That if I was a sea cucumber, I could vomit out my stomach and enfold your obnoxious dog whole before swallowing it, and no one would ever know. I wonder if this is why I feel a deep visceral writhing every time your fucking dog starts barking, because my stomach secretly wishes that I was a sea cucumber so that we could resolve this problem.

These are the things I think about when I am not working because your fucking dog has been barking continuously for what feels like all eternity. Please do not ask me to explain the logic of the sea cucumber argument, because I am currently incapable of rational thought, thanks to all of the fucking barking.

Let’s say it again: fuck.

I spent yesterday in a state of bleak fury. The weather reflected my mood, with cold hostile grey clouds and occasional spats of rain. Every now and then, a moment of elation would bubble up, as I remembered that 63,916,185 other Americans voted for hope with me. And then I remembered that 52% of California voters, 57% of Arkansians, 56% of Arizonans, and 62% of Floridians voted for hatred and bigotry, and I got sad and angry again.

I went to Headlands early on Wednesday to pick up the major newspapers. Not because I thought that they would have anything new and different, but because I thought I might like to have them. Even in my bitterness, I knew that this was a historic moment, and that I might like to haul those papers out some day in the future. The coffeehouse was packed to the gills, but totally silent, and it was extremely eerie.

America did a great thing on Tuesday. I don’t think that I really need to belabor that point. I talked to lots of people on Tuesday who were incredibly enthused and excited, including a young friend who became eligible to vote just in time for the election. He was in awe and delight, but at that point, all I could feel was sadness. I am so proud to be an American right now, so amazed with what we just did, and I am so ashamed of being a Californian.

Millions of us learned on Tuesday night that you really can grow up to be anything. And a lot of us learned that we can’t marry the men and women we love. That we can’t adopt children with our partners. That Americans think that we don’t deserve equal protection under the law. That America could simultaneously take a huge leap in the realm of civil rights, and a giant step backwards. That other Americans hate us so much that they will pour millions of dollars into a campaign to take rights away from us. That we are second class citizens, and that a shocking percentage of the population is ok with this, including the people who claim to “support” us.

And I can’t get over that. I’m sorry, I just can’t. I know that I am supposed to be excited, but it’s hard when people dismiss me with “oh, it will get better.” Well, you know what, they didn’t tell Martin Luther King that it would get better. They didn’t tell Elizabeth Cady Stanton that it would get better. They fought, and they won, and we fought, and we won, and someone else voted to take it all away. We were on the front of the bus in California, proudly clutching each other’s hands, and 52% of the people who live in this state voted to throw us off. And the rest of the country watched them do it and took note.

I think that the people I talked to about this issue couldn’t quite wrap their heads around it, for the most part, because they were heterosexual. Oh, sure, they supported freedom to marry, and they cared about it, and they were sad too, but they couldn’t comprehend how much this crushed me and all of the other LGBQT Americans who just got shat upon on Tuesday. They could understand in an abstract way that this was a sad thing, but for the most part, they couldn’t connect with it on a personal level, and they were too excited to try.

Yesterday morning, I understood privilege on a visceral level, because I was finally on the other side of the divide. As a white person in a liberal community who presents female, I really haven’t been the victim of that much discrimination. Sure. I’ve had to deal with things because I am a woman, and some of those things have been pretty crappy, but I’ve never walked down the street feeling like the entire world hates me. Until yesterday.

I found this quote on Jezebel: “If I was gay in America today I would walk out of the door feeling like the whole country was at war with me (and as an African I have had my moments where I know how that feels) and it just breaks my heart that TODAY, TODAY OF ALL DAYS, someone else somewhere has to feel like that.” And I have to say, it made me a little misty around the eyes. Blacks in this country have fought so hard just to be treated like human beings, and they still deal with discrimination on a daily basis, and now I know what that feels like, not in an abstract “wow, the way we have treated blacks is really shitty way,” but in a “I am completely crushed and my heart is broken” kind of way.

We made great steps in the realm of reproductive rights, as a nation, on Tuesday night. Stem cell research got approved, an abortion ban got voted down, a fetal personhood law got soundly spanked, those same Californians who thumbed their noses at us voted down a parental notification law, barely.

I want to be happy for my fellow women, to know that people in red states and blue states both voted “yes” to reproductive rights. I want to be happy for black Americans, because they are living in a historic moment, and it is awesome, it really is, but I’m drinking a bitter cup over here. And other people might not know it yet, but they are too. The decision to deny civil rights to people, to amend the California constitution to take civil rights away, that was a dangerous and terrible thing, and it set a dangerous and terrible precedent. I think it’s something that those people who cheerfully voted “yes” to hate might come to regret later.

This wasn’t about marriage. It was about disenfranchisement, and the willing choice to revoke rights. This was about creating a second class of people. Yes, all things take time, and yes, gay rights take time, and I can’t say that I think that the movement has been perfect, but in this point, I am horrified by this unprecedented event. Never before in history have people voted to take civil rights away. This, people, is why civil rights issues should not be on the ballot. The majority should not be making decisions for the minority.

To put it more simply, in 2000, California passed a ban on gay marriage. In the summer of 2008, that ban was challenged in the court, and the court ruled that under the equal protection clause, that ban was unconstitutional. A majority of Californians just voted to change the Constitution to make it say what they wanted, thereby raising questions about the validity of the equal protection clause, if you can write in exceptions so simply.

Last night, I watched V for Vendetta, which I do every 5 November, to remember what I am fighting for. And when I got to the scene with Valerie Page, I cried. I cried for what we lost, and for what everybody lost without realizing it. I cried because 52% of California voters hate me and people like me so much that they want to tell us how to live.

California, Arkansas, Arizona, and Florida, what you did was wrong. And I hope that you come to see that someday. Barack Obama and Joe Biden, your failure to stand up for civil rights in this historic election was wrong. And don’t think you’re off the hook either, Democratic Party. You sank a lot of money into this election and you gained a lot, but you trampled all over a lot of people in the process.

I saw the faces of 8 supporters at victory rallies, and they were twisted with hatred. It reminded me of those oft-distributed images of parties in the Middle East after 11 September. And it reminded me that we have a long way to go, as a country, if we think it’s acceptable to put morality issues on the ballot, and we think it’s acceptable to rejoice when those ballot measures pass, instead of being ashamed. The only bright spot for LGBQT Americans on Tuesday was in Colorado, where Jared Polis became the first openly gay Congressional Representative from Colorado.

I walked downtown yesterday in the rain and I watched people pass, and I thought “did you vote against me? Did you? How about you?” And I wanted to ask “why? Why would you do something like that? Why would you twist the words of Christ to support hatred and bigotry, why would you rejoice when you crush your neighbors’ souls? How is that Christian? How is that Godly? What is wrong with you?” 37.8% of Mendocino County voted yes on 8. I’ll bet that I know some of those people. They might be my neighbors, my supermarket checkers, the people who drive by while I wait at the light on Laurel in the rain. And they apparently think that I am not a person. Not deserving of the same rights they have.

If you are one of those people who voted yes on anti-gay legislation, and you read this in its entirety instead of clicking away, I have two words for you: fuck you.

Je pense a toi aujourd’hui, mon ami.

Jusqu’à la prochaine fois.

It’s that time of year again. Did you hear that they are thinking of changing 11 September from “Patriot Day” to “Giuliani Day”? But seriously. I’m never really sure what to say on 11 September each year, but it seems profoundly disrespectful to say nothing at all, to pretend that nothing is happening. It’s an event which is still fresh in the American (and global) consciousness, in part because there seems to be a deliberate effort to keep it there. I can’t say whether that’s right or wrong, because I wasn’t around for other groundbreaking moments in American history, like Pearl Harbor, or the Kennedy assassination, so I don’t know how people responded to those events. Maybe some of my older readers would care to weigh in on that.

As Keith Olbermann, one of my personal gods, pointed out, using the 11 September attacks as a political tool is, quite simply, revolting. This is not a day which should be remembered in cynical political moves, it’s a day which should be remembered for what it was: a blow to the fabric of American society.

That sounds a bit hyperbolic, but it really was. For the first time, Americans really understood that they were not inviolable, and that some people out there are very, very unhappy with the United States. It was a hard lesson to learn, and I wish we hadn’t learned it the way we did, but sometimes we don’t get a choice in these matters. Seven years ago, we learned something the rest of the world was already well aware of, in the most brutal way possible.

And the days following illustrated the ways in which Americans really can unite and get together, when we put our minds to it. I heartily wish that our emotions hadn’t been played upon and used for political purposes, but it really was rather remarkable to see how people pitched in to help when the chips were down. Unfortunately, within months we saw the invasion of Afghanistan, and a flurry of anti-Muslim sentiment, and our reaction to the events that happened that day ended up just making the rest of the world hate us even more.

And I have something to say about that.

I’m all for hating America. America, the country, has done some pretty hateful, awful things. But, please, don’t hate Americans. I know you might think that some of us deserve it, but we really don’t. Individual Americans are certainly worthy of your hate, and, believe me, they’re getting plenty of hating from other Americans, but don’t hate us as a collective, because, if you do, you’re turning into something just like America, the country.

America, the country, hates Iraqis because they live in Iraq. Hates Muslims because Muslims did this in the name of Allah. Hates Afghanis because they come from Afghanistan. But Americans don’t. Oh, sure, some do, because they have been told to, and because they are led on the apron strings of their political parties and the media. But most of us really are honestly good people, and I really do believe that, even when I am arguing until I am blue in the face with someone who disagrees with every core belief I have. Americans who voted for George Bush in 2004 honestly thought that they were doing the right thing, just like Americans who volunteered in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina thought that they were doing something right for the world.

If you hate America because of how it responded to the 11 September attacks, join the club. If you hate Americans because of how our country carries on its business, you’re letting the terrorists win, and I mean that in a sincere way, not a rhetorical way, because this is exactly what they wanted. There’s a playground fight going on here, and a lot of effort is being put into making people hate Americans, and making Americans hate other people. Personally, I think we can rise above that. This is a country where a lot of awful things are going on, but you know, there are some good things, too. And while it would be wrong to pretend that the bad things weren’t happening, to stand by and do nothing, it’s also wrong to ignore the things that are going right, like communities that work together to help people in need. Like people who believe that this country can be brought back from this.

America, the country, is out of our control. It’s in the hands of a few wealthy and privileged people who are making decisions for the rest of us, and most of us don’t agree. Americans, though. Americans still have a chance.

Please, help us fix our broken country. Bite your thumb at the manipulations of governments and help us build a better world. I think that’s what most of the people who died sven years ago would have wanted.

Even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day, doomed to repeat itself in an endless circle. Ouroboros, omphalos, the water falls behind, the water falls before. Tick tock says the clock, tick tick tick, counting down the seconds, counting down the days. Time becomes a loop, loop becomes a time, time loop becomes a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day. Water falls behind, water falls before, searing hot and blistering cold, repeats itself.

…when the living is easy.

Summer is one of my favourite times of year, which is why I’m wicked excited that today is the summer solstice. Although summer has been creeping up over the last few weeks, there’s something magical about the longest day of the year which reminds me of a key turning into place, about to open the doors of summer. Summer is awesome because the days are warm and long, and my friends are back in town, and, at least for a few weeks, I can feel 16 again, only way cooler than I actually was when I was 16.

I note that my first river day last year was 28 May, and I have yet to go this year, which is definitely something which needs to be remedied. I assume that when Tristan comes out a little later this summer, there will be some rivertime happiness going on. There’s really nothing better than a day at the river, especially after a long ramble through the woods:

Summertime is also, of course, PARADE TIME.

And fruit o’clock:

Happy Solstice, everyone.

My father brought some strawberries by the other day, freshly picked from his garden. Apparently several days had gone by since the last time he picked strawberries, so he got quite a haul, considering that he doesn’t have that many strawberry plants. They were red and still warm for the sun, and he said “here, eat one,” and handed it to me, and I did, and it was good, red all the way through and juicy but not dripping, and although it was a tad too ripe, it hadn’t quite reached that strange sour stage that strawberries get to when they are allowed to sit too long on the plant. And then we talked about the travesty that is supermarket strawberries, and he suggested that I wash his before eating them, because “they might have been pecked a bit.”

Last year, I wrote, in reference to Father’s Day: “I always think that it’s rather preposterous to set aside a single day of the year for appreciation of fathers.” And I stand by that statement. In my world, every day is father’s day, because not a day goes by that I don’t think of my father, and I tend to call him or see him in person every few days, because I am fortunate enough to live close to him.

I know that different people have different sorts of relationships with their parents, as evidenced by a lively discussion going on right now at the message boards I have been posting on for almost 10 years. We’re a cantankerous family now, and the topic of Father’s Day came up, and the results were explosive, with some people writing very wistful, sad things about their fathers, while others lambasted them, and the wannabe hipsters like me derided the day as a cheap, Hallmark holiday.

Discussing this later in Top Secret Online Scrabble, one of my fellow posters said “and I really love Father’s Day, Hallmark holiday that it is,” and I responded “I unabashedly love my father,” and went on to say that neither of us is very emotionally demonstrative, and it’s true. When my father showed up shyly on the porch with his strawberries, we had a silent wordless exchange in which we said everything that needed to be said without getting all maudlin about it, and that was that, and everything was good, and now I am eating strawberries chilled from the fridge, with sour cream and brown sugar, a favourite summer treat of my childhood.

But maybe my friend is right. Perhaps being emotionally demonstrative is an important part of life, and, as she pointed out, for those of us who aren’t very demonstrative, Father’s Day provides a nice excuse for doing it. Her father, she told me, keeps all of the Father’s Day cards she’s made for him, and that reminded me that my father has all of my baby teeth squirreled away in a drawer somewhere, and that in turn caused me to wonder what I will do with those particular artifacts when the time comes that they are my responsibility.

Maybe I’ve been reading too many books about dead people lately, and getting all morbid, but sometimes I think about these things, and I wonder how I would feel if my father leaves behind no physical proof of my love for him after he is gone. While the power of intangible love is indeed great, and I know that he knows how I think of him, perhaps, this year, I will go ahead and spell it out, just to be sure that we’re all on the same page here, strawberries and all.

I recently came across a concept which I think sums up this website in a nutshell. I’ve often struggled to explain what this ain’t livin’ is, since it sort of defies categorization. It’s a soapbox. It’s a personal journal. It’s a sandbox. It’s a collection of reviews. It’s recipes. It’s adventures. Most of the people I know who maintain websites have sites that fit into neat categories, like collections of poetry, or writing about food, and sometimes I envy them for their clear, even messages, their loyal readers, their sense of purpose and focus.

I crave order and neatness, and am sometimes horrified by the sprawling disorder which is this website. Every now and then I attempt to codify it, to contain it, to control it, and within seconds, it seems, it’s oozing out the edges again.

And then I read about the silva rerum.

For those of you not up on your Polish history, a silva rerum is a sort of family chronicle, a massive diary kept to keep track of family history. But it’s a little more complicated than that. A silva rerum or sylwa has quotes, poetry, keepsakes, copies of important documents, notes about finances. “Chronicle” really is the right word to use, because a silva rerum is like a repository of all of the information which a family thinks is interesting, important, or amusing.

These journals were kept largely by the Polish nobility, and thanks to some very dedicated record keepers, we can get a fascinating slice of life out of various medieval chronicles. We don’t just know how much a peck of grain sold for and how many serfs these people had, we know what their friends thought about them, what the priest said on Sundays, the order they planted their crops in, what their coats of arms looked like.

Many span across multiple generations, including entries from not just the family members, but honored guests and friends. In a silva rerum, you can see shifting fortunes and the changing face of Polish society, and I think that’s pretty amazing. The thought of keeping a multigenerational chronicle, though largely for internal use within the family, is pretty daunting.

Silva rerum is, of course, Latin for “forest of things,” and that, I realize, is what this site is. It’s a forest of things which can be viewed alone, or as a whole. While most entries stand on their own, they also form a collective narrative about the person who writes them, even if I don’t write much about my personal life anymore.

It pleases me immensely to finally have a phrase to describe what this site is.

“What is it, exactly,” someone will ask me, and I will say “a silva rerum,” and that will be the jumping off point for a conversation about Latin, and history, and journals. I doubt this site will endure for hundreds of years to be examined by future generations, but I do like the thought that, in a way, it is me. Myself, and my forest of things.

I don’t really have any words of wisdom or wit for you today, gentle readers. When I struggled to wakefulness this morning, I didn’t really know what I wanted to say, or how I would say it. I thought about talking about the resilience of the human spirit, how we are able to rise about the things that crush us. Or about telling you a story about someone I knew once, in a time which is beginning to feel very far away and long ago.

I think I will leave it at this: I remember. I will always remember.

I will remember the water on stone, and the water on sand.

I will remember that things are often tenuous, if best. That not all buds bloom. That subtle scents should be greedily absorbed in deep breaths while feel like they are gashing your chest open.

I will remember to look up into the eyes of the sun, for the temporary tingling pleasure of firing rods and cones.

I will remember threads of footprints on the sand.

Today I remember Adrian Burkey, for he is no longer alive to remember himself.

To visit an old friend who is dying is to be reminded that life is fragile and fleeting, while you sit awkwardly knowing that every moment is goodbye. Is to see someone reduced to a shadow of their former self, and to feel bitter that this will be your last and most enduring memory, frail bones jutting from irritated, dying skin like someone is dying from the outside in, dark, sunken eyes which follow but do not see. To feel skin which is so fragile that you are afraid of tearing it with your touch, to sense increasing lightness and to strive to speak normally while every cell wants to scream, to beat the walls in frustration, to run rather than to face reality.

To see an old friend who is dying is a sacred obligation, and to be able to visit when he can still realize that you are present is a bitter honor. To know when you turn to go to the door and raise your hand limply to say goodbye that you will probably never see him again, not in this lifetime, and to wonder whether the end will come quickly or whether it will drag on. To see the end coming slowly is to know that death is not noble or purifying, but torturous and cruel.

To meditate on death is to be reminded that we are never finished, never ready, always resistant. Yet, there is a bitter cup which waits for us all.