autumn

Tonight there is a harvest moon in the sky, a sharp-edged disc of light hung against the cold velvet of late September. Out there underneath it is a sleeping world. Ringing the low slung hills are wreaths of thin fog, the creeping kind that will disappear before the sun has fully ripened. I want to walk among it but am too tired, and too afraid of the stirring souls in between things.

I came home late and the moon's midnight glow sharpened the objects around me, sharper than daylight, much sharper than memory. The moon is a great leveler; everything is equal beneath it, where color and familiarity have been stripped and the world is frozen in silvered relief.

This autumn I'm thinking of the impermanence of things, of people and emotions and promises and dreams. This way of thinking can be dangerous; sometimes, it knocks me off balance. I grasp for things I can rely on; of course, these are always inanimate objects and words. The weathered hills around me, rubbed smooth by wind and sea air. The sea air itself. How seasons continue to grow and fade, each with hallmarks unique to themselves. Autumn, for instance: its hallmarks are often symbolic of death and yet so many beginnings sprout in this season. The blinding, suffocating wide open expanse of summer is tempered by a bright chill in the morning air, and heavy, extravagant moons. The smell of crisped leaves and the dust they leave behind as they twist and fall to the ground; the reaching silhouettes of slowly thinning trees; trailing pumpkin vines whose bright, wrinkled blossoms unfurl with quiet abandon before quickly gathering themselves up and in for their death. There is nothing quite like the smell of cold. It is sharp and clean and comforting, and doesn't languish in the lungs and veins like the melting warmth of summer air.

And there is the ocean. I'm drawn to its indifference, its dismissal of human suffering as it revels in the wake of the moon. On this coastline a roiling strip of foam lines the crumbling rock face to remind us that we do not know what struggle means; that we should, instead, fall into the lullaby of the ocean's thrum and roll and fill our hearts with the meaning of sound and smell alone. Feel the swell of sweet relief when we abandon the chaos of analyzing and worrying and remembering. Breathe and be content. That is what makes us human, after all.

I had this feeling when we met like a willow had touched the ragged
surface of an algae-faced pond and sent clean ripples through it.
Now we're settling, dust after the trail has been blazed.

terminal.

Lost and wandering in the wilds of this small adventure
they walk down sidewalks and kiss beside dry and dusty fountains.
They pretend to have money but share their plates of food.
The laugh at people and they make love and they share secrets
under the face of an indifferent moon

You weren't very interested, she said.
I was but you weren't looking, he replied.
You must tell me: Why do you stay with me,
when the whole world, and a glorious sun,
and the admiration of a thousand lovers,
and a girl who doesn't cry all the time, await you?
she asked, and folded the blanket they shared.
Picked up a shirt; halved and quartered it;
watched his face contemplate pasts.
I don't know, he replied. Except that sometimes
your laugh is a cage I mourn to leave the
beauteous comfort of.

The dangerous comfort, she thought.
The ending.

Death and Morality, or, The Huge Bummer

After a tipsy debate at the brewery last night-- or rather, upon listening to two guys hash out the meaning/non-meaning of life, again-- the only bits I can remember are those regarding death, murder, and morality, and the theory of choice.

The question was whether or not any of us could take a life. Naturally, the conclusion was that none of us wishes to kill anyone, and that we all hope that if we found ourselves in a situation where the possibility was presented, that we hope we choose not to. Choice was the key factor. The whole discussion, really, was about choices. But today I find I keep coming back to the topic of death and morality. 

My childhood best friend was kidnapped and murdered by a mentally unstable criminal who'd "slipped through the cracks", as they say. It took two months and 4 days to find her body. Just 45 miles north of her home from where she was taken, she was left near an abandoned, rusted paper mill cluttered with wildflowers and rattlesnake grass. You can see the mill from Highway 101, it's so close, yet if the man who'd killed her hadn't come forward, her body would likely have never been found. The area surrounding the mill is a black hole of carelessness; it is easily overlooked, nearly invisible, on long forgotten land visited only by animals and travelers' dust spinning off the highway. Now it is a shrine to missing children all over the country and world, decorated with wilting stuffed animals and the fading pages of letters written to the disappeared and dead. It is an echoing mecca of grief, from a pilgrimage made by heartbroken families with no where else to go.

And It is a constant reminder, to me, that I will never understand the world or humanity enough to absolutely, definitively, know what I am capable of.

Before my friend's death, I wasn't sure what capital punishment was. I didn't understand the meaning of either argument because I was a child. When she died, I had only the reactions of those surrounding me and of strangers to gauge what it could mean. I observed her mother, a stalwart no-nonsense and kind hearted person, become inwardly shattered, quiet, with a terrible grief that was too deep and terrifying to look upon. The only conclusion the mother could draw was that there was no point to killing the murderer of her daughter-- because her daughter was gone. That was the only truth she could see. What was once there no longer existed, though her heart and body and mind could not understand it fully, and never would. To take another life had absolutely no meaning. 

I observed her father-- who'd taken my friend and me to Disneyland just five months prior, which was among one of the last times I saw my friend-- abandon his former self. Her father was a open wound, his anger a weapon slicing open every darkened corner to find answers that would never appear. He fought outwardly. He made his grief malleable and marched onward with it outstretched before him, presenting it to congressmen, the president of the United States, the world, knowing absolutely that this man who'd murdered his daughter should die-- because she was no longer there. What once existed was gone, poof, just like that. His heart and body and mind couldn't grasp it, and never would. To take the life of the man who'd taken his daughter's meant everything.

Then there was the public. There were bizarre, fringe reactions, like women who wanted to marry the murderer, people who were convinced her father had her killed, people who blamed her mother because she had left a window unlocked. I remember strangers approaching me at vigils and burying my head in their bosoms, weeping for me, praising "The Lord", and I had no idea why. I remember many of my friends not talking to me because I had some kind of invisible mark upon me, now that I had known someone who'd died so sensationally. The farther people are from the core of any situation the clearer they think they can see things, I learned. The dividing lines of the public separated opinion into three easy pieces: Kill the "monster"; don't kill the "human"; it isn't "our" decision either way. But then there was what was going on inside of me. In my twelve-year old brain I felt myself becoming a "monster". 

I began having dreams that I was killing people. It was always someone I knew and hated, someone who existed peripherally in my life, and occasionally someone who affected me directly. One was a man who'd hit my sister. One was a man who had touched me at school. One was a man who'd whistled at me when I walked down the street-- a grizzle-faced white man old enough to be my grandfather. I dreamt that I stabbed one in the head with a pencil, in one ear and clear through the other, head soft as a birthday cake. The blood was hot on my hand and arm. I dreamt that I pushed one down a dark stairwell into a basement full of water, and tossed a live wire down after him, watching with a clear, clean sense of peace as he convulsed to death in the tepid black liquid. But I also dreamt that I met my friend's murderer, and I sat on one side of a glass panel while he sat on the other, and all I did was stare at him, my heart trying to beat through my chest, my throat aching to scream at him. I was frozen, deaf and dumb. I didn't know why.

I came to all sorts of conclusions in the aftermath of my friend's death and all of the emotional fallout that followed. One was the realization of how precious my loved ones were. I was a goddamned walking Hallmark card. But I was quiet about it, because I felt that the realization was something delicate, an egg or a porcelain teacup, too fragile to be flaunted.

One was that none of us has any control of anything, at all. We have choices, and hopes and wishes, but there is no control. This stemmed from my new-found conviction that "god" as it was explained, mostly in Christianity, was a tragic sham. I observed it used as an excuse not to deal with grief, but to handily tag a child's death to "a reason". That angered me, even as a twelve year old, because of course there was no reason for her death. I found that it dishonored her memory-- and our own grief-- to try to find one. 

One was that I didn't understand grown-ups at all.

And, finally, I came to believe that I was capable of killing someone; not murdering, not intentionally taking a life unprovoked. And not easily; not without the possibility of unquenchable regret, or anger at myself, or disappointment in my own weakness. If someone was trying to kill me or hurt me badly, or if someone was trying to kill someone I loved, or if a grown human was trying to hurt or kill a child, I couldn't say I wouldn't kill them. Simply because I believe people are, in a way, two beings: That which rationalizes and tries to make sense of things-- the "self", the "ego", always trying to rise above the animal for reasons we can't explain, human reasons. And then there is the animal, who simply feels things, physical and emotional. Hunger, thirst, exhaustion; fear, love, hate, grief, joy. There is no explicable reason, and there shouldn't be. Because in end, as we lay dying, there is no choice, that is all we are: dumb, wonderful, tragically emotional animals. 

Chasing the mystical chihuahua

An unpleasant question arose one afternoon as I sat in my favorite coffee-trough. Attempting to enjoy every hard earned second of my break, I savored the 20 minutes in a patch of weak sunlight, sipping something overpriced and hot. Somewhere in the middle of this, the wooden doors, swollen with autumn damp, swung open on creaking hinges to let in the silhouette of a woman with a purse the size of Sri Lanka slung over her arm. I recognized her immediately. She was a woman I'd known for years as a local savvy business owner. Of a calm, cheerful disposition, her personality often suggested a level head, a Calamity Jane no-nonsense social attitude mashed together with Mrs.Piggle Wiggle. She came in from the cold with rosy cheeks, quietly stylish in woolen garb and a knit beret, and said hello to the many familiar faces around her. And then it happened: A movement, minimal and furtive, dizzily signaling from the zippered opening of her bag. A dog's head. Small, shivering with fear and doubt of his own safety, round brown eyeballs protruding forth on the verge of doing something indecent. It's snout huffled and puffed, and let out a sneeze that resembled an earthquake. "AWWWW!" proclaimed the masses.

"Oh crap", proclaimed my brain.

The question that followed was this: What do you do when a person you'd formed a distant but highly respectful opinion of suddenly arrives upon the scene exhibiting a habit so foul as to make you wonder at your own personal judgment? Do you just remain sad and try to move on? Do you confront them, ask them things like, "Whoa, why are you trying to harsh this nice mellow I've formed around our distant acquaintance?"

I do not hate dogs and I do not hate dog-lovers, but what I hate more than anything is the assumption that everyone wants to be involved with another person's pet, at any given time, in their some of their most singularly personal environments. I can only assume that it stems from a desire to have something to parent, and that, as with most good parents, they believe fervently that their child/animal is so adorable and perfect that no one could think it offensive.  But it is offensive. On two levels, which I will describe thusly:

1) Gross, dude. Animal dander, sneezes, and residual poops abound in the most microscopic portions as to make the average admirer sure that they don't exist. But they do. And they float around and land on things, like the surface of my coffee and the lining of my nasal passages, and on the table where my hands land and pick them up and put them on things that might end up in my mouth. Fucking immensely gross.

2) We do not all love your dog like you do. (Is this a new phenomenon, or have people who failed at parenting and/or letting go always replaced their humans with little malleable creatures who can't speak/talk back?) Try this: As a rule of thumb, in most of the world, 78% percent of the population will not look at you Sri Lankan-purse dog and think, "Wittle cwootie pie!". Rather, they will think, "That thing eats its own shit".

Some food for thought.

Being a woman is not easy-- that has been said before. But there is no other way to begin this story. As I am not a man, I can only assume-- but not expound upon-- the idea that it's tough being one of those, as well. But, being a female musician and a feminist, while attempting to remain a fair-and-balanced judge of people and situations, adds up to a soupy brain mix resembling cartoon cels on an editing-room floor. There are no easy choices; there are no fair breaks, and everything beings to look the same after enough agonizing. At the end of the day, one step forward mirrors a step back on another, equally important path.

When I volunteered as a part-time co-host for a songwriters organization, I was excited to be a part of it. I loved being surrounded by musicians who were so dedicated to the songwriting craft. I was especially pleased to meet female musicians breaking away from the expected (e.g., cutesy back-burner participation in some dude's band or project) and stepping up to bat on their own. It's exhilarating to meet women doing what I long to do, and who are just as capable of taking care of themselves in their endeavors as all of the men seem to be, despite the fact that there are ten men to every one woman, and the confidence and ease of the men generally outweighs the women's by a great deal. I was proud to be witnessing all of this and to be helping get it all under way in Sonoma County. But I'm ashamed to admit that that cutting-room brain is not always swept out. It might be the most fatal flaw in how I function: trying to compile all of my observations into some sort of well-researched order that, eventually, collapses into my conscience with a perfunctory clatter, and my once-clear judgments become over-caffeinated, jittery exclamations that burn and slice a bit too quickly and sharply. As happened, it seems, very recently.

The woman who walked up to me at the beginning of the evening was very friendly, and classically Southern. I was impressed with her her ability to exude a sweet sort of confidence in a room full of strangers. That is not my strong point; showing confidence when it comes to performing usually means walking around looking stoically pissed and unreachable so no one talks to me. But she was polite on all counts. Being late, distracted, and irritated by the lackadaisical "Om" bumper sticker traffic I'd just pushed my way through, I was unable to give her my full attention when she said, "Do I sign up here?". All I could do was grunt and grimace and imply that yes, this was where things would begin, but that I'd need another few minutes to set up.

Soon after our brief introduction, I noticed her walking around the room politely asking for help for each step she was about to take: Set-up, song choice, where to sit, etc. From what I observed, this help could only be asked of a man. (And when you are a young, attractive redheaded woman in tight clothes you are bound to be lent many an ear.) Should she sing something happy, or sad? What were THEY going to play? Gosh, were they nervous, too? How does this plug in? Was she doing this right? And of me, the only other young woman in the room, only two years age difference give or take, she had no questions, and she certainly needed no help. Before we were to begin the evening's events, she sauntered up to my side while I bent to a task and barked: "What do you want, sweetie?"

Huh? I thought.

"Huh?" I replied, unsure how to sound, and too confused to be more polite.

"You need somethin', sugarplum? You look TIRED," she pouted at me.

I shook my head, unable to utter words in the face of such confounding superficiality. With a backward glance that exuded territorial hunger, she walked briskly away, and I noticed that she sported rhinestones from head to toe: in her hair, on her wrists, on her long sleeved tight shirt, on her tight jeans, on the tips of her boots.

How to take this? How to keep myself from feeling put in my place? How not to smack her for using archaic waitress colloquialisms to veil a belittling standard (she the empowered, me the weaker subject)? How not to smirk at her obvious desire to have entire audience of salivating younger men and resigned older women? Of course all competitors have an ideal audience they'd like to showcase their anxiety-ridden selves to. I don't disagree that if I were in her shoes I'd know who was going to give more of a shit than others when I approached the stage. For eye-contact directives, naturally.

As a matter of courtesy and because I recognize with how much ease I will jump to conclusions and end up being shamed, I decided she was being kind and, out of her nervousness, had no idea how she was appearing.

And then: The performance. From the speakers comes the monumental swell and build up of layered instruments: guitar, bass, drums, piano, orchestra. Her voice: a beautifully trained, modernly nasal discharge of sound, worthy of no less than a Disney princess. The song itself is a narrative of her friend's grief over the loss of a child. She introduces this story with dramatic relish, a glittering weepy smile Bedazzled to her face. My eye began to twitch with judgmental atrophy. What could have been a heartrending ballad of poetic beauty became a highly polished display case of self indulgent, calculated sadness. With strange predictability a kind of creepy excitement crept across her face. The swelling violins buoyed her shellacked presence; her breast lifts and sighs and pulsates; her hands and facial expressions, like a child beauty pageant contestant, reach and point and sell, sell SELL--no longer the earnest, quiet bearers of grace for the remembered dead. At the end, as the tide of studio music ebbs dramatically, her triumphant, mock-modest grin and closed-eye combo seal the deal with a bow of insincerity so enormous it is easy to miss it-- it envelops an audience quick to appreciate polish; it sustains her beauty and her Southern appeal. She is a Professional. And under her Bedazzaled boot heel the memory of a dead child resides safe and secure as a ticket to Nashville slipped into her rhinestone-speckled wallet.

I judged her harshly. Cruelly, perhaps. I ate with great zeal the poisoned apple of predictability and spat the venomous seeds down her bosom. As the evening came to a close and she packed her things, surrounded by men so eager to help, she aimed her guns at me again. No longer under any illusion regarding her personality, I was not surprised as much as annoyed when she came over to us as we dismantled the stage and said, "Oh, I simply have to help. I couldn't let you do this by your little selves!" and reached for a cord lying on the floor; upon winding it (a full 5 minutes it took her) she lazily held it aloft. To whom, no one knew. Talking to an admiring musician fellow who resembled a frog in appearance and manner, she couldn't look at anyone long enough to relay that they ought to take the cord from her. Back turned, arm outstretched, she waited for a random accommodating gentleman or slavewoman to extricate the offending article and relieve her of its burden. When this did not happen, she look around, alarmed, annoyed, distressed, and shook it at the the nearest man. I took it. She relinquished it without a "thank you". I did not expect one.

a long goodbye

If a grown man did something bad to you as a child, something that put you in therapy for years, that sent you into spirals of fear every time you poked your head outside, and you found that son of a bitch on Facebook, what would you do?

What if, for 8 long years, you spent hundreds of hours in lawyers' offices, deposition rooms, and courthouses; your loving parents emptied their savings accounts and lost sleep and happiness and trust: What if everything came down to nothing but a quiet, unheralded law change that you are restricted from speaking about and seeing that man's pasty, horrible face on a social networking sight "searching for love"? What would you do?

This is what I want to do. I want to learn how to fight. I want to learn how to split melons in half so their mushy insides Rorschach on the ground. I want to arm my body with the knowledge of vengeance, like a madcap heroine in some ridiculous Hollywood Kung Fu movie, so that I cannot lose my weapon on my journey to find this man-- my body will be the weapon. And then I want to hunt him down. I want to terrify him in his sleep, for months. I want him to know, without a shred of doubt, what it means to feel so completely helpless that the very ground you walk on has become your enemy. I want him to be afraid to turn corners and to be in his own locked bedroom and to think.

This world is so terrifyingly upside down, so backwards, for it to allow a man to molest children and then to log onto a virtual networking site 15 years later and search for a woman to fuck, with no mention of who he is as a human being. It's twisted in ways that it should never have become: Lawyers who represent the "good" side are willing to allow this man go unbranded, are willing to falter at the final stretch and cow tow to the whims of a judicial system that discourages change. For money.

Our lawyer failed us. In the eleventh hour, this self-proclaimed civil rights lawyer faltered like a spoiled prizefighter and bailed on me, bailed on my parents, bailed on her daughter, bailed on every woman in the world. We fought for eight years to keep this man from being allowed to be around children and now he is on Facebook looking for love.

Facebook has become the giant vanity mirror to Western culture, a masturbation tool that people I respect use everyday, that I myself use everyday, in the hopes that people will find me funny and worthy of talking to. And he is there, too. He could fuck your daughter. He could fuck your sister. He could fuck you-- and there is nothing I can do about it. In exchange for getting our lives back my family and I have unwittingly become the instigators of this man's undeserved freedom.

I dreamed I had the power to make what had happened to me un-happen, and everything was beautiful again the way it is for children. I had these dreams for months until I began to forget small things, like the smell of the air and the pavement and the room where the bad things occurred, where bits of me died in small, imperceptible ways. But the memories of these small deaths within me are still there and I know that, no matter how wonderful my life could become, I can never feel 100% safe again, and I have learned that this is true for many women. They carry it like the would anything they've become used to, something slightly crippling but still their own. A reminder to be aware, and a reminder to be brave.