Goodbye my sweet Grace You were nothing short of my hero

You were born in New York 15 years ago and raised by a loving silver haired elderly man and his wife for 7 years in a New York high rise. Your loving silver haired master died leaving you alone with his widow. You began to suffer greatly at the hands of her mental decline with dementia. So much damage happened before her children placed her in a home and took you to Brittany Rescue Society. The Rescue Society put you up for adoption three times and all three times you were taken back to the rescue society. The families said you couldn't love. They wanted a dog who could love.

I called the Brittany Rescue Society looking for someone who could fill my heart left by the gaping hole of Hope's passing. I was certain no dog could hold a candle to her legacy. I adopted you and my heart sank. I felt like you couldn't love me. I almost took you back for the fourth time to the rescue society, but the next day a miracle happened. I began to notice you had an uncanny ability to sense changes in me and respond. You were cool, calm, collected and eerily smart. There was a deep magic to you that I was beginning to see. That night you decided to sleep next to me. I canceled my appointment with the rescue society. Over the months and years you formed a bond with me stronger than most human relationships. You were a trauma rescue. You taught me that time, love and patience were the only strategies for a trauma survivor, but once those bonds are made they are among the strongest in the world. People were drawn to you. You were a defining miracle that got me through the second most defining season of life. First there was Hope my first Brittany Spaniel, and then Grace, you. We spent the last remaining months of your life preparing for your travels over the rainbow bridge, and your crossing was less than a month ago it is the hardest thing I’ve experienced in my life in over a decade.

It is just astounding how much a creature can be loved.
Your time on this earth served a great purpose and the everlast holds you dearly until I see you again. You were a champion of dogs.

The 'Hypocrisy Oath' of the GOP

A couple of thoughts here on the new Louisianna law. My first thought would be that the GOP are the ones who find all ten of those commandments a bit difficult to sustain.
The second thought is, that everything the GOP (and this includes our 'Supreme Court) does, seems to be on an ever-increasing verge on anti-intellectualism. I say this because I think they are missing the entire picture here.

Exactly WHAT bible are they putting in schools? Are they aware that this series of documents are essentially recreations (over thousands of times) deriving from a series of Beduin cave (and other locations) parchment dating between the third century B.C.E. to 68 C.E., translated from at least a few different languages including Hebrew, Aramaic, Najdi Arabic, Mehri language, Greek, and Harsusi, those are just the ones I can remember. Even the earliest recordings of Isho Yēšūaʿ‍were found on P52, a papyrus fragment from a codex ( c. 90–160)
They want to talk about 'science' being a deviation from the truth. But when the truth stares them in the face even in the bald face of facts of their arguments, they'll refuse to accept it.

It's the perfect hypocrisy. What frightens me is how utterly viral it is. I've taken to calling the GOP rhetoric the Dark Bible, their movements with this made up document are almost as hard to nail down and understand as Dark Energy>Dark Matter in the Universe

No, it isn't perfection; whatever that is.
What I am so drawn to is originality. I tried hard to pick apart what that meant. I only came away with the word 'brutal' but not from its Latin origins. Brutally honest, brutally original, brute as in force.

Then I heard in one of my favorite movies 'Shirley' Stanley Edgar Hyman tell his protege:

"Originality is the alchemy of critical thought and creativity"

Moving on to say "Mediocrity, if it were terrible, that would be profound, but terrifically competent, there is no excuse for that."

He was talking about the actions of derivative works. I have to say, I somewhat agree. Originality is the thing that brings me alive in works, and derivative, meaning 'copying another writer or artist or thinker' with some clout or upwardly mobile fame, that is repelling to me.
I've seen not only the writer's style but their very mannerisms and language copied as in a movement that looks more like a type of religion. Bringing a writer's genius into a form of thought is one thing, writers and artists are studied, but this is different, different than neglecting the entirety of one's mold. Falling into the current of a movement to carry one downstream without knowing the destination.

Brutal originality is brutal honesty. However, it lands with the aesthete that nearly doesn't matter. Whether widely accepted or not, I will always admire the original thinker, over a derived and movement-driven artist.

“My vintage 1956 Stanley Edgar Hyman arrived in the mail today. Look at these yellowed pages... I’m so curious about the very man who complicated and elevated the life of one of my literary heroes.”

When I think about unchecked mental health issues, which begin almost benignly, masquerading as a person traversing areas of interest, testimony, theory, but which slowly begin to turn into somewhat untenable abstract ideation, moving into baseless territory, blasting past checkpoints and stop signs (factual data) directly to absurdity and then finally to extremism and fanaticism, my mind searches for an image.

One image has recently come to light, and that is Russian artist Ilya Repin's famous painting of Ivan the Terrible, the notorious Tsar of Russia, who committed a heinous act when he killed his son, Ivan Ivanovich, in a fit of rage.

Ivan the Terrible had a dark side characterized by paranoia, rage, and bouts of mental instability that worsened with age, such that everyone "became a detractor"--even his son. He also exemplifies this process I'm talking about.
I've been so devoutly curious about this process, how it comes about, and what connection it has with belief systems.
It begins with closing the door on factual data and debate, alongside removal of checks and balances on off-kilter ideation and somehow becomes self-perpetuating into a solipsistic dogma that assures the sufferer they have come into a "Truth" that cannot be contradicted by anyone--not by scholars, theologians, vast amounts of socio-political history, you name it.
I'm also quite interested in how someone gets to a position where they no longer respond to societal consequences, let alone factual data. Even grave ones. In the painting, Repin's interpretation is of the emotional torture that ensued after the fatal encounter. I'm stunned when I take this work in, just as stunned as I am when I see it play out in today's world.

This image should win a Pulitzer. Initially, I thought it was Dave Killen's a friend of ours who is an award-winning hometown photojournalist, whose work expands across the globe, but he believes it may be Mathieu Lewis-Roland's.

The lovely mother in the image is not identified to me at least but she took part in the 'Wall of Moms' peaceful protests in the very active summer of 2020.

She is an example of a PEACEFUL PROTESTER WHOSE RIGHTS WERE **ACTUALLY VIOLATED** BY FEDERAL SANCTIONED OPPRESSIVE CONTROL DEVICES.

The woman in the image was protesting well within her civil rights, she was not destroying property, she was not harming others, and she is a hard-working citizen and mother who cares very much for her Country, her State, her City, and her communities.

She took time to research the causes she was protesting about, understood on a keen academic level who she was up against, and was respected by her community.
She used all manner of thoughtful protests aside from physical presence. She was invoved in community initiatives and writings. The outcome was what was important to her. Not a flash-in-the-pan destructive party to get out aggression.
She never made it about her, her end goal along with her comrades on the front lines was to make a statement in response to grave unrest and terrifying new inroads of Federal rot that seized the country and hopefully agitate for change.

Trump sent forces from the Department of Homeland Security (DHS), the U.S. Marshal Service, U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP), and the Federal Protection Service to Portland, appearing at the U.S. courthouse, where they were told to protect federal buildings. Instead, they fired pepper spray or tear gas at protesters, who did not cross the barrades protecting the Federal building, nearly killing one protester, and tossed around mothers, from the Wall of Moms (where this image was shot)
This moment was a clinch point, it was the first time a militant President of the United States sought to engage in fear tactics to protect his ideation under the false guise of bringing law and order to Portland, a sanctuary city.

When an unrest happens, I think of her. I think of some of my friends who also appeared that summer in peaceful organized demonstrations. I think of the true inertia, and effort that went into their stories, and the very cost to them. Above all I love them, for keeping the focus on the cause, AND I'm betting if I ran into her and chatted over a cup of coffee she would tell me about everything she'd done since then to continue her mission.
My great love and thanks to her, her comrades and that photo journalist who brought this powerful image into rotation.

It’s not about you

Now envision a mother or a father who has just laid their precious child on a makeshift funeral pyre in Gaza, imagine them looking through a vortex hole at some sack of shit spray painting ACAB, with a lit cigarette hanging out of their mouth, wearing a Palestinian flag in the wrong way as 'head wrap' in a demonstrably demoralizing and culturally appropriating way. Now imagine how they'd feel?

Because I'm in the building community, someone just now circulated images of the damage inside PSU's library.

They fucking trashed that library.

They destroyed/stole books, punched holes in walls, destroyed furniture, graffiti'd walls, the worst part is the graffiti had little to do with Palestine (ACAB/FUCK POLICE/BLM) painted floors, burned carpet, snuffed out cigarettes on artwork, they broke windows, they made it look like a drug den.

You wanna talk to me about 'PEACEFUL' protests?
You wanna describe to me how a university deserves to be seated with the bill of tens of thousands of dollars it most likely doesn't have in the budget to restore a library that serves every community member who wishes to gain an education?? That library has had some of the greatest minds go through there, some went on to become some of the greatest leaders in our generation who are from Portland WHO CAN ACTUALLY MAKE A FUCKING DIFFERENCE.

Folks, HONESTLY, what are we looking at here? Does Portland REALLY need to act like a tweaker every time there is a date in history of note?
Ask yourself what is to transpire if Trump gains presidency?!
What do you think our future holds as a city? A boarded up, graffiti'd ghost town, looting, post nuclear zone? Again? Given 2020 and what is transpiring now?

Now envision a mother or a father who has just laid their precious child on a makeshift funeral pyre in Gaza, imagine them looking through a vortex hole at some sack of shit spray painting ACAB, with a lit cigarette hanging out of their mouth, wearing a Palestinian flag in the wrong way as 'head wrap' in a demonstrably demoralizing and culturally appropriating way. Now imagine how they'd feel??
In everything they would BEG of our powerful nation. DO YOU THINK THIS IS IT?
I wonder what it must feel like for them to watch learning institutions that they'd most likely give nearly everything they have to attend (especially the women) get annihilated.
Protests are a powerful tool of change and communication and are an important part of social movements. Destruction and abuse cancel it out every time. Every time.
Right now I'm fucking pissed. Property destruction is not the answer, not now, not ever.

Skyline

I made this shadow box art piece years ago, and it hangs in the home of master artist and architect (Founder of GBD Architects) Chuck Gordon.
All of the pieces in it are tools of the architecture trade used by C Gordon when architects were required to be master artists.
They did much of their drafting and scaling by hand (Before Sketchup and CAD) programs were available. It had the thought pieces that combined an older generation architect with a newer generation architect. Both are just wonderful men. I was so honored to work with them.
I look at this image of City Hall now and think to myself, there is just no way I would have known just how different our city would become in the scant few years ahead of making this piece. This piece was made during the Nick Fish era of City Hall.
City Hall has fractured into a shadow of its former self.
As I view some of the buildings in the downtown core, I think of the architects who worked out hours of creation, love, sweat, and tears, possibly won an award, celebrated their creation, went to a ribbon cutting, faded to the present and the building is a half vacant ghost of its former self.
Some of them boarded up, some have been removed altogether. It's so much more than the regular evolution and flux of a city skyline. This is a City whose downtown core is breathing its final breaths.
I do grieve in a way. The memories of a cleaner, safer, robust city that supported everyone. Everyone from the small family-owned Jewish bakery that made the finest Reuben sandwich to the KOIN news tower. That tiny food cart vendor and donut shop to the busy library and art galleries. Everything can be reinvented, including the visions and dreams of architects. Repositioning is the name of the game, the opportunities are staring right at us. A shell of what they once were.

Martyrdom- Legacy or Death?

In Arabic, the word shahid means "witness". The pronunciation of our word martyr hails from the Greek word mártys (μάρτυς) translated to 'witness'.
From the days of Perpetua of Carthage through the ages the stories of martyrs are endless. Pop culture names have carved out a vision of what a martyr means.

Though martyrs serve in different ways and their ultimate demise differs, usually their lives are taken from them mid stride. In the breadth of service, that is an important distinction.
Martin Luther King Jr knew of his impending death as a ‘feeling’ he couldn’t shake and confided in a friend about it. But he didn’t go looking for death. He kept his stride steady in service and remained steadfast to his Higher Power. The date and time came like a thief in the night.

I can think of no stronger modern-day martyr than Alexei Anatolyevich Navalny, described by Wiki as a Russian opposition leader, lawyer, anti-corruption activist, and political prisoner.
In truth, no matter what it cost him, (and it cost him plenty) Navalny dedicated his life to educating his fellow man about how they’ve been routinely sanctioned, blindfolded, lied to, bullied, extorted, gaslit, and generally subjugated into an oppressive patriotism of Russia’s most notorious leader in generations. Like, the corrupt kings of Exodus, it is said that Putin greenlit the killing of Navalny as a 70th ‘birthday gift’.
When I learned that Navalny was killed successfully this time—remember they unsuccessfully poisoned him with nerve agents previously—I thought about what the word Martyr means.

Dr. David Cook, who studies the apocalyptic and millenarian tradition in Islam, wrote that the concept of martyrdom is a masthead in all the major monotheistic religions. He saw it as a testament to the truth of the faith. Martyrdom became a central feature of jihad as early as the 9th century according to his writings, but in his version of martyrdom “Modern-day globalist Muslim radicals want to return the concept of martyrdom to its original meaning of battlefield death.”
This concept of martyrdom focuses on the death of a member of religious and socio-political theorists and focuses less on his leadership, communication, socio-political work, research, and revelations.

One of my personal favorite martyrs in history would be Isho Yeshu īšōʕ who was murdered by state-sanctioned violence in the order that they might stop his socio-political and societal revelations to the population. I think if you were to ask Him today he wouldn’t say “I died for religion”
I believe Navalny would have preferred to ‘go on.’ In fact his foreshadowing of his moment, his words were “If they are successful in killing me, this means we are strong, do not give up, continue.”
If given the choice, I believe the true martyr would go on, even in the face of having everything taken from them, one by one by one. Death is not their pinnacle, their biggest sacrifice, but their legacy in trial is.

In Navalny’s case, this wasn’t a small grassroots movement that one day rolled into legislative actions to change a part of a nation’s movement in the world. He took on an entirely corrupt and deadly Russian governance and at the same time attempted to persuade Russian citizens that they would one day have freedom of the press, freedom of ideas, freedom of information, and freedom of enterprise.
I don’t believe the true martyr calls themselves martyrs.
I’m grateful for Navalny’s sacrifice of lived experience for a legacy. He knew he would be jailed but continued. In the face of the very worst, he became the leader agitator, and powerful continuum that Putin could only dream of. In a way, one might say his death had made him more powerful. For Putin, it backfired. In a time yielding so much death, I hope to have the energy to keep taking in the legacies. We have to believe in its gestational power. A seed planted.

Advance Or Die

The term "advance or die" can be found in Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Canto III, "For 'tis his nature to advance or die;" It was used freely by the American armed forces for generations. In the armed forces across all strata, it is generally known who the 'enemy' is. It is for the most part a declared and clear ideation.

For us, the vision of what is a threat to us is more of a shapeshifting full roaming vapor, turning, twisting, taking shape only for a breath before evaporating into the void only to arrive like the wind in its terrible ephemeral front to appear in another way, for it should like to confuse us.

When we lay it all out on the map table in the war room, it suddenly becomes a dark truth that sits in the stomach like a rock. None of this is easy. Essentially all of this, all of this conflict, natural disasters, unraveling of some of the more troubled minds, the trauma of watching our 'leaders' behave like liabilities, it all takes a masters level in humanities, sciences, and history to gain a full grasp. It isn't possible.
We see a type of chasm happening because of this. The right and left minds, the spiritual and the fundamental systems thinkers all fill up chalk boards like Oppenheimer's teams during think sessions.

What we do know is that one very terrible threat, against all possible odds, against all aims of justice, against the very fabric of our brittle codes of righteous standing, may very well gain control of a critical mission, world power nation once again.
The astonishing factor is that even before this very dark day, he is telling us who he is. What he is, and there can be no question now.

To pander to the self-defeating ideas that this all is overblown and we can get through this as we have in times past is an exercise in futility and willful ignorance. It may be impossible for some to understand, that as unbelievable as it is, there is simply no going back now.
The very nature of what is happening is offering clues to its attributes that do not assimilate well into the belief systems of nearly half of America. For the other half, it is fodder for fanaticism, extremism, lack of reason, over-spiritualization, and loss of reality. This chasm is unlike anything that has happened, even during the world wars. Even during Hitler's time. What is an acceptable truth and to whom?

Soldiers have over the years attempted to pen the remarkable human endeavor that happens when an unbelievable event befalls them. The choices are near zero, the information limited, and the only thing they know is that at this moment, they must advance or die. The outcome for some is based on a faith system and for others chance.
We may not have the time for perfect analysis and summation. Oppenheimer's team in Los Alamos had an understanding of what they were introducing into the world, but on the day of detonation even Oppenheimer himself said, "In one hour's time, we shall find out".

I'm watching symposiums, debates, and work sessions from what this nation calls the smartest minds, from the greatest universities and annuls of history, politics, and science and the most they can do is essentially just debate. No one man accepts the philosophy of another.
And so, we are left with that moment. That one moment where in a set of circumstances so contrary to experiences past that we must make that very simple decision.

Though the date in November is largely more ceremonial and quiet in it's aspects, determines a set of defining events that shape history, a dichotomy of repeating itself while simultaneously entering an era never before navigated.

263 days and 7 hours until that date in November. No matter the origins, we've got one choice.

The Unimaginable

The winter storm of 2024 came in with a soft breath of swirling powder dancing on the pavement. I wondered, even amid the cold snap what kind of presence she would make.

I often feel a kind of frenetic energy, a type of anxiousness right before something is set to happen. That something is of more consequential impact. I struggled with the migraine, the sleepless nights, and the wondering. 
Then it happened.
But it didn’t happen to me. It happened to my wonderful friend whom I’ve held close through the years. A brilliant artist whose stories and education about her heritage helped shape the art community and literary world of our beautiful city over the years. Shu-Wang and her husband Mike lived art, they didn’t just create it. The way she speaks, the way she writes, the way she moves in the world. Their gorgeous home was a testament to her love of nature.
Twenty different species of birds, chickens, and Koi fish in their pond. A garden of delights.
In the violent ice, wind and snow storm, a series of towering evergreens sliced through their home and smashed that gorgeous garden.

Snow and ice gripped our Portland area with a vengeance. When the winds began to blow I groaned.
The postings by the scores, friends, and loved ones, one by one by one report the power outages.
Then came the emotional posting from Shu-Ju, picture after picture set a vision for the absolute torrent of loss.

I don’t remember thinking about it, I just remember taking the reins right away. One thing you understand if you have been in the construction and development community as long as I have, is that unless you operate within it, it is much like speaking another language to someone who is not. 
I have worked on hundreds of disaster restoration issues over the years, felled trees, water intrusions, and fire. I know the steps, the systems, and the right contacts to ensure that at least through the physical restoration process, they get through it. Shu-Ju gave me the trust and autonomy to project manage this disaster as a way that I could serve in this harrowing situation. All of their friends and loved ones stepped in. Food, lodging, support, supplies, care and love. It was indicative of a life well lived and loved. This is the life you want to lead. One where if disaster comes calling, your loved ones rally to support and lift you.

Ice set us behind in tree removal and restoration teams showing on site. Cranes and teams could not fight against the landscape until some of it thawed.
During this time an even more despicable event happened. They were burglarized. Someone scaled the treacherous environment to enter the house and steal items left behind, including Mike’s rare cello. I was stunned, I was angry, I was confused as to how such a traumatic thing could happen to one of the best people I know.
Then I became quiet and I watched. I watched the patience and fortitude of the woman this happened to reach out like a beacon shining in fog. In moments where my struggles combined with watching this terrible event happen to a good friend compounded into anger against my own higher power, I heard that still small voice say “Pay attention, Jennifer, see how she navigates, her point of views, listen carefully, for actions and works are the greater teacher of wisdom” 

A few days later another incredible event happened. This time, justice. The Portland Police see thousands of burglaries. They are so overburdened I thought that this one would evaporate into the ethos much like the others. But Shu-Ju’s husband Mike was able to track his stolen electronics to an address and gave this info in their report of burglary to the police. The Portland Police executed a search warrant and partnered with the Sheriff’s office and Tigard Police and Kowalski was brought in. It was an important message to send to criminals in our state about not taking advantage of natural disaster situations. I am beyond grateful.

That voice was right, we live in a world filled with words but actions are the greater teacher of wisdom. If I squint hard enough, I can see a way through the fog to the possibility that the pieces can be gathered and made into something good. Though it takes some imagination now, I can see where the garden just might be made into something better than it was before, but it is hard to see through the mess and mire of minutes now. 

Some situations seem so excruciating in their timetables, and it seems as though faith, even the size of a mustard seed maintained, can move mountains. I’ve lived long enough to know that sometimes it is through retrospect. You don’t see it until you’ve reached the other side. 

Assimilation Zero [models.apprehend(( 'LDA' ,LinearDiscriminateAnalysis() ))]

As AI begins to invade our academic world and workplaces, making it difficult to discern between human and machine, I find myself going back to basics.

Facing a possible WWIII I find myself typing my thoughts on a WWII Smith-Corona portable, the very typewriter phenom Shirley Jackson used to pen ‘Haunting of Hill House’ and ‘Hangsaman’

I’ve been writing letters, sending them through post. This is a small campaign designed to remind myself that there is a way to honor the fight against false façade, against disinformation and get back to basics.

The story of how I came about this model was a visit to an amazing antique shop. I picked up a 1930 Royal, when I took it to Matt McCormack’s place (Ace Typewriter) for a tuneup we found that an old weld prevented the machine from releasing the keys.
He picked up my Smith Corona, I’ve now dubbed ‘Shirley’ off one of his display cases and proceeded to test type the first opening sentence to one of my novels I’m working on. He’s simply had no idea that the words he’d typed “The Time is Now” was from my story.
It was all I needed. I made the purchase and traded my 1930 Royal for parts.
I believe that we all will learn and very soon, that going back to basics will be a practice more required versus chosen.

The traveling victory skirt

When I made that flaring orange skirt years ago, I made it thinking I would use it in an art project.
The idea was lovely, it had bright orange tulle, with infused dark pink. I never wore it but it stayed in the closet for years. I couldn’t part with it.
One year, my childhood friend Kira said, you know? I really like that skirt! I thought it was perfect for her too. I mailed it to her.
Never in a million years did I think that skirt would be worn in victory over Kira’s battle with double mastectomy breast cancer at National Breast Cancer awareness events. It really was like it was initially made for her. The connections of both worlds. The past, the present, art and community. It’s a thing to behold sometimes.
One year in middle school, I caught the sun bouncing off her bright springy curls as we waited to get into the gym to start basketball practice. Never in a million years did I think I’d still know her mid life, or watch her so valiantly fight and win against a deadly cancer. Sometimes these events are an important aspect in anchoring me to a timeless self, no matter how much it changes through the years.

The Palate Cleanser Experience

Experiences are important I'd say. Always more involved than we think and the end result is almost never what we imagine it will be.

For a very long time, I've imagined what it would be like to create a shampoo from my favorite flower The Eternal Flame yellow rose.
So for some reason, now, I looked up recipes and decided to dive in.
I made sure to study carefully so I wouldn't subject loved ones to a mess. It turns out of course that shampoo made from roses has been done, many times. It was good to have a road map.

What I learned was, it took more research, more patience and God knows a lot more investment than I thought. I also found out that creating shampoo or any bath body elixir for a human being is near impossible. Everyone has differing PH balances, oil production and skin etc..
But what the process was more like creating a potion. A physical manifestation that had intention and prayer infused in it. It is like bottling love and sending it. Good news for me, was that if this creation didn't work on my loved ones hair per se, it would be an exquisite body wash.

In the beginning I thought if I perfected this, that I could create a unique little side deal that begin to pay for itself. But as much as liked the idea, the universe said, no. She said firstly you cannot sell prayers, they must be given, and secondly my path should not include this effort at this time. I think I knew exactly what she was speaking about.
I believe the universe has been pretty clear on what she wants me to focus on now, and I think this little project was another action of creation, maybe even of the art side of me. It was what I call a 'palate cleanser' experience.
The experience was less about adding 'I can make shampoo with roses' to my list of skills and more about learning about human nature. The most exquisite thing in the universe is a loved one who smiles, cheers you on, and tries your bottled effort.
THAT right there is magic. Universe is right, you can't buy or sell love. It's priceless.

Yellow Rose, Gold and Saffron Potion

Well, I’ve decided to try it.
A potion made of my ultimate favorite flower, the yellow rose, a casting of saffron, and a casting of gold fleck. It will come in the form of a shampoo.
I noticed that the beautiful yellow rose, my favorite flower, loses her potential when you cut her off at the stem and throw in a vase in some marketplace.
What way could we really experience her essence is a more intimate way. In what way could you bottle love, castings of strength and wellbeing, and literally hand it to your loved ones? Bottled shampoo no less.
First stirrings happening soon.
P.S. this isn’t a sustainable ‘hobby’ The ingredients are astonishingly expensive and it takes pointed concentration.

Post Apocalypse

The research never ends. Each time I think I can write on something, trace an idea, I'm faced with yet another line that leads to further understanding.

As we travel into a heated and disastrous reality, with more and more haste, it seems I am compelled by a force I cannot explain, to examine, to audit, to study fanaticism and socio political movements of both the seen and unseen. A picture is forming, ever so slowly coming together.

Helpful excerpts from Dr. Caroline Orr-Bueno a scholar of the study of human behavior and society’s constructs of disinformation in the western world, Dr Zachary Goldsmith and now the famed Dr. Bart Erhman, they help keep the rails in place with the mighty realm of world religions and spirituality.
This force drives me in ways I wasn't expecting. Waking me at the ungodly hour of 3:00AM some days.
I remember saying in a tired prayer to my higher power:
"Look, what's the point of all this? I'm just tired, and depressed about all this, and sometimes? even scared."
The answer I got back was, "My dear, ask the many sacred friends you have, tis not an easy thing to be a messenger. In fact, it can feel like its own kind of violence. Herein lies the Grace. To walk humbly, to be present and to be open. For thy Grace is sufficient for this thorn."

Dear Linda,
It's Saturday. What a week it's been.

It began in the most peculiar way, I say peculiar but really it started with a dull ache in the chest and banging headache. You see, I'd walked up to the agency and your tent was gone. The tent that had been there for nearly seven years. I didn't see you adjusting your items or riding your bike.
I'd remembered to bring your shirt, just like each week, I'd bring you items and ask if you were settled, and if you needed anything.
If you were lucid enough and you were not agitated, you would answer, and say thank you or tell me if you needed something. Mostly I was knowledgeable enough to give you your space. We all did at the agency.
You and the agency had grown into a relationship of understanding. Understanding of a woman who was different, wholly different than most people we knew. The deeply seated mental conditions you had, meant that you were what neurobiologists call 'feral'. Its a very rare condition where one cannot reside inside and does not live and conduct themselves along what Meyer's Briggs calls median norms.
You spoke in word salad, and sometimes we'd come to understand your unique language and discern your needs and feelings.
You declined services, but you resided next to the agency and never moved in those years. You'd developed a tie to the agency, a safety net. The RAs at the front desk conversed with you when you needed the restroom, socks, food or water.
One of my favorite memories were when we had the volunteers scrubbing down the facia of the agency and cleaning the windows.
You'd taken a tiny little brush and began scrubbing the sidewalk around your tent. You liked my dog Grace. It was a precious interaction. Your eyes were soft and brilliant blue that day.
Last Friday I noticed that you were doing something out of the ordinary, you were sleeping during the day, I don't think I'd ever seen you sleep. I wondered.
On Monday, I'd learned that you passed away that Sunday on Father's Day.
The agency reeled. There were tears, and emails, the RAs relayed the story of how they'd checked on you and how essential services gently handled you and your items. On Monday as I walked up, there was an empty space where you used to be.

This last week I thought about you many times, I thought about my complex experience working in social services, and I thought about the experiences and people who have taught me the very most about the human condition in these very complex times in our embattled city. I realized that you had been such an important story in these experiences. I sincerely hope in this new wonderful place of absence of suffering and in your ultimate form you are aware of the many many deep connections that had been forged around you and the lives you'd touched.

We are never, ever truly alone and I am grateful for this reminder. I am relieved your suffering is over and honored to have met you.
Yes what a week it has been.

When Our Memories Come Closer

I've often said to folks, listen, if you want to 'experience' Portland, I mean really experience it through the eyes of one of it's most willful daughters, read Monica Drake's works.
In both works The Stud Book and the Folly of Loving Life, you'll read the ending and close the back cover feeling as though you were born and raised in this complicated city. And, it is so important to tell the story of this--complicated city.

It is important because it is changing, some may say it is even dying.
Though many hold out hope for it's assuming an ultimate healed and recovered form, the phase we are in now is attrition. There is a grieving or a nostalgia as we face an uncertain future.
The last time I'd felt like I'd stepped into the skin of a character and really lived their verisimilitudes in experiencing a city, you could almost smell the air...that was Renata Adler's Pitch Black and Speedboat. The city was New York.

For me, the arrival of 'Come Closer' was at a cross roads in my life. I'd just come back from doing street outreach for my agency, a Portland homeless advocacy. In addition I'd looked at the electrical in our Chinatown warehouse, and passed the Annual Rose Festival on the way home. It was cross section take on post apocalyptic Portland the year 2023 where everything has changed.
In 'Come Closer' Monica transported me back to Mayor Vera Katz Portland. I'm back there, right back in that tumultuous time in my life, now remembering what I'd forgotten. Weaving back and forth into and out of the reader and the character. It was another successful teleportation.

To bring life to the City of Roses in the mind of a reader is no easy feat. Though much smaller, you may as well attempt to do the same with New York. Many try, few succeed.

I think I'll carry these memories with me into the future, a future so elusive to prediction.

OSINT WORKFLOW

This is language model for advanced intelligence workflow model OSINT. I'm interested in the pentagram in the middle in orient sector. The pentagram is the simplest regular star polygon. The pentagram contains ten points (the five points of the star, and the five vertices of the inner pentagon) and fifteen line segments.

Transition Projects

For so many years now, quite a few of you have known my passion for houseless advocacy and a desire to contribute somehow to the better angels working toward advocacy, equity, support, love and strategy in all things addiction prevention, family supportive housing and homeless prevention along with community wrap around services.
That dream has finally come true.
I was selected by CEO Joy Jones to join her stellar team at Transition Projects to serve the team as Facilities/Fleet and Senior Project Manager.
I will have the honor of using my 25 years of building and development experience to lend to the team, as we renovate, improve, and expand infrastructure in acquisitions. Providing some of the best facilities and milieus PDX has to offer the recovery and houseless community. In witnessing these better angels and their passions in their own massive portfolios, energies, and efforts, like Joy, Seth, Lindsay, Matt and so many others, I have so much hope for our future. Good things are coming, and I'm so very honored and humbled to be able to serve!