I shall keep an eye out for a sea for you, but it looks like mostly creeks and the Pacific Ocean. I drove by one sea on the way but it was named “lake.” Look at that lake, would you? said the Mormon, Simply all full of salt! Tis a miracle of heaven!
Tis no bummer to desire nowhere, I think. Or at least, tis not necessary. Nowhere is a good where, it demands a full listening. It’s the resistance we carry that makes the abyss so uncalm. Surrender may be, I think I am coming to this, the only way.
Once again reminded: Life takes, to paraphrase the aforementioned Al Swearingen. That is the one constant.
Try not to forget that.
I won’t pretend to hold a particularly sophisticated political philosophy, nor would I presume to feign ignorance to excuse my many blindspots & biases, the fact of flaw I take as given. Regardless, this past few weeks there was very little which gave me cause for encouragement besides the mainly diasporic (of my own geography) voices of the women I look to as mentors to my heart. I name them here casually other than their given only as I keep them much close in admiration but also not wish to be the shouter of names so much as my own grateful sentiment—
& so there is the woman
who is my mother. On so many potentially untrivial things we find cause to disagree, but that her insistence in politics leans on the bedrock of the ear. There is no useful politics, she holds, without we are listening. I can do nothing but grow in this understanding. I can feel nothing but gratitude for the constancy of her love & strong example of leadership within her community & empathy & action in favor of those in need.
& so there is the woman
I at one time named to myself the Dusk. The qualities of her I have been considering are her devotion to immigrant communities & her insistence on challenging the brains of those near her toward answering the immediate nature of their political realities. She is relentless in her kindness & a brilliant dreamer of dreams.
& so there is Blue,
who organizes for Planned Parenthood & who has helped children learn to be together with animals & who gathers the words of other women as they confront their planetary natures. She is the most poetry of any human I have yet known. & though she is already a healer, she also strives to a perfecter relationship with the unity of body & mind & guiding others toward that end.
& so there is Red,
who looks through science & art & poetry toward the better understanding of the sexes of the genders of the people toward the people—one to another, the many to the many. She teaches me precision in my contemplations. She teaches me acceptance from within. She examples the act of responsible discourse & the value of a good walk.
& so there is White,
& I cannot avoid the coloration, not is it skin deep, but as light galactic I think. She is ferocious in her cause toward compassion. Patient with ignorance. Unafraid to air her fears if it will help another see. Unwilling to accept the current narrative—in any spectrum of politic—of our nation.
& so I am realizing
I can write the names all night, & hope that in my stalling here it is not a sign that the list is near an end. What I mean to impart is I have been of late—as many—stewing in quiet dejection over this cloud I consider to be passing through our midst, the most convenient name to give our cloud is Trump. But, of course, this is not the name of the cloud & nor did it just now arrive & nor will it have gone once the man has gone. It is a momentary name for something very old.
Understood on some level there is work to do & there is hope to hold to, yet my stewing remains—as I’m sure for many for many for many the stewing the isolating feeling remains, but it has been the observable honesty & unwavering commitment of these women (& more & more & more) to the walking of a walk (and by this I do yes mean a march here & there & apparently all the damn-over, but I also mean just the walk itself of head-high, willing-to-admit struggle/unwilling-to-allow the struggle to dissuade) that has filled my heart with hope for the long darkened path that so obviously looms ahead.
As such & in such a frame as that there is somehow, without my having invited it in, a joy to find.
Every time I have thought of Friday, I have also remembered Saturday. & each time remembering Saturday, I go in love again with my planet.
& so I do not often march.
But today, in this hot little corner of Texas January, I did. I did not voice much, but I listened much. I took notes from leaving my bungalow & walking the miles to City Hall & from City Hall into the city & from the city past the Jailhouse & past the Jailhouse down the lane and on into the end of that walking & into the continuing of the walking & we continue I think a good walk.
I know not for sure what value it holds to have noted.
But I have noted & wanted to share. & probably I mean to share this on the blog of the blog of the Primates, but this letter is mainly to you, & I hope it remains relatable in another place, but mainly & really it is to you:
[field notes on a women’s march]
**watched the thing [inauguration]—
There seems nothing to note at the moment
that could benefit any thought about
collective governance. More at maybe
It was hollow
I was hollow
I heard Trump wanted tanks
& kind of wish he’d got ‘em.
Heading to stand with the women. Frazzled of brain (me) but moving of feet. A heart towards next—
Hornets’ nest hangs tree limb over Broadway walk
Tower of Americas hangs in
Unhurried feet yet fleet
I come to throw my lot in with these women
Blue & Red & White:
Blue as in the West of
red woods white
Red as in the white Midwest
White as all light
jazz as fuck
the rio & the gulf
Who hold the heart of my head
Making up what wisdom
there is to touch
in “we” & “will”
& where I throw my lot (mother, sister, other)
the best of those whose love is greatest
whose insistence everpresent ever present
whose compassion teaches
there is no better “here”
there is no later time
to do the working good
I throw my lot in with them
the lot I’m thought I’m lotted
could honestly do no better
Still I cannot bring myself into a “stand against,” an anything
Only the great “is” of another way
[City Hall on Military Plaza
Far from Mall on Washington
& nearer to the “wall” of ill of will
Tower of Americas hides behinds
a luxury hotel]
Shade of oaks in hot January
Acorns & humans in the moss of gentle grass
“Men of Quality Don’t Fear Equality”
“The Future is Female”
“Our Rights aren’t up for Grabs”
“Muslims for Justice for All”
“We are =”
This body leans against an oak
These bodies are present
A quiet joy resides/presides
Sparse police presence
11 bike cops
& two cruisers
they are leaning against
the stucko walls across from hall
playing on their phones to ground
cop at the cruiser bites into an apple
little one in a yellow wreath
shirt reading “love wins”
this body leans against a tall old oak
people who don’t use their legs to walk don’t use a sidewalk—are only seen as disadvantaged because our environment is designed to cater otherwise—nobody remains able their entire lives
Considering what moves out of this moment—the “next”est of things maybe.The we the I that waits to heal (an act). Yes we walk in show to symbolize our walking, walk in order to have it said we walked to show our walking. We walk to say it said our walking were for good & to recall the together of our walking good how many walking else around the round the round of earth around.
in this later now
when we are alone again
& it is cold & dark & worrysome & difficult to remember, well, there was a walking that we walk still we walked & walked & walked among the walking; worthy of our walking there are all of these, these humans here, I remember & will remember it as such & such & such is the hope is the hope
is the hope
“Narcissistic Personality Disorder: Look it up”
Crowd does the crowd thing pressing in to gaggle like as geese
Taking audio of the speakers at the steps the speakers at the steps who focus on shared principles & wages at the hotel & hotels in public park & NSA backyard contract. Woman whose head is covered cannot be heard for half her speaking & by the time the thing is fixed I wish only to hear her all of it, she is the heart of the moment in this we. Weaves together past & present struggle in this now of now of now of America the now & before. Insistence upon equality does not appeal to fear. Does not overpower the moment purple. No slogans. no platitudes. Just a quiet collective heart of education to touch. & I do not know her name.
Medina in a white shirt looks like a statue smiling overrighteous politician. Posing for photos. Politician. How do we stay close? Avoid the photo op?
Woman in the Tower waving flailing arms & screaming “Trump!” & nothing more.
“We love you!” “We love you!” I am trying to show her that I mean it. Because I mean it.
Past Market square—onlooks like to skipping stones, dangling a foot in, bored
Elder couple wet of eye, fist to the grateful sky
By the jail of coiled barbed wire
a disembodied voice cast down
What’s going on out there!”
We try to explain, he’s not hearing
“No! More! Mass incarceration!”
They are waving from the stoops along W Martin
Drones taking profiles
Writers exchanging information
& I am not elated nor inspired.
& maybe just the sense of the weight of the walk of the weight of the moment of the path that is uncertain & thirsty & together
“It is our duty to love & protect one another.”
all my fractured full of Love,