Light Streams

What number are you?

2006-07-19T17:44:00.000-07:00

The Klein Sexual Orientation Grid differs from the Kinsey Scale in:

"that it focuses on the person’s sexual experiences and fantasies up to that time. So to develop and hope for a better understanding of an individual’s sexuality throughout their lives, the Klein scale investigates sexual experience and fantasies in three times: the present (the most recent 12 months), the past (up to 12 months ago) and the ideal (which is as close as one can get to intention and prediction of future behaviour)." -- via Wikipedia

Here's an online version of the test, to see where you fall on the grid.

I am buying this book

2006-06-28T22:09:00.000-07:00

"...blind allegiance to the Republican Party has distorted the faith of politically active evangelicals, leading them to misguided positions on issues such as abortion and homosexuality.

"They have taken something that is lovely and redemptive and turned it into something that is ugly and retributive," Balmer says."

I believe I could sit down over a cuppa and have good conversation with this man about political issues and religion.

This comes as no surprise...

2006-06-28T16:59:00.000-07:00

A strong-willed herald of causes against injustice, you passionately strive to right the wrongs around you.

Somebody has to save our skins!

I must be a bad blogger

2006-06-27T18:06:00.000-07:00

Because I post so rarely. Sorry to the two of you who read this.

I think the problem with my blogging is that I want to have something witty or meaningful to say each time I post. I don't always have anything meaningful or witty to say. Lots of times it's just wonder at why life is the way it is. Maybe that's meaningful enough, I don't know.

My stepdaugher has been diagnosed with schizo-effective disorder. This is her fifth hospitalization in eight months. I think, there's nothing quite like mental illness to tear through the heart of a family.

I remember her as a 13 year-old girl, eating peanutbutter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches with me, watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. How we both thought Spike was delicious, and how we both couldn't believe he was older than her dad.

I remember her at 14, all dressed up for her first highschool dance. She asked me to do her hair and makeup. I was honored and so proud of her.

At 15, came her first suicide attempt. I remember how we were wracked with guilt and anguish; how could we have not seen this coming? I remembered my first suicide attempt at 13 and tried to open up to her about depression, about her changing family, about how much we supported her.

I remember her picking fights with me and her dad, at 17. I remember her telling me she hated me and that I wasn't part of her family. I was hurt, but I weathered it.

I remember at 18, doing her hair and nails for her graduation. I remember telling her how proud I was of her; I remember secretly hoping that she would make it through her Freshman year.

And now the schizophrenia component has blossomed in her mind.

My heart grieves for her.

I know that her life is not over, I know that she is intelligent. But she is not in school and has no health insurance. Getting medicaid isn't easy if you're not pregnant. I fear that she won't be able to get the right medications. She already wants to leave the hospital; there is going to be a hearing tomorrow regarding her status. Hopefully the judge will move to commit her. What will I tell her brother if she becomes one of those people, talking to themselves, hitting themselves, on the street? Why does our medical system fail us, so?

I Am...

2006-01-30T15:43:00.000-08:00

[Props to Purple for sharing it and to Cold Poet. You may re-post as much as you please.]

I am the guy who came out to the entire school in his senior speech and got a standing ovation for his courage.

I am the girl who kisses her girlfriend on the sidewalk and laughs at those who glare.

We are the couple who planned and studied and got a damn good lawyer and BEAT the state that wanted to take our child away.

We are the ones who took martial arts classes and carry pepper spray and are just too dangerous to gay bash.

I am the transgender person who uses the bathroom that suits me, and demands that any complaining staff explain their complaint to my face in front of the entire restaurant -- and shares with my other trans friends which restaurants don't raise a stink.

I am the mother who told her lesbian daughter to invite her girlfriend over for dinner.

I am the father who punished his son for calling you a fag.

I am the preacher who told my congregation that love, not hate, is the definition of a true follower of God.

I am the girl who did not learn the meaning of "homosexual" until high school but never thought to question why two men might be kissing.

I am the woman who argues (quite loudly and vehemently) with the bigots who insist that you do not have the right to marry or raise children.

I am the girl kicked out of her home because I confided in my mother that I am a lesbian.

I am the prostitute working the streets because nobody will hire a transsexual woman.

I am the sister who holds her gay brother tight through the painful, tear-filled nights.

We are the parents who buried our daughter long before her time.

I am the man who died alone in the hospital because they would not let my partner of twenty-seven years into the room.

I am the foster child who wakes up with nightmares of being taken away from the two fathers who are the only loving family I have ever had. I wish they could adopt me.

I am one of the lucky ones, I guess. I survived the attack that left me in a coma for three weeks, and in another year I will probably be able to walk again.

I am not one of the lucky ones. I killed myself just weeks before graduating high school. It was simply too much to bear.

We are the couple who had the realtor hang up on us when she found out we wanted to rent a one-bedroom for two men.

I am the person who never knows which bathroom I should use if I want to avoid getting the management called on me.

I am the mother who is not allowed to even visit the children I bore, nursed, and raised. The court says I am an unfit mother because I now live with another woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who found the support system grow suddenly cold and distant when they found out my abusive partner is also a woman.

I am the domestic-violence survivor who has no support system to turn to because I am male.

I am the father who has never hugged his son because I grew up afraid to show affection to other men.

I am the home-economics teacher who always wanted to teach gym until someone told me that only lesbians do that.

I am the man who died when the paramedics stopped treating me as soon as they realized I was transsexual.

I am the person who feels guilty because I think I could be a much better person if I didn’t have to always deal with society hating me.

I am the man who stopped attending church, not because I don't believe, but because they closed their doors to my kind.

I am the person who has to hide what this world needs most, love

I am the person who believes that love should be all that matters.

I am making a difference. Hate will not win.

So, this is Christmas... and what have you done?

2005-12-09T13:36:00.000-08:00

Watch this and think about what you can do with your money this holiday season, if you want it bad enough. I'll wager that the folks who read my blog probably don't have $150,000 to spend. But I bet we'll spend a fraction of that amount this season on gifts for our friends and loved ones.

I am choosing to spend my money here. There are vegetarian and vegan options, as well: look here, here and here.

May you have a blessed season, filled with light and love and goodwill toward the Earth and her children.

Peace.

Los Muertos Hablar

2005-10-29T21:21:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I have neglected all of you again. Mea maxima culpa.

But, today was an interesting day and I want to share it all with you. I bitch about my town a lot. If you have ever been here, you know what I mean. The stench of enormous corporate dairy farms, the air you can see, oil refineries in the most inconvenient of places, that pesky valley fever...

However, I had a grand time exploring my town today. I was on the hunt for these little darlings. I have been too busy with emergency dental work and toddler birthday parties to do the actual sculpting myself. Sadly, no calaveras azucar for church tomorrow. BUT! I found a delightful Mexican bakery that made a goregeous pan de la muertos. I will snap a photo tomorrow and post it in the blog. I also got to have freshly fried churros. It's ok, you can smell my fingers.

In my travels today, I happened upon a story in a new ethnic/alternative weekly by a certain n.l. belardes. Without delving into areas that I don't usually explore on my blog, I am an acquaintance of this guy. But I didn't know about this guy. Poke around that site a bit! It's a fascinating and macabre telling about this town of mine. His is a novel based on grisly events that took place, here, in this dusty oil town of mine. Google this and you'll see what I mean.

This is indeed, a strange place.

Looking back

2005-07-21T17:00:00.000-07:00

I promise, I haven't forgotten how to blog. :0)

There is so much to talk about though, I am going to break it up into sections, though, so please bear with me.

The Bipolar
My husband was formally diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder, two months ago. No more ruling out the diagnosis, it's the real deal. Which is both a relief and a terror, since his mania seems to be irresponsive to the depakote, so far.

I have begun attending National Alliance for the Mentally Ill meetings, for support. The people there have been wonderful. I am very thankful that a group like this exists for individuals who love people with chronic mental illness.

That said, I am emotionally and mentally exhausted. "Riding a rollercoaster" and "walking on eggshells" are two common turns of phrase associated with families whose loved ones include an individual with bipolar that's not under control. I am doing both.

And I still love him, terribly, even though his disorder hurts us all sometimes.

Which leads into the next segue...

The Strattera
I was diagnosed with ADHD when I was 19 years old. I was single, I was mostly ok, and could deal with the disorder. My life has gotten to the point now, ten years later, where I need to be able to function without the constant background noise and stress. I need to be able to focus on my son, myself and my relationships without (what had become) an herculean effort to concentrate.

A little over a week and a half ago, I saw the same psychiatrist who treats my husband and was given Strattera to try for a month. I spent the first week, blissed out on the utter quiet in my mind. For the first time in my memory, I felt truly relaxed. My brain hurts thinking about how much energy I spent on compensating for the ADHD. I have given myself a huge gift and the ones I love will benefit from it.

The Girlfriend
Amdist this tumult, I have met someone truly wonderful. She is beautiful, a good friend, is just as silly as I am and we connect. I am proud to say she's my girlfriend and am very glad this happened. (To stop any confusion before it starts, please read about polyamory.)

So that's that. Thanks for sticking around.

Peace

2005-07-07T13:57:00.000-07:00

Close up of the water hyacinth. Enjoy!

2005-07-07T13:56:00.000-07:00

Found that the water hyacinth bloomed this morning.

2005-04-27T17:21:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, I cut the spikes off my calla lily today so no pretty white flowers there. But my fuscia seems to be doing well, along with another mini-colored calla, another daffodil, my jade plant and some more ivy.

2005-04-27T17:18:00.000-07:00

From left, my white pelargonium from my mom, a miniature blue agapanthus, a Martha Washington pelargonium, a miniature white gapanthus, my columbine, a rosemary topiary and a poor, pathetic hibiscus that got too cold this winter. It's sprouting leaves though, so there's hope!

2005-04-27T17:16:00.000-07:00

My Mexican Primrose, because it's just too beautiful not to have it's own shot.

2005-04-27T17:14:00.000-07:00

We've got ivy and a Mexican primrose in the front, a ficus and a Meyer Lemon tree in the background. There are daffodil bulbs (that must have been exposed to radiation) spiking up in front of the lemon tree.

2005-04-27T17:07:00.000-07:00

The fountain! There are about 50 mosquito fish in there, living it up! I really should cut that white handle off though, huh?

867-5309

2005-04-15T14:51:00.000-07:00

I wasn't home the first time it happened.

Chris, from called me collect from Pine Grove Conservation Camp, last night. The recorded male voice that announced his call sounded cold, metallic, strangely upbeat. Chris sounded down, bored and a little angry. I don't know Chris, so I can't explain where the anger was coming from, other than the anger of incarceration.

I listened to the message three times. I do not know anyone in prison. I chalked it up to being a wrong number.

And then Bernard called me from Chuckawalla State Prison, at 8 am this morning. The same metallic, upbeat voice announced that Bernard wanted me to accept charges and speak with him. He sounded tired and his speech was slurred.

The recorded voice said that I had the option to refuse all calls from correctional facilities if I pressed 7 on the keypad. And while I'm intrigued (not to mention a bit startled) at how these men got my phone number, I'm not up for a prison pen-pal right now.

I spoke with David at the MCI Inmate Services Call Center. I told him I wanted to be removed from their list of available phone numbers. He obliged, cheerfully. I apologized to David because even though I know it's not in his job description, I asked him if perhaps he knew how a prisoner could have gotten my telephone number. He laughed a bit and said sometimes inmates dial random numbers, sometimes they pick exchanges that are near their those of their relatives (relatives who have perhaps denied their calls or do not have phone service) and then ask the person on the other end to contact their relatives or do a favor for them. He said it's very much like the "For a Good Time Call..." on the bathroom wall scenario. If one inmate doesn't have luck reaching a person, they'll pass the number on to another inmate. I thanked him for answering my question, which I'm sure he gets hundreds of times a day.

I am a bit weirded out by the whole thing. David's answer makes perfect sense. I am sure that's what happened. My phone number is not unlisted.

I am struck at my own ambivalence, however. I feel compassion for those in prison. Perhaps it's because I think that if they had better role models, parenting and/or education they would have made better choices. And yet, I am unnerved that I was contacted. Twice... from individuals in prisons that are MILES apart.

Perhaps they have internet access, I don't know. The one individual I do know who has spent three years in prison says computers were not allowed at her facility because they could be used as weapons.

As of now, no inmates at prisons served by MCI can call me.

I am so excited!

2005-03-04T14:03:00.000-08:00

Dead Can Dance is back together and are going on tour! Who are Dead Can Dance, you may ask? If you've seen Gladiator, Ali or Whalerider then you've heard the female voice of Dead Can Dance already. Lisa Gerrard [flash warning] was a composer and/or sang for the soundtrack in all those movies.

The other half,Brendan Perry is a veritable renaissance musician (who sounds quite a bit like Jim Morrison from the Doors, only not stoned.)

I should note that there are other band members, however Perry and Gerrard founded the group and remained constant members throughout it's history.

DCD had an illustrious 18 year history before calling it quits in 1999. One website calls it a six-year sabbatical, but that isn't what they said six years ago.

Come September 2005, they're hitting North America on tour. If they go to SF I'm there, if they go to LA I'm there. Who's up for a roadtrip?

Should I or shouldn't I?

2005-01-26T23:16:00.000-08:00

Tonight, I began to watch Auschwitz: Inside the Nazi State. I sometimes feel that it's my moral duty as a human being to remind myself of what we, as a species, are capable of. It keeps me humble and grateful for what I have. It keeps me empassioned for social justice. Tonight, as the show began to unfold into the horror that was Auschwitz I was interrupted by a telephone call. It was a friend from church, with whom I serve on several committees.

"You sound tired," she said. "I am... but I'm watching a TV show I'm not sure I should be watching." "Really," she replies, "what?" I told her. She agreed that I probably shouldn't be watching it right now, given all that's on my plate: dealing with my husband's bipolar disorder, our son the two year-old dynamo, financial worries, automotive trouble, actively grieving the death of a friend, skirting my depression.

Yes, I have every reason in the world not to watch a documentary that will more than likely bring tears to my eyes, I tell myself. It's okay.

Later, while reading Metafilter, I happen across this entry and I began reading. I don't watch NBC news so I am not familiar with Kevin Sites. When he goes on to describe the reverence and care with which the volunteers attend to the dead of the Tsunami, I am overcome. I cannot bear to look at more. I turn to my blog...

Is it okay for me to turn my face away? Can I sleep soundly knowing that I donated my fistful of cash to Oxfam? Can I sleep soundly knowing that the horrors akin to Auschwitz are being repeated in Darfur, while we have our hands firmly planted in Southeast Asia (and Iraq?)

I have responsibilities to my husband and to my son. I cannot join the peace corps and provide relief to the stricken. I am unable to liberate anyone from suffering. I feel powerless and overwhelmed. So, I tell myself it's a responsiblity of my own humanity to watch the Auschwitz documentary; to read the blog chronicling the disaster in Aceh; it truly is the least I can do.

But tonight, I just couldn't.

Blue holes

2005-01-21T14:30:00.000-08:00

Hi there.

Yep, still here. I have had so much going on within the past few months, I've been too emotionally tapped out to produce anything of value for the blog. So, I've been quiet. I hope the crickets kept you company.

I've spent a lot of time thinking about Adam's death. I cannot imagine bringing a child into the world and watching him grow, become a track star, get married then divorced, go to college, become a chef, raise horses ... only to die by accident at age 35. He was an only child. My friend, his mother, is 60 years old and divorced. She is unable to bear the costs of another child, let alone have the energy to adopt. She is an only child. I contemplate the lonliness she's feeling and I feel as if I'm looking out into a great, expansive void. Why go on? What's the point? If your child, the sum of your dreams, love, joy, tears and hope dies before you... what is the point?

I understand that depression while actively grieving is normal. I am certainly grieving and I am certainly sympathetic. I look at my little one and I think about how I would feel if I were able to watch him grow to 35 years only to be taken from me in a freak accident. I cannot know, but I think perhaps the grief and pain of knowing a life that was and what never will be again, is the most torturous pain of all.

I guess this entry is dark, but it's where I am right now. I feel myself looking at the door of depression, praying it won't open and swallow me whole. Do not fear, friends, I am on meds. I am in therapy. I know what to do if it does overtake me. It is unnerving, though, looking at that door. My fingers tingle with the knowledge of the grooves I've made in the walls behind that door, clawing desperately to get out at first, then slowly into gentle despair.

I tell myself that it's situational, it's grief responsive, it's because I am powerless over so many things happening in my life right now. And that's fine... I just want these blues I'm carrying to stay blue and not turn black.

Goodbye, my friend.

2004-11-23T14:24:00.000-08:00

My friend Adam died on Sunday from an accidental, self-inflicted hunting accident. He was a beautiful, funny, sexy, kind and caring individual. I am heartbroken and devestated.

Truly there are no words to express this tragedy.

I will miss you dear, darling, dandy cavalier.

Our blue jewel suspended in space

2004-11-16T13:39:00.000-08:00

Read this blog!

May the Force be with us all...

2004-11-04T14:19:00.000-08:00

Well, this is the first thing to make me happy in two days (USA election blues.) Thanks, Drew :)

Daddy

2004-11-01T14:26:00.000-08:00

We spent this weekend at my parents house because of my son's birthday. He'll be two on November 2. He had a lovely time visiting his grandparents, as did my husband. I didn't have a lovely time. My visit brought up issues with my father that I had almost stopped feeling... I had buried them somewhere deep inside my grown-up, clinically observational, detached self.

My father is always happy to see my son. He is affectionate, attentive and very present. My son adores his grandfather. I have always felt an indefinable distance when I approach my father. Oh, after I came back into their lives after a five-year self-imposed hiatus he was much more approachable, demonstrative even. But this weekend, some of that old discomfort resurfaced. My disapproving, unlovable father had reemerged.

For example, we were watching Boohbah because it is one of my son's favorite television shows. My father sat on the sofa and in earshot of me, my son and my mother said, "This is stupid." I suddenly felt like I was six years old again. My face burned with shame. My heart ached with sadness and my stomach lurched with anxiety. I can't believe how much those three words hurt me. I quickly stepped out of my feelings. I resumed the role of Mother and told him that I would appreciate it if he would keep his comments to himself, as it's one of my son's favorite television shows. Inside, I wanted to scream at him for tainting my son's joy, like he had tainted my own with his indifference and disdain.

My father has always been rough with me. I can't remember him ever being gentle or tender as a child. I always got the rough slap on the back, for praise. I wouldn't consider it physical abuse, rather I feel he wouldn't allow himself to be gentle with me. Perhaps he treated me like a son because my brother was disabled. I do not know. I do know however, that I'm nearly 29 years old and I do not like to roughouse any more. So, you can imagine my surprise when my dad "punched" me in the arm, as punctuation to a joke. I was startled and, quite frankly, my arm hurt. I asked him to please not hit me. Twice. He never looked at me and did not apologize. He just kept right on doing what he was doing.

Right now, I feel incredibly sad. Sad for the emotionally stilted relationship I have with my father. Sad because what I thought was becoming a vital, feeling relationship is still weighed down by the trappings of the past. Oh, I know that it was just one weekend and that two years of rebuilding my relationship with my family and all the positive things that accompany that aren't flushed down the drain because of one weekend. But, old hurts are the most painful; old shame, old sadness, old loneliness are the deepest.

My father is morbidly obese and has been most of his life, excepting his tours in Vietnam. He is diabetic and has high cholesterol. He's approaching sixty and I don't think he'll make it to seventy. My time with him is incredibly limited. I don't want our relationship and the remainder of our years together to be framed in "what never was."

National Coming Out Day

2004-10-14T21:23:00.000-07:00

So everyone who reads this blog knows that I'm bi. Yay. But, in honor of National Coming Out Day (Oct. 11, yes, I'm late) I'm going to come out about something else.

I'm a Dr. Who fan. Yes, I grew up watching K-9, Tighan, Ramona (hot hot hot,) Tom Baker and my all-time favorite Doctor Peter Davison (also hot hot hot) on the local PBS affiliate late, on Sunday nights. Those were the 80's, baby!

Fast forward to now. For some reason my husband downloaded windows media player 10 and I opened it up to listen to some streaming radio, tonight. The program defaults with the visualizations on and I was flipping through them, mildly amused with the visual catnip, when I happened upon the "battery: cominatcha" setting. Holy cow! It's like looking at the opening credits of Dr. Who! I'm in geek nirvana! Let the music play!

Ok, and while I'm at it... If you really love me, please buy me seasons one through four of Red Dwarf. I fell in love with this show in '89 and adore it to this day. I still sometimes catch myself singing the theme song in the car. Don't know it? Listen, and sing along here.

Ahh, disclosure. I feel better now.

2004-10-07T12:44:00.000-07:00

My father called last night. He wants to celebrate my mom's 60th birthday next year with a family cruise to Alaska. Perhaps now my lifelong dream will come true. I'll get to see the Aurora. Peace

No, I will not.

2004-10-05T11:27:00.000-07:00

I got an email from my sister-in-law, today. She is a wonderful woman, truly a kindred spirit. I am so lucky to have found a soul-sister in my sister-in-law.

Her email updated me on the status of my father-in-law. Earlier, I posted that he had decided against curative treatment. Since that post he decided he would participate in chemo and radiation.

Most recently, specifically in the aforementioned email from my SIL, he is suggesting that he's again changed his mind and will not pursue curative treatment at this time. This is normal for patients to change their minds often, as they come to terms with their situation. It is part of the process. His wife, my husband's stepmother,however, has asked all family members in contact with her husband to "encourage" him to pursue the curative treatment.

I am extremely offended by this. I understand the overwhelming and selfish desire to keep your loved ones near you. I have experienced the loss of beloved family members. (No, not the loss of a spouse to death, but I don't believe you can quantify or qualify grief by which loved one, you've lost.) I was just talking to my aunt the other day and we were both in agreement that we would give up just about anything to see our respective grandfathers again. But to pressure someone, who is ambivalent about their condition, into receiving such physically draining treatment, just so they'll stick around for one, maybe two years (if that!) is completely unethical to me, especially since the choice is completely his to make.

So, in answer to my stepmother-in-law's request: No, I will not.

Into the Twilight

2004-09-24T14:17:00.000-07:00

For the past two days, my husband and I have been wrestling with some difficult news. His father has been diagnosed with esophageal cancer. This is his fifth bout of cancer in as many years. In fact, it took his doctors a bit of sleuthing to find it. My father-in-law's blood chemistry showed no trace evidence of cancer. His body just wasn't going to fight this one.

To operate, he would have to undergo chemo and radiation. He is choosing not to do either. He feels he has had a good 80-year run at life and it's ok for him leave. He knows about hospice.

So, we'll be flying to Pennsylvania within the next few weeks to say goodbye. I have spoken to the man maybe three times in the two years I have been married to his son. He is a fundamentalist christian. He found jesus and feels that all his sins are forgiven. My husband and his father are not on the best of terms; my FIL spent most of my husband's childhood philandering. To say he was not present as a father, is the understatement of the year. And yet, I am overwhelmed with compassion for him and my husband. I am also filled with hope that perhaps they can reach an understanding. I am hoping there will be acknowledgement and perhaps forgiveness.

We have such precious little time here; I wish we didn't waste it by ignoring one another.

Ahhh... Snopes

2004-09-21T11:59:00.000-07:00

I did try to check out Snopes about that MeFi link I posted yesterday, but my search string was off and I didn't get what I was looking for. Well, I found it today.
[Edited to add: the hyperlink doesn't seem to work so cut and paste this into your browser http://www.snopes.com/politics/crime/skyterror.asp]

I had just come back from vacation and was dealing with my step-daughter's antics when this whole thing went down. I plead "otherwise occupied."

I googled Flight 327 and came up with a whole bunch of right-leaning blogs, magazines and sites. I'm sad to hear that this whole thing became a political debacle and even more upset to hear that it became a racial profiling issue.

Honestly, I would be nervous if I saw anyone acting like that on an airplane. I visited the UK in '92 during a spate of IRA bombings. I was searched at Heathrow. I guess I looked like a 16 year-old IRA mule... must have been the auburn hair and freckles? Our travel agent told us to watch out for people's body language, to look for suspicious gestures and luggage, etc. So, I don't think Annie Jacobsen was necessarily being racist, though perhaps once the pundits got involved it became a matter of race and racial profiling.

I like Patrick Smith's (of Salon) Hysterical Skies part 1 and part 2.

I think Smith makes an uber salient point when he says that terrorists don't all look like Arab Muslims. Timothy McVeigh, anyone? And it was the tone of "these are people acting strangely" that initially made me nervous. Which is why I posted it in my blog.

In the days after 9/11 I think it's inevitable that we are more aware of our surroundings. I think it's almost an involuntary reaction. Obviously, that does not mean we should indict individuals based on their skin tone or choice of religious expression. Her article resonated with me because it seemed, upon my first read, that she noticed "people acting strangely" not merely Arab men acting like TERRORISTS. I've read it twice more and I can see where her fears took her over the line and where my own thought process colored what she actually wrote.

That said, I am nervous about the violent acts of terrorists. I don't think harassing Muslim individuals who look suspicious is acceptable and I certainly don't think rounding up Muslims living in the US and placing them in detention is acceptable, either. I wish the TSA, Dept. of Homeland Security, the FBI and the Justice Department would understand that it's not about Muslims. It's about destructive US foreign policy in the developing world.

*sigh*

And I have to come to terms with the fact that life does go on, that social injustice happens every day and that my little son has been born into a world where you can be a musician on the way to a gig, and be mistaken for a terrorist.

I can't believe I'm actually quoting American Spectator, here, but I feel I must because the point is valid:

"For those who assume it's paranoid to suppose that a musical group might practice espionage, here's one better: How about an entire film crew? We know it can be done, because we've done it. During the Iranian hostage crisis, a CIA team infiltrated Iran disguised as a Canadian film company."

Here's the CIA's account of what happened: CIA goes Hollywood. And since we taught Osama and his buddies how to be insurgents, it makes chilling sense to me.

We need to keep our eyes open. We need to be aware. And we need to ditch the stereotypes.

So much for that!

2004-09-20T13:51:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I had a huge, long blog prepared and ready to send when I accidentally closed the blog window. And I don't have the juice to rewrite the whole darn thing. Besides, it was mostly just my kvetching about work.

In other, more important news, my dear husband is taking Depakote. His shrink is in the process of ruling out bipolar disorder. He's been on Zoloft for several months now. I have to say, the Depakote makes that nice guy I used to meet occasionally come out a lot more often. And that hyperfocus guy, who had to do fifteen things at once, has nearly disappeared. All I can do is wow at it all and be thankful for better life through chemistry.

I got this off of Metafilter. It's probably old news, but it certainly made me nervous. Make sure to check out the updates, too.

Haven't left...

2004-09-16T22:21:00.000-07:00

I haven't left. I'm just feeling a little low on the creative juice. Something will strike my fancy, soon enough. Thanks for your patience.

While I'm busy ruminating, check out some sites I find interesting:

Anonymous 4, hanging it up after 17 years. I'll miss them.

One of my favorite shows in childhood, The New Zoo Revue.

And, my favorite place on earth: Yosemite, via webcam.

Witness

2004-09-05T20:20:00.000-07:00

Tonight, my husband son and I went shopping at Trader Joe's. After we had packed up the trunk of the car, I went to put the cart away in the the cart corral. I noticed a gentleman and what appeared to be his son (under 10 years of age) walking into the store. The man was well built and dressed in a nice t-shirt and shorts. So was the little boy. I smiled, thinking they were very cute. The image of the little boy holding hands with his brother, uncle, dad, whomever he was, warmed my heart.

My all's-good-with-humanity reverie was shattered when I heard FREEZE! PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOU HEAD! NOW! DROP TO THE GROUND! NOW! I quickly glanced over my right shoulder and saw two cops brandishing their sidearms pointed at the boy and the adult he was with. The man immediately complied. The little boy stood there, dumfounded. Thankfully, the little boy had his back turned when the police were pointing guns at him and his loved one.

My heart was racing, my ears pounding with the shock of the situation and the adrenaline coursing through my veins. All I could see was numb stillness of the little boy. The assault of reality, the reality of being caught shopping while black, striking the little boy with unmerciful force.

Immediately, I was angry. Red faced, clenched fist angry. It's been a couple hours now, and I have accepted the possiblity that there was an APB out, and that perhaps the gentleman who was taken down fit the suspect's description. (I'll talk about racial profiling and appropriate force, a few paragraphs from now.) What I cannot understand, and what I refuse rationalize away is the fact that the police made no attempt to assuage the little boy's fears. THEY DIDN'T EVEN MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH HIM. One of the cops, pulled the little boy behind him, just in case they had to shoot the man on the ground. But at no time, even once the gentleman was completely immobilized, did they speak to the little boy. He stood there, occasionally taking tiny steps toward his loved one when the cops were talking on their radios. Most of the time he just stood there.

I kept thinking, please, please talk to the little boy. Please take him to another part of the parking lot, away from this situation. Explain to him what's going on. But they didn't.

Time is a blur, when I try to remember how long this incident lasted. It probably lasted no longer than ten minutes. I watched the entire thing. I wanted to ask the police officer who was rummaging around his squad car's trunk, if anyone was going to say anything to the little boy. But my instincts told me to be silent and observe. To record eveything in my mind's eye. To remember.

What I find almost more unsettling than the incident, is that as quickly as it began, they took the restraints off the man and he was free to do his Labor Day Weekend shopping like the rest of us. Again, with no word to the little boy.

By this time, the manager of Trader Joe's had come to the doorway. He was smiling nervously at patrons who had to sidestep the, now, three police officers, the gentleman and the little boy. When the man had been excused by the police he simply turned his back on them, took his little boy by the hand and walked into Trader Joe's. The manager gave the man a good-natured pat on shoulder as he entered. And then it was over.

Three things stick out in my mind:
1.) Were those officers of the law good enough shots at a dead run with adrenaline pumping, to hit their suspect's body cavity and miss the little boy's head?

2.) If my husband (a white male) were to have fit the description of an APB suspect, would they have taken him down with sidearms brandished? A large part of me doesn't think so.

3.) I cannot help but fear that the lesson this little boy took away from tonight is that police drew a weapon on his loved one (and him, which I pray he doesn't realize) and that they can stop you and throw you on the ground for anything. Even grocery shopping.

Irony 2, Right Wing Nil

2004-09-01T12:53:00.000-07:00

I have been corresponding with one of my former classmates. The one whose christian music career I was wondering about. He's still very christian. He was a traveling praise and worship leader for five years, now he's an engineer/producer in Nashville, in the christian music biz.

He and I always had a very jovial relationship. We constantly teased each other, but we could be very serious and have long heart-to-hearts as well. He joked in his first email to me, saying that my first boyfriend (who was a friend of his) would be at the reunion. I laughed long and hard on that one. You see, this first highschool boyfriend of mine LJBF'd me. That's "Let's Just Be Friends" for those at home. Upon pressing him further, he told me that he felt led to dump me because my body was too great a temptation and distraction for him. My looks began leading him astray from his walk with the lord. I don't need to go into the self-loathing and shame that I felt about what he said. I was deeply hurt and spent a lot of time in prayer trying to figure out why god gave me an hourglass figure only to have boys dump me because of it.

So, you can imagine my surprise when my former friend tells me that my ex-boyfriend denounced his faith completely about six years ago and wants nothing to do with his christian friends, or the town where we grew up! I suddenly find myself scouring the internet trying to find any trace of him. Oddly enough, I emailed him around 1996 or 1997 after I had left the faith. He was very brief with me and essentially asked me not to email him again. I didn't come out to him, then. Now I wish I had. Not that I would have wanted to get together with him, because I wouldn't have. Rather, I would have been interested in learning about his process of losing faith. I would have liked for that door to remain open.

And in other ironic news... Has anyone been listening or watching the Republican National Convention? Well the GOP has purchased boatloads of tickets to broadway shows to entertain its delegates. Yes, you read that right. Broadway, which is quite possibly queer America's holy grail, is alive and well during the Republican National Convention. Broadway, which I would conservatively estimate has at least a 20 percent margine of queer folk in it's employ, is strutting it's stuff in front of right-wing buffoons. I don't fault Broadway... A gig is a gig and everyone's got to eat. But how blind and federal-marriage-ammendment-stupid can these delegates be? Apparently not that dumb. Convention organizers made sure that only appropriate shows would be supported. How do you spell denial? I spell it R-N-C.

Ten years...and it comes to this

2004-08-27T14:05:00.000-07:00

I graduated from a fundamentalist christian high school in 1994. I am no longer a christian. I am bisexual. I am a pagan unitarian universalist. I, more than likely, have nothing in common with the majority of my graduating class. I know I have little in common with my old friends, many of whom are pastors, pastor's wives and teachers at the school.

Yet, I answered the email and provided them with my contact information.

And, I did not come out! I didn't come out of the ex-christian closet and I didn't come out of the queer closet. I like to believe that we are all searching for universal truth. Spiritual, scientific, personal... it's all the same to me. We're on a journey. It may be a journey back into nothing, back into the earth, but it's still a journey.

I tell myself that if they approach me using god-talk I can shift it's frequency just so, that I may be able to hear their true intent. Their concern for me, my "soul", my life. I tell myself that I don't have to feel afraid or threatened by their dogma. I tell myself that I can keep my political views private, that they aren't entitled to know my personal thoughts about Iraq, marriage equality, healthcare and foreign policy. I tell myself that I am ok without their approval, with the fellowship of our mutual belief forever broken, for my part.

I am afraid of them, really. I am afraid of their disapproval, afraid that I am not the shining person they thought I was. I am angered that they will think I have "succumbed to the evil one." I haven't. I just listened to my heart. My heart that they think their god created. I want to be loved for who I am now and even who I was, not because I am "lost."

And I think of my new friends. I think about the people who are in my life now, that love me for who I am. That know my past and don't see it as sin. People who appreciate what losing faith is and the bittersweet wisdom it brings. The freedom it brings.

I ask myself why I answered the email. I am curious to know about the lives of the people I was once so close to. It's so hard to explain the beloved feeling friends in shared religion can have. It's so fulfilling, so wonderful. And so perilous should you cease to believe. But, I want to know. I want to know if A. became a doctor. I want to know how R.'s recording career in the christian music industry is going. I want to talk about the joys and sleepless nights of being a stay-at-home mom with K. I want to know what kind of girl R.S. married, if at all. I want to know if E. and P. are gay, like I always wondered. I want to know if anyone has left the faith, like me.

So, I suppose if I succumbed to anything it was curiosity, which isn't always a bad thing.

Social Justice Monday at Light Streams!

2004-08-23T12:52:00.000-07:00

I've had a bee in my bonnet to blog about fair compensation and social justice for several days now. So, for starters here are two of my favorite fair-trade sites.

Welcome to Eziba. Beautiful gifts and other droolworthy items, globally sourced and fairly compensated. Read about their ethical guidelines here. And if you really love me, you'll buy me these.

Put down that Starbucks! You should be drinking this. Give corporate coffee the finger. Drink your cuppa knowing that the individuals who grew and harvested your coffee are being paid fairly for their work.

Enjoy. Oh, and I'll be waiting for the earrings.

Speaking of language

2004-08-09T12:43:00.000-07:00

I remember visiting Koko the gorilla at the San Franscisco Zoo, before she was moved to her enclosure in Woodside, back in the 1970s.

Koko's 33 years of age and knows over 1000 American Sign Language signs. Her gentleness, her intelligence and capacity for emotion are inspiring. Not because she's an ape with feelings. We're apes with feelings. Rather, that she is an example to the world of just exactly who we share the planet with. We most certainly are not alone.

Do not adjust your set

2004-08-08T21:30:00.000-07:00

I'm still here. Just not much to really blog about, recently. No Colin Firth to titillate my dreams.

We got DSL. It's nice. Faster than dialup, for sure. Still not screaming quick, but certainly better than before.

Today is my second anniversary of being married. Yay me. For the record, relationships are hard work. Sometimes you need a bottle of champagne and a box of Belgian chocolates to reward yourself. Which is what I'll be doing shortly.

I also wanted to share a bit about the book I'm currently reading. It's Myla Goldberg's Bee Season. She has an amazing control over the English language. Her writing is finely crafted prose. Each sentence (except for maybe two, so far) is nearly perfect. I'm not kidding.

Along those Kabbalistic lines, I'll share one of my favorite websites.
The Internet Anagram Server is a great place for fun. Ancient Jewish mystics believed in the perfection of each letter and it's significance in the greater whole of the word of which it was a part. I don't know how much I believe that, but I do know if you anagram your whole name you're guaranteed a few good laughs, if not a name for an email address.

Happy Anagramming. And read Bee Season.

Dream On!

2004-07-31T21:09:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I am a bit loath to publish a vivid dream of mine on the internet, but being as this is a blog and it's all about exhibitionism and voyeurism and all that post-postmodern trash here goes....

Last night, I dreamt that I was living in a futuristic city (think Minority Report) with my RL husband. I do not remember if I had my son or not. We got into the public transit cars and were speeding along the circuit to a gathering at a friend's house.

We got there, the apartment decor was kind of a dark minimalist design. We ate a la fondue (no, Heather Ann, I still can't get my keypad to make the accent marks.) And who's there, across the table from me in all his dark and sensitive glory? None other than Colin Firth. Mind you, he wasn't an actor, he was an industrial chef. You know, one of those people who works for a super-rich mega corp with a cafeteria that actually serves good food? (It was a dream, afterall.)

We hit it off. We ended up drinking wine and flirting deliciously in the kitchen, while my husband and the other guests enjoyed the evening back in the other part of the apartment. He was subtle, sexy and intriguing. The next series of scenes flew by in rapid succession, signifiying passage of time, I think. We ended up having a passionate, tender and steamy affair. I ended up leaving my husband for this man!

Now, those of you who know me, understand that cheating is a huge hot button for me. My ex cheated on me. In real life, I like to believe I would never cheat on my husband no matter how upset or unfulfilled I may be. (Definition: Cheating means having extra-marital intimacy without my partner's consent.) I believe that I can be honest enough with myself and my husband to address those issues, should they arise.

I know that it's common for individuals to dream about being with other people. But in this dream, the act of cheating and the ensuing affair were foundational aspects. Color me puzzled. There are parts of my marriage that I'm less than pleased with, but not nearly enough to cheat. What is my subconcious trying to tell me? That I need to be worried or that I really to star in a sexy movie with Colin Firth?

You make the call.

Vacation report and then some...

2004-07-28T12:32:00.000-07:00

Well, we're back. Had a blast in Yosemite and driving down the Pacific Coast Highway. Saw this in the beautiful afternoon sunlight.

My mother-in-law and sister-in-law, along with my stepdaughter, husband, son and I, went on a whirlwind trip through California. We visited Yosemite for two days, drove across the state to Monterey, had dinner on the wharf with my parents and grandmother, then drove home down the Pacific Coast Highway.

My mother-in-law and sister-in-law are wonderful people. I felt very welcomed and loved. I dig the added value family members included in the husband package!

My stepdaughter went with us. She's 17 and bipolar. I hope she had a good time. It's difficult to tell, sometimes. She told my husband she's convinced I hate her. I don't. I love her very much. I just refuse to allow her to use her illness as a crutch, shield or excuse. When she does this, I disengage, effectively ignoring her and shutting down my participation in the process. My husband admits to giving in sometimes, because it's not worth the hellfire she'll throw at him if she cannot get her way. I understand that he's got a different dynamic with her than I do. They need to work out their own relationaship style. I am working out mine.

My sister-in-law confided in me that she worries that my husband is bipolar, as well. I approached him with this information. He and I go to counseling and we decided to bring it up in our session. The therapist isn't sure, but she did make note of his strong family history of it. His paternal grandmother and her sister used to "lock themselves in their [respective] rooms for weeks at a time," according to his dad. His bipolar sister committed suicide in her thirties. His daughter is diagnosed with it.

So, she gave him a personality test to fill out. It's not the MMPI, thank goodness, because he'd never sit through over 400 questions, thanks to his attention deficit disorder. Our therapist usually gives this test, the BPI, to individuals who are seeking gastric bypass surgery. We all got a chuckle out of that, since he's not in need of that. She threw in another answer sheet, so I could fill it out too, just for fun. I say fun because I was a biochemical psychology major at one point in my college career. I know how multiphasic tests work.

Which brings me to what she said next... My husband made an offhand remark about hating tests that ask things like, "I never have... I always see..." with a true/false response. I commented that they word the questions in that way to determine the cognition processes of the test-taker. He kind of nodded, but my therapist looked at me and said, "You know, you really need to think about getting into the psychological profession." She knows about the psych-dropout bit. "You have a lot to offer. Really." I was taken aback.

The whole reason I dropped out of Psychology was because I realized I was really just trying to fix my autistic brother. I told her so. She said that nearly everyone approaches the psychological profession from a wounded place. It's working through those issues and sharing the distilled insight gained, that makes the profession worthwhile.

I told her that I've contemplated getting a theological degree to become a Unitarian Universalist chaplain at hospitals or hospice. She encouraged me to keep pursuing that and not to rule out psychotherapy and/or psychology.

Her words gave me pause. I'm still thinking about it.

On Vacation

2004-07-19T07:03:00.000-07:00

I'll be in here till Thursday. See ya when I get back.

Peace

Little. Black. Precious.

2004-07-15T13:31:00.000-07:00

We got a new kitten last night from the ASPCA. She's black, medium haired. Adorable in all respects and, might I add, has the brass cajones enough to take on our older gray cat. Did I mention the Lauren Bacall meow? This cat was smoking way too much at the pound.

We were sitting on the sofa, watching the feline gymnastic floor show trying to decide on a name. We searched the net for all kinds of names. What midnight, black, jet and other synonyms were in different languages. We really liked Midnight Black in Vietnamese: Hyun. But it didn't address her spunky side. So we decided on Ninja. Yes, I can hear you now... Should have been Kunoichi! But try spelling that at the vet's office.

Fine, fine.... When my husband gets home I'll call a family meeting and we'll discuss it. Nyah.

(I suppose women, like cats, have the prerogative to change their minds.)

I'll add pictures later.

Peace.

Demand Marriage Equality

2004-07-13T13:12:00.000-07:00

Call, email and/or fax your US Senator right now. Tell them to vote no on S.J. Res. 40, the Constitutional Amendment on Marriage. It takes three minutes at most.

I apologize if you're not in the USA and this means nothing to you. Please know that it means a lot to the 1.2 million gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgendered individuals in the US.

We can't let our puppet king get away with this.

I must be getting older...

2004-07-11T17:30:00.000-07:00

I am only 28. I say only because, really, I don't think it's that old. Sure I'm out of the 18 to 25 demographic, but I didn't really fit in that demographic when I was in that demographic.

But this weekend? I feel old.

My stepdaughter is visiting. She's 17. She brings with her scads of fashion magazines. Vogue, Elle, Allure, Marie Clarie. Magazines that, yes, I admit I purchased in my early twenties. Mostly for the pictures of naked and scantily clad women. I freely admit this. Oh, and the makeup advice. I love makeup. And body paint. But I digress...

I can't remember which one it was, but really it may have well been all of them --the models in these books are CHILDREN. I swear. They are 14 year old girls slathered in couture and fine jewels, thrust onto the runways of major cities and then immortalized in print.

I suppose every blog has to have an entry about anorexic, soul-less, fashionista culture, but damn. I look at these pictures and I feel old. I love sewing. I love fashion. I love couture, actually. I believe clothing can be art and ideas and culture. But these girls are CHILDREN or at least they look like children.

Vogue has Kirsten Dunst on the cover this month. Definitely a 22 year old beauty, who looks like a young woman. But, notice the girl (and yes I say girl) on the left? The one in the lovely blue trench coat. Her bio says she was born in 1983. But does she look 21 to you?

Even if she is, I really think our youth obsessed culture is pathological. And this weekend, it really made me feel old and quite frankly, appalled.

Family on my mind

2004-07-08T11:17:00.000-07:00

Do you ever have one of those days where you feel like the gravity of life weighs on you? Today is one of those days for me.

I was chatting with a friend last night and I was describing what it's like to be a stay at home mom. I told him I was a teacher, psychologist, maid, cook, disciplinarian, comforter and coach all rolled into one. I think I figured out why they don't make a job description for Mom -- it would take up 30 pages and would look so daunting no one would ever do it!Then add another 30 pages for life partner/wife and you're in way over your head. At least, I feel that way sometimes.

I have to be gentle on myself about being a stay at home mom. I'm very much a neo-feminist. And being a neo-feminist means that I have the choice to stay home if I want to. And I do. No offense to anyone, but for me, I cannot in good conscience have a baby and then ship him off to daycare for someone else to raise, change, clothe and feed for 9 hours a day. It's just not in me. Maybe it's the earth mother in my soul, but it's how I feel for me. But DAMN, there are days when I wish my job fit into a nice, tidy little job description. I could do all the footwork of this job with more ease if I didn't have to be completely emotionally involved, present and available to my son 24/7. Duh, you say, that's what being a mom is all about. And yes, you're right. But this is the hardest most important thing I've ever done in my life. It's fucking huge! I feel like she-Atlas holding the world on my shoulders, while it pulls my hair, throws food at me and has a poopy diaper!

Maybe every parent feels this way. It's just really in the forefront for me today...

I also watched the Disney flick "Snow Dogs" with my stepdaughter today. It's one of her favorites. It's cute, for sure. But it always makes me cry. Adoption, family secrets and lies are the underlying premise of the film. My dad is adopted. His parents never told him he was adopted. He found out while trying to repair the roof on his deceased father's house.

Picture a small, aging Italian neighborhood in northern California. My grandfather has just died, maybe a month gone. My parents are trying to make repairs to his house after the 1989 Loma Prieta quake (yeah the 7.1, it was huge.) When, as my father's on the roof, one of the old neighbors walks by. After paying her condolences to my father, still on the roof, she says, "Oh M, I'll never forget how proud J and J were when they brought you home from the orphanage in San Franscisco! You should have seen your mother's face. Your dad was so proud." Normally, this would have been a warm sentiment. But my father, who had always suspected -- being fair haired and freckled to Italian/Sicilian American parents -- nearly fell off the roof. His shock wasn't lost on the neighbor. She was mortified and apologized over and over again. She couldn't believe my grandparents never told my dad.

I'm not surprised they didn't tell him. It was the late 1940s. Open family communication was not encouraged at Catholic orphanages. What bothers me is that my dad, to this day, has never told me. My mom told me when I was 25. They found out when I was 13. She says they never said anything because they were afraid it would color my feelings toward my Nani and Papa. I honestly can't say if it would have. I do know that I am angry at the secrets. I am angry, but understanding, of my father's desire not to seek out his biological parents. Of course they could be horrible people, but I think it takes a hell of a lot of courage to give up a baby. I for one, would like to say thank you to her and/or him. My Papa was the most wonderful person I ever met and because of their choice, I got to have him in my life -- even if it was only for 13 precious years.

I want to know if anyone in their family is autistic, like my brother.

According to my Dad's state records, he was 18 and she was 16. Both were farm workers. His genetic father worked at his parents restaurant, too. He was christian scientist, she was catholic. He was Scots-Irish, she was French and Italian. And that's about it. One or both of them named my father at St. Elizabeth's Hospital, but it's been blacked out on the records.

I'd like to say thank you, to show them my son. Maybe to reconnect with a grandparental figure, aunts, uncles cousins. Chances are my bio-grandparents are not together, but I would love to meet one or both of them.

Yet, my father will have nothing of it. Out of respect for him, I don't pursue it. But I want to. Oh, how I want to. He carries the shame of being "unwanted" by his bio-parents. I can only imagine how he feels. I don't think it's justified because my grandparents wanted him badly, but I cannot imagine not feeling that way if I were in his shoes.

My parents put a letter of contact in his state case file. Which means if either of his bio parents (or siblings, should the parents be deceased) ever look up the file, they will find his information and can contact him. It's been 15 years and no response. Perhaps they're dead, perhaps they want to leave that chapter of their lives closed. But for me until there is closure, that chapter will always be open. Empty. Needing more.

I am afraid of time slipping away. What do I have or know now, about them? Nothing. What do I lose if they never contact? Nothing, I guess. Nothing but chances and time. The opportunity for love, kinship, forgiveness, understanding. And I long for those things. I'll cherish the memories my Nani and Papa gave me, but I'll always think, quietly, about the two teenagers who were faced with that awful choice. The two teenagers who gave up their baby boy, out of love.

Happy Fourth of July

2004-07-04T22:43:00.000-07:00

Happy July Fourth.

It could have been Happy Chinese Appreciation Day on my block, what with all the pyrotechnics to be had. Fireworks even out date Jesus. How cool is that? Read all about it here.

In other news, we went to Santa Barbara yesterday. The Veterans For Peace movement placed over 850 crosses on the beach to commemorate the fallen American soldiers who have died in Iraq. They made a point to say that if they added the Iraqi dead to the memorial, they would have covered the whole beach. I cried.

And lastly, I've fallen back into an old habit. My husband and I have been spending our free time (after the baby's asleep) MUDding. We're losers and we know it. But damn, sometimes it feels good to slay orcs, especially since we can't slay the orcs in Washington DC. We'll see ya on The End Of The Line.

Peace

Hummingbirds and Papa

2004-05-27T14:35:00.000-07:00

I put up a hummingbird feeder just after Mother's Day. There are at least three birds that visit it, daily. (Meaning three different birds, visiting it at least once an hour.)

My Papa and I used to feed the hummingbirds. I was probably eleven or twelve, when I saw an old hummingbird feeder hanging off his patio awning. When I asked him what it was, he told me. The rubber had degraded and if it was ever red it looked white. It was ancient. But we made the sugar syrup and hung it. Then we waited. But we really didn't have to wait long. I don't know how (since there was no red on the thing) but an Anna's Hummingbird came and drank from it, within 15 minutes. My grandfather and I were hooked.

He called me a couple days later though, because the feeder had broken. He said he'd run by the hardware store that afternoon and picked up another. After my nani died, my Papa was very lonely. Oh, he went on dates with his widowed lady friends. He golfed regularly and did taxes gratis for all his friends, yearly. He was a Knight of Columbus and went to Mass three times a week. But there was always a sadness about him, once she died.

We named the hummingbirds after famous dancing couples of the movie-musical era, Fred and Ginger, Mickey and Judy. He adored watching those little birds. The males would have dogfights outside his windows. He would describe their antics to me, during the week, before our Sunday visits.

My grandfather died when I was 13. Eight years after my grandmother died. He died of complications of peritonitis. He thought he had stomach cancer and seeing the sheer hell my Nani went through with lung cancer, he wasn't about to tell his doctor his suspicions. He went in for a fairly routine intestinal surgery (removing a section with polyps, stitching the two parts back together.) But he never came out of the hospital again. He didn't have stomach cancer. He had an ulcer. He didn't tell his surgeon or his GP about the pains in his abdomen, so they went ahead performed the surgery and stitched him back up. And unbeknownst to anyone, his stomach was poisoning his body.

And while this is what killed him, I think he really died of a broken heart. He missed my Nani so much he wanted to be with her. They eloped in Omaha, Nebraska when he was 18 and she was 16. They left her house and got on the streetcar and went straight to the priest to be married. They were married and were back to their respective houses before curfew. When my Nani's mother found out she kicked her out of the house (not a very nic woman, really.) My Nani came with a suitcase to my Papa's house and said she was John's wife. Well, all hell broke loose then. My Papa was sent to California to earn money to buy a house for his new wife. My Nani became part of my Papa's household. I'd like to say she was welcomed and loved, with open arms and hearts but she wasn't. She was another mouth to feed. And my great-aunts were not very nice to her.

After he died, we were cleaning out his house. We stumbled upon a box of letters from this time period in their relationship. They were tender, sexy, endearing, wistful. I must stay, I still blush when I think about my grandparents writing like that! But they loved each other, so very much. And that's why I think he died only eight years after she did.

When we interred my grandfather's casket, the funeral home brought all of his sprays to the gravesite. My mother had a cross arrangement made, from my brother and I. I don't remember what flowers were in it. I do remember that once everyone had gone, when just my immediate family was standing by his grave, a hummingbird flew to to the cross arrangement and began drinking from the flowers. It was a magical moment for me, filled with love, grief, sadness and peace.

Now, whenever I see a hummingbird, I think of Papa. Maybe it's superstitious and silly, but I don't care. The ancient Aztecs believed that their warrior dead were reincarnated into hummingbirds, because the little birds are such fierce warriors. I like to think that they're little reminders of the love my grandfather and I shared.

I still love you Papa.

Hooray for gay marriage in Massachusetts!

2004-05-19T11:53:00.000-07:00

It's about damn time.

As a bisexual individual with an xy male partner and an 18 month old, I look pretty hetero. But I'm not. I'm as queer as a three dollar bill.

Why does the fundy-influenced government have a right to tell me which gender I can or cannot make a civil commitment to? Where is the logical reasoning in that? Thirty-four percent of lesbian households in the US have children under the age of 18 living in them. Twenty-two percent of US gay male households have children under 18. Over 600,000 homosexual couples identified themselves as such, in the 2000 US census. That's 1.2 million gay people (who weren't afraid of letting the government know they're gay)who cannot legally marry and in many states second-parent adopt. It's a travesty of American ideals.

I think Genesis says it well:
"Land of Confusion", Invisible Touch, 1986

This is the time
This is the place
So we look for the future
But there's not much love to go round
Tell me why, this is a land of confusion.

This is the world we live in
And these are the hands we're given
Use them and let's start trying
To make it a place worth living in.

Wake up, America. You can't stop love. You can't stop 1.2 million of your citizens from demanding equal rights under the law. Get used to it.

Some weeks are better than others...

2004-05-15T10:18:00.000-07:00

Some days are better than others by U2 off
Zooropa, 1993

Some days are dry, some days are leaky
Some days come clean, others days are sneaky
Some days take less, but most days take more
Some slip through your fingers and onto the floor

On Wednesday night, as my husband and I were going to sleep, we heard a cat meowing under our window. I had returned a certain gray female cat to her owner about a month ago and I figured this same cat was lost again.

My husband went outside. He called the cat over to him and it came, purring. He brought the cat in and upon closer inspection we realized this was not the same cat. This cat was distinctly male.

Once inside, this cat rolled over in my husband's arms, began loudly purring and begged for his belly to be rubbed. Upon the requested rubbing, the cat began drooling in delight. I could see Cupid's arrow strike my husband between the eyes; I saw the little hearts floating around his head. Love had walked in on four paws.

We put him in the garage, fed him, gave him water and a cat box. We agreed I would take him to the vet the next day. We needed to get him tested for feline leukemia. Feline leukemia is a contagious debilitating disease. My cat, Sydney, has chronic renal failure and I could not in good conscience bring in a cat that could compromise her immune system, further.

There were a few tense moments as we waited for the test results. Thankfully, he came back negative. So, we had him deloused and vaccinated. He had found himself a home. We've named him Sterling, since he's shiny silver white, with a dark gray undercoat patina.

Some days you work, most days you're lazy
Some days you feel like a bit of a baby
Lookin' for Jesus and his Mother
Some days are better than others

Friday was a bit of a disaster. I had to drop off some cookies and brownies for a school carnival. The school population is mostly children of migrant farm workers and our church has given books, time (ESL tutoring) and money to help improve the school. Their annual fundraising carnival is today. I volunteered to provide some treats.

I also had to drop off some items for a garage sale we were supposed to be having with some friends of ours. My van, however, decided to have a hemorrhage in it's cooling system. Luckily, my husband was driving, because it stalled on the highway. I would not have wanted to handle that by myself. Then, once we got to the school it died. We tried filling the reservoir with water, but it came gushing out. We had it towed to the dealer -- it was just there a week ago getting a new starter sensor. The vehicle is 14 years old - I think it's waving the white flag.

So, we're not sure how much it will cost to fix it. The service department will let us know on Monday. We can't afford another car until we're done paying child support for my stepdaughter. Just one more year...

Some days... it all adds up
And what you got is enough
Somedays are better than others

Peace

Staying home...

2004-05-12T12:45:00.000-07:00

I am a stay-at-home mom. I love my son. He is a joy and a delight. I cannot believe how beautiful he is. Everyday, I am amazed at how he's growing, changing, becoming a child.

But...

I had no idea how lonely this job would be. It's difficult to articulate. This job is the most difficult thing I've ever done. A little life depends on what I do or don't do. The gravity of that boggles my mind.

In the vast expanse...

2004-05-11T12:09:00.000-07:00

I've been on the net since 1994. This is my first blog. I have no idea why I waited so long.

aurora borealis: [forget about the phonetic keystrokes, folks ;0)] [[L, lit. norhtern aurora: see Aurora & Boreas]]irregular, lumonous phenomena , as streamers , visible at night in a zone surrounding the north magnetic pole and produced in the ionosphere when atomic particles strike and excite atoms; norhtern lights

I have this thing for the Auroras Borealis and Australis. But, I guess someone else does too on Blogger.com, because I couldn't use any of the permutations of names I came up with. And rather than add numbers, I decided to abbreviate the Webster's New World dictionary entry for the words and go by Luminous Phenomena.

So, for my initial post, I shall cast my particles into the vast expanse of the net and see what illuminates.

Peace