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| 58 Years Ago...
58 years ago today, in the middle of a sunny morning in Amsterdam, Holland, a young Jewish girl, who had been living in hiding for 2 years, was arrested along with her parents, her sister, and several friends. She was shuffled about to various concentration camps for the next 7 months until she and her sister, Margot, died of typhus in Bergen-Belsen in early March of 1945.
This train is bound for glory, this train,
This train is bound for glory, this train,
Piss and blood in a railroad car,
One hundred people,
Gypsies, queers and David's Star,
This train is bound for glory, this train.
I first read her diary when I was 13, the same age at which she began writing, and I remember to this day the swirl of emotions that filled me, sadness, confusion, outrage and loss, and it wasn't just the diary, of course, it was the context.
This train is bound for glory,
This train gonna carry my mother,
This train is bound for glory,
This train gonna carry my father,
This train is bound for glory now,
This train gonna carry my sister,
This train.
My History teacher that fall was Mr. Bosch, and he had made a special effort to make us see the Holocaust as a real event that had happened to real people. We saw films of the death camps (for which our parents had to sign a permission slip) and read accounts of those who lived and died in them, and then, with the backdrop of all that was going on around her, we read her diary.
Measure the bones,
Count the face,
Pull out the teeth,
Do you belong to the human race?
I'll tell you what, we were a morose bunch of kids for a while. Although she wrote much about the war and her life of hiding, what affected me most was how much like mine her thoughts were.
Wondering about her place in the world, where she would go and how she might live. The contrast between beauty and ugliness, between what is right and what is wrong. Hope, despair, love, friendship, and all written from that uniquely adolescent perspective that sees the world as something new and amazing, and first begins to ask the big questions.
Here are the questions,
Here are the answers,
Stacked like wood.
Her diary was heavily edited by her father, the only one of those who hid together to survive, and he excluded much that she wrote about her mother and about her friends, but in 1995 an unabridged version, nearly a third longer than the original, was finally published.
This train is bound for glory now, this train.
She dreamed of being a journalist and of going to Hollywood. She worried about her appearance and wondered about love, and, as the new edition shows, she struggled with her developing sexuality and was critical of her parents loveless marriage. She thought her sister was the pretty one and the smart one, and more than a hint of jealousy shows through. She was a teenager, just like me.
Here are the questions,
Stacked like wood,
Here are the answers,
Here is potential gone for good.
Anne Frank was only one of a million children under 16 who were abducted and murdered in the Holocaust. Her diary ends two weeks before her capture by the Nazis, and so in contrast to many of the memoirs that are out there, it isn't about the death camps. It's about life. In it she represents those million dead children and through her writings she made every one of them real.
Lyrics: Indigo Girls, This Train. | | |
| Wherefor art thou, Eudaimonia?
Sorry to be a stranger (or stranger than usual, anyway) lately. I've been busy working corn harvest (which I will tell you all about soon!) and getting my old (77 Chevy, nothing special, really) pickup running and suddenly realized (last night about 1am) that I hadn't blogged for a while, so I wrote this long blog about something which I'm sure you're all dying to know more about (farming, where food comes from) and then Xanga crashed my x-tools window (which I was foolishly and lazily using instead of Notepad) and I just said, "Gosh darnit," and didn't try to do it all over.
But I thought I'd drop you all a line and say, "Hi," and get rid of some of these parentheses that have been building up around here ( ()()))()())()()(((()) ), as if I don't, they drive my cat (Sweetiepie) crazy!
I did change my quote though. | | |
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"A cheap and evil girl sets a hopped-up killer against a city!"
Roll my tape
Ooh, ooh, ooh
Thirty days...
Anyone doin' that one?
I'm doin' that one
30 days in the hole
30 days in the hole
30 days in the hole
all right all right all right all right, yeah
Chicago Green, talkin' 'bout Black Lebanese
A dirty room and a silver coke spoon
Give me my release, come on
Black napalese, it's got you weak in your knees
Sneeze some dust that you got buzzed on
You know it's hard to believe
If you live on the road, well there's a new highway code
You take the urban noise with some dirt with poison
It's gonna lessen your load
30 days in the hole
30 days in the hole....
OK, I smoke pot. In my younger days I was accused by someone, "You don't just smoke pot, you preach it," and I suppose there was some truth to that, but today I just smoke it.
For the last 30 years or so, I've smoked pot most every day. There have been plenty of days I haven't, such as when it was unavailable (pot will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no pot!), or I was broke (see previous parenthetical comment), or had to do something very unstoned (like getting married), and there was a 5 year stretch when I quit everything (and I mean everything, drugs, booze, meat, junk food...I felt pretty good actually, very light and clear), but pretty much I get stoned everyday.
My favorite time of day to get high is night, actually. I love to get high and drive around the residential streets and look at the houses and fantasize about the lives going on behind the curtains (not in a perv way, well...not usually), or count how many houses are lit by nothing but the dusty blue glow of a television, all the while listening to Janis just tearing the blues out of her throat...
"It's all the same fucking day, man!" -Janis
...or sit in the Wal-Mart parking lot and watch people come and go with their prizes in the Stuff Race (Hey! I got more Stuff than you!)...
"One big family of billionaires and child laborers!"
Or sit in front of my computer and read blogs, write blogs, write other shit, look up things, steal, err download music and software, play with images...
"My Last Haircut"
Or listen to music and let my mind drift into the lyrics...
"Bombay Calling"
So why do I get high? Well...shit, it feels good! It opens up something inside me that feels happy and warm and accepting and creative and cosmic and spiritual and nostalgic and deep and timeless and insightful and...well, yeah, it feels good.
I write a lot when I'm stoned and most of my blogs are written that way. I don't know how to talk about creativity and being stoned, as I wouldn't say I'm more creative when high, but that the creativity flows better that way. There is a place I call The Stoned Zone, where I get so focused and intent on what I'm doing that the rest of the world just isn't there anymore, and that's when I can write for hours, and turn out some pretty fair crap if I do say so myself.
"But aren't you just escaping reality?"
1. Yeah, so what?
2. Thank Goddess, yes!
3. Whose reality? Yours? Tammy Faye's? George Bush's? Fuck, I hope so!
4. No. Being stoned is just as real as not being stoned.
5. Everybody's reality is relative, this is mine.
My daughter knows I smoke pot but I don't smoke it around her. I don't hide it either, but I just don't feel it's appropriate to do it in front of her. I have talked with her about drugs (and booze and love and sex and all that stuff), but I've never encouraged her to use or not use, I've encouraged her to be smart about it, to make up her own mind, to beware of addiction and addicted people, to be aware of all the downside as well as the upside, but in the end I don't think it's my place to decide for her. The biggest thing I pushed with her about drugs (and booze and love and sex and all that stuff) was to wait, and I certainly feel different about her doing any of those things now, at 19, than I would have when she was 13, but not because of the thing itself, just her ability to handle it. She's always been a "late bloomer" about most things, so I've been lucky that way. I believe that everyone's life is their own business in most ways and if I've done my best to teach her to make good decisions and to deal with the consequences of her mistakes, the rest of it is out of my hands. My parents were very anti-drug and really came down on my ass for using them (and for wearing jeans and for listening to "that damn-crap music," and having long hair and...) and it didn't have much of an effect, if anything it probably pushed me to do it more, so I don't know that my lecturing or lack thereof would have had much of an effect anyway.
I've been busted 4 times for marijuana, including once for felony possession with intent to sell (charges dropped due to a bullshit, warrantless search. The judge actually laughed at the arresting officer's claim that loud music was evidence of probable drug use) and once in El Fucking Paso, Texas for three half-burnt seeds in an ashtray (which is why I swear to you that I will never in my life, ever go to Texas again).
I figured once that I've spent probably 20 or 30 grand over the years on pot (would be a lot more but when you're dealing, hey, free weed!) so if I would have saved all that I could have bought a BMW, well a cheap one, big fucking deal. People spend way more on all kinds of useless crap (like BMW's) over the course of their lives, I spent mine on pot.
You really should read Cakeface's blog about the legalization (or lack thereof) of weed in Canadia, as that is what prompted me to write this. I haven't tried to go into all the political bullshit re: weed as I just wanted to talk about why I smoke it. I will say this though, in response to the latest round of propaganda (young kids mouthing lines like, "I killed a judge," or, "I helped a terrorist buy weapons.") from the The Ad Council,
"I helped a poverty-stricken, third-world farmer oppressed for years by murderous, US sponsered, right-wing dictatorships put food in his child's mouth."
And that's just as valid a statement about drugs as anything else. | | |
| Me and Women.
(In General)
Women are a big part of my life. I grew up with 5 sisters and no brothers. In fact, going back 3 generations on my mother's side of the family I have only 4 male blood relatives, a cousin and my (deceased) grand and great-grandfathers, all the rest are women. Yeah, they marry men, but they only have girls. I have one child, a daughter, which is exactly what I wanted.
In the last 25 years I have had only 1 close male friend and probably 20 close female friends. Even as a child, and not including my sisters, nearly all my playmates and friends were women.
My doctor, lawyer, therapist and massage therapist are all women. Until recently I worked as a nurse and nearly all my coworkers and all my bosses were women.
I like women way better than men. Women are cool in a way that men just aren't, to me anyway.
Me and Women.
(In Relationships)
Was over on delphine's site and took the quiz...
What Kind of Relationship is Right For You?
Well, that one nailed me. And yeah, I do tell women up front that I don't intend to change much, but it seems that as much as they give lip service to accepting that (But why would I want to change you? You're perfect! That's why I fell in love with you.), we usually don't get too far down the road before they decide that i need some slight modifications, or reformatting, as underheart would say.
I think sometimes I should have a Relationship Disclaimer, so before we get too far along...
No, I'm not going to quit smoking pot.
Yes, I am going to spend all day reading this book.
No, I am not going to get a dog.
Yes, I am going to keep and spend time with my close, female friends.
No, I'm not fucking her/them.
Yes, I'm going to play the music that loud.
No, I don't want any more children.
Yes, I really love you.
No, I'm not going to prove it by giving in to thinly veiled criticism.
I suppose the above is the reason I tend to have relationships with younger women. I don't think I'm trying to recapture my youth, as I don't think I ever lost it. Younger women just seem to be more flexible in their thinking and appreciative of living free, and that's a big thing to me. I think there's a big difference between maturity and intolerance, but for most people the two seem to go hand in hand. Fuck, my ex-wife listens to Rush Limbaugh (and believes) fer chrissakes. I never saw that one coming!
I guess it's also that I have large parts of my life that are, a) mostly interior and have little contact with anyone else, and, b) separate from each other and from the people involved in them. It seems this is a real confront to women.
Case in point, while going out with a woman, I was taking a modern dance class (Yes, really but that's a whole 'nother blog) and she was,
1) Not interested in dance,
2) Bothered by the fact that I was spending 6 hours a week with Spandex-clad women, and
3) Threatened that I was talking about, interested in and devoting time to something that didn't include her. Literally, as in...
Her: "Why would you want to spend so much time doing anything that doesn't include me?"
Me: Speechless, "Ummm..."
I still haven't thought of an answer to that one that would have pleased her.
Lest you think me uncaring or totally self-absorbed, let me say that I am a great lover, and I don't mean sex (err, I don't mean only sex!), I mean all that goes with it; I love surprising her, I'm complimentary, creative in expressing affection, willing to accept her family, more than happy to do housework, pay my own way, ...'likes sunsets, long walks and travel,"...Sheesh, this is starting to sound like a personals ad...but,
No, I won't bail your sister/best friend/ex/ out of whatever jam they're in.
Yes, I am going to wear jeans and a T-shirt.
No, I don't have enough books.
Yes, I do want to watch Casablanca, again.
No, I'm not obsessed with The X-files, just focused.
Yes, I think you're beautiful.
No, you're not as beautiful as Ingrid Bergman. Fuck, she's dead! Get over being threatened by it.
The best relationship I've had in the last 5 years was with a 25 year-old grad student. She was open minded, independent, energetic and had enough of a life to let me have mine. Where we came together it was great and yet we each had plenty of friends and interests that didn't include each other so that we were never bored into expecting the other to keep us amused. If I didn't have a daughter who needed to be close to her mother, I'd be in Peru with her, right now.
My ideal woman is one whose life is full enough without me to live without me, but choses to live with me. As abominable as the sentence structure is, I think it makes sense.
Odd fact about me...If I could wish and make it so, I would chose to be female and a lesbian. I don't think too many men would wish that and I can't imagine a woman wishing to be male and gay, but maybe I'm wrong.
PS I don't mean to imply that it is only women to whom these various relationship criticisms apply, most guys are just as bad, or worse!
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| WOW!
I didn't just get a letter, I got a work of art! I mean I am sooo special! This way-cool Xangite chicky sent me a wonderful gift/letter/booklet that she made and I am just blown away. As Krazy Kay would have said, "Fuck me, Loretta!" Of course she said that about a lot of things, but the point is...
Here is the recipe, using common items found around the office for...
Making Someone's Day
First assemble the ingredients. If you're at work just pull open your desk drawer (viewers at home can play along with the Home Version of Eudaimonia! Sorry, not available in stores) and you'll see...scratch paper w/old company memos on the back...WhiteOut, yellow highliter, pens, pencils, stapler, that kind of stuff. Right?
OK, now open your brain (required), reach inside, and you'll feel...imagination, artistic talent, a sense of humour, friendship, sweetness, that kind of stuff. Right?
Now take about 2 cups of the brain stuff and put it in a large mixing bowl.
Slowly stir in 16 pieces of scratch paper.
Add one quarter ounce KGB, cleaned of stems and seeds...no wait, that's my brownie recipe.
Let the brains and paper mixture sit overnight in a cool, dark place. When thoroughly chilled, pull the paper from the brain stuff (be sure paper is completely coated), and decorate with equal amounts of imagery, coolness, poetry, sexiness, humour and sweetness. You may add half-naked hula girls at this point, if desired.
Seal with staples .
To serve, put in a medium sized baking dish (or envelope), and mail.
Serves one. Your friend will be amazed!
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