Hamburger? I don't think so...

As if the half a BILLION salmonella-contaminated eggs weren't bad enough, when I think about ground beef all I can see in my mind's eye is

"Pink Slime"

A friend sent this link from Grist, reported first in the New York Times.

Millie Garfield is 85 today! Happy Birthday, Millie

One of the original elderbloggers, Millie entertains and delights all with her down-to-earth, humorous take on life. Drop by her blog, My Mom's Blog, by Thoroughly Modern Millie, to read her Thoroughly Enjoyable Stories and get a glimpse of what life was like when us oldies were growing up.

Mom of Internet video brain Steve Garfield, she posts hilarious videos of things she can't open. And where else could you learn Yiddish online for free, even!

Happy Birthday, Millie. Looking forward to your next post! Thanks for finding the hysterically funny bits in getting older :)

Hugs,
Claudia

"I was eating my bitterness"

Century plant on the Lamar St. bridge

One of my sisters gently suggested that my last post was perhaps a little too harsh. Perhaps. Sometimes a girl just has to let go. Kinda like the flight attendant yesterday who got fed up with a passenger's abuse, cursed him out over the intercom, grabbed a beer, opened the emergency slide exit, and WALKED AWAY. He was later jailed, but I am savoring what he must have felt, the burden he must have shed, the sense of freedom he tasted, if only for a short while.

It didn't help that physical therapy is kicking my ass (in a good way--I'm gaining mobility and strength), my lower back was out like a fault line slipping, and for some reason (probably stress-induced IBS), my lower intestines turned to water.

I still don't like what's happening, but I don't know of a single soul who WOULD enjoy this particular segment of my life. I give myself permission to be a cranky bitch when on overwhelm. I'm way too old for the "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" line, it all kills you. Period. Not especially learning anything new about myself, at this point it's simply a matter of endurance.

The quote above is from Anna Deveare Smith's one-woman show, "Twilight: Los Angeles." With minimal props/items of clothing taken from a trunk on-stage, she transforms herself into a dozen or so survivors of the Rodney King riots. in the '90's. I saw the production in Princeton and was deeply moved, both by the stories she told, and her exquisite ability to shape-shift.

One of the stories was about an elderly Korean woman, a shop-keeper who had lost her husband, along with other tragic situations. It was such a stark line, so visceral, that it has stuck with me all these years.

I think I must have been channeling this woman and the flight attendant when I wrote the last post. I stand behind what I wrote; however, I will admit that one can get a fairly decent education for less tuition than most US universities at UT. It's the politics and the way staff are treated that stick in my craw. Just had to cough it up, kinda like a hairball...

Looking into the abyss

S

Spineless cactus
 
Yeah. I know. If you're a writer, you're supposed to be writing. Big change of plans. I thought I had everything planned out so nicely. Car, debt management, all at least to ground zero by the time I retired. Since I took out 4 years of state service, I'm not eligible to retire until I reach 65. Five months away. Only five measly months away.

Life, the fickle bitch, stuck out her bony leg and tripped me once again. As of August 31, my job at the university will no longer exist. Due to reorganization, my team and I are considered redundant, as the folks in the UK would say. No incentive, no severance, just a session with HR. No keeping me on for those crucial five months.

OK. So resist panicking. Nope, that causes my blood pressure to skyrocket. Ignore it. Not an option. Find other work. Five months from turning 65? Right. Do you know anyone who would hire someone my age? Would you hire someone my age? Be truthful, now.

Eighteen years of working at UT, 24 years working for institutions of higher ed in Texas. What a waste. Teacher Retirement in Texas is a joke, especially after 15 years of budget cuts, downsizing, reorganization, attrition, all those tiny little cuts (see Frida Kahlo's painting, "A Few Small Nips") that finally bleed you dry.

Am I shocked? More than at anything else in my life. Am I surprised? Not really. UT is not a people institution, or at least not a staff-supporting institution. It's just a reflection of the state of affairs in the US right now. Rich get richer, poor get thrown to the wolves. Pretty soon there will be no one left to support faculty, administration, students, or facilities.

My stomach churns when I see orange. Not to mention the latest brain fart for supposedly raising money for scholarships, et al--the GSDM/UT partnership to manufacture and sell water bottles in the shape of the tower--H2Orange. And no, it's not orange colored or flavored. Just purified Texas river water. Stunning hubris. They proudly tout that they have bought carbon offset fiat, which means they can claim they're environmentally friendly. Totally defies reason and common sense. Texas has the worst air in the country, thanks to Twig grandfathering the oil refinery industry on the Gulf Coast, so all the crap associated with the manufacture and distribution of the tower bottle will still go into Texas air, water and soil. Well, maybe they will help keep the environment cleaner in Podunk, Idaho, but it just adds more garbage here. Does no one see the faulty reasoning there? And to top it off, only 40% of the proceeds go to the scholarships, et al.

I did not set out to post a rant. Nor will this be a "just think positively, everything will be OK." It might not be. I will do my usual I Ching, open myself to universal possibilities, and reaching out to all my networks like crazy. It is imperative to find work, I just don't have any prospects yet.

At least I'll have more time to post to FOP...

Two breaks, four sprains.

Well this is a fine pickle. Stepped in a hole on my patio where a tree root has broken up the stones. Threw me like a horse. Broke two bones, one on the outside of the ankle, the other inside where the tibia meets the ankle. NO weight on it for three weeks, then only up to 20% weight for the next three weeks. Boot stays on 23/7, with one hour to let it breathe and do 1" toe lifts from the ankle.

OUCHEEE!!!

Sprained both knees and both wrists, which makes it particularly difficult to get around. Walker time for Mama--I need the 4 supports rather than just the two of crutches, since the 3 "good" extremities are sprained. Could get no further than the bed to the bathroom for the first week. About as helpless as a person can be. Used my computer chair to roll as far as I could, then the walker to get the rest of the way.

My sister and bil in Wimberley came to the rescue. They have both had many years experience in assisting people with special needs (all kinds!) and fixed up their spare bed/bath so I could navigate. Before she leaves for work each morning, my sis packs a cooler with all kinds of gourmet goodies that I can knosh on throughout the day. Recent specialties: ratatouille, cold boiled shrimp, edamame, Chubani yogurt, avocado, risotto, tabouleh, baby green, red, yellow bell peppers, plus an assortment of drinks--water, V8, diet sodas, grape/blueberry/pomegranate juice, etc.

A house full of books, wireless, HDTV, two loveable well-trained Airedales, and migratory songbirds--I feel like I'm recuperating at a retreat. Oh yeah--it IS a retreat. Tomorrow I attempt to make it to the deck and photograph hummingbirds, the two pairs of painted buntings, and various other sweet tweeties.

I hear that I have a gorgeous bouquet of Mother's Day flowers in town from my wonderful daughter. My bil brought home red and white roses, and an armful of deep red-orange tulips, so there are no lack of flowers.

My biggest worry is my kitty. I'm afraid he thinks I have abandoned him. Friends and relatives are leaving food out for him, but he's a one-woman cat. No one has actually laid eyes on him since I left. He's tough and resourceful (like me!) but I hate that I have to be away for so long.

The photo is backwards--it's actually the right leg. Which means I won't be driving for quite some time.

Nothing like having your life completely jerked around. But it's OK. Flexibility and endurance--got plenty of both...for the time being, at least.

Weddings, New Arrival Shinier Than SXSWi 2010

Austin is full to bursting. Wet, wet winter and 79 degrees today, the whole town has a mossy coat. Primitive. I'm startled by flashes of chrome yellow forsythia. Feels like growing a thick, furry skin, full of twiglets and a few early fruit flies. Can't believe it snowed only a few weeks ago.

Anticipation is as thick as conductive gel for a galactic gathering of events. Two weddings and a baby. Spring has truly sprung. Lots of planets lining up in groovy patterns. That's not even including the SXSWi factor.

This is the first time in 6 years I will not be at SXSWi. The higher ed component has its very own building this year. That building, however, will not see me seated on the periphery of the room, power strip to share, taking notes like a madwoman. Not that I won't miss it, it just so happens there are way more exciting things going on.

Bluebonnets--a special benediction this year, the most abundant in decades. Waiting with thrilling, trilling anticipation a sight for drought-sore eyes. Lady Bird's Wildflower Center has a Bluebonnet Cam. Precious. And they will be a deep, brilliant blue this year. Or purple, or magenta, or white, or whatever species, but the Lupinus texensis will be breathtaking.

What a spectacular welcome for the matrimonials and a new wee person on the planet.

Snow in Austin...really!

Plumpest snow globs I've ever seen this far south. It was rather surreal. A bit like the 3" long rocket-shaped hail last winter. Extreme weather is thrilling. Scary. And it's going to get more extreme. Been through Missouri tornadoes, hurricanes, wildfires and earthquakes, desert floods, Austin floods, blizzards, mudslides, El Nino, La Nina, droughts, and forest fires. There's a wild joy in nature busting loose, even when there is real danger. Somehow the primordial elements seem more in the order of things, rather than say, a car wreck.


(Austin, TX, February 2010)

Notice how green it is, even though it's snowing. Reminds me of a March--gee, 17 years ago--when I flew to Austin from NJ to attend Paul B's last party. We had been through 23 separate snow storms since New Year's Eve, with ice still on all but the major highways. As the plane dropped into the old Mueller airport, something felt off-kilter. Once we dropped below the clouds, it was emerald green as far as the eye could see. There wasn't a sprig of green in Jersey. A lush 18 inch thick carpet of grass stunned my snow-accustomed eyes. Bluebonnets hadn't yet bloomed, but it was obviously going to be a bumper year. Much like this spring will be.

After years of relentless sunshine, heat and cold, withered plants and panting trees, Austin is a different animal this winter, metamorphosed by rain. Only in Texas skies can the color gray be described as vibrant. Light lends a different character to colors under the lowering clouds, intensifying and showcasing the metamorphosed earth. Moss covers live oaks like a coat of paint, contrasting with the wet, velvet black bark. Rainbows shimmer in the humid air. Gray glows argent, like burnished silver jewelry. Neighborhood cats, thick coats sprinkled with fairy dust, perfect muddy footprints trailing up and over my white car. A bird flutes a surprised, subdued query to unaccustomed early morning rain.

Grackle flurries restlessly prowl in the twilight, one eye on the dumpsters outside the eateries close to the river, one leg on trees perilously bending under the weight of tens of thousands of the buggers, moving like black schools of fish, pulled apart and collapsing together again like taffy, yet somehow  averting mid-air collisions and managing not to knock a neighbor off a perch.

New buildings loom over downtown like giant, shiny tinker-toys. Or maybe metallic mushrooms. The currently tallest one looks suspiciously like a flash drive standing on end. Folks coming to SX won't believe how the skyline has changed in just one year. There's something vaguely nauseating about how much building is going on, when news from other towns describes a completely different story. Where is all the money coming from? Who will populate the buildings? Will they fill as quickly as they went up? Will it be a repeat of the 80's, when the original "skyscrapers" went up, only to stand empty and forlorn for who knows how long?

Changes abound. Weddings and births, changes in circumstances. Can't control the weather, really can't control anyone but your own self. Wish life came with seatbelts. I'm gonna enjoy the ride anyway.

Bye, bye, double aughts!

It was a damned tough decade. Trauma Drama Extreme. It was about as unhealthy as you could get. The whole nation was traumatized, and some bullies went for the jugular. Pretty clear connection between abusive behavior and PTSD. America's psyche took a nosedive.

Adele M. Stan writes a smashingly good review of the millennial decade, as she dubs it. Andy Schmookler at None So Blind tackled it mid-decade, inviting comments on how the first Dubya administration really, truly made you feel. Some powerful revelations from Schmookler and others way back in two thousand five.

Does it make any difference how we say it? To the point that we must be clear in our communications. As an agreement on terms to help ensure fairness and justice. As long as we open ourselves to the possibility of peaceful coexistence with every living being.

Quest for Fire

Lost a plant in the last freeze. Striped, green mush. Goes nicely with the red dye that's seeped from a cheap kitchen rug into a stack of old SXSWi and film canvas bags from over the years. Is that sacrilegious?

Making progress on de cluttering. Unearthing warm clothes, shoes. Junky printer, keyboard, lamp, broken heater, piles of paper, waiting their turn at the door for the next empty recycling bin.

Outdated telephony equipment all in one bag. Schlepped 99% of already sorted books to Half Price, eyeing the bookcases for nipping and pruning.

My touchstones are buried under mounds of stuff. Seeing a glint here and there. Won't be long until I can set up a jewelry work area--clean and repair old pieces and make new ones. Maybe even wear some.

December 25--Texas Hill Country. Plenty of freezing nights this winter. Sleet anticipated tomorrow. Linus has taken to spending the night inside. His fur is extra dense, so it's likely to stay cold for a few months, scattered with 70 degree days.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

So how does Quest for Fire fit in? I saw it when it first came out, and thought it was way cool, but then forgot about it in the frenzy of movies in the decades since. Watched it this afternoon, and learned that the director, Jean-Jacques Annaud, worked with the astounding writer Anthony Burgess (A Clockwork Orange) to create languages for the four tribes, based on his study of Indo European language. Annaud called in Desmond Morris for the most educated guess of how they used their bodies, mannerisms, clan-gathering, technology. Most of all, it was how fire was THE real and only deal. Had to have it, hard to make it.

That, of course, got me thinking about what it might have been like in the Hill Country 80,000 years ago. The springs would probably have been more active, a gazillion more critters. Heck, there are a gazillion fewer critters just in the last 50 years.

Going through old writing, One binder had a recipe for Flaky Pastry Shell. Not bloody likely. Recycle bin. It's a good thing I have another week at home at the rate I'm going. Actually, I'm not falling into that trap. I'm simply doing a triage and also making sure that I keep up with my regular trash, which can put a big hurt on my lower back. There's at least 1 box of trash bags in every room, and as I let go of stuff, I toss it in the trash.

So, Quest for Fire. The single gas heater in my house won't burn more than a puny quarter-inch high. My 2nd story bird's nest can get breezy in the winter, and I am afraid it will snuff it out. My friend gave me a small electric heater that is perfect. Only run it briefly when it gets below freezing. Back to decluttering.

Welcome to Austin, Winter

Boston, winter 2008

Winter is wet this year, which is a wonderful thing. Means a good chance we will have blankets of compact, intensely blue bluebonnets in the spring. Ditto for the companion Indian Paintbrushes.Lady Bird's seeds are not dead, only dormant, patiently waiting for rain. Lady Bird's wildflowers connect me  with my good Texas roots. They make Texas significantly more bearable.

Some winters, if we get moisture and milder temperatures, you'll see lots of greenery in one shape or another--the junipers, liveoaks, yaupons are dark, hard green. Mosses are brilliant, so are various bush plants, sage, cacti and succulents. All vibrant green. Until or if a frost comes along.

Other winters, no rain, hard and long freezes, ice storms, all the flora is pruned by mother nature, dead branches everywhere and vigorous spring growth unless the drought persists. Then it's spindly, faded, sparse, pretty much god-awful pitiful.

But that's not what I've been thinking about all day. I think about weather all the time, actually--I drive/bus/ walk to and from work, and drive/walk to and from rehearsals. So I'm out in it. The truth is, even though looking through my last, scarce posts, seeing how many were about people I've lost in the last year, I feel amazingly, vitally, alive. 

Plus the Capricorn stuff. Winter Solstice. That first spark of light. Winter is the Night of the Anticipated Awakening, summer is the Night of the Long Dance. Winter ignites some drive in me to cover ground. Walking, climbing, hiking. New Years Day is to outdoor adventures as the 4th of July is to fireworks. Summer is mostly just freakin' hot. My brain functions best in the 34-70 degree range. I concur with Robert Frost on the ice thing.

And The Christmas stuff. Not Christmas stuff, The Christmas stuff. This winter I am free of old losses that pretty much took the joy out of Christmas for too many years. This winter I sang Messiah for the 39th or 40th time, after taking a 12 year break. It was deeply healing, especially with David Stevens, in Baroque performance style, with the Austin Symphony. A slimmed-down, agile version that showcased the instrumentalists and singers, energized rather than stupefied the audience. Sitting through the complete Messiah can be like sitting through one night of Wagner's Ring (3-4 hours).

Which reminded me of past winter concerts, some with Concert Royale--all baroque instruments, Baroque tuning (slightly lower pitch), creamy-dreamy to sing with. Another endorphin boost. I heart the Baroque.

Savoring all the liquid runs, insanely grateful that I'd walked up and down that pinche hill to and from the Tower long enough to have the breath to pull off those lacy, long sixteenth note passages. Handel didn't slight his altos. Or his violas, or any of the interior voices, vocal or instrumental.

So that's another sign of how winter vitalizes me. I perform best when it's cool. Doing super-hard music is physically demanding. It's kind of amazing to register the mental/physical balance doing music all my life. As a child, it was mentally challenging, physically insignificant. As I age, it's less mentally challenging, but physically difficult (think standing stock still for 30-45 minutes at a time, holding a folder heavy with music, doing mad deep-breathing and sound production, while consummately focusing on a director's every demand).

Lately, the mental/physical has fused into a transcendental state. By now, I have all the major works memorized (that happens if you perform a lot), and I can dispense with a lot of little things that can distract you--the printed music, for one thing. You can attend to tuning, to how your line weaves above and frequently below the tenor line. How you and a soprano become a pair of birds, sweetly swooping and trilling in parallel major thirds (think the duet from Lakme').

Brings us right back around to Rocky Woo-Woo Land. "Support from your diaphragm" becomes "use your core" in today's vernacular. That's the music lesson for today, folks!

Horns/Huskers game goes burnt orange

As the UT side of the stadium lit up, neighbors ran shrieking from their houses. Guess the kids are bringing home some bling tonight. Defence City. They've marched unbeaten to their championship. Good job. Now let's see all of them graduate.

Leslie Jarmon, Incendiary Educator--In Memoriam

My dear friend and colleague Dr. Leslie Jarmon passed away last week. Leslie transformed everyone who was fortunate enough to know her. Authentic, compassionate, illuminated by inner peace. A powerful, abundant, active peace. Leslie embodied the concept of namaste, recognizing and acknowledging the divine in each of us.

Leslie and I were hired by the Graduate School and the former Center for Teaching Effectiveness (now DIIA) in the summer of 1998 to work with international graduate student instructors, Leslie as a teacher, and I as a conference coordinator, to support a state mandated international teacher certification program. 

Meeting Leslie is like encountering a supernova. Even in the simple, mundane act of nuking a single corn tortilla with a slice of cheese on top, she was preternaturally*  present in everything she did. My first thought was,

"Wow. This is a holy woman."

And she was.

Leslie's formidable intellect and compassionate regard for humanity are reflected in her accomplishments. She was in the vanguard of thinkers and movers in instructional technology throughout her career. Her recent grant that I write about elsewhere (and scooped Linden Labs) is visionary--her ability to spark visions in everyone she met was extraordinary.

And she's been doing this for a long time. She was the first person to submit a digitized doctoral dissertation, of which she was most proud. I knew she was in the Peace Corps, but only recently learned that she was regional director for Latin America. I knew she was a spiritual being, because our first conversation was about Pema Chodron, but I didn't know to what extent until she came back from a multi-week silent Bhuddist retreat in Colorado with a broken elbow.

I knew she was musical, but I didn't know that she was part of a virtual orchestra which I had briefly considered joining. I knew she was courageous, because I met her just after her first illness. That she fearlessly and joyously celebrated the last days of her life humbled and inspired me.

Leslie coined the term homo virtualis, and in doing so, described herself, just as she manifested the first dissertation on DVD by describing the world that she created herself.

Leslie gave her passion and energy to others until the end. Mutual friend and colleague Joe Sanchez, co-founder of the Educators Co-op, asked her what message she had to give to the world. She replied, "Tell them it's been REAL."

Tomorrow night I will celebrate Leslie's life with family and friends far and wide, communities expanding exponentially.

Tonight I give thanks for my friend Leslie, who gave me hope and a kick in the awareness pants.

Namaste, Leslie.

Cool stuff about Leslie.
In world here.   Bluewave Ogee



Friends' tributes, interviews, and articles about Leslie's ground-breaking work

here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here.

*snagged that description from another person who wrote about meeting Leslie for the first time

Slouching Toward Retirement

As opposed to working. Which I will always do. Wondering if I should chronicle that long, drawn-out affair known as retiring from the university. It can last for years. But hopefully not. Because I have happier and healthier work to do.

I have two "katas" I perform when I can't see the path ahead. I consult the I Ching, and I run a couple of cognitive behavior thought records in my head. With a reading from the Ching and a reality check on my feelings and how to be thoughtful as well as psychic--that's a mojo power combination.

Thing is, I need to keep reminding myself that Rome was neither built nor torn down in a day, and to apply the gris-gris liberally for best results.

I need me some Dr. John. Got to sit in a recording session with him umpteen decades ago, a lovely gentleman, very professional and kicked everybody's ass around the studio with piano chops with lots of red eye gravy. Just so good. Noodled around with classical stuff in between takes. The man doesn't just have good hands, his voice IS the voice of the bayou.

So what do I want to do when I grow up? Pretty much what I'm doing now. Writing, editing, accessibilifying to the limit of my tech skills and tools, rescue a couple of shepherd-type dogs, continue to work with gifted people, to find more gifted people and play with them.

Havi's personal ads have inspired me to revisit the technique. I've been working on what my most comfortable living accommodations would look like. I've written a personal ad or two over the years, one just because I wanted my wonderful Sabine back, and had to make one last desperate call to her in print.Including aging in place. What would my ideal world be like?

Personal ad v.01

Farmette somewhere within 60 miles of Austin cheap enough for me to manage along with dogs, herbs for women, cats, chickens, maybe a goat or 2, an UP TO DATE RIG and decent connection, veggie/companion flower garden. Good thing marigolds are hardy--cheap bug repellant. Doing something on the Internet, blogging, writing, editing. Natural physical/mental therapy for stress from state job and keeping the joints in shape as long as possible. Close enough to drive in comfortably for rehearsals/concerts/mischief. Gets a little misty after that...

My vision changed drastically in two tiny, short weeks.

Personal ad v.02

See above, except with big honkin' add-ons of COOPERATIVE ENDEAVORS. To be perfectly frank (well, not Frank, but, you know), the best part of my job is working with really, really smart people who are FUN TO WORK WITH. Not to mention the awesome technical and graphic skills. So v.02 is .01 on geek power. How to build a good sandwich. How to design a gorgeous, compliant Web site. Brought to you by super-nice folks who'll be sure to give you a good time with a great design... Even considering cooperative housing (a la hippie commune, NOT retirement facility). Time to percolate and come up with a plan...

Just keep writing.

Walter Miller Rawley. In Memoriam. Big Wheel Keep On Turnin'

AKA O Fortuna. This fall is dense with changes. Lost a dear father-in-law today, watched a daughter follow her instincts and pay her respects and mine and be with him one last time. This after a week of flying down, making wedding plans. I saw the wheels turn in her mind. Truly awesome. Full of grace and love.

Monumental changes. We are steeped in escorial green. We are lush with greenery. For the first time in years, lawns need mowing, chuckling toddlers hold out their hands and look with wonder at the wet. They've never seen rain.

Grandfather. Well-loved and cared for in his later life. I was privileged to spend some time with him in Boston a few winters ago. My nephew posted a photo of himself, his young son, and grandfather, and I've asked for permission to post it. It's a wonderful photo, generational wheels within wheels. [And here it is! Thanks, Jenson, hugs all around.]

Wood carver, sculptor, bronze-caster, artist, sweet man. Loved to carve crosses. Cast crosses. Anywhere. Of any wood. Of any metal. Some of which reside in churches throughout the southwest. His Archangel Michael is stunning. My daughter used to sit in the shop with him and mold puppies that looked just like curled-up, sleeping puppies. I love those puppies.

Standing on the front porch with him, gazing at the mountains across the road. I will lift up mine eyes  unto the hills...of his beloved Ruidoso. Picnics down on the Rio Ruidoso below their house. The molten-hot intensity of a pour. The mold cracking, contents to be lovingly touched, refined to a thing of beauty and devotion.

My last conversation with him. "Walter, what are you carving?"

Slowly, an apologetic look on his face, he raises his open hands, half-puzzled, smiles at me, and says, "I don't do that any more, since June died."

Say hi to June, grandfather. Love you.

From the Crone's Nest

Wherein transcendancing and paradigm shifts abound. Well, maybe not the bouncing sort of bounding, rather more the comfy old chair way of boundmenting.

Aunt Lura passed away last Wednesday. A cousin called to let us know, and we made plans to drive up to Waco for the service on Friday. As a result, we got to say goodbye to her and spend some time with other family members. We agreed to plan to get together for a happier visit soon.

After the service, I whispered to my sister, "I asked Aunt Lura to say hi to Daddy."

"Me, too," she whispered back.

A few hours after my cousin's call Wednesday evening, a friend called to tell me she was in labor. I had helped deliver her previous babies, and she honored me by asking if I would be there for this one as well. She called at 10 p.m. I got to the hospital around 10:45. The baby was born at 1:01 a.m. As a result of this wondrous event, I got to meet some super cool young women in a mommies co-op who are in to natural childbirth and got me all jazzed up. The next generation of forward-thinking women's health care providers.

I must put in a plug for St. David's Hospital staff and admin for making noticeable progress toward offering the mother choices. Having the opportunity to see their show on three different occasions, I witnessed staff having to delay delivery until a doctor's arrival, to seeing a nurse respectfully ask the mother wanted to have this or that done to her baby...or not. Appropriately timed, of course. They take control when it's necessary.

We absolutely MUST empower the mother to fully engage with her delivery, and health care providers must recognize the mother as an essential partner in her own care. The more choices we have, the more we know, the less we fear the unknown. Fear causes us to tighten up which in turn causes pain. Breathing techniques, relaxation to alpha state and working with the rhythms can help make delivery much more comfortable and enjoyable. It's  just   natural...

The same could be said for the end of life. The more power we have over how to die with dignity, the more society progresses. It's all nature.

Even the part about a full Friday funeral, the sisters and a cousin driving to Waco, joining in the abundant lunch prepared by church members. A sweet service, a gorgeous sunset at the cemetary, and the drive home. Or the bit about catching a bite to eat, going up to the hospital to hold a newborn on my bosom for a couple of hours, in total peace, total calm. Mom, baby, mommy friend, the spirits of all my female family and ancestors, and me. Totally in the moment, auras blending, connecting the earth and the sky like a giant, 300-year old live-oak tree.A sufficiency of time, advent, completion.

Which leads me to the last realization. If I'm not living on an ocean, I usually manage to live by or under an ancient tree. I must have been a druid in a former life.

Cesar Chavez, Barbara Jordan, and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Sculpture of Cesar Chavez, West Mall, UT Austin campus

Note the larger-than-life feet and hands, which contrast with the exquisitely expressive face. Captures the spirit beautifully.

When I get my camera back, I'll get photos of the new Barbara Jordan statue, and the landmark statue of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. A power to the people triptych.

Even more notable is that bronze likenesses of these three contemporary American s/heroes exist solely through student initiatives that reflect and define social justice as a cornerstone of democracy.

Broke that heat wave with two short rains

Karl Umlauf sculpture, FAC, West Mall, UT-Austin


It's been so long since we've seen the underside of 100 degrees, the two evenings of rain was like nectar from the gods and godettes. Think of Lawrence of Arabia. Think Plano Estacado. That monster high pressure system would just not let up.

It was a tough summer, and won't really cool down for a couple of months. If we're lucky, we'll get some late Fall early Winter rains, for the bluebonnets and Indian Blankets they always grow together--lovely contrast. Been without my camera for a week, it'll come home soon.

Autumn in Austin is full of all the studentsfacultystaff returning for one more academic year. Makes me doubly pouty that summer is groovy when the population drops by a cool 75,000 or so. But who could groove for more than a minute or two in 105 plus...

OMG freshpeople get younger every year. And they are the ones who need a little help and guidance, because they are such lost lambs and we rather do have a stern, mega-phallic chunk of land, hardly a mile north of the river. Very Lonesome Dovey.

All of which is to introduce you to War, Battering, and Other Sports by James McBride, Humanities Press, 1995. From the back cover...

In the United States, conservative figures estimate that 1.8 million women are brutalized each year by men who take pleasure in exercizing power over them both emotionally and physically.

And about McBride...

McBride teaches religion and social ethics at Fordham University. Trained in the interdisciplinary study of social ethics, he specializes in the intersection of religious studies with feminist, psychoanalytic, and legal theory.

I would draw your attention to the final following comma, one of my faves.

Those are my kind of interstices, my dendrionic dwelling places. My head has been full of Wittgenstein lately, because for some reason, The Fluent Self reminds me of his philosophies of language and meaning and the naming, of course.

Well, McBride names it. As someone put it, the "Dark Shadow" of the human mind. And this book got named in 1995, so by now, that 1.8 million women will certainly grow in proportion to the return of our service men and women with injured brains. I am more concerned about this than I am H1N1.

For a gripping drama that spanned several years, the movie "Heavy Metal in Baghdad" is all about the music. They are fantastic. What is even more incomprehensible is what life in Baghdad is really like. Stunning.

Coming up: Section 9 and other epiphanies.

One year ago today

Dutch farmhouse in the rain

I wrote a post titled "What a Long, Strange, HOT Austin it's been." That was the year the electrical wiring in my apartment finally disintegrated, and it was 100 degrees then, too. Found out today that the AC unit that was put in last April can't be replaced until Friday, which means emergency and/or alternative living conditions. If this isn't global warming--set to break the hottest summer on record--it's on a tall tree on a high hill right next to it. On the other hand, summer of 2007 was unnaturally verdant.

Not a day goes by that I don't completely relate to the fact that the average life span for a woman in Texas as late as the 1940's was only 40 years. I would not survive if I had to do hard labor these last few summers.

Oddly, Havi Brooks at The Fluent Self (who lives in rainy Portland, OR, and even they are having startling heat), threw out a single-cell writing exercise. Which began with Naming The Moon, and progressed to Naming The Rain.

Triggered a frenzy of surfing. Havi helps and attracts incredible creative people, and one comment on rain hit me between the eyes. It was from Barbara J Carter, an artist who creates divine dot paintings. Now, having become as one with the Aboriginal culture as was humanly possible while I was in Australia, I resonated most with the Mythical Dreaming and dot paintings. She must be a Gemini, because she does two styles--brilliant organic landscapes, and soft abstract geometrics. Her work evokes the ancient Aboriginal form on a spiritual level as much as a visual one.

Back to the rain bit, in the middle of gorgeous outpourings (sorry!) of wonderful wetness, Barbara says, (and I hope I don't commit a serious electronic faux pas by copying it here)

Southern California is the State of Perpetual Drought. What is this “rain” that you speak of? Water falling from the sky? How odd.

Well. Confluences abound. Me sitting here in the Texas MegaDrought, beseeching La Lluvia to bring us relief. Memories of living in California--my daughter was born in 1976, a historical drought. We had to stop using our well water--fecal count goes way up in a drought. The positive side is that 1976 Northern California wines are exquisite. A drought produces higher concentrated sugar in the grape.

That's the comment that took me to Ms. Carter's Web site and to the magical dot paintings.

Tonight I am going to dream about rain. And gather all my writing about rain and give it name.The Blue Gum Rain in Australia. The Rain of 8,000 Lightning Bolts, Sydney Harbour. The Rain of Fourteen Lashings. Kettle Drumming with Rain Sticks. A Frog-Strangler Rain. And a Texas favorite, It's Raining Harder than a Three-Pizzled Bull on a Flat Rock Rain. The Let's Throw Out a Little Light-Weight Shit and See What The Rain Washes Away. My First Hurricane Rain. Southwestern Double Sun Dog Rain. Rocket-Shaped Hail Rain.

There we go with memories again. I am quite sure I could fill a chapbook with the Names of Rain. Thanks, Havi! I desperately need rain, and your game is the Rain of Redemption and Refreshment.

Go read those posts and see what I commented. Hint: it's about Wittgenstein, language, and meaning. Oh, yeah, about Naming, too.


Polder in the rain near Edam, The Netherlands

Fifty-six days and counting

So. Entonces. Looking like the hottest summer in recorded Texas history, and the air conditioner in my bedroom starts blowing air. Outside air. Cheap funky ass bargain AC. Thinking about sleeping in my car with the motor running. It's the coolest place around.

Failing ACs are rampant. A friend lost her truck AC. Now that's brutal. There are not the usual throngs of runners, bikers, walkers on Ladybird Hike and Bike. Those who are braving it look pale, peaked, and about to pass out.

They're shutting down Barton Springs for six months for maintenance. It's gotten to the delicate balance of Salamander vs. The Drought. The little guys and gals suffer when the water gets low, full of nasty stuff, and as if that weren't enough, they have to drain it to clean it. Sometimes at night before I go to sleep, I think about those shy critters only a few hundred yards away, and how precious they are. We're losing, what, 50 species of bio a month? A year? Most of the remaining are on a steady decline, except maybe for deer, nutria, 'roos.

1969--Velasco Street, Dallas Texas

Traveling in the early morning up the east coast of Australia, carcasses of gray 'roos, wallabies, wombats and other assorted marsupials strewn on the sides of the road before the clean-up ute comes through.

Picture this: dozens of grackles scattered around the yard, beaks all agape, every single one of them facing in the direction of a silent water sprinkler, faucet turned off, birds yearning for the source, as if their beaks were magnets drawn by the metal of the sprinkler head. I didn't get a photo, but the vision is engraved in my memory.

Sometimes I get sidetracked in a demanding job and am too exhausted to write. Or too depressed to write. Usually within six months or so I revisit things I've written and see a few patterns weaving together. Which in turn usually gets me going again. Seems the last 6 months I wrote mostly about the past. Subconsciously thinking back to more supportive, meaningful times in my life. I guess this is the definition of "reliving your memories." Thank goodness there are some good ones! We seek the comforting, energizing, creative times of our lives, which could be one definition of the word "love."

There are a lot of people and things that I love. The ever-changing but always there sussurration of the waves on the beach below Uncle Tom's Cabin at Dillon Beach. Whispering when becalmed, thundering like Thor's hammer in a storm. I even wrote a piece for 20th century composition class, with an ostinato bass that mimicked the eternal breathing of the sea. "In my little house overlooking the ocean, the waves never stop in their ceaseless clamoring to possess the beach." I felt the pull of the tides and the waves in my whole being. I love that.

There's a well-stuffed folder of dangerous memories in my head, too. Some I can write about, some I can't. The time the wind was so strong that it sucked out a window. My daughter was sitting on the table right by the window when it shattered, and I had a moment of panic thinking that she was so small she would be taken along with the glass. And the too-often times when my mind sank deep into the San Andreas Fault, which we lived right on top of. I would lie down with her for a bit when she went to bed, and feel the wall rhythmically and gently bump my head. Or sit by a table, leaning on the sturdy oaken top, and watch my arm move.

There's a lot that I love about the glorious and scary adventures of life in juxtaposition with intense maternal instincts.

Then there were the heart-dropping utter fear moments when someone else put my child in harm's way, and the heart-breaking despair that I could not protect her from all of it. Those memories are difficult to write. When I do, the intensity can sometimes be cathartic, or annealing, or a relief.

My memories help me define many words and ideas. Vastness: the Pacific Ocean as experienced on the western shores of California and the eastern shores of New South Wales. Diversity: the evolutionary distance among the flora, fauna and people that inhabit a land half-way around the globe. Took up nearly a decade of my life--seven years in northern California, two years in Australia.

The mythological creatures--Kokopelli on one side, the Bunyip on the other. I just hope we don't blow it in my kid's lifetime.

Enough. With. The. Heat. Already.

I love my treehouse. It's in a '30's quad with the original kitchen and bathroom tile floor and counter, and a fossil-pocked limestone exterior. I'm on the second floor, no outside faucet close enough, nor sufficient shade to keep more than a few plants alive. I have 2 spider plants and a cactus that I water by hand. A friend rescued my begonia, and keeps it in her shadier yard, among her jungle of plants, which she waters at least daily. Twelve hours at most. Fifteen, and the tenderer leaves are supper.

Yam is doing fine, because confined, and because she lives inches from the kitchen faucet, so I have no excuse whatsoever to not keep her and Ivy topped up with water.

There's a stubborn high-pressure center squatting over central Texas that just will not budge. We're going into our third month of century-plus temperatures, and the asphalt actually melts. At the end of the summer, there will be tire-shaped wells of black gunk at every traffic light and stop sign (which means "slow down and look for cops before you punch right through" in Texas).

The North and East get potholes--we get the La Brea tar pits. Walking to the parking garage this afternoon I was buffeted by 104 degree winds, squinting to check for vehicles, glad I had my Oz umbrella. Constantly seeking shade, suspended in searing air, thoroughly grateful that my car was under a roof all day, and that it will take only a few blocks to cool it down. As opposed to several miles if it's been parked out in the sun for even a few minutes. And I have a white car. With a honkin' big dashboard reflector.

Stuff cooks in your car. For real. Cans and bottles can explode, water jugs bloat and pop their lids. Years ago, I forgot a 48-count Crayola box in the back of my old Toyota station wagon. A gray, mottled pool of wax flowed from wall to wall--a clump of paraffin saturated, multi-colored wrappers embedded at gound zero, proclaiming the names of the late departed cylindrical inhabitants, like Burnt Sienna, Charcoal Gray...did they envision their fiery end? We could have excised the carpet intact and entered it in a science fair as a pretty darn good model of Mount Vesuvius.

People get downright pugilistic over the few shady parking spots on the street. It's a known fact that Texans will willingly walk for blocks in the heat rather than return to a half-ton oven hot enough to roast barbecue, and that's with the windows down. You hear horror stories of babies and dogs perishing in cars--all true. It can happen within minutes, especially if they are already dehydrated. Never ever ever leave any tender living thing in a car unattended.

This is the kind of heat that they warned me about in New Mexico--it is critical (as in a matter of life and death) to hydrate to the max BEFORE you go outside. Drink a quart of water as you're getting ready to leave. Carry 2-1/2 gallon containers of water at least, two are even better. If you don't need it, your radiator (or someone else's) might. Drink BEFORE you feel thirsty, and continuously throughout the day. Toss a solar blanket in the trunk. Make sure your car's fluids are topped off. Wear a hat, sunscreen, long sleeves.

There's a scene in the movie "Jarhead" where the lieutenant lines up his men in formation, then orders them to unscrew a bottle of water and drink it down. He does this every hour on the hour. It is imperative to think of water as necessary as breathing.

Heat exhaustion warning signs: dizziness, black spots in your vision, parched skin and mouth--if you're not wet with sweat, you've used up all your water. Loss of limb control, difficulty speaking, confusion. Oh, wait. That's me on a normal day. It can come over you quickly--get to shade and water immediately.

OK, yeah, yeah, I know you know all this. Guess what? We forget. We indulge in wishful thinking, that it's really not that hot out, we're acclimated, what's the problem? By the time you realize there's a distinct possibility that you maybe should exercised precaution, you're taking a swan dive off a curb into oncoming traffic, the maniac behind the wheel tossing his steering wheel like a hot potato, because, well, it IS like a hot potato, and it's burned through a couple of layers of skin. To top it off, his buns are seared because he's wearing a nylon Brazilian bathing thong, which is melting into the plastic seat covers of his pickup truck, legs jerking up and down like a demented drummer. It can happen.

A typical Texas summer heat wave--not! Weather records are falling like clockwork--each day emblazoning a new record in the annals. Think I'll go check the water level in the Britta, feeling a bit dessicated...