Lou Reed 1942-2013

After hearing the news today, I find I am still not able to rationally discuss the impact of Lou Reed on my life.

I remember someone once remarked that the Velvet Underground only had about 200 fans, "but every one of them, started a band." And so, the legend was born; Lou was a legend to other legends. It is hard to describe the impact his work had on those of us who felt marginalized, those of us on the outside.

In so many ways, you had to be there.

I got a tattoo inspired by Lou. Early in recovery, I decided I did not want to be that heartless junkie in the middle-section of Street Hassle, who declares he won't wear his heart on his sleeve, will not become emotional when faced with the death of a stranger.

I knew that I did want to be that person, and that desire, that hope, is what prompted me to save my own life, to search for something better.

I do want to wear my heart on my sleeve. And so I got tattoo of a heart there, to remind me.

Goodbye dear friend. It hurts so much to lose you.

~*~



Some people got no choice
and they can never find a voice
To talk with, that they can even call their own
So the first thing that they see
That allows them the right to be
Well, they follow it.

You know, its called
Bad luck.



(from Street Hassle by Lou Reed)

~*~

We will be discussing Lou Reed's life and work on the radio show tomorrow.

And I hope to play this:

Rock and Roll - Velvet Underground



You know her life was saved by rock and roll.

~*~

Edit and Correction, from the New York Times, it was Brian Eno who said it, and here is their direct quote:

The composer Brian Eno, in an often-quoted interview from 1982, suggested that if the [The Velvet Underground]’s first record sold only 30,000 records during its first five years — a figure probably lower than the reality — “everyone who bought one of those 30,000 copies started a band.”

~*~

EDIT AGAIN 10/28/2013: I was really surprised to find this on YouTube, because, well, it just defies description. It's an 8-minute (spoken) story, and ... to say more is to ruin it. (Just one thing: if you start listening, please continue to the end.)

However, I don't mind telling you, I know the whole thing by heart and can recite it verbatim from memory: "Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit..."

I have never before admitted that out loud. But there it is.

The Gift - Velvet Underground



PS: Happy Halloween! ;)

The Borders by Sharon Olds

My mother died in July of 2006, but I could not get back up to Ohio until the second week of August, near the Feast of the Assumption (which is tomorrow, the 15th).

And on that day, I scattered her ashes into the Tuscarawas River, in Massillon, Ohio, a few scant feet from where my stepfather (her beloved) had been employed during our 3-year residence there. It was in this location, she said, that she had been the happiest in her lifetime. It was in this location that she was markedly different; she was finally in a country-and-western band that respected her and valued her input. She lived with the man she loved and during the days, briefly attempted the fantasy-sitcom stay-at-home mom role, so valued by the middle-class. She made curtains, she drew sketches in pencil, she put bouquets of flowers on the table. She practiced endlessly, leaving the identifiable bass-lines of various 60s pop-songs in my head forever. She smiled at me.

She was herself there, more than she was anywhere else... before or after.

In the tumultuous years that followed, I often thought of my "Massillon mama"--and wanted her back.

So, I returned her there.

~*~

The Borders

To say that she came into me,
from another world, is not true.
Nothing comes into the universe
and nothing leaves it.
My mother—I mean my daughter did not
enter me. She began to exist
inside me—she appeared within me.
And my mother did not enter me.
When she lay down, to pray, on me,
she was always ferociously courteous,
fastidious with Puritan fastidiousness,
but the barrier of my skin failed, the barrier of my
body fell, the barrier of my spirit.
She aroused and magnetized my skin, I wanted
ardently to please her, I would say to her
what she wanted to hear, as if I were hers.
I served her willingly, and then
became very much like her, fiercely
out for myself.
When my daughter was in me, I felt I had
a soul in me. But it was born with her.
But when she cried, one night, such pure crying,
I said I will take care of you, I will
put you first. I will not ever
have a daughter the way she had me,
I will not ever swim in you
the way my mother swam in me and I
felt myself swum in. I will never know anyone
again the way I knew my mother,
the gates of the human fallen.

--Sharon Olds

How I spent Lent

First, I read Gary Null's book, Death By Medicine, which promptly gave me a kidney stone.

Well, okay, I know the book didn't, but it sure felt that way.

For those interested, my weight loss is going extremely well. I am told that actual numbers "trigger" people in various and sundry ways, so I will refrain from providing actual poundages. I will simply say that my BMI is now in the merely "overweight" category, and has exited the alarming "obese" category. I lost 10% of my body weight during Lent, which believe it or not, wasn't that hard. Now we are approaching the same weight I have dealt with my whole life, which likely will be hard. Still, I have to say, after being repeatedly guaranteed that a woman my age with thyroid disease SIMPLY CAN'T lose weight, I am glad to report that this is another myth. Yes, it is possible... and in fact (here's the dirty secret), I think it's far easier since I no longer have a surplus of estrogen coursing through my body, demanding that I eat to ensure the safety of my progeny. You know those deadly-serious cravings you get about 10 days before the end of the menstrual cycle? (I guess the time-span is different for everyone, but you know what I mean.) Well, I am happy to report that THE CYCLICAL CRAVINGS ARE GONE. Along with my estrogen, that is... which of course means there is a down side to everything.

And I feel great (sans kidney stone), and my left knee stopped hurting!!! (Right knee? A stubborn lil sucker!) I took the kidney stone as a symptom of rapid weight loss, as gallstones can be also.

After reading Gary's scary book, I decided to avoid doctors, since I knew exactly what they would say anyway (I typed medical records, including nephrology, for a good long while) and realized they would use this golden opportunity to test me to an obscenely-expensive fare-thee-well. No tests, no crap, no sirree Bob!

I figured: 1) it probably was a stone, from the symptoms and likely cause and 2) ain't nothing you can do about it except take their nasty toxic drugs and wait for it to flush out. (I also knew that I should go to the ER if I started running a fever, which was virtually impossible while sweating non-stop, as I was.) So, I opted for what I tell my customers: literally gallons of dandelion tea and magnesium citrate. It passed within a day, but it was um, quite memorable... and during this unpleasant time, I locked my keys in my car while it was running and had to call Mr Daisy away from work (he was unusually kind and sympathetic about my stupidity!)...

~*~

If you think it's easy for a big-mouth like me to shut up for 6 weeks, you are RIGHT. Thus, I didn't.

I commented here (Alas, a Blog) on the newest pedophilia scandal in the Catholic Church, and called on the Pope to resign. Of course, no one seriously replied to me (as they never do over there)... but I needed to post that somewhere to get it off my chest immediately.

Easter Sunday, woke up to more infuriating news that the whole scandal has been reduced to "petty gossip" by the Vatican.

(((Daisy yowls for emphasis)))

~*~

One of my favorite spiritual books, The Joy of Compassion by Lama Zopa Rinpoche which I also posted about here. It's a wonderful study guide for the layperson to use!


I had two genuine moments of all-encompassing karuna during Lent, that took me by storm. I was startled and unprepared. They were only a few minutes or so in duration, but they were overwhelming.

I was reminded of a passage from the William Butler Yeats poem, Vacillation (and such a perfect title):

My fiftieth year had come and gone,
I sat, a solitary man,
In a crowded London shop,
An open book and empty cup
On the marble table-top.
While on the shop and street I gazed
My body of a sudden blazed;
And twenty minutes more or less
It seemed, so great my happiness,
That I was blessed and could bless.

I felt great compassion for everyone on earth, even the people I dislike most. Maybe especially for them; I could suddenly see how they had become the people they were. I could see their suffering, and how they/we have bent ourselves into all sorts of unreasonable shapes and angles, to avoid that suffering (which of course, causes even more).

In both cases, in both instances, I was left very shaken by this awareness. I felt myself almost deliberately withdrawing from this consciousness in the last instance: But I don't want to feel compassion for bad people! And I was fighting my own awareness. Concurrently, I realized I was withdrawing my request for enlightenment by fighting the compassion. My ego, my innate desire to feel superiority to others, my desire (need?) to dislike others, all defilements rooted in the material world, fought my desire for enlightenment.

And I heard my deepest self's incredulity: But isn't this what you wanted?

Ego replies: I don't WANT to feel compassion for evil people, they don't deserve it!

Deepest self: Do you deserve it?

Ouch! I remembered the Eucharistic liturgy, and the specific request that God not grant us what we truly deserve. During the (endless) Good Friday liturgy, and subsequent Veneration of the Cross, I took note of the role of the laity in the liturgy: we are the ones who shout "Crucify him!"... it isn't someone else who does it.

Give us Barabbas, not this one!

Do we forget our role in the Passion? Why do we think it would be any different if He returned now? We would do the same thing, all over again.

Look around, we do it all the time.

~*~

Glad to be back. Hope all is well with you, and please take note of my new moderation policy, inspired by people who would tell me getting an abortion is majorly right-on and terrific, but chew me out over trying to prevent a heart attack. No more, folks. New sheriff in town, etc.

I loves you guys and I missed you!!! (((sobs)))

Religious Right prays to Moloch (No Escape from Jim Demint, pt. 2)

Wowee Zowee, today everyone is talking about the Family Research Council Action PAC's "prayercast event" (where do they come up with these names?) that our Senator, Jim Demint, attended with the likes of hardcore right-wingnuts Michele Bachmann, Sam Brownback, Todd Akin and Mike McIntyre. MSNBC covered the three-ring circus at some length last night.

Talking Points Memo reports that Dr Dobson also dropped in, to see what condition his condition was in:

James Dobson participated via phone, offering a prayer and seeming to tie the health care bill and the country's overall political direction to none other than the Devil: "I just pray that You will frustrate the plans of the Evil One, and revive us again with conviction and forgiveness. Show us how we can further your cause, Lord and advance your kingdom, and we will be careful to give you the praise. Just begin a revival in our hearts that will restore us as one nation under God."

Wow, silly me, I was just thinking that anyone who wants to deny health care to anyone for any reason will burn in hell for all eternity. But then, I am an adherent of that OLD TIME RELIGION, straight from THE BIBLE, which categorically states that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than it is for Dr Dobson, a very rich man, to go to heaven.

I think they missed that verse.

In any event, the whole thing has me nauseated. Clean hands and a pure heart? (That would leave out politicians, simply by definition, wouldn't it?)

Well, get your barf bag, here it is. South Carolinians will note Jim Demint's reverently bowed head (far left of screen) at around 1:57:



On a purely theological note--as a child, I attended a Free Will Baptist church with my beloved uncle Ernest (R.I.P.), in which everyone started praying out loud simultaneously in the manner of the prayercast-participants at the end of this video. (Also, many Pentecostal churches do this.) I admit, I've always kinda liked the idea behind this tradition, that God can hear everybody at once... but then again, if they are all praying for the same thing, as they are here (they weren't at my uncle's church), then one assumes they could just ask in unison for an end to universal health care, couldn't they?: Dear God, let the people continue to suffer in pain and poverty, without any affordable health care... wait, Daisy asks, startled, which God is this? (Moloch!)*

I am somewhat amazed (okay, a lot amazed) to see this once-pious style-of-worship employed by politicians for right-wing ends (notice they held the prayercast on a Wednesday night, when the most faithful Protestants attend mid-week services) -- just as I would be if I saw Mass or Benediction being used for the same purposes.

Why is this any different than Muslims praying for victory, or any other blasphemous mix of politics and religion? Oh right, they're Muslims and we're not.

These HERETICS are the scum of the earth. (AND they will burn in hell.)


~*~

*I primarily refer not only to the historical Moloch, but to Allen Ginsburg's Moloch:

Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the
crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of
sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment!
Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose
blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers
are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo!
Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows!
Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long
streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories
dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose
smokestacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch
whose soul is electricity and banks!

YES! That's him!

This is who they are actually praying to. Moloch, who enjoys the illness and pain of working people, as they die right next to Dr Dobson's homes (plural), valued at well over a half-million dollars each. Money he took right out of their pockets, too.

Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs!
skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic
industries! spectral nations! invincible mad
houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven!

I'd recognize him anywhere.

Odds and Sods - Night of the Hunter edition

I love how Halloween has taken over October. For one thing, it's lots of fun. For another, it stops the capitalists from foisting Christmas on us too soon. Without Halloween, Macy's would be decorating Christmas trees in September.

And the best thing: OLD HORROR MOVIES.

If you have never seen Robert Mitchum's deranged preacher (movie still at left) in Night of the Hunter, your big chance is tonight at 8pm on Turner Classic Movies:

The Night of the Hunter (1955) is a truly compelling, haunting, and frightening classic masterpiece thriller-fantasy, and the only film ever directed by the great British actor Charles Laughton. The American gothic, Biblical tale of greed, innocence, seduction, sin and corruption was adapted for the screen by famed writer-author James Agee (and Laughton, but without screen credit). Although one of the greatest American films of all time, the imaginatively-chilling, experimental, sophisticated work was idiosyncratic, film noirish, avante garde, dream-like expressionistic and strange, and it was both ignored and misunderstood at the time of its release. Originally, it was a critical and commercial failure.

Robert Mitchum gave what some consider his finest performance in a precedent-setting, unpopular, and truly terrifying role as the sleepy-eyed, diabolical, dark-souled, self-appointed serial killer/Preacher with psychotic, murderous tendencies while in pursuit of $10,000 in cash. Lillian Gish played his opposite - a saintly good woman who provided refuge for the victimized children.

The disturbing, complex story was based on the popular, best-selling 1953 Depression-era novel of the same name by first-time writer Davis Grubb, who set the location of his novel in the town of Moundsville, WV, where the West Virginia Penitentiary (also mentioned in the film) was located. Grubb lived in nearby Clarksburg as a young teenager.

Once you start watching, you won't stop. The movie literally sparkles in some places, the black-and-white cinematography gleaming and beautiful. And Mitchum is utterly incredible. His serial-killer/preacher was famously tattooed with the words "Love" on one hand and "Hate" on the other, which has since become part of pop-culture legend--later resurrected on Robert DeNiro's hands in Martin Scorsese's remake of Cape Fear:

Spike Lee's Do the Right Thing (1989) referenced the love/hate, left and right hand theme, when Radio Raheem (Bill Nunn) explained the love/hate dichotomy. In The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975), LOVE and HATE were tattooed on Eddie's (Meat Loaf) knuckles, and in The Blues Brothers (1980), the two brothers (John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd) have their names tattooed on their knuckles. In The Simpsons episode "Cape Feare", the menacing Sideshow Bob (voice of Kelsey Grammer) had similar tattoos on each set of knuckles as well - but since the characters in the cartoon show had only three fingers and a thumb, the tattoos were humorously "LUV" and "HAT" - (with a bar over the A).

The hands war with each other, love vs hate, and which will triumph?

Don't miss the movie, if you've never seen it.

~*~

Over at Twisty's blog, I blame the Patriarchy, there was a discussion of Meghan McCain's boobs. OOooops... I mean, McCain's Twitter photo. And for a bunch of feminists, it got kinda rough in there, as "advanced patriarchy blamers" (a group I am not sure I can claim I even belong to, as a bad Catholic) sounded just like my dear, deceased Aunt Mae:

Looks to me like the requisite lips out, head tilted downward but eyes up’ boob showin’ crap teenage girls post on myspace all day long. A joke, perhaps? Or just business as usual. How old is she anyway?

... which promptly set off a fascinating conversation. Go read! Warning: the thread is now up to 170 replies.

And then, Twisty outdid herself in her subsequent post on the conversation:

[Certain feminists commenting in the aforementioned thread] seem to be placing a pretty high premium on McCain’s intent. And they seem pretty comfortable in asserting an infallible familiarity with McCain’s innermost nature, for they have somehow divined this intent precisely. Maybe they have access to 8th-dimension vortex-portals through which they may mind-meld with Internet personalities. They assert, peering through their vortex-portals into the mind of Meghan McCain, not just that her intent was to titillate, but — and here is the critical jump — that this odious species of intent (slutism!) releases them from their oath of feminist solidarity.

You know how when a rapist is prosecuted, and the slutty intent of the victim is so acutely divined by the defense (’she didn’t fight back hard enough; she must have wanted it,’ etc) it may be used as a psychbomb to dehumanize her to the jury? It’s like that.

Or take women who post self-portraits on the Internet. Say we get our hands on one of those vortex-portals, so we know without a doubt that their intent is to titillate. Does it logically follow that they then desire a torrent of sex-based hate speech? Meanwhile, do even the feminists buy the whole women-are-masochists myth and just sit idly by while misogynists rip the titillators to shreds?

Anyway, intent, schmintent. I would urge the reader to recall how little intent has to do with anything. Particularly with the experience of the end user. The result is all that matters. Your boyfriend — if you haven’t taken my advice and dumped him yet — possibly loves you, but when he farts in bed and flaps the covers, who gives a flip about his intent? Do you not gag and think him a Philistine?

Which, before all you fart-flappers get lathered up, is my little metaphor for the metaphorical odor that metaphorically drifts, unbidden, from the condition of male privilege into the metaphorical nostrils of the oppressed.

That last paragraph may be the best thing I ever read.

Check it out.. the follow-up thread is up to 77 posts already.

~*~

More on what we in South Carolina are calling "Jim Demint and the Jews" from David Paul Kuhn writing in Real Clear Politics:

The Op/Ed was published Sunday in the South Carolinian newspaper The Times and Democrat. Chairmen Edwin Merwin, of Bamberg County, and James Ulmer, of Orangeburg County, wrote:

There is a saying that the Jews who are wealthy got that way not by watching dollars, but instead by taking care of the pennies and the dollars taking care of themselves. By not using earmarks to fund projects for South Carolina and instead using actual bills, DeMint is watching our nation's pennies and trying to preserve our country's wealth and our economy's viability to give all an opportunity to succeed.

This is only one small story from one small town newspaper. But it is likely to make some national news.

That news will not be well received by the national Republican Party. The GOP has long attempted, albeit with little success, to make inroads into the Jewish vote. Of course, this incident will not help. And it may not be big enough to hurt that much. But the news comes in the context of the GOP's macro push to portray itself as a more inclusive party of late. And every anecdote exemplifying otherwise undermines that push.

That the offensive language was penned in an Op/Ed, rather than made in an offhand remark, makes it all the more politically foolish (and almost too stupid to believe).

Not if you live around here, it sure isn't.

~*~

And finally, the coveted Dead Air literary award goes to my favorite mom-blogger, Sheila, for her very gifted, postprandial haiku.

This was inspired by her first trip to Sonic:

anticipation
cold crappy food wrong order
tarnished cravings

Fun search terms, June edition

All of the following terms were used to find my blog in Yahoo or Google:



forgive those lifelong suicides robert hunter*

u.s. supreme court t-shirt "fuck the army"

love quotes involving tambourines

"Alice Cooper" "Bob Jones University"

famous dead golfers

biker funhouse old fart

england home school well-done or relative friend to speak to bring teacher name to guess what a an beatiful surname pronoun to do to make

i had 80 favorite cities on weather underground and you deleted it

Mark Sanford on crack for HOW LONG?

Mark Sanford stupid

Mark Sanford idiot

Mark Sanford mistress?

I need to kill fleas NOW crazy insane drugs fleas herbs kill fleas?

Feminist christians UNFAIR to women and christians!

Did king edward invent the Cromer Carnival of 1969

Can republicans be vegetarian?

Did Bob Dylan mean Nixon?

Real Housewives of New York TV botox! botox! botox!

~*~

Now, who can argue with that? (name that movie quote!)



*I was intrigued by this line, and followed the search term back to Google, where I found Blue Heron's blog, and the entire quote in context:

Forgive those lifelong suicides
you who jumped into the water
fully clothed
to rescue the reflection
of the setting sun.

Robert Hunter

Juliette de Bairacli Levy 1912-2009

Juliette de Bairacli Levy was born in privilege and grew up with everything. As a young woman, she studied veterinary medicine in the United Kingdom for two years before departing the discipline in disillusionment. Vivisection and animal experimentation were the reasons why. She decided she'd had enough, and wanted to find another way. This brought her to the gypsies and peasants of the world, and she respectfully sought to learn their ways, before they completely disappeared from the earth.

And in so doing, she kept that from happening.

She was called the Grandmother of Herbal Medicine. She passed away last week.



One of her many publishers worldwide, Ash Tree Publishing, provides a partial biography, but her life was so amazing it took a documentary (Juliette of the Herbs) to cover it all:

In the 1940's, while traveling in America, Spain, France, North Africa and Turkey, Juliette gathered herbal remedies from the nomadic and peasant peoples of these lands. When her Complete Herbal Handbook for Farm and Stable was published in 1951, it was the first veterinary herbal ever to be published as before this time, the art of farriers, gypsies and peasants had been passed on only by the spoken word.

Thus Juliette became THE pioneer of what is known today as holistic animal care. She went on to write The Complete Herbal Book for the Dog. Both these books together with Juliette's Illustrated Herbal Handbook for Everyone and Natural Rearing of Children have become classics and many generations of humans and animals have been raised and healed on these books.[...] Juliette's two children, Luz and Rafik, were born in the early 1950's. She took her children to live in Israel where they raised owls, hawks, dogs, goats, donkeys and bees. Juliette became famous for saving her hives of bees from shell attack during the Six Day War. In Israel and later when she moved to Greece, Juliette continued to write, to raise Afghan Hounds, to garden and to gather herbal remedies. As well as her herbal books, she has written several travel books, two novels and three books of poems.

One of her poems was titled Gypsy Lane - a rhyme recalling the gypsy manner of death:

You shall die, and I shall die!
Take our places in the sky.
You and she, and he and I,
When the time comes, all must die.
That's a game we would play,
Man and woman, girl and lad,
In gypsy camps far away,
Laughing times, yet passing sad.

Poppy crowns for everyone,
Red rose for the fairest one.
We would shout, King Death to come,
Laughing loudly, turn and run.
Then more the cry! Who will die?
Nor he, nor she, and not I,
Want that fearful power to fly.

We would pass the hours that way,
Bed with Gypsies by cool streams,
Golden days of dance and play,
Harp and flute and tambourines.
But poppy crowns droop and fade,
Feet grow weary, hearts afraid.
Time kills all in Gypsy Glade,
Flower and tree, man and maid.

Gone the Gypsies, every one,
All who played the Gypsy game,
Left the earth, its mirth and fun,
Starry nights and hyacinth lane.
None can play that game alone,
Thus I want to hear the cry,
Come now! Leave thy earthly home,
Join the Gypsies in the sky.


She is there now, this wonderful and amazing prophet who blazed the trail for so many of us.

Play in the sky, Juliette.

Odds and Sods - the smashing edition

From my Upstate SC photoset on Flickr.







West Asheville co-op faces eviction; calls community meeting
by Brian Postelle, Mountain Xpress
April 6, 2009

The Haywood Road Market, which has a history of financial struggles, now might have to leave its location of six years.

April DeLac, president of the co-op’s board, said the market received an eviction notice from Bledsoe Building owners West Asheville Development in late March after the market had been late on paying February’s rent.

DeLac noted that the co-op’s money woes stretch back further than two months.

“We’ve been a struggling co-op for a long time,” she said. “There’s been financial issues almost the entire history.”

Those financial issues include not only late rent payments but also a series of personal and business loans extended over the years to try to help the market reach a sustainable level, says WAD partner and West End Bakery co-owner Krista Stearns.

“This has been years in coming,” Stearns said. “And it was a very hard decision to make.”

Stearns’ husband Lewis Lankford, also a member of WAD, said the co-op’s poor payment history led to the decision not to renew the market’s lease in January, switching to a month-to-month status, and eventually to the eviction notice, which is effective the end of May.

But Lankford, himself a founding board member of the co-op, said that empty shelves and declining business also gave a dim forecast of the market’s future.

“The decision was reinforced by going in and seeing the condition of the store,” he said. “It didn’t have the feel of anything except something that was going away.”

For DeLac, however, there are still options on the table (granted, those options include moving or closing shop for good). The co-op will hold a member’s meeting — with the public invited — on Tuesday, April 21, at 6:30 p.m. at the Bledsoe Building to try to figure out the next step.

Thinking fondly back to my own co-op days; I wish you the best of luck for the continuing success of your endeavor.

I now live in a community with no food co-op, and feel the lack significantly. Starting a food co-op in this area proved to be an impossibility, but at least I got to meet cool folks like Ted Christian in the process.

Nonetheless, it is one of those things I didn't get accomplished, and any mention of co-op failure and/or disinterest, just plain makes me sad. :(

~*~

Lately, Cripchick has been inspired to write more, and her poetry soars through the stratosphere, way into heavenly terrain. She is very gifted. Check out her wonderful poetry!

Also, you might want to visit the First Asian Women's Carnival!

New to my blogroll is YouTomb--an extremely-welcome free-speech project tracking one of the most maddening modern phenomena of Blogdonia (often fussed about in extremis here at DEAD AIR), the removal of videos from YouTube:

YouTomb is a research project by MIT Free Culture that tracks videos taken down from YouTube for alleged copyright violation.

More specifically, YouTomb continually monitors the most popular videos on YouTube for copyright-related takedowns. Any information available in the metadata is retained, including who issued the complaint and how long the video was up before takedown. The goal of the project is to identify how YouTube recognizes potential copyright violations as well as to aggregate mistakes made by the algorithm.

This is one of those hypnotic websites, so be careful. You can get lost in data over there.


Count me in as one who adored the First Lady's fabulous J Crew cardigan, worn during her trip to London this past week. (photo at left)

She looked SMASHING (as British broadcasting legend David Frost always enthused about his favorite female guests).

Not at all surprising that the press is glued to her every fashion move. She is beautiful and radiant.

And when she spoke proudly of her working class roots, she made me proud, too.

Ash Wednesday ruminations on feminism, religion, etc

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

--TS Eliot, Ash Wednesday

~*~

In the middle of a very contentious thread titled What if the feminist blogosphere is a form of digital colonialism?--an atheist feminist named The Apostate let loose with the following:

The feminist blogosphere is VERY correct and proper. There is a huge orthodoxy, on race issues, on sexuality issues, on major progressive themes, on language. on religion. I don’t think this is a bad thing, but it makes it hard to embrace outliers like me who might otherwise contribute to the conversation. For instance, I personally violate the religion orthodoxy (I hate Muslims and Islam and religious people in general), I am not all that sensitive about language (once called an Islam-apologist feminist a bitch, insist on continuing to use verboten words like “lame” and I like my gendered insults, such as prick), I refuse to include Sean Bell in my list of feminist issues, I often say I hate men, I am publicly glad when misfortune is visited upon my enemies (anti-choice Andrew Sullivan is HIV positive - yay! Marc Ambinder is ugly - yay!) and other such horrifying things. No wonder nobody links to me!

Haha.

(Yes, she really did add the "Haha"--which I think really makes the post.)

And she was ignored on the thread. Which was good; if her intent was to derail, it didn't work. But I was also disappointed that the comments about religious women and a gay man with HIV, were not challenged. Only Renee (at Womanist Musings) challenged the comment; no one else did.

Why? Did they agree with her? If any other group(s) of people had been insulted with open hate speech, would feminists have remained silent?

Initially, I wrote off Apostate's little tantrum, since I know that she once was Muslim herself, and I well understand that ex-fundamentalists are often traumatized by their upbringing. But hey, aren't we all? I responded to my racist father by becoming an anti-racist activist, for instance. Apostate has responded to her strict upbringing by trashing Islam, and then extending this critique to all religion.

Later in the thread, Apostate proclaimed--"What a lot of petty self righteous assholes the feminist blogosphere is full of," and after her proclamation that she hates most of the women in the world (who ARE religious, take note), I had just had enough. We ended up in an argument on her own blog, and she ended up censoring my comments and banning me permanently.

Admittedly, my first emotion was: thrilled!!! Oh boy!!! Finally, after years of arguing, I was outright BANNED from AN ATHEIST BLOG!!! Hot damn. (I will be linking Apostate for years, she must have known her hits will increase from now on.) Atheists looooove to brag (rightly and correctly) that they get tossed off of religious blogs and boards as soon as they even announce themselves. BAM, gone. I've seen it myself, countless times. And they are pretty proud of that, as well they should be.

On one now-defunct Christian message board I used to frequent, the censorship was particularly aggravating. I was usually having great FUN arguing with the atheist or agnostic, while others would become greatly agitated, and eventually ban the person. I would end up defending them, and on at least two occasions, I left internet bulletin boards over the banning of intelligent, well-mannered atheists, who did nothing more than freak Christians out with tough questions.

And at least twice, I was called on the carpet for my own heresy. Yes, you know what it is, my beloved existentialism, my Kierkegaard, my science fiction and Teilhard de Chardin. From an amalgam of these sources, I employ my standard argument against the atheists, which is one they cannot refute. As far as I am concerned, the only argument. THE argument.

The reason I believe in God/religion/Church/sacraments, etc is an endless variation of these statement ...a riff, if you will:

I like it.

It is fun, it gives pleasure.

It makes me ecstatic/happy/peaceful/optimistic.

It makes me feel better than I would feel otherwise.

It's great. Aesthetically, it's really neat.

I want to be a priest/holy woman myself, I am pretty good at it!

I feel that God listens to me/speaks to me.

Etc.

These statements make no claim for objective truth, as I don't think we can. These statements are MY truth; they are about why I choose to practice as I do. It is about ME. I have taken full responsibility: this is what makes MY life better, gives MY life meaning, this is how I view the world, and how I relate to what I call the high concepts, and you call delusions. I do not care if you like it or not, because I don't do it for you, I do it for me.

If one is a rational atheist, you should be able to admit I am right. If I go to Mass or read a book or meditate or sing or clap my hands and claim to conjure up the living devil--why should you care? Do you care if people go to football games or rock concerts? Do you care what kinds of sex people choose to have? Do you care about which movies they watch and which books they read? Well, why is the choice of belief or religion not the same?

BECAUSE, the atheists intone, RELIGION CLAIMS TO BE TRUE.

Well, duh. The Buckeyes will kick Wolverine ass, and that is TRUE TOO, ask any Buckeyes fan. Ask any diehard fans of STAR WARS or LORD OF THE RINGS which movie is the best, and they will assure you STAR WARS and THAT IS THE TRUTH! If people are having sex and claim to enjoy it, I assume they are telling the truth and I take their word for it that it is true, this is good sex for them. But you know, it might not be good sex for ME.

We all say what we claim to be TRUE, and we constantly disagree with each other about clothes, about shoes, about where to live and how to spend our time. We all testify to the truth as we know and believe it, and yet, religion is somehow a "special" case, something apart from other choices we make, about sexuality, about occupation, about marriage, home ownership, carbon footprints, childbearing. Actually, my contention is that religion is the same type of choice as these other lifestyle choices, that feminists can discuss without hyperventilating (or should be able to). We are not living in the Holy Roman Empire; we have choices. We are no longer forced to be XYZ just because our parents were. And then again, there are lots of characteristics we share with our parents, our families or villages of origin, and this might be another one.

We may have something very special to bring to the table, for this reason.

~*~

Which is better, a Chevy or a Ford?

If we don't know what to believe, we ask someone we respect, someone we think knows about cars: Should I buy a Chevy or a Ford?

Chevy, says the Respected Person authoritatively. Then, you buy the Chevy and it breaks down in rush hour. It costs a fortune to tow it, you have no spare. You are fucking livid. GODDAMN CHEVYS! I WAS TOLD THEY WERE GOOD CARS!!!!!!!

And you know, the guy who told you that, thought they were. Chevys had always been good to him. Not a one had given him trouble, he went coast-to-coast in one and had a blast. Alriiiiite! Took my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry...

New Chevy hater: Don't sing that fucking song around me!

Yes, I just compared God to cars. As Aldous Huxley famously said, Ford's in his Flivver and all is right with the world. It is an excellent analogy. Things do not work the same for everyone. They just don't, and no, I don't know why. (I am currently studying Buddhism, trying to figure out that part.) But why would we expect religion to fit everyone, if we can't even agree on which songs are good, which food is good, if a Ford or Chevy is best? Those are easy. Now, you bring in GOD? And we wonder why we disagree?

Apostate's Chevy might have broken down anyway--maybe her parents had (as I suspect) already driven the damn Chevy into the ground by the time she got it. But my Chevy works well, always has, still is.

Am I an idiot because I got a good Chevy?

You can see how this argument might make very devout Christians (and devout Muslims and any other devout fundamentalist of any type) very upset. They do not want you to suggest that religious truth is not an objective truth, THE truth. They claim they have the truth. And I answer: if it was, it would be self-evident. And it is not.

That is to say, we mostly agree on, say, the color green. We don't know why we do... but if I say, check the green box, most people will.

If I say check the most Godly box? I create chaos immediately.

Religion is therefore in the category of art, music, beauty, love, aesthetics. It is opinion, something experienced, an acquired taste, or maybe something someone has been starved for. Or something someone is very angry with, as in the angry Chevy-buyer. They were promised something, and it didn't deliver. Or it was delivered, rather like Apostate's sedan delivery, by wrecking her whole house with it. (Certainly, that's no way to make a good first-impression.)

The anti-religious people declare religion irrational. Music, art, love and sexual desire also are quite irrational, but they don't seem to want to ban those. And yeah, when I say that, the religious people can get as livid as the atheists. (Often the self-described agnostics are the only folks who stay with me during this discussion, nodding the whole way, agreeing that comparing religion to music makes sense.)

And few people turn against religion as thoroughly and furiously as ex-fundies. I can spot them in a line-up. Know why? Like Apostate, they sound the same. They have exchanged one form of intolerance for another. While they were subscribing to fundamentalism, it was the sinners and infidels and devils and so on, who were bad. After the backslide? You are stupid, ridiculous, sky-fairy believer, idiot, moron. (Apostate called me stupid also.) What gets me is IT'S THE SAME PEOPLE. The religious people who curse me for not being strict enough, fall away from the Church, the Mosque, wherever, and pivot perfectly into the ones who trash me for stupidity as a believer. I am sure when Apostate was a proper, strictly devout Muslim, she would have hated me just as much as she does now. She just uses different words now.

They are the same people. I can't tell them apart without a scorecard. The approach is identical: intolerant, judgmental, finger-pointing, merciless, hateful. If you don't see things their way, you are a fool. Period. I often forget who I am arguing with, and have to stop--wait, is this the atheist or the fundie?

I usually can only tell them apart because the fundies won't say "fuck"--and the atheists will.

There are feminist enclaves literally everywhere. Even in the strictest, most dangerous places on earth for women--there are women strategizing for freedom and access. What bothers me is how they are walled off from each other.

Often, this is because the women hate each other. Their countries are at war with each other; possibly their religions have historically been enemies. But they will not come together for their own rights, there is too much bad blood.

In every religious women's community, Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, Taoist, Sikh, etc etc... there are feminists. EVERY SINGLE ONE. And they struggle alone, often, because non-religious feminists don't regard them as "real feminists" although these same non-religious feminists live under male governments, work for male companies, vote for males, sleep with males, give birth to males, take money from male daddies and love male brothers, sons, friends, etc... they say religion is unfeminist because men run it. (I know, makes no sense, go figure.) So religious feminists try to get it done within their own faith communities. But in the process, they are not interacting with the larger feminist community, from whom they feel estranged. As a result, they don't learn all the lingo, the habits, the culture of feminism. They are thus easily shocked when they first meet feminist libertines or political radicals. It is my contention that if they were allowed in the coalition, if their presence became commonplace and unchallenged, they would get used to it, as we all get used to everything.

I assume such women, emissaries from their various communities, would be largely like me, pretty tolerant, or older and jaded from having seen a lot already (particularly if they are ordained ministers or professionals). But I can still remember back in the 70s, when Carter Heyward was on the cover of Ms, and all hell broke lose, as atheist and agnostic feminists complained. And I am there saying, wait, doncha know, this is CARTER HEYWARD!!!!

Without stopping to ask who this groundbreaking feminist even IS, just the knowledge that she was a priest, was enough to inflame the atheist rabble. It's the IDEA, you see, that women would put FAITH IN RELIGION (instead of, you know, say, money or the government) and RELIGION OPPRESSES WOMEN. PERIOD.

Money and government, of course, have never oppressed women.

(((sighs heavily)))

And so, the impasse. The small religious feminist communities labor onward, but they are struggling by themselves. They need the authority and influence of the larger feminism, which is too uncomfortable with religion. And the religious women are often too naive and provincial for the larger feminism as well. The problems feed each other.

And I get banned from Apostate's blog, and called stupid.

Maybe I am, since I am ever hopeful we can all get together.

~*~

The Five of Wands, Strife. (from the Rider-Waite Tarot deck)


And in fairness, since I linked Mandy and Brittany's piece above, I suppose I should also link their subsequent apology for writing it, or for how they wrote it, or something. (I am curious if they deliberately chose Ash Wednesday, a day of penance, to apologize, or was that an accident? Great symbolism.)

Initially, I had no problems with the piece, until reading some of the criticisms, particularly Renee's, Sylvia's and Lauren's. I still think their hearts were in the right place, and that does count for something. I am not too fond of the term "token" which as I said on Renee's blog, used to denote something very specific, back in the day. A "token" was someone who shores up the status quo using their minority status; they lend legitimacy to a possibly-illegitimate enterprise. Nowadays, it seems "token" just means any minority-person in majority space, and that is not how I use the term, or how I grew up understanding and relating to it. I have recently been called a token myself, to my puzzlement; it basically meant I was the only _____ in a certain space. No one has ever accused me (and certainly, not Renee!) of perserving the status quo. Ha!

Thus, when first reading the word "token" I assumed this was the "new" meaning: a minority person in majority space. So, I did not criticize the word. However, I now see that the term "token" is meant differently by different people, and People of Color still adhere to the old usage that radicals have historically favored. It is white people who simply mean "a minority person in majority space"! Aha!

With this helpful delineation, I am enlightened. And I understand why minority people would bridle (as I have, in various settings) at this label. And why this piece caused so much strife throughout Feminist Blogdonia.

(NOTE: There were also additional issues over language used in the post, such as the use of an offensive term for transgendered people.)

On the other hand, I found the self-flagellation in the Official Apologia a bit much, even for Ash Wednesday. Is all of this really necessary? Well, maybe so.

In the fallout of the original incendiary discussion, Amber Rhea attempted some discussion of her (mixed-up and confused, which was the whole point) class background, and was flayed for it bigtime. I was shocked. (Do they expect everyone to emerge from their 20s talking like Leon Trotsky, or what?)

Perhaps Apostate has a point--why do we go after each other this way? What good does it do, exactly?

Heart, whom I have had major issues with (as regular readers know), thinks it's the invasion of The Man. I admit, I really go for that 70s talk, and she is all over it:

Regardless the movement, the Man can be depended upon to approach movement people who are the most marketable, the least experienced and therefore the most trusting (and grateful) and the least risky, people he knows will make honest, exploitable, mistakes, and who are already leaders with manipulatable followers. He’s not all that concerned about what the people he chooses actually believe or the quality of their activism; he just wants to make a buck where a buck is to be made. Movement people are virtually always naive about these things, and their leaders often have big heads. They frequently readily believe what their followers have said to and about them and are too quick to believe their own press. They imagine they have been discovered and chosen because of their unusual skills or gifts or something like that, because the Man is impressed by their ideals, dedication and vision, when usually, it’s more that they are marketable, naive and exploitable. They are young, they are pretty or handsome, they are white, they are middle class, they have the right kind of education, they say the right kinds of things in the right kinds of ways and so do their followers, and so, people will buy. That’s all that matters to the Man.

Once the Man gets in, all hell is guaranteed to break loose. Movement people will now fight, not in the productive ways of the past but in the destructive ways that always follow in the Man’s wake. They’ll fight over who was chosen, who wasn’t chosen, why the chosen were chosen and the not-chosen weren’t. They’ll fight over the fact that some who were hardworking weren’t recognized and some who weren’t so hardworking were. They’ll fight over the way the chosen behave, what they do once they have all of that attention, and what they don’t do. They’ll fight over who did and didn’t get the credit for this or that, who stole this and who stole that. The chosen will find themselves — always, guaranteed — in a downward spiral of compromise, because you have to compromise to deal with the Man. The compromises the chosen make will become fodder for ever-worsening, ever-deepening and -intensifying intra-movement conflicts, more blaming, more resentments, increased finger-pointing, increased vigilance. New people who join the movement unaware of the history will defend the wrong people, accuse the wrong people and will get gobbled up by the Man themselves. They won’t understand the hostility they then face from other movement people; after all, they’re not doing anything differently from what others have (apparently) done. And their confusion will be eminently understandable. In the end, everybody will be drinking from the same poisoned well, and everybody will be sick from drinking there.

On this Ash Wednesday, let me say dramatically: SHE IS RIGHT.

Yes, you read it correctly, I just admitted HEART IS RIGHT.

I am reminded of a bunch of girls in high school, clamoring for a place on the cheerleading squad.

Can we please STOP?! Heart thinks it's too late, the thief has entered (nods to Heart, with my Bible reference there)...and I wonder, is she also right about what this means: The End of Feminist Blogging (the title of her post)? Is it already too late? Can we turn this shit around, or will we have eaten each other alive first?

I have criticized the denizens of Feminist Blogdonia as much as the next feminist blogger, and probably will continue whenever I think there have been damaging excesses. But the wholesale evisceration that is more suitable for a radio edition of FOCUS ON THE FAMILY, needs to stop. Going onto a blog where someone is, for example, attempting to clarify their own class consciousness and telling them what they OUGHT TO BE DOING, is not going to help us reach any feminist goals, but will instead cause more women to withdraw from feminism in fear that they cannot possibly measure up.

Time for the Act of Contrition--I have confessed, now it's everyone else's turn.

~*~

My official Dead Air Ash Wednesday hymn, Saving Grace by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, was removed from last year's post, you may have noticed. Warner Music Group (or similar capitalist greedhead swine) strikes again! I found the song performed live, but can't embed it here. Blah. My second choice, Redemption Song by Bob Marley, also has embedding disabled. WHAT IS GOING ON AROUND HERE?!?!? Harumph.

Looking for alternate hymns, I figure yall might like at least ONE of these.

Letter to Hermione - David Bowie



No offense to my beloved Bob, but as we all know, it's often umm, better to find his fabulous songs sung by someone else!

I found this really nice version of "I Shall be Released" by Chrissie Hynde at something called the "30th Anniversary Bob Dylan Concert"--no other details of where the performance was.

I Shall Be Released - Chrissie Hynde



And more Bob! I've been looking for this one forever--it probably won't last out Lent! Better listen now!

"For every hung-up person in the whole wide universe..."

Chimes of Freedom - The Byrds



*NSFW* MAY TRIGGER* ETC*

I defy you to listen to all 10 minutes. It's actually edited down from the original 11 minutes, believe it or not.

I have a tattoo inspired by the line "I'm not gonna wear my heart on my sleeve" at 4:39. (As a result, I do wear my heart on my sleeve.)

Some people got no choice
When they can never find a voice
to talk with that they can even call their own
So the first thing that they see
That allows them the right to be
They follow it
Know what that's called?
Bad luck.

Street Hassle - Lou Reed



Happy Ash Wednesday to you all!

Dead Air Church - Another Park, Another Sunday

Left: Purple heart and orange daisies.

~*~

I named this poem ANOTHER PARK, ANOTHER SUNDAY about 15 years ago, after a beloved Doobie Brothers song, which I have included below.

I never came up with another title, since I never expected to share the poem.

I found it while cleaning up after my hallway flood last week.

~*~



He is a decent person at heart, she said.
The park's ancient, wooden swings banged against each other
as we pretended to be swinging on them
dragging our feet, looking down at our shoes

Side by side, looking out,
looking away
stealing glances of each other

The swings creaked, they were forever uneven
The neighborhood children stood upright on them, wearing them down
(Do you, she asked, call it a teeter-totter or a see-saw?)

He is a decent person at heart, she said
turning her face up to the sunlit sky
where I could see the shimmer and glimmer of her tears
reflecting the sun and the clouds
The park's noises, children at the edge, arguing, screaming, squealing
Has one of them started to cry?
Should we go see?

He is a decent person at heart, she repeated, nodding.
She had made up her mind.
She would operate on this assumption, this decision.
She would conduct all of her future domestic business,
her science of cohabitation
with this in mind.

And as they left the park, she saw her rub her wrist
absently
the bruise bright and blue in the sun
as she touched her heart, as if consolidating
the place
where he was decent.
The only place.

The park fades quickly from my memory
my sun-bleached happiness fleeting, distracted

And what I remember
is his decency
and her bruise.


~*~

Doobie Brothers - Another Park, Another Sunday

[via FoxyTunes / The Doobie Brothers]

Happy 4th of July!

Left: The US and South Carolina flags, downtown Greenville, SC.

~*~




And now our government
a bird with two right wings
flies on from zone to zone
while we go on having our little fun & games
at each election
as if it really mattered who the pilot is
of Air Force One
(They're interchangeable, stupid!)
While this bird with two right wings
flies right on with its corporate flight crew
And this year its the Great Movie Cowboy in the cockpit
And next year its the great Bush pilot
And now its the Chameleon Kid
and he keeps changing the logo on his captains cap
and now its a donkey and now an elephant
and now some kind of donkephant
And now we recognize two of the crew
who took out a contract on America
and one is a certain gringo wretch
who's busy monkeywrenching
crucial parts of the engine
and its life-support systems
and they got a big fat hose
to siphon off the fuel to privatized tanks
And all the while we just sit there
in the passenger seats
without parachutes
listening to all the news that's fit to air
over the one-way PA system
about how the contract on America
is really good for us etcetera
As all the while the plane lumbers on
into its postmodern
manifest destiny



Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Bird With Two Right Wings

Happy St Patrick's Day

St Patrick icon from Byzantines.net.





An Irish Airman foresees his Death

by William Butler Yeats (1919)



I KNOW that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

South Carolina Book Festival

As I mentioned yesterday, we attended the 12th annual South Carolina Book Festival at the Columbia Metropolitan Convention Center this weekend. Jolly fun for bookworms of all ages!

Harlan Coben and Josephine Humphreys were the writers most people seemed to be interested in hearing read in person, but I very much preferred the Masters of Science Fiction panel, and hanging around the exhibition hall, talking to authors and publishers.

Some of my favorite folks to talk to:

Darden North is your ordinary, next-door OB-GYN who writes medical thrillers, while delivering babies in Jackson, Mississippi.

Sistah on a Budget features novels by Tracye Faulkner Stormer and illustrator Kristen Munroe. The one that sounded most promising was Hooked Up; the excerpt I read reminded me of Rona Jaffe's women's novels, which I went through at an alarming rate in my 20s and 30s.

Left: Eboniramm and John Holland, of the Columbia Writers Alliance. (Not pictured: Stephanie Suell.)

I also enjoyed talking with Carrie McCullough of the South Carolina Writers Workshop.

South Carolina Center for the Book holds competitions for young writers, check out riverofwords.org.

My favorite author at the festival was Jason Deierlein, author of Return from a Comatose Mind: "Swimming star and popular teenager Jason Deierlein was coming home with friends from a trip to the lake when their van got into an accident. Struck by a tractor trailer going 70 miles per hour, their van flipped over several times. One person died, but Deierlein was in a coma... In lean, evocative prose, Deierlein describes what it feels like not to be able to see or speak or move. His dreams while in the coma were rich and strange, sometimes of swimming, sometimes of bright lights...." A fascinating account of injury, recovery, and the necessity of moving on. (And besides that, Jason is a real sweetheart!)

Left: Emory S. Campbell, author of Gullah Cultural Legacies. For those unaware, Gullah is the African-American culture of the barrier islands of South Carolina, particularly Hilton Head, Beaufort, and nearby areas. Their language is a distinctive mix of Elizabethan English and the dialects of Sierra Leone.

Silk Pagoda is an imprint of Disruptive Publishing, offering Asian classics in the public domain, such as Journey to the West. They also offer a few pulp novels, to keep things interesting.


~*~


Left to right: fantasy writer James O'Neill, James O. Born, Jeff VanderMeer and Jay Lake. Ann VanderMeer, not pictured, was also a panel participant, as editor of the new edition of Weird Tales.

As stated previously, I enjoyed the Masters of Science Fiction panel, particularly the inspired commentary of always-amusing Jay Lake , whose work is definitely on my list. About one plot-line, he remarked that you had to "do something with it, or it'll just lie there and stink," which reminds me of some blog posts I've done. He describes himself as a raging secularist and raging lefty, so I figure he'll fit right in with most of my readers. CHECK OUT JAY, he rocks.

More photos below, including the C-Span bus (which is approximately the size of the Starship Enterprise), the friendly young woman at Charlotte's Main Street Rag press, who was kind enough to allow me to interrupt her lunch to take her photo (and I didn't even get her name--duh!), and assorted other festival attendees, checking out the miles and miles of books.

The folks at the Crazyhorse literary journal gave me a complimentary 2003 issue, where I found the following poem by Robin Behn:

Aspirations of the Yellow House

Sometimes the yellow house wanted
a public assignment

curved brow of school bus
crossing guard sash swatch

cheery cloth to sop
spittle from the oldest lips

library velo-card
pet shop's pet

iguana's awesome
dewlap

but seeing as how the yellow
jobs were already taken

uselessness became its motto
privacy its anthem

yellow tooth in a row of
better teeth it stood

through winter the snow going
yellow at its feet and sinking

into the muddy muck and mouth
of every living thing

then all around it troops of daffodils
blew their fancy horns and took a bow--

no one in the yellow house
knew its thwarted dreams

although the stairs did creak sometimes
as if a thing had turned around

to climb back to the stars
and the windows, in the evening, had an aspect,

a dark, expectant, broken, floating, useless
telescope aspect,

but that went away
when they were lit from within.

~*~