friends' children and I think: Will they have a world to grow up in? Will it all be destroyed by then? Will they even be free by the time they are grown?
I try to enjoy my food, and then I think of the father of Nicholas Berg, lying crumpled on the ground, held in the arms of his surviving son. I smell the odor of fresh blood, and I collapse, too.
So why am I writing to you about all of this? Well, for several reasons. First, I hope that I can convince you that I am not some 'over-sensitive liberal'. I grew up in a Republican household, Trent Lott visited us often when I was small, and when my grandfather was dying of cancer, he came to see him often, despite the fact that he was very busy in Washington. He is a kind man, who helped me as a grown woman, too. I am not a "party" person, I believe in voting for whoever has the good of the people - all the people that they affect - in mind and heart.
As for being sensitive, I feel as though what I am feeling is the correct thing. How anyone can shut out the pain of the world right now is beyond me. I wonder how anyone can sleep at night now. I am finding that my friends agree with me. They are waking up to the pain and misery that the world is feeling and they are all trying desperately to find some way to make a change. I myself, wish that I could put my arms around Michael Berg and tell him that I understand the way he feels. And then go to the homes of every grieving mother, father, wife, child, and do the same. I have family there, too, and every day, I fear that they will be shot, beheaded, tortured, and that my dear cousin and her children will be grieving this decision for the rest of their lives, too. I was part of the local "Veterans for Peace" vigil, where we all got together to read the names of all our deceased soldiers on the steps of our local t.v. station that had the gag order put on them by Sinclair. The station let us come and pray and read the names by candlelight. That list was so long, and I could imagine the former lives and families of each of those men and women.
Still none of this has been enough. My conscience is heavy, my heart is heavy, and I fear that we are reaching a point which, if we cross it, we can never go back. The world and the future of all my friends' children and the children I work with every day, and all the children of the world seems in terrible jeopardy. Instead of feeling that freedom is being defended, and that terrorism is being stomped out, we feel that an ancient vendetta (going on since before the Crusades) is continuing and that our friends and families and freedom are just the latest batch of casualties.
If this "eye for an eye" mentality continues, then soon the whole world will be blind.

The main reason that I am writing to you is that I need to feel that I am doing something - anything - to try to make a difference. My impotence over the situation and my own fears is too much for me. I cried to my boyfriend on the phone last night about my desperation, depression and exhaustion, and he suggested that I write to you, every day, if i needed to, until I felt better. You are the 'Big Dad' of this country, you are the man with the power over all of this, and you are the only one who can really make a change. It is not too late for you to still be a REAL hero, and try to make a sort of peace out of this horrible wreckage, it is not too late to save lives, and make amends to the families of the dead and injured. It is not too late to excise the cruel and blind from your cabinet and perhaps confer with some others on the matter. Maybe Mr. Lott would be a good man to talk to. I don't know. I am just a citizen, worried over the division of our nation and our world, worried over the loss of military and civilian lives, worried over the apparent downhill slide to a world war, one that we cannot recover from. I thought it would make me feel better if I talk to you about my concerns. My own father is dead, nine years now, or I might have talked to him about my fears, but you are the Father of this great Nation, and we have lost our trust in you. You can give that back.
It's not too late to try to make this right, or at least better. Please.
My Aunt Sue gave me this line from one of her favorite gospel songs, and I have decided to make it my mantra in all that I do toward this cause:
"Let there be Peace on Earth, and let it begin with me."
Perhaps you will consider the same.
Sincerely,
-Sam Lovelace
samarei7@gmail.com"

God(dess) bless us, every one.
-sam

Hello, boys and girls.
Well, I was doing pretty good there for a while, but the news just keeps getting worse and worse, and so do I. I feel like my heart is just a dead lump of meat in my chest, my mind keeps trying to run from the thoughts and images, but there’s nowhere to go – and the hardcore realist in me* knows that you shouldn’t even TRY to hide from these things.
I keep trying to tell myself that there are still beautiful things in the world – and there are, and that things will change – and they will, but the hope of their really being anything left worth changing and being beautiful for seems slimmer every day.
My girlfriends and I recently played a game where you have to “therapize” your friends. One of my “therapy” questions involved everyone in the group trying to assess, on a scale of 1-10, how ‘hopeful’ I am. I had to write down my answer and then they had to all discuss their opinions among themselves, decide on an answer, and then see if it matched mine. The highest they were able to give me was a ‘4’ (they wavered between ‘2’ and ‘4’ for a while). When they asked what my answer was and I said a ‘10’, they were all surprised, but then when I explained that if it were anything LESS than a ‘10’, I’d be dead by now.
Well, Mr. Bush and his gory campaign are causing my outlook to dim considerably. It seems now that investigations into the current administrations’ 9/11 dealings have uncovered one of our most intensely feared suspicions – that our national leader, the Father of our country – and his cabinet knew about the attacks before they happened and did nothing to stop them**. And here we are now in the midst of something that can never be taken back, that can only escalate into the kind of grisly world-wound that will inevitably destroy us all. Our country is torn apart, divided between the “conservative” folks who are supporting this insanity, and by the “liberal” folks who are feeling the way that I am. People say to me again and again that “War is necessary.” and though I will NEVER agree with that, not in this enlightened age, I can see how, in the past, we did have to fight for our freedom and the freedom of others. I do not believe that this is the case now, and many Americans feel this way. There is no excusing the senseless, thoughtless brutality and greed of this current administration
- WE are supposed to be the GOOD guys. I believe that there are a lot of soldiers over there trying their best to help the wounded and weary of those torn countries, some who really believe that this is the reason they were sent there, and hopefully are fulfilling their purpose. How terrible is it that their attempts at good works can be overshadowed by this latest round of horrors, that we have given the evil and greedy people of their country one more “excuse” to commit more horrors in the name of greed and power – just like our own greedy and evil leaders.

And when will it ever end? Who will make the first move toward peace. Neither of us.
That’s just not the way that leaders like ours do things. We will keep torturing and beheading and retaliating and striking until everyone is dead.
People are saying that this could go on indefinitely. That means that all our new babies could grow up in a world where this is in the news every day, or even worse, in a world where it is in the streets here, like it is over there.
How does one find hope in the face of that?

I know some of you will have some angry things to say to me over this, and that’s bad, but those of you who will write with sweet words of hope for a brighter tomorrow, well, those are the replies that I really dread, because at least when I get angry replies, I can say “You are deluded! Not me! This is destroying the world, and you are still trying to defend these bad people!” But when the kind and hopeful words come my way, my conscience won’t allow me to say the truth – what I believe to be the truth – to you, because someone needs to have hope, and some of you – most of you – have very good reasons to keep hoping. Like children.
Those children – your children (even those of you that I don’t know personally) are fast becoming my only reason for hanging on. Not out of hope for their future (I’m afraid that’s going to have to be your job, parents), but because I know that if this keeps up, they are going to need me.
Blue skies and warm water and good food and loving hands are wonderful, and are still available, at this point. But every day it gets harder for me to enjoy them knowing what’s happening to our soldiers and their people, to our country and our rights. I honestly hope that none of the rest of you feel this way. One of the things that I’ve discovered about fibromyalgics is that we are hypersensitive sensorially as well as emotionally. Hopefully, all of you are just tougher than I am. Part of me thinks that people (in general) shouldn’t be able to block any of this out, because maybe that’s part of the reason why it’s been allowed to go so far, and to continue; but part of me is glad that people (my specific people, beloved folks, mums and dads of all of our babies) are able to tune it out – to some degree – and carry on in the midst of all this horror.

I’m wide awake, I’m not sleeping.
-s

*yes, believe it or not, Mike, there is one.
**and everyone said that we were just being paranoid. hm.

Today is a badbadbad pain day, which is sad on such a pretty day. Yesterday was bad, too.
However, I shall decrease your pain (hopefully) considerably by announcing that this will be the last of my original poetry for a while. However, so that my last one will be special, I wrote it this week, just for this post.
I would like to dedicate this poem to JGTH, my birthday boy and best imaginary friend. There is also an illustration to go with this, maybe when we finally get a chance to update the site (one week left to go 'til faire, thankthegdlordjesus!) i will remember to put the illustration up.
This poem, written on 05/08/04, is called

I Am a Queen

I realized last night
that my house
is my throne,
front steps facing
the audience chamber
which is all the world
that knows me.

I am Every Girl -
I don't know how not to be.
I try to be soft and
curve into
each space
but sometimes i am
50 feet tall
and I attack.

And I love,
so big,
all the world,
and it hurts me.
But it fills my heart
with warm strength
and raw power
and hope.
And so,
in this way,
I rule.

* * *

gingerly yours,
-s

I don’t talk about my dad too much here. Maybe it’s because he’s gone, and so is beyond much pointed, active conversation? Or maybe it’s because it still hurts so much.
My dad was far from perfect. As far from perfect as my mother, just in another direction.
Let me just say that it’s a lucky thing that I have some of both of my parent’s good qualities and not too many of their bad ones. Without my mother’s strength and stubborn sense of purpose and independence, my inheritance of my father’s love of pleasure and comfort and ease would be detrimental. My mother is clever and psychological; my father was gentle and funny. My mother is a swimmer; my father was more of a drifter.
My mother is good at taking charge; my father radiated peace, and so on.
It was hard to face dad’s death. When I was little, and needed to remember gentle hands and a kind face, I always called my father to mind. Oh, he committed his crimes too. In my opinion, looking the other way out of laziness or plain irresponsibility or fear is just as bad as doing the harm. He didn’t support us, and ultimately, he barely supported himself. My father always needed a strong woman to help with us, whether it be an aunt, a grandmother, or a new wife, and thank god that he had a soul that made those ladies want to help. He was a charmer and a sweet person to the core, despite his apathy.

I loved my father with all my heart, and even in the midst of anger at his lack of concern for himself and lack of responsibility for us, my love for him never wavered. I thought that my heart would stop or burst when he died, and I was surprised to find that I kept living after he was gone. I guess that was 9 years ago today. I still miss him, I miss his big hugs and his great voice. I miss his good bad cooking (biscuits, grits, gravy, sausage, pancakes, scrambled eggs, or lima beans and ham hocks and collards and cornbread… mmm…). I miss his teasing me about whatever new hair adventure or boyfriend I was enduring, I miss the way his eyes looked when he told us that he loved us, and that he’d wished he’d done better by us, or that he was proud.

Today’s poem is one that I wrote a while before dad died, maybe even a few years, so he read it. And then I read it again at his “official” funeral*. It’s veryvery cheesy and mooshy (you have been warned) but I don’t care, because it is how I feel.

for daddy

Sunday mornings claim love as their own,
sleepy and blurring quiet words from the t.v.
and remote beneath my brothers’ clicking fingers.

You still call me baby,
and my Saturday night-late Scrabble mind
forgets that I am twenty-three,
and pulls me out of bed
to rest my head in the warm spot at the top of your arm
in your hug.

I will be Baby
as long as there is you to call me
to a table set with mismatched dishes,
waiting under your obligatory prayer
to fill me up
with precious waffles, sausage, eggs and biscuits
that have always meant daddy-love to me.

We eat and argue
about things that could never have a meaning
on a Sunday-breakfast morning,
half-hearted squabbles over t.v. channels
and who was where at two a.m.

I watch your brown eyes shine over the rim
of black-cup coffee
and see your pride of fatherhood
as someone reaches for another perfect biscuit.

When nothing’s left but crumbs and dishes,
I stand to wash, remembering my age
and duty.
All I say is “Thank you, daddy.”
but you know exactly what I mean.

* * *
1993

-Sam

Those of you who know how I feel about winter will get a little more out of this poem. It is one of my favorites partially because of the sentiment, and it's mythical root, but I was also proud of the form of it, the count down. I think I wrote this one in '97.

Persephone?

6 Pomegranate seeds,
6 dark months.
I sleep and draw and rehearse my lines,
and wait,
like children in the sno-kone line,
for spring.

The sheets stay still -
I like them that way - and clean.
They smell like the sun and rain
and I dream these things,
lost, happy on the sea of sleep.

Some days I wake
wanting stillness
and breakfast.
This winter diet works.

I want sun,
warm water,
and good sense...

Wisdom,
heaven,

barbecue.

My heart has joined the Thousand, for my friend stopped running today.
-Richard Adams, Watership Down


Yesterday was a sad day. My beloved Bruffy family (Brett, Buffy, Skye and Arianna) lost one of their furry babies. Inky was truly the best cat I have ever known, and I don’t know anyone who has met “Inky-Do” who doesn’t agree. I loved my own dear Cat heart and soul. I honestly believe that she was the first creature, furry or non, that I truly loved, all the way, without any reservation, ‘til death did we part. She was a good kitty, and loved me, but I have to honestly say that she could be a bitch from hell when she wanted to. Not Inky. That cat was, as his daddy put it very plainly, a HO. He was a beautiful, long-haired, smoke-colored Himalayan. He loved to be loved, and tolerated every kind of extreme affection that humans, when faced with such a rare cat, could devise. His favorite trick with Brian was to get on the office chair and have Brian spin him around until he was drunk and then when Bri stopped the chair Inky would sort of fall of and stagger away. He loved for Brett to hold him upside down by his hind legs and rub that belly, and Ink would just hang there and purr like a small lawnmower. Buffy loved the way he sat in the high chair, upright, slumped to the side like a little middle-aged man, paws hanging down over his fluffy smoke-colored belly, nodding off while their busy life revolved around him. I loved to pick him up, belly-up and let him stretch out over my arms, he would curve all the way back and let me rub my face on his belly as much as I wanted. Mmmm, kitty belly love… He let me rub his little smushed-in nose* as much as I wanted, and he loved for me to chase him around the house. He would run by me and then wait at the foot of the stairs, or in a doorway for me to catch on or catch up… he played this game with me the last time I saw him.
That kitty is going to be missed by all of us, but I know that Brett is hurting worse than anybody. Inky was his spirit animal, mascot and homeboy**. I think the reason that Inky was such a wonderful cat is because he took after his PersonDad, and I know that Brett is probably feeling like he’s lost a part of himself. I lost Cat to the same illness that took Inky, kidney failure, and it is a hard thing. Buffy called me last night and my heart broke to hear her in her pain. Some people say that they are just animals, what’s the big deal, but those of us who love them and live with them in our homes and hearts know that they are just less troublesome children (except for all that hair). We celebrate their birthdays, give them Christmas presents and Sunday breakfast treats (Lu gets scrambled eggs) we put them in our art and consider them in all of our decisions. They are our best friends and they love us in a way that no human ever could. When we are sad, they give us a warmth and comfort that can’t be replicated in any other way, and when they leave us, they leave an empty space in us for the rest of our lives.

Inky, may the grass be long, the couches be cushy and the mice be slow, my friend. And may you find suitable laps to hold you and crazy people to chase you until we meet again.
- sam

Jubilate Agno

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry....
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.
For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he's a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.

- Christopher Smart
(this is an edited excerpt of a poem written by a man who lived from 1722-1771)

*I LOVE to rub animal noses. BIGtime.
**These are photos of kitties that look a lot like Inky.

I've been thinking about my mother, Josephine, a lot lately. Partly because I have heard news of her, partly because Mother's Day is coming up, partly because it was around this time of the year when I made the decision to have no contact with her until she agreed to talk to me about the past, and partly because Uma Thurman has been really visible lately** and Josie bears more than a passing resemblance to her - especially when she's kicking ass and taking names. I have a photo of her, she's about 30, as tiny as a child, sitting on a pew in my dad's apartment. She is wearing a beautiful sky-blue and white-trimmed v-neck ball jersey that is STILL not as blue as her eyes. Her skin is very tanned, her hair is cut short, and pale blonde, and she is smiling a little. It's my favorite picture of her, and the one I showed to Stewart and Chris to say "See? She looks just like her." They agreed. U.T. has always been my favorite actress, too, and I never considered that this might be one of the reasons...
I think about her a lot, anyway. Probably every day, almost every time I look in the mirror, or every time I do something especially hard without anyone's help. It's hard to separate he good from the bad sometimes, especially lately, since I realize that I have ceased to exist in her mind, but the fact of the matter is that she is stamped on every cell of me. (One of my closest high school friends said that I resembled Uma a little (ha!), and I said "No, I just look a little like my mother, who looks a LOT like her...")
I am proud of who I am, and so many of my best qualities, and definitely most practical, survivor qualities come from her. She is tough and clever, smart and strong, stubborn and likeable, beautiful and powerful - she is an amazing person. In fact, there have only been two things that I have ever seen or known her to be unable to do, and unfortunately they were both very important things. In my opinion, they were the most important things, but the reality of those things disappeared along with the reality of me.
I will never stop hoping that change will come, but the person closest to me in the world assured me that this was a hollow hope, and that maybe I was the wrong kind of optimist. Oh well, I could be - and have been - worse things. And maybe he'll be wrong. Wouldn't that be nice?

Today's poem is about my mother.
I wrote this in 1992.

Diving from the Leaf River train trestle

When mama told the story,
I could feel my toes
hooking around the warm edge
of the outside rail of the trestle.
The breeze from the river
must have curled up against the small of her back
and pushed a little --
I could feel the sway.

I know my spitfire mother
never jumped feet first,
tucking up like a roly-poly,
cannon-balling into the muddy water.
I think she must have spread her arms
and flexed like a baby bird,
filling her bony ribcage
with green summer air.

(Here, I held my breath
and shivered a little,
knowing she wouldn't
change her mind...)

Springing up
on the balls of her feet,
trigger release,
arcing into the open space
like a short, white rainbow -
did she even have time to squint
at the sun on the surface
before her thin body wedged
into the water?

Cold,
then nothing more
than a second
before she curved along
the slick river bottom
and, flexing again,
arced back toward the sky.

***

Happy mother's day to all of you. Hug your mothers if you can, and if you see mine, hug her big, and twice, but don't tell her the second one's from me, her non-existent kid.
-Sam


* when Brian met Autumn (my cousin, Josie's niece), the VERY first thing he asked her about was the story of her pulling the gun on the sheriff when she was only 17 and veryvery pregnant with me...
**MAN, is 'Kill Bill' a good movie, too.

Hi peeps.
Y’all have no idea how sweet it is when I tell someone that I have done something, or thought about something and have him or her say “I know, I read your rant.”
I’ve written here before about the apparent weight and value of my words when I was growing up. It’s funny. A lot of what I said was discounted, either out of lack of concern, or simply to discredit my veracity in order to cover their own @$$e$, but then if I told any one of my adult-folks that they should be extra careful on the river or road or in the woods that day, they would take great precautions because of their belief in my ‘insight’.*
Maybe that’s why I write and talk and draw/paint about how I feel so much. Because I want to be heard, and because I’ve never really been sure that I actually have anything to say. I was shut up and discounted for so long that now I want to just pour out my heart, whatever the consequences to me, and it really is the sweetest thing when someone comments on what I’ve written here, or something I’ve said to them. Even if they disagree, I know they’ve listened, and so many times people say that I have touched them or made them think, and that means all the world to me. It makes me seriously consider the value of my words, and try to make them count.

Thank you for reading, thank you for your comments (yes, Mike, even you…), thank you for believing that I have something worth saying.

Here’s another poem (don’t worry, I’m running out fast. : ) This is dedicated to Nina Simone** who is my favorite blues singer. She was born and raised here, about 1/16 of a mile from my house, or less, if you cut through the woods. When the local Community Foundation built a new park in Tryon, they asked me to come and read this poem at the dedication ceremony. Considering what this poem is really saying, that was pretty brave and bold of them.
I think this is the best poem I have ever written.

Nina

You sing to me
when the hurt is so deep
that nothing else can touch it.
Your voice is rough and strong,
like my fathers hand resting on my back,
weighted heavy with long years
of understanding ache.

You know the burdens
of love and salvation,
the sound of grief
at the bottom of a glass,
and you talk to me, soul sister,
any time I need to hear.

Sundays,
I walk past the place
where you slept and dreamed
of other lives, of freedom.
I imagine that you came this way,
swinging your arms,
singing softly to the graveyard.

Did you sit here
on your steps and cry so loud
that all the Mill Village
dogs would howl,
but not another human could hear you?
I hear it, and I howl too.

Now, all the wealthy white men –
actors, poets and politicians –
have their names plastered
on every other building.
Not one of them knows me,
or you, or cares.
Civic pride has a limit, I suppose.

I know you won’t come home –
I can’t blame you.
I came here to get away from home.
But your voice still rings down Markham,
across Scriven creek valley,
and gives me courage to face another day here.

My civic pride says:
“She got out.
Will I ever?”
It also says:
”Of all the things I’ve found here,
I am most proud of you and I.”


* * *
Big love,
-Sam


*Hm. Maybe I should’ve tried telling someone that I’d had a psychic vision that my stepfather was gonna’ beat my ass and lock me in a shed with nothing to eat or drink.
‘Sorry. I guess some things you STAY a little mad about, always.

**btw, Nin(k)a, she’s who was playing as I was placing the incense around yours and Jerels wedding pavilion. :)