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What's Scarier, The Truth, or Poems About The Truth?

There's a difference between studying art and studying social work, but I haven't figured out what it is. When I was getting my MFA I was pretty definitely pushing on boundaries, like I am now, and as a matter of fact dealing with the same issues, pretty much, just in poems instead of The Real World. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if my poems hadn't freaked some people out so much, or if I'd have been strong enough to let them be freaked out and just keep on going. But I couldn't, really, then. The poems were unbeknownst to me addressing the experience that has led me now to study trauma and human trafficking. So of course it freaked people out. And their freaked outness was a rejection that the trauma triggering it caused -- unbeknownst to the freaked out people of course who were blameless in their tastes and limitations -- wouldn't let me tolerate. I lost my voice because the voice was too tender, then.


The poems were sometimes very beautiful, though. That line from Patti Smith's new memoir Just Kids for some reason pulls the heart part of me right into the essence of what those poems were doing and what they looked like to me:‎ "The room reflected the bright mess of my interior world, part boxcar and part fairyland." "Looked" being a pretty multi-level term here, where you know that the boxcar and the fairyland love one another and can't be separated, ever. Reading the Patti Smith has made me miss writing, and that of course is good.


Except that it brings up other issues, like what it's like to make art when you have a trauma disorder, and questions about how art affects people differently than "objective" work, like, say, public speaking about what it's like to have survived being kidnapped at 13 and sold for sex and then later decide to open a house for girls who've had something similar happen to them, because back then it didn't have a name so I gave it all these lights and lints and words piled on one another and pretty. 


I don't know. All I know I guess is that I want to write this story, and I'm scared to write this story. Which I think means I have to write it this story.

And My Girl Friend Agrees

As example of the ethic of Art in Spite of Crazies and the complexities The Mundane will not grok I offer the genius of (my friend) Simone Roberts's forthcoming book: Poetics of Being Two.

Also see:

http://www.artworksforchange.org/otbp_virtual.htm
http://bitchmagazine.org/
http://www.saidit.org/archives/jul01/mediaglance.html

Art in Spite of Crazies

Varo, Ruptura, 1955

Last night I looked at my google analytics account for the first time in months. Grad school has kept me kind of out of the bloggyness since January. But watching some kids dancing with horse-shaped balloons at a Gumbohead concert yesterday, and the one balloon flying off into the sky and the child's broken face and my sweety's insertion of the word Pegasus into the lyrics of the song he was singing on stage and the whole miss-mash of that moment that seemed to me like it should have been captured on film for some reason got me thinking about art, and performance, and those who don't know when they're encountering that. This thinking took me to three instances that have pissed me off on principle: one, the flack I got in my MFA poetry program for writing "confessional" or "the wrong kind of" poetry -- i.e., anything that made people uncomfortable; two, the crazy stalky woman who was reading this blog and then interfering in my life is freaky ways based on her "impression" that I'm a nut case, based on my blog writings (there was also the incident with that obsessive x-lover, but why go into that). That is the reason I closed the blog to public viewing for a while.

An invitation from my food blog employer to dine out for free if I'd blog about it got me inspired to do some posting on my other blog over the last few days. So I promoted that a little bit, then went in to google analytics last night to see how that promotion was working (and yes, very well, thank you). Doing that, I noticed a lot of activity reported on that blog from a network location that corresponds with her physical location. No big surprise, I guess. I just hadn't thought about looking before.

Now, I'm not claiming to not be a nut case. Personally, I don't know anyone who isn't, once you get to know them. But I am claiming for all of the stand-up right to our art, and the right to laugh at people who want to confine art to whatever boxes keep them comfortable, whatever inane things they give themselves permission to write, and whatever equation they work out in their heads wherein the art equals the artist. Mr. Tarrantino, John and Paul, Mr. Picasso, Senora Allende, Ms. Rice, be careful what you write, be careful what you paint and don't get too carried away with those movies if you care about what frightened people are going to think of you as a person. And if your art happens to fall between genre lines, if it's hard to tell fact from fiction, or god forbid you should write something auto-biographical be aware there is to be no fudging, no embellishment, or else. Everyone knows that artists are the sanest people around. So we never expect writers of the not-inane to challenge us or make waves in are consciousnesses or incite our anger or our tears. Personally, if I ever publish my hard copy memoir, which I fully intend to do, I am going to put a disclaimer all prominent on the front page about how memory is flawed and besides that my life hasn't been so thrilling that no embellishment is necessary and so I make no claims for perfect accuracy of the movement of things around for dramatic effect. As a matter of fact, I'm not even going to call it a memoir. I'm going to call it an embellished life.

In the mean time, dear readers: judge away. Decide if you like me or not, if I'm a good person or not, if I'm worthy of someone you covet's time, go ahead and try to convince them otherwise if you want and tell yourself you're trying to protect them from themselves; decide that the art = the artists, decide that art should be inane (unless someone famous or Other made it), use people's art against them when it serves your interest. I can't tell you how tired I got of being censored in grad school. One unfortunate fallout has been that my internal editor became more powerful than my creative voice. This blog has been part of my work to free that voice again. It isn't easy. And I say "Fie!" to anyone who would try to make me stop it.

What I'd like for you, my fellow bloggers (and you are the people who mostly read this stuff, anyway) to take away is this one little lesson: google analytics is your friend. If you get a stalker, you can track how many times they came to your blog, what days they came there, what pages they read, how long they were on each page, how they got there, what service provider they're using, where it's located, where their computer is located (by city), what kind of operating system they're using, what their screen resolution is set at, and a whole slew of other stuff. It was months before I knew that this person was doing what she was doing, but I am now able to go back and look at the pattern of it. Let's just say she's been this blog's #1 visitor this year. Ya, I know.

And to you artists who are crippled, or think you might be undermined even a bit by that voice in your head that says Don't write that! or Bad girl! or Bad boy! or Be nice! or Don't tell people too much about yourself! or Be careful! or even That sucks, write/paint/film/play something else, to you I say: Fuck all that. Do what moves through you. Bitches and assholes and the generally frightened, contracted, jealous and crazy can find their own way in the world, God Bless Them One & All.

(Oh, and P.S. We can debate all day about what is and is not art. Good luck.)

Boredom

Bored. Feel like writing from the soul. Wondering how many more weirdos are going to crawl out of the woodwork to subject me to their convolutions. Wondering about reciprocity and instinct and double standards. Feeling like some people just won't let you be nice to them. Wondering if sisterhood is still possible, or if only myself and my close friends even understand what this means any more (know for sure that can't be true). Feeling a little overwhelmed with school and the charge of my latest project. Feeling very overwhelmed by my mother. The macro.

Deflecting the Negative Intentions of the Jealous and Weak

The thing Gandhi did was fight. A kind of fighting based on ahimsa, the Sanskrit word for non-harming. To stand one's ground, to not be moved, to refuse to be fucked with, but to never strike back directly -- that is non-violent resistance. It can be applied to one's own life as well as to revolutions.

When people send out negative energy, the most actively productive thing one can do without violating ahimsa is to simply deflect it back. Keep the heart strong and clear, and from that clarity erect a field off which the negative energy will bounce back to the sender. Do not wish the sender harm. In fact, keep compassion in your heart as you erect this protection. The energy the sender projects is her own karma. You are deflecting it so that it doesn't get tangled up in your karma. Your compassion may defuse some of it and end up helping the sender, but really it's not your responsibility. It just Is. Deflect it and let the negative sender deal with her own consequences.

The other important protection is to always remain in Truth. If rumors, hurtful words, irrational actions, or other direct attempts at harm are levelled at one just remain in the center of Being that is Truth, and those words will be meaningless.

Non-violent resistance is not passive, nor pacifist. It is the impenetrable wall of pure intention.

Human Trafficking is Hidden Even From Us

I know I've been remiss, but starting a new grad program -- completely outside one's previous field -- at 49, in the same month moves and one's mother moves in, is tough.

That said. I met with Becky today, another MSW student here are The Brown School (TBS) to talk about our studies and practicums. I was very, very heartened to hear that she too has been overwhelmed and lost-ish, feeling that she's floating out here on her own, since our field is so new and there is really not a codified program or library or even that much research in it yet, and yet she is making headway. She's working for in a position with a legal and victim's services focus, and I think I may follow her there. She does get to work with women and little girls coming out of prostitution/trafficking. Also, she and I seem to agree on the issues of demand (buyers of sex services should be prosecuted, not sellers), denial (no one want to know how many slaves there are in the world), and what's wrong with the trafficking law.

Last week I met with Peter, the third trafficking student in the school. He was very helpful as well.

I think we've all agreed that we should form a little support group -- one another -- and meet regularly. Before I set about seeking them out none of us even knew about one another.

And so now I go back to slogging my way through this paper. I'm analysing that law, the Trafficking Victims Protection Act, for my policy analysis class. It's tough. There's way too much in the law to cover in 15 pages. I think, after speaking with my prof and TA that I will look at either prosecution or, even more narrowly, the military aspect. It's just, well, is there enough literature on the former? Off the search -- we'll see.

Keep the faith.

NO, thank YOU!

Gee whiz, it was really great to see all these thank you notes, from volunteers, to the organizers who worked in the Obama campaign's Pershall office in North County (St. Louis). I was only an organizer there a little while, and there are others much more deserving of accepting such thanks, but I do recognize many of the names on the list, and am really touched by notes, nonetheless.

Here's the link to the thank you's: http://pol.moveon.org/thx/office.html?office_id=12021

Belles Artes Tea Party -- What Fun!

Just came back from a tea grazing experience at Belle Artes. Really nice. Stations were set up with teas from around the world, and we tasted, described, and rated them in a booklet as we moved through the space sampling.

Cynthia LeRouge, from my neighborhood, put it on with Ciléia Miranda-Yuen, the owner/president. Cynthia's husband, Dave -- a fabulous cook -- did a nice assortment of finger foods and scones, he of the forethought and wisdom to provide lemon curd with the latter. Go Dave.

I hadn't realized what a commitments to diversity and unity Ciléia brings to that place. I've been there for a couple of events, but hadn't spent much time around Ciléia.

I also met a wonderful and lovely biochemist who works on looking at protiens under MRA, and we had a great talk about my brain imaging/therapy idea!

If I get time (ha, that's laugh) I'll do a blog about it on smithfamilyrecipes. But if I don't, here's the link anyway. Check out the art: http://www.belas-artes.net/1.html.

consider the probable reality that all time is simultaneous

Melancholy season. The first year my Papaw is gone; the first year of Christmas with the family home sold. The first Christmas in many years I've gone to sleep alone, uncuddled. Boo-hoo, I know. But it is hard. And this morning I find I'd rather stay under the covers than begin any of the trillions of tasks I need done to complete the move and the preparation for grad school and... you know. Many questions arise, about the fragility of connections, the holding at arms length, Gangji's story of Papaji's open arms when they met the first time at the River Ganges; his saying to her, simply, "What took you so long!" and the caution we're conditioned into and how we step so lightly we miss a thousand opportunites for love; and "Thetan," the Single Gun Theory song with the spoken word semi-chorus under the trip-hop lushness that says to us, simply: "All limitations are self-imposed."

Dogs Gone Wild

This is an odd rant for Christmas day. But my God. After watching someone's dog walk around on the kitchen table and that person weakly "ask" the dog to get down then do nothing when the dog ignored her, well, when that's what was part of the Christmas meal I really have to come away slightly annoyed.

So I suggested to her that she get a trainer to come over and work with the dog.

She says, "We've worked with a trainer! Bitzy can roll over and shake and sit and everything!"

Ohmygod. There are only two dots here to connect: misbehavior + training. Wow.

A couple of weeks ago I was having dinner with friends, when one (very cool and intelligent, by the way) woman displayed the bite marks and bruises on her arms. Ya. Really. Bite marks and bruises from her husband's Cocker spaniel. It likes to randomly attack her. She covers her head in with her arms and screams; the dog goes to work on her arms. They claim there is nothing they can do about it. And again, suggestions of training? Nothing, no one home at all. And I have to admit that in that instance my training suggestion came after they looked weakly down at the table when I suggested flipping the dog over on its back, putting a hand on its throat and saying "No!" the next time it freaking attacked. And to continue doing this consistently. No go.

Apparently this assertion of authority in the face of a dog's physical attack is "cruel?"

I don't understand what's happening here. Do people want to be dominated by their tiny domestic animals? What emotional gain comes from this? Is this feeling of powerlessness, well, what is the need for this feeling/creation of powerlessness?

Dogs are pretty easy to train. They are generally good natured beasts, intelligent, and live to please their alphas. When they are given the alpha spot in a house of humans they tend to become insecure and weird and play all sorts of behavior games -- rather like a human child would in that situation.

I don't know. I'm just saying. What the hell is this about?

Briefing the President Elect on Slavery/Shop for Freedom (for real this time)

If you're new to trying to understand human trafficking, the link below is really helpful. It's a great teaching tool. In case you don't know, according to the UN and the US Justice Dept there are more slaves in the world today than at any other time in recorded human history. But we can, and are taking action to end it! So read up, then get up. It's time to work.

From Sarah Symons's (The Emancipation Network) newsletter:

"Action Group To End Human Trafficking and Modern-Day Slavery, which we are an ally of, has put together a great briefing for President Elect Obama. This is also a wonderful tool for anyone who is interested in learning more about what the US can and should be doing to fight slavery."

http://www.madebysurvivors.com/nl/ActionGroupTransitionMemo2008.pdf

AND DON'T FORGET! Your holiday shopping can support, rather than hinder, freedom:
http://store.madebysurvivors.com/category-s/24.htm

But Look, Don't Get Carried Away!

'Cause really, my ode to change and all that [last post] was written in a moment when I was feeling particularly cool with whatever, all Zenned out and had probably just had a nice dinner or someone had given me focused attention or something. The other side of the coin is sort of like, ok, jeez, can things just sometimes not run me around like an unstable quark? Said another way:

Dear Universe Or Whatever,

Please take mercy on me here, alright! I like stability! I've learned plenty about how to weather change.

Thank You,

M

Trying not to sound goofy while applying Advaitic philosophy

Transitions are the hardest parts of life? All those stress quizes definitely want to point to that. I'm not sure I find it so. I think without these transition moments I might get a little bored. If I let myself get into some dualistic thinking, this could lead me to a big monkeymind run-around about whether enjoying a transition is a good or a bad thing. Capiche? Check it out, etymologically: transition, transformation, transformative.

No, it's not aversion to stability, either. There is nothing inherently unstable about transition, because the core of Self remains as it is, regardless of experience or conditions. There is the illusion of instability that comes with the trance of believing that external conditions are the thing upon which stability is grounded. But if that's the case then we're all in trouble, because there ain't one single thing that is stable. Capiche? Every frigging molecule in this machine I'm typing on is in flux. Any non-movement I perceive is either illusion or an effect of my own limited abilities of perception.

Now apply above principle to humans and jobs, economies, social what-ever standards, anything. Anything that you/I/one has been conditioned to believe will provide that thing we're talking about: stability. You think the job provides it? your best friend? The freaking American economy (think back to what you may have thought a couple of months ago about that one)?

None of these things can be depended upon, not really. They can be met as they are, with love, with compassion, with the understanding that their imperfection is integral to their nature. One meets one's self with this, too. You know, it's all sort of Einsteinian. There is only one constant: change. But then one has to add: there is one other constant, which I think Einstein grokked and tried to express but didn't quite get there -- the ground of consciousness that is the true self. Hmm, maybe this is the paradox we need: Change and Self (ground of Being) are the same thing, even though the only thing that is unchangeable is ground of Being. (That's the thing I want to know: if duality is illusion, then why does everything always kernel down to paradox?)

Sort of. Because it's also perfectly reasonable to argue that the glowing perfection of that thing is so full of movement in its nature that even its stability is illusory. But it's a different kind of movement. Whatever Being is can't be damaged or destroyed. It is always what It is.

So, this transition of mine, this place in which, over the last couple of months, the major points of reference in my life have changed or vanished completely has not shaken me up, really. I mean at times, for sure! My god. Of course. But the core? No.

And I've witnessed some remarkable things. Instance: this election, in which the better natures of so many people emerged. One long-time Republican friend of some means told me that she and her husband voted for Obama because they decided racial healing was more important than their personal finances. That's remarkable. And that happened, I'm pretty sure, more than we know. Another friend, a dedicated Democrat, who early on in the primary process subjected a room full of people to a loud rant about how the party would be throwing the election away if either Clinton or Obama made it onto the ticket, because the red-state hillbillies would vote for neither a black man nor a woman of any sort is now celebrating his error, and re-evaluating exactly how widespread he thinks racism and sexism really are. This is all transformation.

And I have witnessed the wrenching pain of a friend as he works his way through a deep self-examination, brought on by loss, at a level that (my bad) I never thought I'd see him have the balls to do. This, too, is transformation.

I, then, can feel that potential of my personal life's transformative moment and just try to ride the wave. Or be the wave. Or recognize that there is no separate me/wave.

And, yes, there is certainly sometimes fear. Maybe even sheer terror. It arises, it is met, it dissolves. Sometimes I act out of a pattern, and sometimes I observe the mechanism in slow motion in time to meet that, too, in love, and let it dissolve into that ground of consciousness.

Point being, I don't see anything neurotic about allowing myself to enjoy this transition moment. I have, on purpose, chosen an unconventional life. A couple of times I've tried the "safer" approach, the soul-killing job-for-security, the "correct" marriage, whatever. Naw. Not so much; not for me. And that being the case it seems a matter of common sense to note that I may at times have the opportunity to observe this mind observing the "instability" (flux, blooming, Kingdom of Possibility) of my external circumstances. And then to open the heart to it. And invite in all the perfect manifestations that gratitude will allow to arise.

Jeez. I know that sounds all The Secret-ish and stuff, but that's not it at all. I'm not saying anything about the "goodness" or "badness" of whatever is. I don't believe that all I have to do is think "good" thoughts and "good" material things will appear to me. That's a load of crap, and smacks pretty annoyingly of a blame the victim philosophy, maybe. I'm just saying, what's the point of being afraid? What's the point of holding onto things that are by their nature impermenant, anyway? Why not just trust?

Catching up on sleep

I know! Whatever. I was really busy.

Wish I could write more about it. Working for the Obama campaign, that was just one of the true highlights of my life.

And now. Just. Wow.

Thanks, World.

McPalin Campaign Takes Refuge in Torturing (Us)

So, the European markets start to tumble, and The McPalin's go to fear tactics because their strategists say they can't win on the economy. I'll tell you what, McPalins et al: right now, if you can't make a case for yourself on the economy, you need to go home.

Jeez. That campaign has been brainless all along. I almost wish I was running it for them, just so I wouldn't have to suffer through the pain of witnessing their lame-brained fallacious reifications.

Ya, I know, I've been gone a while. A lot has happened. Metal Ox is gone. Bon débarras & God bless him anyway. I'm through the worst of the actual grieving, which may have been accelerated by all the previous grieving in regards to him, and by the simple act of just actually taking the time to be in it while it was here. Anyhow, I don't feel like telling the story. Let's just say the old patterns returned and by the time he realized what he was doing he'd destroyed the trust he'd convinced me to revive back in the Winter of [Fragile] Epiphany. I'm sure none of you who know me and the history of this relationship are surprised. I was and I wasn't. Truly, I feel saddest for having watched him open up and then close back down again, because I think there really was that W[F]E, it really did happen, he really did think that he could sustain, live from the loving part of himself, but in the end his conditioning got the better of him, and he failed. It's heartbreaking. (Don't worry, I wasn't nearly so objective when the shattering hammer first came down.) And that's all I'm going to say about that.

Still on leave from work. Health is pretty much back to normal. I am finally feeling really energetic again, exercising every day, my normal self. Scared to death of sitting in that exhaust. But company has made no offer to fix anything. In fact, they are being as rude and intimidating as the law allows them to be. But, you know me. It may be possible to scare me or make me cry, for a minute. But real intimidation is another matter.

Doing some freelance writing and design, very happily. Would be much pleased to continue in this vein for as a while. If you see work, especially editing, I'm your girl.

A couple of other interesting moves and developments. One might even say exciting. More later on these matters when the time is right.

In the mean time, pay attention. Things are afoot in the world. Remember: the only shelter is in Truth.

She Lives With Birds

Did you know Heidi Fleiss is living in the Nevada dessert in a county where prostitution is legal, with a murder of tropical birds she inherited from an old, sick madame, now dead?

And like, Heidi is there in this crappy building in the dessert, where she'd come to open The Stud Farm (a cat house that caters to women (by providing men) (wait, would that make it a dog house?)) but things didn't go that well (looks to me like the male whore house owners and their peeps in that county didn't dig Heidi's inversion of the natural order) and then the madame died and left her these birds. And Heidi didn't want the responsibility, "There's a reason I don't have pets," she said. But she took them, because, she said, the old woman counted on her.

Now she's all about the birds. It's really sweet.

http://www.heidifleiss.com/

And no, this is not an endorsement of anything. It is a comment on the beauty of a person opening her heart.

History! Woo!

I know, it's been like forever. But here we are on the night of the the acceptance of the nomination to the candidacy for the office of the President of the United States of Barack Obama, the first blak candidate not only EVER in the US, but in the Western world as far as I know. Dick Durbin is introducing him. I once shook that guys hand. Asked him a hard question at the Society of International Independent Newspaper Editors Conference at which he came to speak. It was a question about the draft, 2005. After the Q/A I went into the hall, shook his hand, gave him my card. I figured: he's a good man. I dig his positions on policy, except for the draft thing (ask me), so I may as well take this opportunity to give him my card. I may never have another opportunity like this one, here in central Illinois. So I did it. No, he never called me. But I don't have to wonder if.

BTW, J. Jackson Sr. is so obviously bitter that it's painful. I wrote the man in in 1988. Seriously. And here's what I'm saying and it applies to Edwards, too: Infidelity looks like weakness. We don't want weak leaders. If you're not strong enough to keep your pants zipped, to maintain ordinary integrity, then you're not strong enough the lead the country.

Go, evolution.

Live from Detroit

In short, Detroit is way cooler than the press it gets. We took a tour, kind of a "Living Downtown" tour, yesterday. Kinda nice. The city has, it's said, more pre-Depression era skyscrapers than any other city in the U.S. Does that include NYC? Not sure. Will look up.

Also, Motown Museum is wonderful. Members of Van Morrison's band were in our group as we went through -- Vanessa (I'll look her up later, too) sang into the echo chamber. Did ya know reverb in recording was invented by a Motown engineer? Yip.

I've had Thai, Cuban, and Greek. Today I'm hoping my stomach is up to the Coney Dog, which is the Detroit native food. Sadly, when I arrived my recent tummy delicacy was in effect. But, wow, being away from the jet fumes at work a few days has perhaps contributed to the return of my appetite?

And check it out -- Detroit's city crime stats are skewed for the same reasons St. Louis's are -- small city footprint, over one hundred incorporated towns surrounding. The visitor's bureau claims crime is 33% below the national average here.

Where is my camera? Did I leave it at home?

Love From Motortown,

Margarert

Waiting for Bridgid

A dear friend has suffered a grave illness, and we are waiting for her to regain consciousness. This candle was lighted for her last weekend, while she was in surgery. The petals laying around the candle come from poppies from my garden, which were picked the day she fell ill. At my house that weekend (before last) we watched the poppies mark the passage of time, as the petals fell and settled themselves around the candle this way. Another friend took the picture. Please send your love to our B.