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I find my rhythm again when I am surrounded by women

When I have been off key, operating at a pitch that does not suit me

Women allow you to be out of sorts and circle back.

There is not a linear line, only ups and downs, swerves and swirls

Where men are excess or austerity

Women are the circling ceiling fan aerating the room

Women are the steady hum of bees

When you meet a natural woman, she is adorned in all her own way.

Not the femininity constructed by man: fragile, hairless, gentile

A natural woman discovers her own form of adornment

Finds pleasure in the morning ritual or flux

Woman may be the Menthol American Spirits cigarette

or black coffee

or seeds sprinkled in a forsaken teapot 

She is scrapped remnants of fabric braided into a long knot

the scavenger, mender, creator

Woman is the waiting place, the stepping stone, the destination

The mother, the destroyer

Woman is the kiss on your brow, the spit on your face, the warrior in her own right, unconcerned with the problems you bemoan to her

Woman is the spider

Forging webs unseen to many, but with a strength and flexibility that is anything but man-made

Woman is to my left and to my right, not the imitation or opposite of man

She stands in the dirt in the loftiest of ways

Poseidon, I believe it is the woman who rules the seas

It is the woman who reclaims me






My throat and lymph nodes are swollen and tender. I’m listening to She & Him on World Cafe. Sonny is at work and every day I am increasingly aware of how miraculous it is to have him and grateful for how I stumbled back in to his arms. 

He gets four teeth pulled tomorrow which is sort of bumming because he was going to go down to the store tomorrow to leave the truck and use it as an excuse to get the engagement ring Suezanne offered.

I’ve got a lot of issues I haven’t dealt with. My education, certain bills, my education, non-career, housework. 

Is it just laziness? Or is that I don’t feel capable. I don’t. Why? 

That’s a question that can be answered tomorrow.


I remember when some night years ago in my sister’s dark green Honda Accord she told me about making a wish on 11:11. And I remember watching some indie film with Glenn Close (Safety of Objects?) where one of the climactic scenes is her saying when you pray BE SPECIFIC. And somehow those proved to be two good things to keep in mind when I spent my lonely, depressed, and sometimes anxiety ridden days catching an 11:11 on the digital clock now and then, on the oven or in the car. And I made some specific wishes. That I wanted to die knowing I had been loved, truly. That I wanted to share a drink on my back porch for nights and nights with the one I love. And as I type this I realize what a hopeless romantic I’ve been  despite mentally being a cynic. I’m practically Nicholas Sparks over here. 

But it’s worked. I share my evenings that are turning colder outside having a drink with Sonny when he gets off of work. We talk and sometimes listen to music. Last night I introduced him to Joanna Newsom and Iron and Wine after he played Neutral Milk Hotel. We cook. We take his grandfather to Church on Sundays. We snuggle; we get it on constantly. Laugh, disagree, make plans, joke and simultaneously complain about the kids.  I am just very grateful. There’s a peace that I feel now.

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Gary brings boxes full of Krispy Kreme to my house from Little Rock. Sometimes I think he wants me to be fat. He says it is for the kids. But they don’t need it either. On Zeke’s birthday no less. So he knew there was already plenty of cake. I’ve had too much meat the past few days. 

I think Sonny’s rash is diet related, an autoimmune condition triggered by diet. But I also know my problems are diet related too. I know that if I was vegan again or something close resembling it. Perhaps only fish and venison, I’d feel much better and look better. And all these little bumps along my arms and legs would disappear. I have to lead by example. When Gary brings doughnuts just throw them out. I don’t want to even give them away. Sometimes I see food as poison. I have to take my health seriously. I don’t feel better. The main focus for me now is to keep moving. It directly affects my blood pressure. Make improvements. Focus on creativity, gardens,learning to sew. Cleaning, organizing. Eliminating shit I don’t need. Taking care of projects. Loving. 

Today: Take direct action. Plan a week long vegan menu and shop accordingly next week.

Being pro-choice doesn’t mean you’re anti-life or pro-abortion. It just means you don’t think you have the right to legislate another woman’s uterus or at the very least you understand that in an often unstable economy where most jobs are in the service industry of nights and weekends (not conducive to daycare hours), and in a culture where women are automatically left as the physical, emotional, and financial caretakers of their children, and child support can’t or isn’t fully enforced that a woman might make another choice. If you are pro-life and you want to see abortions done away with, don’t treat the symptom. Treat the causes. Act to work towards a culture that teaches men that they are equally needed in their child’s welfare with time, money, and love. Help to enact change within companies that allow mothers either set schedules or reasonable amounts of nights and weekends…perhaps daycare options and definitely at least SOME amount of paid maternity leave. Work towards a culture that doesn’t stigmatize people that need governments benefits in order to get on their feet. Work towards a culture that doesn’t make it politically incorrect for a school to teach sex education and pregnancy prevention (along with STD prevention). Work towards a culture that doesn’t even slightly blame women for being raped and doesn’t have to tell women how to avoid being raped but teaches men exactly what rape is and to take accountability over themselves. These are the issues, these are the circumstances that create unwanted pregnancies. It involves so much more than a 5 minute lapse in judgement or a failed birth control method. Being pro-choice simply means recognizing we have so much more to work on .

Papa and Ira

Papa and Ira by tiff85
Papa and Ira, a photo by tiff85 on Flickr.

The gray hairs on my head appeared subtly at first. A novelty. Now, even from a distance, I can see them in the mirror.  They appear as a cooler tone of brown from the bottom up. And when one gets closer and sees where I have bobby-pinned some back it’s easy to see, that if un-dyed, in another year my hair will be three inches or so silver. I noticed that same attitude to gray hair as the female pubescent attitude of awaiting menstruation.  When the first gray ones came in I sort of admired them. Was fascinated with them, interested in how the texture was more wiry instead of pin straight as the rest. Now with their increasing numbers I am still intrigued but it’s tempered with mortality and how that does dampen some things, or at least alter the context.