If you’re looking for me on facebook, I am not there.
I took my leave of it a couple of days ago. I will say this, it’s a kind of odd… feeling? I was a participant on facebook for seven years, that’s quite a chunk of time to be engaged in such timesuckage. I won’t discuss precisely what my habit was in terms of my social media usage, however, as with any habit, when you give it up “cold turkey” there’s something of an empty space where the habit was. There was a little bit of a feeling of free-falling for half a day, however, it passed quickly enough. Suffice it to say, it was the right decision for me. I do not regret deleting my facebook page. It is highly unlikely I will return to that particular social network. I will also say that if you use facebook and you are enjoying your use of it, well then good for you. I mean that sincerely. I figure we’re all finding our own way around in this here world, to each their own.
In other happenings, the editing/correcting of previous work continues. Let that be a lesson to me to proofread better. (It isn’t terribly exciting as a topic of conversation either but, there again, let that be a lesson to me to proofread better.) I’ve decided I will no longer publish poetry collections on Kindle. The formatting of poetry is different from novels/stories. I don’t like the way it looks on Kindle no matter how I’ve adjusted it. Editing poetry is particularly tedious as is. I gave it the old college try, as they say. I prefer to publish the poetry in paperback form. So shall it be. I will continue to publish my fiction, novels, novellas, stories, etc., in both paperback and on Kindle.
Something has changed. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I don’t know that I’d explain it if I could. I find myself wanting to say something about the things that make us happy, the ways in which we all find our ways of being in the world, but it seems to me in this moment, better not to break the spell of any such thing with too much deciphering. Perhaps that is some of it, that with eyes wide open, or “woke,” if you prefer, one realizes that awareness is a personal matter of which there may be no such thing as “fully aware” in that isn’t there always something somewhere one doesn’t know or isn’t aware of? Certainly. So it seems to the open eyes that the demystification of the world, is, in some regard, overrated. On the contrary, however, one may then engage in the making of at least marginally informed choices. One might make the comparison between drinking ( intoxicants) because one doesn’t know any better, and drinking because one does. ( I remain sober.) Or, if one were to wear “rose-colored glasses” as a matter of choice, rather than unaware oblivion, or naiveté, or frivolity. (Not that I just woke up, not hardly.) As I said, I can’t quite put my finger on it.
So pleased, excited, to have so many stories, books, to write, so much to do. On I go.
It is my opinion, that is, I think, that if a person only wants or seeks opinions that agree with their own, then they are uncertain of what they think they believe, or, they are convinced that they are correct, without question, and so they’ve nothing new to learn, and what they’re really interested in isn’t intelligent thought, or discourse, of the possibility for growth or new learning and discovery, but in affirmations that they are correct.
Opinions, everybody has them.
During the fall months of 2008 and on into 2009, and on for a while, reality slipped away from me. Amid the avalanche of dissipating solidity descending into complete confusion and chaos of thought, I threw more than twenty years of writing, of work, into a cauldron of flames. Two file boxes of poems, stories, notes, one completed novel, and two poetry manuscripts, went into the fire. One of those manuscripts was for a book of poems titled “Winsome Vein”, that I thought was darker than anything I’d ever written, so much so that I was afraid of the direction my writing seemed to be taking. The truth is that I’ve always written darker words, as much as I’ve written hopeful ones. However, having filed that copyright on “Winsome Vein”, saved that work as I had set fire to all other copies. ( Some might say that was the right thing to do.)
Within days of having burned so much of my work, I experienced a moment of clarity, and panic. I became terrified that I might destroy more of my own work. I gathered the bits and pieces of what remained, jamming them together one after another in whatever way they seemed to make sense to me, along with other fragments that my mind had latched onto in the unraveling. Those salvaged bits became this book, “Gold Mine”. I filed my copyright on it as soon as it was finished, thinking that I was filing a copyright on a pile of scraps, of bits and pieces of salvage. I was trying to protect my work from my own want to destroy it. I later found an old notebook with many pages missing that I remembered rifling through one night in a fit of what I was thinking of as “editing”, as though all sentimentality and heart had taken leave of me along with my senses. The poems still intact in that notebook remain something of a godsend to me. I destroyed twenty years of work, of scraps, of notes, of stories, early rejection letters received when I was in my teens and twenties, journals, it all went, as I tried to deny myself, to say, “I am not this.” I looked at what remained and thought, These are the words I managed to save.
Coming out of that time I didn’t know if I would ever write anything again. For nearly two years, I didn’t. It is the only time in the last thirty-three years that I’ve ever ceased writing.
All my words are not always the best words, they are, however, the encapsulation of the moment in which they were written. The merit of a thing is sometimes the moment. I’ve learned as much from the bad poems and stories that I’ve written as I have from the good ones. Whether they are all worth publishing isn’t the point, they are all worth keeping and learning from.
I hadn’t looked at, read, much of this work since that time. In writing and editing this now, I’ve realized that I was leaving a message for myself for the future, for whenever I would get back to this. A message to not give up, not to quit. I found my guts again with this book.
I am a writer. ~ Teri Skultety, September 12, 2017, from “Gold Mine”.
Paperback coming soon!
A Sampling from the seventy-eight pieces of poetry and prose that make-up, “Gold Mine”, now available on Amazon.
I hope you buy this collection of my salvaged scribbles, I hope you read it and enjoy it. I hope it rocks your socks. Thank you so much for stopping by. Sincerely, Teri Skultety
I’ve been doing some serious thinking about the world lately.
Can you hear the quiet?
This serious thinking isn’t a new thing for me. This bout of thinking began with the drug induced suicide of a rock star. I’m referring to it as drug induced because we’ll never really know and the fact is that those kinds of drugs can cause those kinds of thoughts, so, I think, in this case, give it the benefit of the doubt. Still though, I couldn’t figure out what it was about it that bothered me so much, I mean, I didn’t know Chris Cornell personally. I realized that it was that it felt like something of a betrayal, not that he owed any of us anything. But it felt like he was fifty-two years old and he had everything, he’d made it through when many of his contemporaries hadn’t, and, how dare he bail out, this icon of my generation. But then, remembering, it was probably the drugs. Then Powers Boothe died, but, he died in his sleep at sixty-eight years old and the general consensus seemed to be, “Good show!” Then a bomb went off at a concert, where kids where watching a former Nickelodeon star turned pop-princess perform, the bomb killed twenty-two people, the youngest victim of the Manchester Attack was eight years old. Then Greg Allman died. Then it was June. This week the President of the U.S. withdrew from the Paris Agreement on climate change, and everyone lost their nut over it. If you’ve not read the agreement or anything about it and you’re interested in having an informed opinion, you should read it, and try to understand what it says and means, that’s my advice on having an opinion, take the time to educate yourself to figure what you actually think about whatever it is. At this point in the proceedings the internet became incredibly noisy.
Can you hear the quiet?
I got to thinking about some things, I’d been thinking about some things anyway.
Everyone is talking. No one is listening. Everyone has an opinion. Despite that, the first thing that I saw when I logged onto facebook was a post that read, “FUCK NO. Not again.” I haven’t read all the details of the latest incident in London. I’d gone out, to get some air, to get some quiet. To think. Despite my having gone out, and despite my sharing my thoughts on any number of things in the last day or so, this latest attack in London still occurred. Despite the multitude of opinions and thoughts offered up by everyone about everything, these things still happened, and they still happen.
Can you hear the quiet?
I know that venting and opinionating and ranting and all of that, can be a great stress reliever. You read this stuff, you hear about it, you’ve got something to say because it’s getting to you or everyone, you’ve been sitting in traffic for too long, or dealing with rude people or you feel helpless and powerless and it seems like the world is going to hell in a hand-basket and enough already! ENOUGH! The internet gets very loud with people saying, in their own ways, “Enough.” I understand that. I do. I’ve been sucked into that storm many times. It can make it tough to hear yourself think.
Are you free?
Are you a free person, a person who enjoys freedom? Is your mind free, have you freed your mind?
What does that even mean?
I was thinking about the Terracotta Warriors, also known as The Terracotta Army. Qin Shi Huang ascended the throne at the age of thirteen and would become the first Emperor of China. The Terracotta Warriors are life-size sculptures depicting his army, his whole army. Each one is different, they were not cast from a single mold. They were buried with him, along with many treasures, in order to protect him in the afterlife. Qin Shi Huang believed that “Yes, you can take it with you” and he believed it, they believed it, so completely that he replicated his entire army in these terracotta statues, more than 8,000 soldiers, 130 chariots, 520 horses, cavalry horses, as well as many other figures and statues. The scope of it is truly stunning, completely breathtaking, to contemplate.
My fascination with this subject isn’t new. I happen to have a Terracotta Warrior of my very own. I should name him. I’ll think about that.
What I got to thinking was about how Qin Shi Huang had the full conviction of his beliefs, or, did he have his army replicated you know, just in case? What about Egyptian beliefs about the afterlife, all the treasures sealed in their tombs?
Different people, peoples, believe all different sorts of things.
This got me thinking about the Ganges River. Do you know about the Ganges River? The Ganges River is sacred to Hindus, present day. Hindus believe that having at least their ashes thrown in the Ganges will end the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth, allowing them to attain eternal liberation of the soul. Many unburned remains find their way into the Ganges, that is, the recently deceased are regularly, ritually, thrown into the Ganges. It is one of the most polluted rivers in the world. You can read about this, and you would look at it, and you would think that the solution, to begin with, seems simple. But, they believe what they believe, completely. The Most Polluted Rivers In the World.
This is where I’m not saying what I think about “science” that goes tripping off to Mars while we’ve got all kinds of problems right here on Earth.
Does me knowing about any of this, Does me getting stressed out about any of these things, does it do any good? Does one more voice added to the din do anything other than raise the level of noise pollution? The other day I took one of those just for fun quizzes about “What’s your purpose in life?” and it said that my purpose is to achieve world peace. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say, probably, that isn’t “really” my gig in life, and that the quiz came up with that answer based on information gleaned from my having shared a picture of Sandra Bullock as “Miss Congeniality” with the caption “And world peace.” Isn’t it enough to just take care of our own families, our own jobs, houses, cars, lives? ( Don’t litter.)
Can you hear the quiet?
So there’s this story about this woman, about her whole family, and how they went into the Siberian Wilderness during Stalin’s reign, and how at 71 years old, she has lived in the wilderness all of her life. The world has gone on, but, her lack of knowledge about what has gone on in the world hasn’t prevented her from living, that’s her reality. You can read that here.
Well, you’ve got to be informed. You’ve got to know what’s going on in the world! You’ve got to CARE! How can you can not care!
Are you free? There are a lot of people in the world who don’t pay any attention to any of the societal uproars and they’re just fine, people who never watch the news, they look outside if they want to know what the weather’s like, live their lives disengaged from the din. I think, in some ways, the internet is a kind of a modern Tower of Babel, and certainly, babble. You’ve got all these people from everywhere in the world able to connect and translate, using their computers, everything into one language, whatever their language is, that makes it all one language, able to read about and know, instantaneously in real-time, right now, if there is a high-speed car chase happening on the other coast, three thousand miles away. News of something that affects them not one bit, something that they can do nothing about, but that the knowledge of adds to, perhaps, depending on how they’re wired, their overall stress and anxiety level. The internet takes us out of the reality of where we are in our own actual present, and takes us into the reality of the world, the internet can make it feel like something that happened on the other side of the world, happened across the street. What that does is, as it affects people, it changes the way that people then go out into the world wherever they are. People are taking that stress from those faraway events into their own lives and then regurgitating it back out into the world, perpetuating stress and discord.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s all the bullshit about the Paris Agreement! And some ass-hat celebrity decided to voice another opinion that I don’t agree with!” She said, as she threw her aluminum can into the trash.
Can you hear the quiet?
I’ve made a decision not to watch the news anymore. I’ve made a conscious decision to avoid the infighting that’s going on, whether it’s the Right calling the Left “snowflakes” or the other way around, or just the seemingly endless reposting of “he said this and then…she said this!” it is all fueling the fire, adding to the noise, raising the overall stress level, and exacerbating the strife, except for those who thrive on it and those releasing their own stress ranting, but really, it isn’t doing much of anything else. Is it fake news? On which channel? I’ve made a decision to disengage from the divide and conquer propaganda permeating the world these days. I’m sure I can find something better to do, and be happier doing it.
Also, for anyone who thinks that a person can’t create viable, relevant work or art if they are “out of touch”, disengaged from the noise, and/or so on, I’m just going to say google up famous recluses and you’ll find many a list of some folks who did all right going their own way and thinking for themselves. I’m not saying I’m a recluse, just not interested in the bullshit, nor in the misconception that it is necessary to the creation of viable art.
Many, many, years ago, I lived in the desert. Now, this isn’t about the desert itself, and that is very much part of the point, though the desert, at that time, was the conduit for this experience and learning. The population where I was at, at that time, was about 1,200 people, spread out over a pretty wide area. There was no cable t.v. A few people had satellite dishes and this was back when that meant the huge satellite dish installed at ground level next to the house. You could get bad reception on one or two channels if you had a decent antenna, generally speaking, it wasn’t worth the trouble. During that eighteen months, the only television that I watched was, when it was airing, during the season, a weekly half-hour comedy show, at someone else’s house, and their reception was equally bad. Never watched the news, I don’t recall the television ever really being on. Trying to get a radio station to tune was an equally sketchy endeavor, though sometimes, late at night, I could get KLOS out of Los Angeles to tune in for a couple of hours. I used to borrow my brother’s cassette player, at length, to listen to tapes. We, I, had no idea what was going on in the rest of the world, no idea at all. If they’d dropped the bomb, we would have seen the mushroom cloud, same as everyone else everywhere else who had watched the news every night and spent every day all stressed out about something that they would have ultimately as much control over and foreknowledge of, as someone who hadn’t been paying attention at all.
What I was thinking was how quiet and peaceful that time was, in general. I thought, well, yeah, but there weren’t a lot of people out there in the desert. While that’s some of it, that isn’t the kind of quiet I’m talking about. There was an absence of external influence from the media, from popular culture, from society. What you find, also, is that you still manage to hear about the bigger things that go on in the world, through the periphery. It creates a peaceful mind, and a feeling of being very present in one’s surroundings. Is that “out of touch” with reality? Whose reality? I’m free not to watch the news. I’m free to disengage. You, ostensibly, can turn off the television anywhere, disengage from the “noise” wherever you are. I think that’s part of the problem with the world right now, we’re not, as individuals, obligated to take all that in. We’re not obligated to participate in the noise, especially if it does not serve us well. Some people thrive on it all. There’s that aphorism that says to take care of yourself, to nurture and feed your own soul, because what can you give if you haven’t taken care of you? How much more peaceful would the world be, if each person were at peace with themselves? I was thinking about that, at some point isn’t all the… social commentary, just someone else telling me how they think I should live MY life? (How many average people have it together enough that they should be telling anyone else – unasked- what to do or be or how to live?)(Personally, I’ve no use for the continuous spewing and promoting of the vitriol. In fact, I’ve had it with it. I’m going to quietly choose not to engage in it, whilst also dissociating myself from it and those who chose to engage in it because it is a choice. I’m not going to bother telling anyone how to behave, not my job. I’m saying this is what I’m doing. Each of us gets emotional on occasion, we all get defensive from time to time, making a habit of it makes that who you are. What’s that old saying? You never look good trying to make someone else look bad.)
I don’t know, but I can begin with me. If someone drops the bomb, I’m sure I’ll still see the mushroom cloud, same as everyone else. In the meantime, I’ll be happier, and that’s at least one person that I can improve the quality of life for. ( Really, don’t fucking litter.)
About 4 billion people in the world are NOT online and do not have internet access. Current world population estimated at 7.5 billion people. Between 600 million and 1 billion people do not have access to clean drinking water.
Grunge is the music that my generation created, whether the label of “grunge” is one that was met with approval or acceptance or not. Passionately philosophically divested in many ways from the heavy metal and “pretty” hair bands and glam bands of the heyday of “sex, drugs, and rock and roll” of previous generations, the “heavy” in “Grunge” was born not only of a complete love of music, but of an emotional intensity extracted from a dissatisfied, sometimes bored, sometimes angry, raw, emotion, that infested not only the musical content itself, but the lyrics, which range from the poignantly poetic, the depressed and angry, to the sarcastic and sardonic, to the socially aware. Drawing on influences from both the punk sound and the likes of Black Sabbath, Grunge was music that was, and is, awake. Grunge said that whatever propaganda it was that the world was selling, they weren’t buying it, because it “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”
“People were wearing flannel here long before grunge came out. It’s cold here. It’s a cheap and effective clothing apparatus for living in the Northwest. I don’t even associate it with a fashion statement or lack thereof. Eddie Vedder did more for flannel than anybody.” ~ Tad Doyle, from Everybody Loves Our Town: An Oral History of Grunge by Mark Yam
“I think it’s come to mean alternative (grunge) in a way. I saw a grunge compilation album with a picture of a flannel shirt on the cover, and only half the bands were from Seattle. Now it seems like that word embraces anything that’s popular. You can watch a Tony! Toni! Tone! video and most of the people in there are wearing their version of grunge fashion. They look like they’re from Seattle, yet it’s an R&B song. So grunge has become an easy marketing reference, a handle for people who aren’t particularly interested in listening to music or what the bands do.” ~ Chris Cornell, Interview Magazine, 1994
What I remember about the beginnings of the stirrings of grunge, as it filtered down from the Pacific Northwest, was that it was only being played on alternative radio, or college stations. I remember hearing something about “grunge” having some claim on flannel shirt wearing and thermals and thinking, “We wear those here too (when it’s cold), well, some of us.” And no one quite being tuned into the fact that what was happening was a huge shift in our culture, this was music that was counter-culture. This was music that cared so much that it couldn’t care anymore what anyone thought of it. It was a generation rejecting a post 1980’s pretension that it couldn’t sink its teeth into as any kind of a viable reality, certainly not an affordable one, and what’s more, it didn’t want to. “Grunge” didn’t want to be labeled as anything other than music. It took the garage band to the warehouse and then on to the stadium. It wasn’t stoner-hippie music, it was “damn the man” music coming from my generation, a generation that wasn’t sure it was ready for that when only moments before we’d been tuned into Miami Vice, Magnum P.I., and Family Ties. Nirvana’s “Nevermind,” and Pearl Jam’s “Ten,” broke in 1991, and so did Soundgarden’s “Badmotofinger,” and the tribute album, “Temple of the Dog.” While Nirvana and Pearl Jam stormed the airways into the mainstream with big hits there was something different about the voice of Chris Cornell, from the very beginning. This wasn’t music that was just willing to be dark, this was music that had jumped headlong into the primordial muck to mosh and try to body-surf through the ages. Balls to the wall, Grunge was the ultimate trust-fall. The song that stuck with me, that still stays with me from that time, that I’ve many a night before dinner said/sung, “Well, it’s on the table…” is Temple of the Dog’s, “Hunger Strike.” Then there was “Outshined,” with heavy lines that sound like a dirge and then it melodically takes flight, “it gives me the butterflies…” and traverses the depths again just as quickly.
The soulful anguish, the raw ache, the depth of emotion of Chris Cornell’s voice is at the beginnings of a musical revolution. If Kurt Cobain burned out, and Eddie Vedder became, to some, something of a musical statesman, if Dave Grohl became the embodiment of no-nonsense getting up and getting on with it while still having a good time, Chris Cornell became the poet laureate of grunge. To say now that some of his lyrics are haunting is obvious and redundant, his lyrics and vocals were always haunting.
“I’m not a lyric writer to make statements. What I enjoy doing is making paintings with lyrics, creating colorful images. I think that’s more what music and entertainment should be.” ~ Chris Cornell
Is fifty-two years old, young? Is fifty-two years old, old?
Fifty-two years old is a person in my peer group, completely my generation. Chris Cornell had gotten sober. I’ve noticed lately that’s kind of a thing with my generation, if you’re of my generation and you partied as a teenager, or in your twenties, drank your way through your thirties, at some point in your forties, you run up against sobriety. In the 80’s we used to sometimes jokingly say, for one reason or another, “It was all the drugs I did in the 60’s.” even though, or because, that’s when we were born. Now, as middle-aged adults, we can say, “Well, it was the 80’s” and that passes as a cultural definition of excess. Grunge was the antidote for the 80’s, a coming of age emotional release, that for many of my generation has ultimately given way to sobriety becoming its own kind of rebellion. I think my generation fluctuates between, “The Power of Positive Thinking,” and “This World Is Hard, Don’t Bullshit Me.” Does it ever turn out the way that any generation thinks that it will? I’m finding my peace through the acceptance of this world is hard, but it is still beautiful.
I’m upset about the death of Chris Cornell in a way that I can’t quite explain. I think that I’ve listened to “I am the Highway” about I don’t even know how many times now, I love that song. I’m looking at the world starkly, that’s what works for me, I’m not a puppies and kittens and rainbows kind of gal, I’m the other side of that coin, even though I am certainly a romantic. The world needs both, balance. But I’m thinking about that too, the world, and what are any of us doing here. Earlier today, I saw a news story about how Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson is flattered by those who think he really should run for president, how “popular” an idea that is to some, and that he, The Rock, told GQ magazine that a bid for the White House is “A real possibility.” I don’t think that’s even the least bit funny or amusing. I thought it was deep down sad that that is where the mindset of anyone in this country is at, not that former actors haven’t taken up political office before, and not that I don’t like The Rock, as an actor, and hey, he might even be great at being president if that were to happen, but it’s this idea that celebrity, that “popularity,” rules the day. It’s boneheaded. I was thinking about how, in the same interview from 1994 where Chris Cornell talked about how you could watch a Tony! Toni! Tone! video and see a grunge fashion statement, Kim Thayil said that they had taken to avoiding wearing flannel in order to try to help distance themselves from what had become cliché, because it had become popular in the mainstream. What was the very antithesis of fashion, became fashion, and then the people for whom it was a usual mode of dress, they abandoned it, I was thinking how messed up that is. I was thinking that it’s awful that not even six months into the current administration the fighting between political parties has reached epic proportions and it is beyond pathetic to the point of being ludicrous. Everyone has an opinion, including me, and I thought, that’s it, this is it, the exact moment when I ceased to engage in political discourse, the moment when I heard that The Rock was seriously considering a run at the White House. I thought of the movie “Idiocracy” and of Flint, Michigan, and Brawndo, it’s popular, it’s what plants crave. Everyone seems to be feeling instead of THINKING. Has the world always been this crazy? Has the world always been this dumb? I think, it’s important to remember to find healthy ways to keep from feeling overwhelmed and to disengage from the din.
The last thing that I read about the death of Chris Cornell was that he may have taken an extra Ativan or two. ( Rolling Stone.) Ativan is used to treat anxiety. You never know what someone else is going through. Addiction is a big demon. You think, the guy had everything. But there’s no judging that, for anyone, what is everything? I think, am of a mind, to say, stick around, fight, see what happens, to hell with ’em! But there’s no judging that for anyone either. I don’t want to descend into a discourse on battling dark times, just, there’s no judging what it’s like for any other human who isn’t feeling great or well or thinking clearly. Reports of his last show in Detroit have been that something wasn’t quite right with him. I haven’t watched the concert footage and don’t know if I will. I thought about, wondered about, how far away do those guys get from where they started? How far away does anyone get from who they began as, if they get where they think they wanted to go? It seemed to me that Chris Cornell stayed pretty true.
I made up my mind not to watch anymore news today, I don’t know if I’ll watch any tomorrow either. Am I obligated to? Am I obligated to pay attention to the mess or to be a voice for anything? I straightened up my house, did laundry, made some food. I looked at a catalog, thought about ways to decorate, about how much I like flannel shirts and don’t give a flying fig if they’re fashionable or not, ever. I thought about the irony of the fact that the renaissance of coffee-house culture was spawned at the birth of grunge, the Seattle Sound, and how that gave way to the very corporate Starbucks, something that is the antithesis of everything grunge was about. Grunge, though, outgrew the label, the terminology, and grew into itself from those roots, the bands and musicians that emerged from that era, are the creators of the musical landscape of my generation. I gathered up some cd’s, made a plate of chicken and rice and sat down to write something about it all.
Chris Cornell’s music has seen me through many a long night writing, and, providing that I have anything to say about it, it will see me through many more seasons to come. An important artistic voice of my generation, a musician, a poet, a soulful singing prince with an intense Jesus gaze and flowing locks, an originator and innovator, of not only musical change but of a cultural shift in awareness, Chris Cornell left us with many gifts, he will be missed. The world is a hard place, but it is still beautiful.
Carry on, my friends. Get up. Go on.
The Promise Lyrics
If I had nothing to my name
But photographs of you
Rescued from the flames
That is all I would ever need
As long as I can read
What’s written on your face
The strength that shines
Behind your eyes
The hope and light
That will never die
And one promise you made
one promise that always remains
No matter the price
A promise to survive
Persevere and thrive
As we’ve always done
And you said
“The poison in a kiss
Is the lie upon the lips”
Truer words were never shared
When I feel
Like lies are all I hear
I pull my memories near
The one thing they can’t take
And one promise you made
one promise that always remains
No matter the price
A promise to survive
Persevere and thrive
As you’ve always done
The books still open
on the table
The bells still ringing
in the air
The dreams still clinging
to the pillow
The songs still singing
in a prayer
Now my soul
Is stretching through the roots
To memories of you
Back through time and space
To carry home
the faces and the names
And these photographs of you
Rescued from the flames
And one promise you made
one promise that always remains
No matter the price
A promise to survive
Persevere and thrive
And dare to rise once more
A promise to survive
Persevere and thrive
And fill the world with life
As we’ve always done
Okay, okay, okay, all right, alright…
We had a nice Thanksgiving this year. My son had plans, as your kids often will once they become adults, so it was just me and my husband. I made a twelve and a half pound bird with the notion in mind that I wouldn’t have to cook again until whenever. I made the complete feast. Again, big meal, a lot of good food for all week. I set the table. Make the most of it, I say. ( And it’s okay to be thankful and celebrate in the present, without celebrating, condoning, or making light of, the past.)
I had to throw out the very last piece of my birthday cake and I didn’t want to. That was really the best cake. That was the cake that there will never be another one like. But, that last piece, though wrapped in plastic wrap and refrigerated, had gone dry as muther-effin- bone, and so it had to go. There’s cherry pie now, that I am avoiding. Let’s face it, these are good problems to have.
Note here: Things I’ll never apologize for, enjoying whatever I can when things are going well and on the upswing, and neither should you. You don’t have to be a jerk about it when things are going well, but do not ever feel bad about it or guilty or any of that useless shite. Have you ever been down? Enjoy what you can while you can. Enough said.
As those following along may have noticed, I’ve been following the story of the protests at Standing Rock. I was thinking, what is it about this story that really got to me?
When I write, when I’m really into writing something, I tend to become immersed in it. I am capable, mentally, of shutting out the world and I can ensconce myself in day slipping into day after day of nothing but writing. I think that most of us live very much in our own worlds, whether we realize it or not. We tread the same paths over and over again ever day, interacting with most of the same people, at work, at school, at home. I am also capable of exhausting a subject, if something piques my interest, one track mind. I think that I was so immersed in my own work, in trying to get done what I’d set out to do, that nothing was getting in for a while. It was very, “What? An 8.9 earthquake in Myanmar? Didn’t even feel it.” I think that if you’re a scientist trying to cure cancer and you become obsessed with your work, oblivious to the outside world, people understand. If you’re “just a writer,” well, not so much. I’ve also had a lot on my plate the last few years in terms of trying to sort out not a few personal items post-nervous breakdown. No, really. So a lot of things were just rolling by me, like the passing countryside out the window, I got the gist of it, the general shape of the thing, but that was about it.
When I first saw something on twitter about the protestors at Standing Rock, it was likely sometime in September, 2016, and the situation had already been going on for well over a year with the protestors beginning to arrive in April, of this year, after the initial camp was set up by a woman named Ladonna Brave Bull Allard. ( Source 1, Source 2) I started researching, just googling, reading from a variety of sources, as I do. When I first learned that the pipeline was to go underneath the Missouri River, I looked up the Missouri River, my history being a little rusty and usually when I think big river in North America, I’m in Mississippi territory, or the Colorado, not up Lewis and Clark way. This is important too, because that’s “American History” which probably isn’t “Native American History.” Well, who wants to read all of that?
Can you look at a picture?
The Missouri River is the longest fresh water river in North America. Look at all of its tributaries. Look at there where it just hooks right up with the Mississippi River and scoots on down to The Gulf of Mexico.
This is what got me. I looked at these maps of these rivers and it seems obvious to me that putting a pipeline under what is pretty much the most important fresh water resource we have in the entire Continental U.S., just seems like not the brightest idea ever. I mean, they hardly ever leak, right? Except for this one, that just happened in September in Alabama when 250,000 gallons leaked and there’s this picture of this pond that turned brown from gasoline. Do you think you can drink that? I mean, how long would you have to boil that? Water purification tablets? I’m gonna guess, no. Have a look.
And that’s really what got me about this story, that’s what pulled me in. Common sense would seem to dictate that such an undertaking, putting a pipeline underneath the Missouri River, is in no way, shape, or form, worth the risk to the river and ecosystem. FRESH WATER IS LIFE. Do you have kids? I mean, what the hell are we doing? I just kept looking at that map of the Missouri River and thinking, what the hell? None of us can survive without clean, potable, water.
Then it became apparent that our mainstream news media hasn’t been and isn’t reporting on this story. ( Does This Look Like a News Story to You?)
I wonder if people can even grasp what it is that is happening. I fear that as greed and corruption devalue our money, our work, our labor, our land, our WATER, they will look for something else of value that they can trade with.
Will clean water be the new gold?
A lot of people do not like the book “Atlas Shrugged”, by Ayn Rand. Greed and corruption are the problems. If you can manage to listen to this and comprehend the meaning, it seems to be what is happening. The world is selling itself out from under itself in the name of greed, graft, corruption, favors, it is not the money itself that is evil.
What is happening is the product of corruption, of people trading FAVOR and FAVORS, and so and so on and so on.
That’s my opinion, at least.
“Money is the barometer of a society’s virtue. When you see that trading is done, not by consent, but by compulsion–when you see that in order to produce, you need to obtain permission from men who produce nothing–when you see that money is flowing to those who deal, not in goods, but in favors–when you see that men get richer by graft and by pull than by work, and your laws don’t protect you against them, but protect them against you–when you see corruption being rewarded and honesty becoming a self-sacrifice–you may know that your society is doomed. Money is so noble a medium that does not compete with guns and it does not make terms with brutality. It will not permit a country to survive as half-property, half-loot”
― Ayn Rand,
But then what happens? Can you look at it anymore? Can you listen to it anymore? Can you let your heart be broken for even one more minute thinking that they’re going to run the protestors off of that land and they’re going to put that pipeline under that river?
It isn’t like they couldn’t re-route it. It isn’t like they couldn’t stop and say, “You know what, this endangers the water supply and we’re going to figure something else out.”
How much would you pay for a gallon of clean water to drink? How much would you pay for it if you had kids?
It breaks my heart.
Then Carol Brady died. She was 82 and so what were we thinking? That she would always be there, with her strange, flipped-end mullet, and permanent smile, even though Mr. Brady turned out to be gay, and all the rest of it, Greg’s narcissism, Cindy’s lisp, Marcia’s unending perfection, would her nose be all right?, Peter’s voice changing, Bobby’s goofy charm and Jan, that wig was so not her.Well, maybe Alice is making a fresh pot of coffee and Sam just delivered a pot roast, so dinner’s on, “It’ll be ready in about twenty minutes, Mrs. Brady.” We thought she would always be there. Florence Henderson, was pretty rock and roll.
Then Detective Harris…
We wonder why so many celebrities and cultural icons have passed away this year, but it’s because so many of them are getting to be that age, our cultural parents are passing away, it’s what happens.
What does that mean for us? It means we’re getting older too. It means we’re likely long past time for being the grown ups and trying to get a grip on this train wreck of avarice and confusion about the basic concepts of common sense, common decency, and morality, before they really do leave us without clean water to drink or a proverbial pot to piss in.
Fidel Castro has died. I wasn’t a fan. It’s being reported that Cuban exiles are dancing in the streets of Miami.
Over the summer I read D.H. Lawrence’s “Etruscan Places”, which is a collection of travel writings, however, it is so much more than that. Lawrence describes the absorption of cultures into one another, which is part of why, in the modern-day, Peoples become so upset about the “appropriation of culture” because it is so often a sign that the originators of whatever it was, are being absorbed, phased out. ( The other reason why is that, hey, do you like it when someone appropriates your sacred stuff without regard for the sacredness of it? Is your wedding dress just another dress to you?) Lawrence talks of how Etruscan art and culture was absorbed by the Romans until which was which? Who could say? Until everything becomes temporary and transitory and one day, won’t we all be a mystery to be discovered and solved? Like ancient cities recently discovered?
I had something of a health scare over the summer that turned out to be nothing all that unusual but it reminded me of every other health scare, and every other time that laid me out. It woke me up.
Writing? I’m still working on a collection of stories for early next year. I’m also thinking about my novel, THE SLICK FURIES, and making another corrective editing pass through that. Thinking about the next books, looking forward to getting to them. Christmas is coming, my favorite holiday.
And I totally forgot to write about the weird dream I had because, I think, I’ve been watching too much “Supernatural” but, I’ll get to it, eventually.
Has the world gone completely mad?
Calmly, as a matter of fact, ask yourself,
Does what I see in these videos of what is currently happening at Standing Rock, look like a news story to me?
Not whether or not you agree with the protestors or what is happening there, simply, does it look like a news story?
Does it look like a big news story, or the kind of thing that usually gets covered like it is a big news story?
Does it look like a human interest story? Does it look like a lead story?
Have I seen this story of the protests at Standing Rock on the television news?
Is this story being reported by the mainstream news media?
If I have seen this story, of the protests at Standing Rock, how thorough was the coverage?
How many people are there?
How long have they been there protesting?
I think that you should make up your own mind about what kind of story it looks like to you.
To me, it looks like the kind of news story that should be a lead story every night on the nightly news, at the top of the broadcast, until some resolution has been achieved.
What does it say about our mainstream news media that the story of the protests at Standing Rock isn’t being covered as such a story? And if our mainstream news media isn’t reporting on this story in an unbiased and accurate way, that means offering no opinion on the subject while presenting to you the facts, then what else is our news media biased about?
Food for thought.
This isn’t a documentary about a photographer of New York fashion and, or, street fashion. It is a documentary about an artist, whose medium happens to be photography, a man to whom fashion is art, and that is how he photographs it. Through his lens, a world of vibrant eccentricity has been captured, cataloged, and archived, a time capsule of our culture over the course of several decades, on film, creating a unique historical record of a world that viewed from another angle, could sometimes easily pass for Mars. We are strange, wonderful creatures, beautiful pieces of walking talking illumination in fine threads. This is a documentary about a quiet man, delicate perhaps, in his own uniqueness, and how he has lived his life for his art, around it, in pursuit of it, completely immersed in it, which makes for a fascinating portrait of the modern artist, in and of itself.