Woman In A Man's World

In the shop connected to the engineer's office at a building I worked in (The Nines), there was a mannequin there from one of their staging scenes. I put the plans I was working with in her arms and a welding hat on her and considered her improved. I couldn't help but notice how closely it illustrated how I feel at times working in fields that are still very much male-dominated. It feels exposing. Standing in a group of men or at a conference room table full of men, I STILL feel like I'm sitting there with no clothes on. This is a feeling that is hard to describe. I think this image does it better than my words would.

Metamorphosis

I took this image last summer when Hades came to visit us. It was the turbulent last few weeks of the Trump sectarian regime, our ability to breathe was literally taken from us and all of nature screamed in agony as she burned and choked to death.

This was the challenging ending of the hardest four years of my life. Scott Ferry wrote a powerful poem about the tearing away of the skin and I thought, my god, if that doesn't just nail it. I left the link on his name active for those who would like to subscribe to his poetry (which will peel your eyeballs btw).

A few years ago when I was a regular free diver and lived in water more than on land, I would sometimes miscalculate the strength, PSI, and depth of water. This put me in situations of suffocation, one scenario was a near-drowning event. You never really forget that pain. Your brain wrenches on the mandible muscles of your lower jaw to open your jaw wide, tilt the head back and pull deep. Another message screams in an override to keep to mouth firmly shut and to block off upper sinus pull, to protect the lungs from filling with water. Cortisol immediately floods the system and panic spread through the system in a matter of milliseconds. It takes a few seconds and then the cortisol accumulates in the lung region to energize the upper thoracic region to ready itself to do its job, but the brain is blocking the instructions. Pain spreads like fire throughout the chest and upper body as panic worsens.

The world's most experienced divers can override this terrible malady and rise more effortlessly to safety. Most of the time the nervous system's response is too much to bear, it's one of the most excruciating nervous system scenarios one can be in. I mention this for a reason, that reason is, that growth can sometimes feel like this. Renewal, change, pupae, chrysalis, hatching, blooming, this time of the year when we see all of Nature modify herself in experience and presence. I can't help but wonder if the impetus isn't just a hint of suffocation? That painful path just before the changes begin to unfold? I wonder... I wonder when I watch the egg count rise in a little Robin's nest just outside my office door, or when I watch the Mallard flock present their hatchings, two by two, and swim fearlessly into the great big world.

Isn't it just the slightest suffocation that forces them to kick the egg open and emerge into the massive expanse of oxygenated air? I wonder as I grapple with working 80 hours a week, juggling rebuilding, post-pandemic, juggling creativity, study, and a consultancy. I watch my movements, this earth dance I do, change in its choreography. Adulting as they say, in ways I'd not previously done. It's uncomfortable, and it feels as though I've left a confined space with too little oxygen to meet the present needs. In these moments where it can feel so exhausting and near unbearable if I can remember the feeling on the other side? Remember the beauty that comes from it. Perhaps this is what gives us the drive to persist. I guarantee you, if Hades decided to return, it would find an entirely different creature in its midst. Spring, the season of growth.

Asemic Writing

Aside from the fiction writing I do on the side (working on novel) much of the writing I do on a day-to-day basis is technical. Business plans, processes, technical systems engineering stuff. I was drawn to the meaningful elements of Asemic writing through one of my favorite poets and visual artists Sam Roxas-Chua and writer/painter Patrick Collier. This transcends the practice of conjuring an image or feeling through the sparing use of language and descriptors. This practice forces me to not let that muscle atrophy. A marking with a single intent tells a backstory through flow and composition. This particular piece I borrowed on my recent studies in Hebrew, Aramaic and Arabic languages. It tells of a reality which can only be blurred even further by the concrete ‘consensus reality’ or ‘truth’ imposed on it (bold yellow line.) The arc is rule of law itself which tries as it may, to cast a measure over it. Both aspects are bold, but in retrospect do very little to change the simplistic, natural power of simple reality, a reality which is shortening day by day by day (burned edges) as time passes. The piece is called ‘The Blurriness of Bold Lines’

Whitey On The Moon

"Whitey on the Moon" is a 1970 spoken word poem by Gil Scott-Heron. It was released as the ninth track on Scott-Heron's debut album Small Talk at 125th and Lenox. It tells of medical debt, high taxes and poverty experienced during the Apollo Moon landings.

I have this inalienable feeling about the Mars landing now. Especially as a science fiction fan, I've always been proud of our country's trailblazing into space travel, exploration, and research. But with the straight-up suffering of this nation now, I mean apocalyptic, it just feels off somehow. It's the same feeling I get when I hear reports reveal that the political races' costs cruised upward to the billions. Everything is just off. Perhaps 'Perseverance' will find the antidote to what ails us now and send it the fuck back. Where is a monolith when you need one?

A rat done bit my sister Nell.

(with Whitey on the moon)

Her face and arms began to swell.

(and Whitey's on the moon)

I can't pay no doctor bill.

(but Whitey's on the moon)

Ten years from now I'll be payin' still.

(while Whitey's on the moon)

The man jus' upped my rent las' night.

('cause Whitey's on the moon)

No hot water, no toilets, no lights.

(but Whitey's on the moon)

I wonder why he's uppi' me?

('cause Whitey's on the moon?)

I was already payin' 'im fifty a week.

(with Whitey on the moon)

Taxes takin' my whole damn check,

Junkies makin' me a nervous wreck,

The price of food is goin' up,

An' as if all that shit wasn't enough

A rat done bit my sister Nell.

(with Whitey on the moon)

Her face an' arm began to swell.

(but Whitey's on the moon)

Was all that money I made las' year

(for Whitey on the moon?)

How come there ain't no money here?

(Hm! Whitey's on the moon)

Y'know I jus' 'bout had my fill

(of Whitey on the moon)

I think I'll sen' these doctor bills,

Airmail special

(to Whitey on the moon) - Gil Scott Heron

The Return of The Arts

There was another swearing-in that took place here. With this glorious day, I feel a return of the arts. With the voices of the vocalists and the straight-up scholarly literature of Amanda Gorman, I can feel art making a roaring return to our great Nation.

The Hill We Climb
When day comes we ask ourselves,
where can we find light in this never-ending shade?
The loss we carry,
a sea we must wade
We've braved the belly of the beast
We've learned that quiet isn't always peace
And the norms and notions
of what just is
Isn’t always just-ice
And yet the dawn is ours
before we knew it
Somehow we do it
Somehow we've weathered and witnessed
a nation that isn’t broken
but simply unfinished
We the successors of a country and a time
Where a skinny Black girl
descended from slaves and raised by a single mother
can dream of becoming president
only to find herself reciting for one
And yes we are far from polished
far from pristine
but that doesn’t mean we are
striving to form a union that is perfect
We are striving to forge a union with purpose
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters and
conditions of man
And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us
but what stands before us
We close the divide because we know, to put our future first,
we must first put our differences aside
We lay down our arms
so we can reach out our arms
to one another
We seek harm to none and harmony for all
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true:
That even as we grieved, we grew
That even as we hurt, we hoped
That even as we tired, we tried
That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious
Not because we will never again know defeat
but because we will never again sow division
Scripture tells us to envision
that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree
And no one shall make them afraid
If we’re to live up to our own time
Then victory won’t lie in the blade
But in all the bridges we’ve made
That is the promised glade
The hill we climb
If only we dare
It's because being American is more than a pride we inherit,
it’s the past we step into
and how we repair it
We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation
rather than share it
Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy
And this effort very nearly succeeded
But while democracy can be periodically delayed
it can never be permanently defeated
In this truth
in this faith we trust
For while we have our eyes on the future
history has its eyes on us
This is the era of just redemption
We feared at its inception
We did not feel prepared to be the heirs
of such a terrifying hour
but within it we found the power
to author a new chapter
To offer hope and laughter to ourselves
So while once we asked,
how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe?
Now we assert
How could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?
We will not march back to what was
but move to what shall be
A country that is bruised but whole,
benevolent but bold,
fierce and free
We will not be turned around
or interrupted by intimidation
because we know our inaction and inertia
will be the inheritance of the next generation
Our blunders become their burdens
But one thing is certain:
If we merge mercy with might,
and might with right,
then love becomes our legacy
and change our children’s birthright
So let us leave behind a country
better than the one we were left with
Every breath from my bronze-pounded chest,
we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one
We will rise from the gold-limbed hills of the west,
we will rise from the windswept northeast
where our forefathers first realized revolution
We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the midwestern states,
we will rise from the sunbaked south
We will rebuild, reconcile and recover
and every known nook of our nation and
every corner called our country,
our people diverse and beautiful will emerge,
battered and beautiful
When day comes we step out of the shade,
aflame and unafraid
The new dawn blooms as we free it
For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it
If only we’re brave enough to be it - Laureate Amanda Gorman 1/20/2021

Today is January 6th 2021, Unquestionable Treason Fell Upon This Nation's Capital

This video of the invasion is extremely difficult to watch but a necessary watch

Asemic writing piece for R today
'Anaise in her blanket'
ancient Arabic Serta script of Mark's Gospel

America Is Done With Political Grifters

The days of singular, grandstanding, grifting, me-first in politics while attempting to maintain the illusion of people first is over. It was over the second a pandemic rolled into our society and set our Nation aflame.

Article on Medium
America Is Done With Political Grifters

Universe

My good friends know that for a period of four years or so I studied the Corvidae (Corvidae is a cosmopolitan family of oscine passerine birds that contains the crows, ravens, rooks, jackdaws, jays, magpies, treepies, choughs and nutcrackers)

After a particularly big loss in my life, a nutty, humourous bird, An American Crow, I'd come to name Magellan, swooped down and lifted up the top of my hair on the crown of my head and then giggled at my awe-filled disorientation of the event in a branch above my driveway. That was the beginning of a three year friendship.

There were many stories about Magellan over the years that I'd shared with you here on FB. They were mostly humorous, but to me, awe inspiring. I'd developed a call he could understand and respond to. He introduced me to the three seasons of hatchlings he and his mate Maria had. His social experiment made it through the ranks of the expansive SW Roost, whom, in large part reside among the Fanno from southwest towns and sometimes stretching to Hoyt Arboretum. At one point, and I'll never forget this, one cold winter day at a time where there wasn't much to eat, a large majority of the SW Fanno roost descended on my property. It was the first time I'd realized this species' intelligence. They are communicators, sentient beings.

I kept the gifts he'd given me and placed them in a nest I'd made for an art installation.

The most painful and poignant memory I have is the song he sang for me before he died. He'd been practicing my whistle and one clear fall day, on his regular branch, he sang that song for me. It took me a second to realize it was him. That was the last song he would sing for me.

Before Magellan so unceremoniously introduced himself into my life, I was not a person who was engaging in Nature as I once had. Traumatic instances were pulling my attention away, a narrowed in focus that made my life nearly unbearable. For me, Nature is in the blood. My family are habitat restoration scientists. Over the years I learned more about ecology than I'd ever really need in my life, but it went along with who I was. I was at home in nature, sometimes more so than in human company. But Magellan's time in my life was an experience. It was an experience where the Universe reached out to me and said, "we must not let this part of you die." This experience in my life was shared by family and friends. My friend Julia Oldham made the artwork you see in the image. My mother knitted a doll of Magellan for me one Christmas.

The point is, that it was one testimony to the fact that I am not a lone facilitator here. There is indeed something, someone, some system, much, much larger than I, very engaged in my process of living. It knows when I am in danger, it knows when I am in pain, it knows when to protect me. To this day, I simply cannot explain away its presence.

When I look at this little art installation in my home of the memory of that experience I am reminded of this. Somehow it gives me comfort as it expands my vision, zooms it out when I become rigid, too drilled in, when I lose the Nature of my humanity through struggle. There have been other miracles I've seen since Magellan's passing, miracles I've been lucky enough to witness, miracles with humans and with the animal kingdom. Because of this one experience with Magellan, I can now see them for what they are. Reminders of connection to the Whole. For this I am so very grateful. Grateful of the memory and the experience.

Like your life fucking depends on it

In The End, They All Take Their Rightful Place

“The Trump Regime See Their Days Numbered, What Comes Next Is Truly Terrifying”

Wasteland, What Will Become Of Them? - Article on Medium

My Article on Medium

America’s View From the Ground

The Summer Hades Came To Town

My article on Racial Disparities in America

Comparisons, Authority and Internal Dialogue

America’s Decision In The Fallout
Medium-Aug 9 2020

Image Dave Killen/Oregonian

Image: Dave Killen/Oregonian

Image: Beth Nakamura/Oregonian

Image: Beth Nakamura/Oregonian

Image: Jennifer Porter Tigard Times

Happy Fourth of July Shawna

I came down to interview you about your life for an essay. I came to learn about you, gain insight to your reality, your America Shawna. We talked about the why of it all. You mentioned straight off that you were 24 hours outside of someone ripping off your tent, with all your clothes and supplies, so now you had to room with a buddy in his small tent. I said I’d get on trying to replace that. It was your eyes Shawna, what I saw in your eyes as you kindly asked that your face not be revealed.
”My son’s father just passed away, 43 years old, just like that. I just don’t want my son to have to see me, ya know, like this, on top of it all.”
I listened as you told me what I thought I’d hear.

”You know, I got a bachelor’s degree. I was gonna start my Masters in the medical field before it all went to shit.”

There were so many words spoken in that short sentence, I heard them all. I told you that I was honored to be working with a group of economic, development, and supportive service and housing leaders who had an idea. A stellar idea to bridge the housing gap for folks like you, right in the middle of one of this nations most prevalent economic depressions. We were in the beginning stages. Time, it all takes time. Funny how the antidote always seems a little too late sometimes. We talked about your experience, your surreal experience of being the victim of Trump’s America, a first-hand eye witness to the BLM revolution all while navigating the deadly street life. Feels like a movie, but it’s real, it’s all too real. It all seems so easy, doesn’t it? Take this step, then that step. Then you explained the nuances of always being disqualified for something. Steps.

”You’d apply for something and then find out, some other dynamic of your life disqualifies you, ya know the endless cycle of denial. Waitlists are so long.”
Yeah, steps. We talked about what it is to navigate this hardship, but also feel the pain and witness the injustice of the Black Community. What it is to suffer and watch another suffer in a terrible, unjust way. Poverty is such a torturous abuser. Imagine being its victim and black.

We talked about the future, and what it might look like for you, for me, the victims of racial violence and injustice. Streetlife was hard four years ago, but now? Now it will take nothing short of God, jumping straight into the picture and parting the red seas. You needed medical attention that went beyond my first aid. I gave you the address to CCC’s 12th Avenue clinic you were relieved to learn about that resource. We parted ways, a dismal and sinking feeling that always creeps in when you review a dark and impossible place.

I went home and rifled through my closet and medicine cabinet. A woman in between jobs myself at the moment, thanks deconstructor of all things stable, COVID-19, I’ve not much at my disposal, but I pulled together what I could.

It’s when I met back up with you Shawna, to give you the supplies, that moment will stay with me like the prevalent memory that it is. You brushed your hair back and found a bright colored hair wrap. You found some makeup and applied it. Primrose pink lipstick. I imagined it had been a while. Your eyes changed. You felt something, I wish I knew what that feeling was. That feeling that said today, I wear the Primrose Pink Lipstick.

Happy Fourth of July Shawna. Here’s to the future. Let hope right?
I swear I can hear God himself sing Hank William’s ‘Hey Good Lookin’ to you now.

America Is Failing

The last words of a kind, talented loving neurodivergent before his public execution #elijiamcclain #americanmensch #oneofakindmasterpieceofthecreator

“I can’t breathe. I have my ID right here... My name is Elijah McClain. That’s my house. I was just going home. I’m an introvert. I’m just different. That’s all. I’m so sorry. I have no gun. I don’t do that stuff. I don’t do any fighting. Why are you attacking me? I don’t even kill flies. I don’t eat meat. But I don’t judge people, I don’t judge people who do eat meat. Forgive me. All I was trying to do was become better... I will do it... I will do anything. Sacrifice my identity, I’ll do it. I'll do it. You all are phenomenal. You are beautiful and I love you. Try to forgive me. I’m a mood Gemini. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Ow, that really hurt. You are all very strong. Teamwork makes the dream work. Oh I’m sorry. I want trying to do that, I just can’t breathe.” I am glad we are listening now. I feel shame that I didn’t know about you sooner. Didn’t cry out for you last year.
#elijahmcclain #justiceforelijahmcclain