The Mists of Ideological Time

The League of Ordinary Gentlemen is the sort of blog where thinking folks go to discuss the issues. Sometimes the debate over there reminds me of my father's den, where his students, friends, and folks from our church would come to debate the issues of the day, which in that time were civil rights, politics, and the lessons of history. I was a small child then, too young to take part, but I often listened from the other room. Looking back, it is fascinating to realize how important it was that my family was free to invite people who wanted to discuss the things they felt were important to continuing the right of self-determination, and to understanding the things they may or may not have experienced in their own lives, and so to apply current events to their own search for truth and justice. It was, in short, good preparation for the decade of the 1980s, just to be sure we were aware of the potential of our species to destroy itself. Rational folk won't generally self-destruct, and yet individuals and civilizations do it all the time. How does that happen?

Recently, there was a post at the League that asked a question that brought quite a bit of discussion. (See The Incredible Shrinking Candidate, by Tod Kelly) It was posited that the Republican party behaves as if the "real Mitt" isn't there. By refusing to answer direct questions that are pertinent to his experience and belief, the writer posited that Mitt Romney is hiding his true self. And he wrote that he thinks it's the fault of the far-right wing ideologues of his party and their largely successful efforts to get him to fall into lockstep with their true-believers path, which (he writes) history clearly demonstrates is not the path that Mr. Romney has followed - and that the Tea Partiers should back off. Mitt should be allowed to be Mitt. Essentially the author asked, if the "true Mitt Romney" were allowed by his party ideologues to be truthful about what he really might offer - both his experience as a businessperson, his family values, and his political savvy - wouldn't we like that person? Might we vote for him?

To that I have to say - hogwash. We're seeing the real Mitt. Tod Kelly is missing the forest because he's looking for trees that aren't there, he's looking for substance where there really is only mist. What happens when the mist lifts? The light of day, folks, which shines on the garbage can in the backyard, the front walk that needs sweeping and the grass that needs mowing, just as it all did yesterday. The mist isn't really obscuring anything at all, but we like to pretend that it does, because it's soft and poetical and all and covers up what we'd really rather not deal with at the moment.

Here are the facts: It's clear that Mitt Romney has followed the course of action throughout his entire life that he's following now: that of choosing whatever option he thinks will get him what he wants. All narcissists can appear to be gentle, benevolent gods when they choose - it's part of their charm.

Mitt Romney would be the same paper president he was at Bain Capital, the same leader of the Salt Lake Olympic squadron, the same governor of Massachusetts - taking the road that at the time paved the way toward looking good on paper and in rare public appearances, but disappearing at the first puff of the wind of substance.

Meaning that, voting for Romney as POTUS would mean that his cronies would be the ones calling the shots, directing his paper-doll stance, pulling the strings of his puppet arms. Mitt is the perfect non-candidate. Don't think for a moment that he's actually responsible for anything except carrying out the wishes of the entities filling his pocketbook. He's meaningless and hard to pin down because that's the person he is.

Mitt Romney is the worst kind of person in the world: a classic narcissist who thinks he has a god-given mission to lead the United States (please research his religion, specifically the white horse prophesy if you doubt it), who will always act in his own best interests, and the world be damned. He has delusions of grandeur and believes that he is destined for greatness not only during his time here on earth, but in the afterlife. The shifting sands of his character are ingrained, and have served him well as far as prosperity goes. The thought of him at the helm of the biggest ship in the world means that if he believes hitting that iceberg will land him in heaven's realm, and in the meantime array his family and his own self in gilded heaven-on-earth glory, well then - it's all a part of his god's plan.

Put another way, imagine Mitt Romney at the controls of a 747 headed for the World Trade Center. He'd never hit that building, right? Look again. There's a guy who looks like Mr. Romney sitting in first class holding Ann's hand. They look around and smile, chat up their neighbors, full of charm and class. Then Mitt looks at his watch, and they bow their heads and start to pray. Paul Ryan's in the pilot seat, and he believes that building is full of liberal Democrats, lesbians, and abortion providers. Mitt is smiling and dreaming of the afterlife. No wait - that's actually not Mitt at all. The real Mitt is far away on an island in the Caymans.

Now what would happen? Yeah, I'm joking. Look closer.

Then there is the Tea Party. Fortunately there are other folks who've gone the extra mile to put the naked truth about them before the American public, so I'll share this clip from Aaron Sorkin's amazing new show, The Newsroom, where the truth is told as "fiction."

We can stop this insane bunch of crass, self-serving idiots. We must vote. Take the day off to do so if you must, but do not leave the polls until you have cast your rightful, individual VOTE. I understand that there are some places where it may be difficult to do so. How many have been disenfranchised in the past in this country, through trickery? More than one is too many - but there have been many, many people who were unable to vote because they stood by while this opportunity was literally stolen.

I have seen instances in my lifetime, in the past decade, where voting machines were moved - while voting was actually taking place - from high-minority, low-income, inner-city districts to predominantly white, wealthy, suburban ones so that there was a dearth of machines in the minority low-income districts and an unnecessary plethora of them in the wealthy, white districts; many of those machines were absolutely empty and unused during the remainder of the election. This forced many to have to leave to go back to work before they'd had a chance to cast their votes. I have stood in line to vote while poll workers went down the rows handing out cards and demonstrated how to vote a straight Republican ticket - and yes, there were unenlightened people who honestly thought they were simply being shown "how to vote." I have been there while people who were legally registered were turned away because they didn't have - or refused to show - a "proper ID."

This is America. No one has the right to do this to us. Stay, vote, and don't back down. Don't leave. Cast a provisional vote if you have no other choice. But Do. Not. Leave. Your future, your children's future, depends on your exercising the right to VOTE. Do not let them turn this country into the third world nation they can control, because that is what they want. That is what they believe God wants. They think we are stupid, and they do not respect us or the democracy they were born into. They are misguided, they are armed, and they are dangerous.

Fifty years ago a similarly high-minded group of politically-charged individuals led by a single charismatic mouthpiece spewing venomous hate went after innocent folk in the name of protecting our American shores from "communism." The McCarthy era was responsible for ruining hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives, and amounted to publicly-sanctioned ethnocentrism and racism. This time it's worse: there are dozens of charismatic mouthpieces spewing racism, misogyny, lies, and hate. They assert that our GOD is on their side, and because of that they ask us to doubt our conscience and look the other way while people who shout fear and hate take over our government. They are asking us to abdicate our democracy, and for those of us who refuse, they are doing their damnedest to take away our right to self-determination.

We should know better. Hate is hate, patriarchal control is control outright, and it preys on our fears of that which we do not understand and don't want to admit to our lack of understanding - and we should never allow it to cloud our vision. We must not give in to the claim that it doesn't matter who wins. It matters. We must not abdicate our rights as an informed electorate. To do so will result in the loss of everything our democracy stands for, and will effectively negate our Constitution and our way of life.

Don't let them take over our government again. We probably won't get it back if they do. But don't let this scare you. Let it strengthen your resolve. There is really absolutely nothing to fear except fear itself.

This election season, do not be confused by the vapor surrounding the truth, obscuring the things they really don't want you to see. Step through the mist, pick your way carefully over the rocky shoals hidden underneath the gloom of doubt and suspicion. VOTE.

Further ruminations on the heresy of Mormonism at the New York Times.

The Greening of the Willow

Willows Lit Up by the Sun, Shishkin

So many things come bubbling up this time of year - and for some reason we seem to want to share them all, with someone, anyone, anywhere.  As the sap rises, so does the mind, so does the blood.  We feel a warm breeze, the air is scented with freshly mown grass, we hear birds twittering on the fencepost, we see the sky blue as paint and studded with wisps of cloud; we point and say, "Look, over there. Do you see it too?"  And we are happy for no particular reason. Like Lorraine DiSabato of Hoarded Ordinaries writes, "the simple experience of awareness, communication, and connection is enough."

Suddenly we believe in the simple act of renewal and rebirth.  We are reminded that nothing is forever lost, evidence is all around proving the point.  Indeed, our senses are assaulted with proof.

We move in and out of doors, laundering and airing out linens, boxing up winter's woolens, sweeping out the cobwebs from the corners. Baskets of ripe fruit appear in the markets, our nostrils twitch at the smell of baking bread. We sink our fingers into the warm, pliant earth, crumble in a few seeds, pat the soil back in place, and wait for the soft spring rains to come. New calves stagger after their mothers grazing in the meadows; Venus glows with luminous allure in the heavens of early evening.

Use up the last of winter's baking supplies with these easy cookies. Perfect with slowly steeped green tea perfumed with honey and a small dish of frozen yogurt.

Winter Begone Bars

3/4 stick butter, softened
1 tsp. vanilla
1 tbsp molasses
1 1/2 c. sugars - you can mix white, brown, and confectioner's sugars if you like
1 egg
1 c whole or lo-fat milk

Cream together thoroughly in medium bowl and set aside.

1 1/4 c. whole, rolled oats
1 1/2 c. unbleached flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1/3 c. chopped nuts (walnuts, pecans, almonds or variety)
1/2 c. Ghiardelli chocolate chips
1/3 c. flaked coconut
1/3 c. whole raisins, currants, cranberries (or a mixture)

Combine dry ingredients in order in large bowl, mixing thoroughly after each addition.
Add butter-sugar mixture to large bowl, stir well to mix.

Pour into greased 13x9x2-inch glass pan.  Bake 35-40 minutes at 350 degrees F until done.  Cut into 2" squares.

Variation:  For an alternative taste, reduce milk to 1/2 cup, omit chocolate chips and add 3/4 c. canned pumpkin and pumpkin seeds or sunflower seeds to batter.

happiest of holidays

having a nice evening at home with friends tonite, people are milling about and coming in and out. jason cooked a wonderful venison ham, and we had collards, rice, okra & tomatoes, black eyed peas, cornbread, and that was just the main course. before that we had several kinds of appetizers that people had brought, then shucked oysters in the yard, and afterwards, desserts and coffee.

rachael and i had put in the supernatural season 1 dvds to play in rotation, sortof as background for the evening's activities. like subliminal induction, hoping to indoctrinate friends. before too long a couple of people had actually started watching, and then saying, "hey, I know this show. one of the brothers is supposed to maybe go darkside, right?" and then we all had to sit down and watch ...hee! it's like roofies, see.

if i weren't so tired and this was not a mackintosh am certain i'd be writing something erudite and uplifting. as it is, i can only think about how dark the sky is outside, how the stars shine so unspoiled by city lights up on this hill in the middle of nowhere, how we can hear fireworks from a mile or so away, and the friends who'll be spending the night are laughing downstairs to some hysterical story my husband is telling. these are nuggets of life here at Hilltop, the Borough, in Stateburg. if you haven't been here, you should visit. it's a world away from anywhere else, there is no place like it on earth.

Wednesday i start my new job across the street, as parish administrator for Holy Cross. hey, you cannot possibly beat the commute. plus, crunchy things for my brain.

happy new year, everyone.

amen, and amen.

standing down

I am *not* going to whine about the effect this work stoppage could have on The Show. Stop me if it looks like I'm about to Start. This goes for all future posts until the issues are resolved and the strike is over. (Inside? I'm wibbling alot about this tho', so am certain reminders will be in order.)

At the same time I am educating myself about the issues, I strongly urge us to show strong support for the striking members of the Writers' Guild, and
especially those who are kind of caught in the middle, at this critical time.

I am especially not going to whine about the effect this could have on any of my own writing aspirations. Everything in good time. All things come to good for those who wait. I joined the WGA-East as an associate, and may my membership fees go to buying Lots of Placards and Hot Coffee for the strikers.

Meanwhile? I have six novels in various stages of completion, one in final re-draft, a book of poetry to finish editing, and there are articles and fanfic to be written. None of this is going to pay for awhile anyway, if ever.

I need a list of struck companies, though - to be sure I don't try to pitch a book or write an online article for or to any entity that is connected to any struck company. At least I think that is what I should do, anyway.

This is somewhat confusing for little me. I mean, I have a book that one day I'd hoped to make into a screenplay that would maybe one day become a movie. I assume I can continue to polish that and try to find a publisher. Right? As long as the screenwriting part isn't dealt with until the strike is over?

Obviously I have alot of work to do in any case. I just want to reiterate my support for the Writers' Guild, and hope and pray for a speedy and authentic end to the unpleasantness. I am on their side, and will stay there.

Addendum: Today is Guy Fawkes Day. Somehow there is more than a little irony in that fact.

Supernatural Article at Helium

My article on the series has been published at Helium. Please click & rate it, thanks!

Link to article

Full text of article is below, in case it disappears:

Spread the Gospel

At Comic-Con '07 this past summer, series creator, writer, and executive producer Eric Kripke related to fans the news that his show, Supernatural, came within a hair's breadth of being cancelled after the Season 2 final episode. While this may not have come as a complete surprise, his words had the effect of galvanizing a dedicated fanbase like a Winchester punch in the gut. "Go forth and spread the Gospel of Supernatural," Kripke exhorted.

"Tell your friends to tell their friends," added Jensen Ackles, who plays Dean Winchester alongside Jared Padalecki as his brother Sam. With a team of writers, directors, producers and technicians that reads like a who's who of the science fiction and horror movie genre, including writer and producer Ben Edlund, who worked with Joss Whedon on Angel and the short-lived but critically-acclaimed series, Firefly; Kim Manners and John Shiban, director and writer, respectively, from the X-Files; talented writers Sera Gamble and Raelle Tucker; and Robert Singer, producer and director, who was the executive producer of Lois & Clark: the New Adventures of Superman, as well as producing Cujo, Independence Day, and the TV series Dracula, the team charges forth each week with a heart-stopping, stomach-churning, breathtaking ride with the Winchester boys through the back roads of American myth.

Joined by Jeffrey Dean Morgan, who guest-stars periodically as their father John Winchester; Jim Beaver, who plays veteran demon hunter Bobby Singer; Samantha Ferris as the dedicated and street-wise Ellen Harvelle, Sam and Dean not only take up the challenge of saving innocents from things that go bump in the night, but battle evil in the form of demons, poltergeists, vengeful spirits and horrifying mythical creatures that spring from modern urban legend and ancient religious lore from all over the world. None of this is paying work, you understand. The boys live under the radar as best they can, on credit card fraud and hustling pool. It's all part of the hero/anti-hero premise, much like that described in Joseph Campbell's Hero's Journey. With humor and heady passion, the brothers' journey is a headlong rush into the unknown and unpredictable, where they struggle with almost as many internal demons as those "real" ones sent from the depths of hell. Goaded at first by revenge over their mother's and Sam's fiance's deaths at the hands of the Yellow-Eyed Demon, Sam and Dean followed their father through the American countryside, tracking signs of demonic activity and gathering clues from cryptic messages left on cell phones and in the pages of the journal he left behind. The demonic plague on their family threatens to consume them, as first Sam and then John Winchester fall victim to otherworldly possession.

But here's where Supernatural shows itself to be something more than a mere story: the ties that bind the Winchester family seem to be stronger than death itself. Be it the saving of souls through exorcism or the selling of their own to Satan's ilk, nothing, no sacrifice is too great for this family. And the angst! Oh, the angst. Enough honest-to-goodness real-life conflicted soul-torturing for the most die-hard Oprah fan, this show skillfully walks a fine line between "no chick-flick moments" and the unfathomable yet irresistible enigma of true martyrs. Sam and Dean are at times typical bickering siblings, who band together at the moment of truth to become larger-than-life warriors at the gates of hell, soldiers who will stop at nothing to protect the innocent and those whom they love.

Dean's is a tortured soul; the streetwise elder brother who describes his first kill at age sixteen in detached yet somehow awe-struck terms. He is hedonistic, a smart-alecky wisecracker, whose love for his brother knows no bounds. Unbelievably at times, his tears will flow in honest hope, love and occasionally regret. He is a man of extremes, a risk-taker who moves with calculated precision. Sam, who left law school, raised mostly by his elder brother as Dad was off hunting demons, researches cases on the 'net and stays away from the frivolous pleasures sought after by Dean, for fear of hurting or causing another death either by tragedy or association. Both are formidable fighters and their well-choreographed teamwork in planning and execution are just plain awesome to watch.

The brotherly banter abounds and the two are not above making practical jokes on each other, but nowhere on television will you find a more devoted, intractable and firmly cemented relationship between two characters. The chemistry between Ackles and Padalecki as Dean and Sam is palpable. These two talented actors have created a phenomenon that has inspired one of the more explosive and dedicated fandoms in recent years, causing stats on the Hey Neilsen website to rise 7000% in 24 hours when notices shot through the boards at the CW, LiveJournal, TwoP, and many others to go out and show support for "their show." In addition, the fandom has used websites, email campaigns, and even a charity fundraising initiative, all to broadcast "the Gospel of Supernatural" to the masses.

Their daily lives a whirlwind, few quiet moments exist for these two outside of motel rooms and their beloved '67 black Chevy Impala, a legacy left to Dean by their father that is often described as the "third character" on the show. The car's expansive trunk holds an arsenal of ghost and evil-fighting equipment. Listening to Dean's classic rock cassette tape collection, the brothers travel steadfastly from town to town in search of their next "gig." They pick up clues from newspapers and local tips, then follow them resolutely and skillfully to the ultimate confrontation: be it a Reaper summoned and controlled by a warped member of a religious flock, a genie hulking in an abandoned warehouse greedily sucking the life from its victims, or trying to help a disturbed young man with paranormal capabilities, counteracting the latest threats from an overzealous FBI agent called Henrickson, or even a rabid demon-hunter who is convinced that Sam is the anti-Christ, the brothers thread the needle to find solutions that will hurt the fewest innocents while confronting the demons in their own psyches. This season brings even more challenges in the form of a demon named Ruby who claims to be able to help save Dean from his crossroads deal, and Bela, a mercenary who is in the market for stolen goods -- including some of the artifacts and talismans the Winchesters must use in order to win in the fight to save mankind in the coming Apocalypse.

It's a thrilling, often shocking bloodbath when these two let go in a battle to conquer evil. It's just as heart-stoppingly inspiring when Dean cuts down a victim who has been left to die, saves a drowning child, or Sam places a calming hand on Dean's chest after an especially stultifying close call. When these two get onto a metaphysical level and confront issues of their own self-worth and destiny, it's nothing less than a lesson in the purely redeeming alchemy of human empathy. Each vowed to stop at nothing in order to save the presumably doomed other: Dean having sold his soul and left with one year to live, Sam being possibly the heir to a kingdom of which he wants no part. Each has his own lessons to learn, his own wisdom to share, and demon asses to kick. In this time of waning consumption of fossil fuels and the yawning threat of the end of the American dream, in the face of fear, despair, and the sure knowledge of impending doom, there is in the American psyche an unwillingness to give in to all of this. So perhaps the best thing about Supernatural is the emphasis it places on the preservation of hope, love, and ideals. There are still wide open highways to roam together in a kick-ass muscle car. Saving lives. Hunting things. The family business.

And I, an avowed environmentalist and social activist who not too long ago totally eschewed television, plan to be right there with them every step of the way. Somewhere bound up in all of the work that the show's creators do, there is the timeless theme of humanity's search for what is good, right, and honorable in all of us, perhaps especially the not-so-perfect. And that is an important and worthy thing for television to be doing nowadays. So yes, I'm spreading the Gospel of Supernatural, one of the finest pieces of collaborative art to brighten the universe in a long, long time.

Susannah Eanes writes, dances, bakes bread, tends a flock of heirloom chickens, is mother to five living with her archaeologist husband on an eighteenth century plantation in rural Carolina, and is a total Dean Girl.

The Link Exchange

Wanna exchange links? I'd be flattered. Drop a comment here with your email - all are screened so no one will see it but me - and describe your site. Don't forget to provide the URL so I can check out and see how awesome you are!

Here are a few icons I've made for people to use to link to a bit of earth.

   


If they don't suit your site, please feel free to resize, make your own, provide a text-only link, or maybe we can work together to come up with something.

Thank you for your interest! I'll get back to you soon.

things of note

best i can do today is pass on for your edification & perusal some things i am totally embroiled in & consumed by at the moment... too much so to really comment right now. so much to learn, so little time!

the first time i voted for al gore was when he was running against clinton for the democratic presidential nomination. i was devastated when he dropped out. and i read & actually admit to owning a copy of "earth in the balance." but that's old history.
Emotional Return to Congress for Al Gore

Here's another spin on same:
The Goracle

Go get 'em, Al.

Jim Kunstler has condescended to go round & round with me on some things (notably his yankee ethnocentrism on inhabitants of the southern united states), but when writing on the end of oil, he's right on target. His recent Orion article demonstrates:
Making Other Arrangements

Project Laundry List - National Hanging Out Day is April 19th!

No Impact Man - "A guilty liberal finally snaps, swears off plastic, goes organic, becomes a bicycle nazi, turns off his power, composts his poop and, while living in NYC, generally turns into a tree-hugging lunatic who tries to save the polar bears and the rest of the planet from environmental catastrophe while dragging his baby daughter and Prada-wearing, four seasons-loving wife along for the ride..." You gotta love a guy who jumps in with both feet. Experiential (also called experimental) archaeology at its best.

and alongside that:
The Compact - just click thru and read... and read... and read...

The Forest Stewardship Council's FSC Certified Paper program: or, how to use paper and save the forest at the same time. still trying to figure out how this works.

and last but certainly not least:
carbon offsets - only the latest in the "if i pay enough i can make my conscience cleaner" anti-logic that brought us PDR's, TDR's, and Wetland Mitigation Banks:
Another Inconvenient Truth

elloree

this weekend i was honored to be asked to help out at the annual archaeology society of south carolina field day, held at santee state park, near the I-95 exit. this is an assemblage of archaeologists (duh), scientists, researchers, and modern-day practioners who demonstrate the very lifeskills the scientists write about, the researchers explore, and evidence of which the archaeologists dig up & catalogue. it is a unique event where children & their parents & other visitors can literally help to dig up, screen and examine point flakes and bits of pottery on one side of the park, and a short distance away, actually view and take part in the making of such objects along with a skilled demonstrator. there were also stations with crayons & coloring books, a video tent (showing excavations around the state & interviews with those involved), as well as opportunities to buy books, tee shirts, mugs, research papers, and also to sign up to attend one of the excellent university programs, volunteer opportunities, and other events this state has to offer in the field of self-examination of our own origins. the organization is duly supported and populated by its share of wealthy patrons predominantly residing on the coast, whose agenda of course includes environmental activism and historic preservation, worthy causes all. fascinating, especially when you consider the outsider's view of our measly existence, as evidenced by stereotypical presentations of the southern lifestyle on television and in the news media. i'll refrain from posting links to such uneducated, ethnocentric idiocy (i'm sure you can find plenty yourself, should you really need to), but i am actually a bit grateful for a recent slap in the face from someone i'd otherwise considered pretty knowledgeable on the subject of the downsliding of development trends into the murky waters of greed, deceit and overall tackiness.

sometimes we all need a wake-up call.

last year i felt inclined to start this blog, but without a clear focus as to what i would write about. up to now a bit of earth has had the expressed desire to talk about land use, but no clear purpose or direction as to how to talk about it. howsomever, after the aforementioned slap, and the run of yesterday’s experiences, i think i’ve figured it out.

as a planner, it has been my habit for the past 15 years at least to mentally analyze every settlement, small town, or rural habitat i’ve come across. as i approach such an area, i look for evidence of the inhabitants in such visible cues as signage, pedestrian paths, and architecture. sometimes i can see obvious caretaking such as fresh paint, colorfully vegetated vistas, and numerous happy, or at least contentedly pre-occupied, people. sometimes the evidence is not so obvious.

on the way home last evening my husband, the archaeologist, took me thru a by-way he said he’d long wanted to show me. it was the tiny town of elloree, “where agriculture is alive and well in south carolina, thank you.” according to him the downtown used to be a desolate, angry place with only one claim to fame: duke’s barbecue. he was devastated to discover that duke’s has been replaced by a chinese take-out place. i was delighted to discover that the visual evidence supports the conclusion that it is recently a recipient of main street funding. a planted median divides main street, and sidewalks and seating follow either side. there were plenty of people out, all walking about with apparent errands on their minds. from the visual evidence, the predominant income level seemed to be less than 20K per year, and probably averaged about half of that. also, i saw few white faces. several folks hung about the doorways of this or that eatery or bar, talking together or not, but none of the angry desolation he’d described from driving thru in former years was at all visible. we drove up and down the main quarter, and then retraced our steps back to the intersection with our homeward road. my husband seemed to be holding some happy bit of news to himself –and then he pointed out his secret: there, around the corner about a block off of main street, was a small converted wooden livery stable, the words, “elloree farm museum” painted neatly beside the door in big red letters. hah –so the people were smart, too, and proud of who and what they are. how very cool.

we drove north the short distance out of town, the landscaped yards bordering graceful, slightly shabby early 19th century edifices of the old money-wealth now occupied by silent, single daughters or perhaps a similarly small remnant of the family. none seemed empty yet. here and there were a very few new brick homes in the populist architecture that claims its roots in sprawlivisions. at least here they didn’t seem quite so ugly, but maybe that was the fault of the waning light. as i looked ahead and beyond the yards, there seemed to be a ghostly glow surrounding this north end of town. hubby started pointing, “look, look…” and lo and behold, i then beheld the source of this town’s continued existence: fields of cotton. the scent of defoliant teased our nostrils and we slowed to watch the harvester crawling among the plants, to count the truckloads of what had already been baled, to smile at the workers waving and directing each other there under the rising moon.

a field of mature cotton in moonlight is an awesome thing; its beauty literally takes your breath away. it looks like a coverlet of snowy ermine interspersed with intricate blackwork and bordered and interlaced with the tracery of thick rows of dark trees. the plants follow the curvature of the earth, and are rimmed and intersected by undisturbed areas which follow the local hydrography. while the rows can stretch for what seems like miles, they are carefully planted only in the adaptable soils, common sense prevailing and avoiding the myriad streams and wetlands that embroider and criss-cross like unto a quilt. while we can regret the fact that the fields are not planted (yet) organically, the fact is that it is still quite labour-intensive, although not nearly so much as even twenty years ago. many south Carolinians –black and white –even my age (mid-forties) have told me that they remember earning money in their teenage years picking cotton. we are grateful for the fact that crop rotation and no-till methods prevail, and we know that after the harvest, the dross will be sown in peanuts or soybeans, followed by corn or perhaps rye or winter wheat, and the cycle will continue at least into the foreseeable future, as long as people wear clothes, use hospitals, and write on paper.

so. what will we do when the oil runs out? we will adapt, and move on. as humans, that is what we do –best, i might add. here in the hinterlands, far from the rot and waste of the urban landscape, little will change. it is what is, and will be. as i said, not too long ago harvesting & planting was done by hand. it is still in recent memory.

work, in the end, is a prayer, or so says baha’u’llah. i think this is an apt observation. prayer goes a long way in negating the need for therapy. work negates the need for expensive exercise programs. books, conversation, handwork, and games all negate the need for television and other forms of electronic stimulation. the occupations of our minds and hands from previous days indicate that we already know this. we look forward to celebrating the fruits of honest labors: the candles that our friends made of deer tallow and beeswax light our path, we keep clean with the soap that we barter for sewing with other friends & neighbors, woolen garments ranging from the decades-old lovelies Jason brought back from ireland to the scarves, shawls & caps amazingly crafted by Rachael from her own drop-spindle & knitting needles. too, the doe in the freezer will be (among other things) Christmas dinner, through the winter we will dine on the turkeys from our woods and the chickens from the lower pasture, the pecans from the grove, jam from the grapes from the arbor, fat carolina road-stand peaches canned along with sweet memories from warmer days, sauce from the tomatoes that still abound in the greenhouse. rosemary, oregano, mint, and thyme hang drying in the herbary. from our field-roving hens we still collect at least a few eggs every other day, even as the days grow shorter and darker. winter sets in, and our activities lessen. it is time for rest, relaxation, contemplation, the enjoyment of the fruits of warm weather labors, and we will reflect and write about whatever comes to mind, as we await the turning of the seasons and the arrival of spring, when the cycle begins all over again.

so i think henceforth, this blog will catalog evidence of the fact that we are already ready for the future. in fact, we welcome it. we are thankful for what federal and private funds enable small localities to spruce up their appearance, but by and large, i see no evidence that any of these places are dependent upon the hand-outs, or upon the oil economy. they have a vitality complete unto themselves. many are too poor to have partaken of the glut of wealth from the past two decades. and still they flourish, in the simple, honest, and steadfast ways evidenced by time to be most enduring. fruit of the earth and the work of human hands. i see it much too often, and so instead of bemoaning the twilight of a bloated existence, i am singing and dancing. i am praising it to the skies, and my children and friends with me. amen.

even so come, lord jesus.

duality

i've been recently taking the time to review this blog and have realized that --aside from fixing the broken image links (now having been done!) there may be a bit of clarification in order.

i live in two houses, actually, and have for over 2 years now. this is necessitated by the rather complicated custody situation with my three youngest angels and the fact that my heart --and my husband --remain employed elsewhere. the two houses are located about 1 1/2 hours apart. neither, sad to say, is my full-time residence. this situation, a ridiculous one, really, isn't likely to change anytime soon. my children's school is in one state, my husband's work in another. so we have our "cottage" (also known as 'the hidden house,') and the caretaker's house on the "estate" --and i commute about 2-3 times a week between the two. on days i don't have my children, i am of course in south carolina. on days i do, i am in north carolina. i have a place to do my work at each, and in the words of one of my friends, i certainly am "quite adaptable." it helps that i have always considered home a place of the heart, and not really tied to any physical location.

i also refer from time to time to my small hometown in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, and also to a favorite past abode, located in Summerfield, NC, where I still maintain friendly ties.

also, traveling back and forth between our two houses has given me an opportunity to observe firsthand the revitalization --some might even call it rebirth --of commerce on at least two very small carolina backroads towns. i'll try to write about those in the context of southern development as a whole very soon. they do demonstrate some surprises, certainly... and perhaps are more indicative of the rebirth of southern culture as a whole, in spite of what some wise-assed yankees may think. there are dualities to be discussed in the realm of "the real south," and "the south that is visible from the casual vehicular vantage point." but as far as that goes, if what you see from the interstate keeps you assholes up nawth, so much the better.

but as to my home duality: i hope this helps to explain a bit about the actual situation of "home" as written about in "lawn no more," "backyard view," and "travelling mercies," vs. the location of the power outage i was writing about in "recommended reading." i realize i haven't actually written about the estate as "home," and yet, most of the writing in this blog has actually taken place there, and all of the pictures of scenery, trees, and landscape have come from there. the two are very different homes. both are rural, one much more so. and yet, the fact of this duality is not a bad place to call home --in itself it defines home as restful refuge, and not place. but to be more clear in the future i'll try to put a reference either to "the estate" or "the cottage," somewhere in the text.

more --and hopefully clearer --ruminations soon.

a 21 year reunion....

Go to the Image Gallery



has it been 21 years... really? since i rushed home after the store closed at hancocks fabrics in tampa to see the show that was to transform everything from network tv to crime dramas as we knew them?

well don... you haven't aged a bit. tonite was the airing of the first episode of miami vice. you looked like such a ***baby***!!! so young, so fresh, so immoral!!
when i remember my innocence of the years when miami vice first hit the screen --it makes my eyes tear up a bit. i remember how gratified i was that my favorite actor from "the rebel" had actually been rewarded with the type of fame due his talent. unbelievable, yet so gratified.

it wasn't the armani suits, the deep tans, or the testarossa. i promise you. it was the green eyes.... and the doubt, the betrayals, the agony that kept us tuning in week after week. it was watching you deal with things that made our miserable lives seem human again. it was seeing you come out of it and go on... again, and again. it was like nothing we'd seen before... how lovely to see you'd aged well. my 14-year old son could not believe this was the world before cell phones, before the internet... and it looked cool, and splendid. and i wanted it back, i did.

last night i watched "hot spot," "long hot summer," AND "word of honor," just to refresh my memory. you are just as fascinating as you always were. i don't care what anyone else says.... we'll see the new re-make as it appears to be a must-see, but nothing can change the fact that you were always my muse, my hero, and the one that caused me to take up my pen to write in the first place. it's high time i finished the novel i started way back then, don't you think?

simple gifts

it's been way too long, and i have no better excuse for not making any entries other than time, or the lack of it. here i'll share a photo made by a friend of myself and my youngest, enjoying a jaunt into an earlier, simpler time. all my life centers around my children and my work; i have little to share other than this. as it should be.

i will try to write more often.

molasses in winter

over the past year i have been getting a lesson in just how slowly the wheels of the legal system roll. most of us have absolutely no concept whatsoever of how excruciatingly sluggish things can be, how a mislaid file or the failure on the part of some courthouse employee to update a particular judge's calendar results in months of delay in getting justice.

i wish someone had told me it would take this long, because i wasted over 3 years in attempting to reason with the person in question before even consulting with several attorneys, all of whom were glad to take the case & encouraged me to take the person back to court. i finally agreed to do so in november of 2004 and hired an attorney. we have been through several mediated sessions and have been given no less than 6 court dates, all of which have been 'postponed' for one reason or another (see above). i am hopeful of getting a date for late march. i have no assurance this will happen, but am assured that 'this will be resolved and you will see justice done. yours is a special case and we just have to roll with it and be patient. these changes do not occur overnight.'

at this point i am just trying to keep my sanity. this blog started out as an attempt to do just that, to give me something else to do to distract me from the very problem of which i speak. at first it was a good distraction, but eventually i decided it wasn't a good idea to post my thoughts about what is happening in the world of land use online. the (unrelated) nature of my court case prevents me from being specific, but i need all the prayers and assistance i can get right now. i have little energy to do anything other than pray, and have for weeks. long ago i gave up trying to pursue a career because of the distractions and energy involved in pursuing the matter. but i must press on, i must continue to find the energy every day because there is absolutely nothing more important that the three little souls whose well-being depends upon it.

backyard view

"Summer is over, autumn beckons. How wonderful to have that forced upon me when waking. How wealthy am I, not to be insulated from my world, to be aware of the activity of my neighbors who are different from me." --blog post from Sept. 06, 2005

Since that post I have wanted to share a photo of the view from my backyard. Here it is, and of course it does not do justice to the reality. It was taken during this past weeks' fine weather, when the sky told why in glorious terms it is called, "carolina blue," and the air laid soft upon my skin as I hung the morning's laundry. The light is always particularly golden, as it is so many places in the less populated areas of the south. The place is quite lively all on its own, it has no need of man's intervention to make it a "happening place." This morning, for instance, the particolored leaves are a veritable orchestra of sound as they continue to shower the earth with tickets to the show in gold, copper, and russet. The light glitters pure and shining upon them, ensuring none is slighted, each is picked out with its own special limelight, silhouetted against the shadows of the dark treetrunks. The stubble field, sown in rye, is as green as the course at Augusta, and the cloudless sky is a deep periwinkle blue.

None of which would translate to film, I imagine. I have neither the skill nor the patience of our dear friend Fred. And I am not sure even he could capture the sense of all the movement, which is what makes it so alive. So you will have to be content with words, or come for a visit.

about blogs

interesting! the politicos have found out about us:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/csm/20051027/ts_csm/ablog_1

it appears that those who make the rules by which society operates have discovered (again) the power of the truthfully-shared word --mountains are climbed, bibles translated, kingdoms will fall --and of course, it follows that they will attempt to assimilate our methods into their whole. well, good luck. i hope it's like trying to pick up spaghetti with their toes. they will be like a pack of penguins, swooping down upon a fish. in trying to suck out all the goodness --read "power" --from this big fish called the internet, a multitude of keening voices, flopping with life and abundance, they will struggle with it and attempt render it down to nothing more than the slimy residue of what it was. and then they will pronounce it "harmless," and move away, back to easier prey, from which they can again suck out goodness and power. the education system in america, for instance. your gas tank. non-corporate agriculture. hopefully that slimy residue will be more indicative of what was left in their pockets after we escaped back into the sea, and they are none the wiser.

a very old and dear friend of mine, whose youthful creativity was long ago assimilated first by the US Marines, and then by Corporate America, upon learning i had a blog, commented as to how he wouldn't attempt it. "too much potential downside from airing my non-work-related opinions!" and i quote. darb, 'twould serve thee right if i aired those lovely poems from 11th grade --paeons to coming of age in the 1970s all, they are the picture of the severe hormonal angst that will be recognized by any 16-year-old --right here for the world to see. i still have them, and did not throw them away as you directed so long ago. the reason, of course, is because i saw that youthful exuberance going away as you grew up; i would no sooner destroy a field of diamonds. one day you will thank me, but probably not before you are very old and very grey.

don't worry. they are safe in my writing chest. i'll give them back to you when i visit you at happy acres rest home for former corporate shmucks. until then, live happy, and do more of that bmw racing stuff --get out & see the world, breathe the fine air in a state south of the mason-dixon line once in awhile. it's good for you. and it will be good for the world, should you decide to share more of that fine, acerbic but perceptive wit with us again in the form of the printed word.

here is why we blog:

http://www.fragmentsfromfloyd.com/archives/004270.html#comments

it's a fine and frightening thing, blogging is. you wear your essence on your sleeve, so to speak, for the entire world to possibly see. thing is, most peeps don't see it. there really aren't that many of us in the scheme of things. plus, you have to read in order to get anything out of a blog. given the state of education today, that could certainly mean that over time, blogs will mean even less. so what? it's a powerful thing, that blank screen of light --much more so, even, than the printed page. i hope we are headed for some sort of shake-up, where we as a world will discover the value in communication, in honesty, in truth, in caring for what we are given. perhaps it is so that as one comment to the blog above-referenced mentions, you have to leave something alone for awhile in order to be able to see what it means to you. i've not blogged in over a month, my friends' erstwhile comment above giving me a bit of pause. is he right, after all? i'm not certain. i know for him it could be quite risky, corporate america being much more comfortable with the mind they give you than the mind you bring in the doors. but he's a smart guy, i think he'll figure it out. after all, it was one of those things he fought for, too: freedom of speech. freedom to share what you're thinking with someone else. ideas are born, they spread, they sometimes take on a life of their own. scary, scary stuff.

maybe we are getting ready to see "a new birth of freedom," again. how exciting! after the dregs of political disaster are dumped out on the ground for all to see, we get up, we move on. i cannot imagine that we could sink much lower than we are right now and still be called a civilized society. maybe that is the point --nature herself is quite uncivilized. the balance of civilization vs. rampant chaos. how can we assimilate all that? we can't, we mustn't. we learn to live, and let live, to learn, to teach, to sow. over and over again. the world is only in balance when there is a liberal amount of chaos interspersed with all attempts to control it. the boat, after all, works as a transportation device because it floats upon the ocean, not because it beats it into submission, or ignores the current.

past precedents

Today through Saturday I have the unique opportunity to assist as a docent and guide at the re-enactment of the raids of Gen. Edward Potter at Spring Hill, near Stateburg (Sumter), South Carolina. Dr. David Decker, professor of history at USC-Sumter (SC), has over the past two years done a remarkable amount of work in preparation for the first re-enactment of the late April 1865 skirmishes between confederate and yankee around the Stateburg area.

Overview of Events this week for schools and the public:

http://www.uscsu.sc.edu/special/pottersraid.shtml

Official Potter's Raid Site:

www.pottersraid.com

In my own preparation for this event I have been brushing up my rusty knowledge of the roles that southern women played both before and during the War. Some recommended resources:

Books containing a significant amount of primary resources reprinted from journals, diaries, letters and period articles:

The War the Women Lived: Female Voices from the Confederate South, by Walter Sullivan

Motherhood in the Old South, by Sally G. McMillen

Within the Plantation Household, by Elizabeth Fox-Genovese

The Plantation Mistress, by Catherine Clinton

Mary's World, (studies of the journals and letters of Mary Motte Alston Pringle), by Richard N. Cote

Your Affectionate Daughter, Isabella (studies of the journals and letters of Isabella Torrance Reid), by Ann Williams

Journal of a Residence on a Southern Plantation (journal & letters with post-war commentary and memoirs), Fanny Kemble Butler

When I can Read my Title Clear, by Janet Duitsman Cornelius

Reprinted period journals, diaries, letters, with or without editor commentary:

Growing up in the 1850s: the Journal of Agnes Lee, Mary Custis Lee deButts, ed.

Diary from Dixie, by Mary Chesnut

A Blockaded Family, by Parthenia Hague

The Diary of Clarissa Adger Bowen

Sarah Morgan: the Civil War Diary of a Southern Woman, Charles East, ed.

Journal of a Secesh Lady: the Diary of Catherine Devereux Edmondston 1860-1866

Before Freedom, When I Can Just Remember: 27 Oral Histories of former South Carolina Slaves, Belinda Hurmence, ed.

Long Ago at Liberty Hill, by Mary Ellen Cunningham

Studying the ruminations and outpourings of heart in these pages paints an overwhelming picture of a society's reluctance to say goodbye, of holding on to the past, of carrying bits of remembered happiness forward into the future, and a reticence toward accepting blatantly necessary change, whether out of respect and love for what was good, or out of a lack of understanding of how to separate and preserve the good from the bad. Something we've been hearing alot of in the past week. Mayhap there is something to be learned here.... I'll be listening for it, this weekend.

stop gaps

well, he's finally made the effort to at least visit... and sorrily, was typically unprepared to rise to the occasion. even republicans are pretty disgusted. oh, waitaminit, i AM a registered republican. i tend to forget that, since i voted my conscience --that is, for the democrat-- in every presidential election since i was old enough to do so. i used to vote republican in local elections, but haven't been able to bring myself to do so for several years now. this used to be the party of lincoln. now it's the party of fascist trolls.

on tuesday this week i called my local red cross office, and asked: what can i do? i have hands and time to help. i can pack boxes, collect supplies, answer the phone, fold blankets, what? the lady who answered the phone asked me to hold a moment, and then another lady came on the line. 'thank you,' she said. 'we do not need any assistance at this time. there will be a meeting on saturday. perhaps you could come then.' (i'm thinking: saturday? that's 4 days from now. people are homelesss and dying --what do they do until then? i suppose this is what w. meant by 'be patient.') she took my name & phone number and said i would be called. well, it's saturday morning just after 9 a.m... haven't heard a thing. (4:00 p.m. update: still nothing. guess i'd better do something else. am checking the local options at church and salvation army. any suggestions you've found will be heartily welcomed.)

since we are not allowed to travel to the disaster areas directly, so many of us are wringing our hands and crying: what? what can i do? expending energies that are so much needed elsewhere. i don't use much a/c, but raised the thermostat from 79 to 83. the weather has been cooperative & breezy, i don't need it anyway so it doesn't feel like a sacrifice. all week i've only gone out for necessities such as school and work, coasting the car as much as possible to save gas. fortunately this morning i did see this well-meaning post on harry shearer's blog, containing two addresses to which we can send things most needed by the victims. the kids are eager to help. we've packed boxes of my nice clothing, shoes, things the children have outgrown or don't need, books, toys. Fortunately, I did find on this page two addresses for folks who are coordinating in-kind donations:

Harry Shearer: From my Friend Keb Mo

i am still nearly speechless with disgust and disbelieve in our administration's hubris and ineptitude. i read what i am certain is a true prophecy in van jones excellent post here:

Bush's Role in the Drowning of New Orleans

one commenter on jones' blog says (paraphrased): 'of course tons of money will pour in to N.O., the city will be re-built into a resort of million dollar homes and billion dollar hotels. economic prosperity will once more flower the land. the only people who won't be happy will be the displaced poor.' and i have to echo, yes, yes. i know this, in my career i have seen it, and look, guitar georgie just admitted it!! (please note where the White House Press Office released this --to the Financial News section. this is not unintentional).

isn't this how it goes in our 'free' country? i have to put 'free' in quotes because we all know freedom isn't free. someone always pays. and look who's paying now:

http://aolsvc.news.aol.com/news/article.adp?id=20050902065409990026&_ccc=5&cid=842

yeah, and the home of the brave.

personal geography

i posted the bit yesterday and the poem the day before, dredged up from past notebooks where i jot down observations from my everyday life --some of which come out as poetry.... from time to time i may do that as opposed to actually typing something as it comes to me. sometimes i made more sense in the past than i seem to do these days. sometimes it seems i have no words beyond what i've already said.

i am looking for commonality, for validation that my original design fits the reality that i became. it is an exercise common to the planning process --evaluate, check your reference points, ensure they are still valid, go back and re-evaluate if necessary to ensure you read it right the first time. before i was a planner i was a cartographer; the same process is used in mapping. as i make a garment i am also constantly checking to ensure fit and that the pieces are going together smoothly (and that I didn't stitch the underarm to the back piece!) why not examine my own life in like manner? it occurs to me that perhaps i am in my own 'life-crisis' period --i refuse to admit to the 'mid-' prefix that usually accompanies that phrase --because more and more i feel a need to re-visit who i was before i became mom, planner, seamstress. wifey. perhaps it is because i feel in many ways i forgot who i was before i got here, and in so doing, did lose something. i was a pretty neat kid, actually. always confident in the face of adversity. up to the challenge. where in the world did i leave that? as i type, i realize i know the answer, and it is not for this semi-public venue. the challenge now is, to remind myself of her value, and encompass that within myself once more.

the choices made will hopefully continue to be useful. looking back at your life from the vantage point of middle age (there! i said it!) is like looking upstream, from whence you cometh, hopefully not at a wall of water that recklessly propelled you, but more simply, at a map where you could see the points of assimilation, where the creeks came together, where you took on more than yourself to become the river of your own being. this smacks of belly-button contemplation, something i abhor. i will look no longer than necessary, to plot the reference points, and move on.

a purpose

i am defining the hows and whys, the direction of this venue. i have never traced the path of my life, and it is possible that by doing so i will find answers to questions that haven't been answerable heretofore. and thus perhaps i will be able to find more answers, such as, where does my world go from here? and are there any answers i can give to the worlds' questions?

the census bureau has published figures that show that our county made the top 25 fastest growing in the states. dubious distinction. and the commissioners are so mad about it they have shut down the development community --taken their ball & gone home, so to speak. i am laughing up my sleeve, being a child about it. i take my joys where i find them, and do not apologize.

the needleworker in me sees a parallel between those beautiful landscapes and some of the wonderful older neighborhoods in my community: they are like embroidery upon the canvas of the rural landscape. not so the newer absurdities. they defy description; i cannot reconcile them with anything useful or good. they are merely manifestations of greed.

but i digress. first, this is about me, it is a lesson i need to learn. i am a private person, i shut down descriptions of myself even in my own mind. but something pulls me onward to disclose this biography, and make it parallel with my search for meaning. i will post next my favorite picture of my younger self. it has always said more than i could say with words. i remember being shocked when i first saw it, and a little embarrassed. certainly it showed more vulnerability than i cared to admit. but damn, i looked good, didn't i?

late and overbooked

it is the wee hour and i should be abed... however, as is my habit anymore, it is late and i am overbooked. i am going to bed soon anyway. no utter musings tonite, i will be up too early tomorrow morning to be able to give the energy now to form any sort of cogent ramblings. my brain so full of things to do, to think, to say, to ponder. my list so long. had been several days since i opened this and thought it worthwhile to at least touch base again. leaving the light on, so to speak.

unfamiliar as i am with this venue, i have been reading thru several weblogs of those who were here before me. how profound some of them are. being such a private person i cannot even explain fully why i am writing here. i know some who would think it imprudent, ill-advised, at the very least undesirable. however, i have met some of the nicest people online, even going back into the 1990s, some of my best and truest friendships were formed thru email lists. this type of forum wasn't even around then, so i hold out for some future friendships, much as was hinted by the friend who wrote the first comment in my "book." that, and i do write better than i speak. communication is something with which i struggle, either assuming a dialogue formed by rote that rolls off my tongue without thinking, or stammering out phrases that are half-caught in my throat. either way it's painful, and less useful than annoying.

ta. i am off to bed, before it rains again. the drumming helps me to sleep. i will write again sooner than later. but meanwhile, if i do not, i am reading someone else's words.

first post

good morning.... and a fine one it is. in the small town office where i work it is far too fine a morning to be inside, but that is where the work is. i try to be philosophical about it, people have always complained about work, and i am no exception. however, i believe in work, i believe in the fulfillment gleaned from tasks performed well, in being productive, but not just for the sake of being busy. it is a simple joy to involve ones' hands, heart, and mind in worthwhile tasks, both mental and physical.

i much prefer sewing to government service. however, i have yet to figure out a way to feed my family with needle and thread. so from time to time i may ruminate on the loss of physical work in our society. i think that is part of our problem...

on to be happy with the day. if i don't make something of it, who will?