WHOSE AFRAID OF VIRGINIA?

As I pass Virginia Woolf's birthday, I remain stunned by her words about women and writing: the fear of it; the fear without it; the trick of it; the treats; the triumphs and the tragedies after those triumphs. Though not my favorite writer, per se, (that position will always remain with John Steinbeck), she is my favorite female writer.

It was the pure audacity of her work--its breadth as well as depth--which pulls me in, still. Essays, both political and personal, short fiction, autobiography, biography, history, journals, newspaper articles, criticisms, and of course, the bounty of novels which pushed the boundaries of what novels were "supposed to look like"...all the while struggling with mental illness and aware of the ravages it would wage inside her. This kind of artistic courage didn't come from outside, though she was bolstered by family and a stellar grouping of colleagues. It came from a heart of a lion who needed to roar.

Whenever I get depressed about my own life's journeys, or the irony that I am a writer who has always written and always wanted to say what I see around me, though not always a writer with a stage or a printing press from which to launch those observations, I grasp the image of Virginia, literally, and just "write on". One can realize one's limitations, be they monetary or spiritual or even simply talent, but one doesn't always realize that the way to overcome those limits is simply TO WRITE. Virginia taught me this--speaking from the hallways of her diaries, when I was in High School. Later, with guides to show me different paths through the novels, I took to heart what she was illustrating. She not only thought about what it took for a woman to write the truth (or what that woman saw as the truth),but followed her own insights. She wrote what she was experiencing, no matter how out of step, or out of line, it was for its time. Gender bending, insanity, incest, independence, a room of one's own, WWII and the corruption of politics across the globe, the pure heartstrings of pets or the loss of one's soul-mate, these were subjects she investigated through the lens of her own experience. Her bravery astonishes me, still.

The issues have not greatly changed. The world remains at war with itself. Women are still not in power or wealthy in any great numbers. Slavery and prostitution and child abuse and poverty are the biggest employers on a planet that seems as mad as she worried she was becoming. And the human heart is as easily fractured as it ever was. Today, though, we don't have the beauty of the Muse of her mind--the elegant phrasings, the watercolor exteriors. Ours is a harsher time. A time which moves too hurriedly to appreciate novels of extraordinary construction or experimental boundaries of language. Today, instead of visiting each other for lengthy conversation and tea, we text. Or Skype. Or forego physical visits, altogether, and hope we will "meet up" at those events no one can escape: funerals, parent-teacher meetings, The Holidays...

Virginia understood the constant watering needed in the garden of the human heart. She attended to those around her, as best she could, even when she shouldn't have. In the end, not wanting to take advantage of the kindness of her clan, she put rocks in her pockets and walked into a fast river, knowing yet another bout of madness was sweeping her away. Unlike many who studied the Bloomsbury Group in college, in the 1970's , Virginia Woolf''s suicide was not the clarion call I heeded. No. It was Virginia Woolf's robust external and internal life--her blending of both into her art. She remains, for me, one of my own Muses.

Unlike the past, when I would have gathered my own Group up and spent the night in toasts to the writer (and to each other, as fledgling writers to be), I am long time clean and sober, so I will, instead, let Virginia's own words stand in as a toast, shared among friends across this planet, tonight. Happy Birthday, belatedly, Ms. Woolf, wherever you are!

"If a woman is to write,she has to have 500 a year and a room with a lock on the door, a sacred space where Shakespeare's sister, Judith, might have equaled his prodigious gift or not. She might have simply floated there, set loose in the privilege of privacy, her self unwritten, under no one else's eyes..."

Virginia Woolf, "A Room Of One's Own"

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THE GRAVY CATCHES FIRE

This town looks so much better under snow I almost believe I can come home again.
But even as the insidious salt spray and sand begins to discolor the white, the truth of what I have learned this past year destroys any naive beliefs still circling: you can never return.

I am a heartsick educator of over thirty-five  years, screwed by a system that dropped the ball and didn't record my professional accomplishments (neglecting to inform me, for almost a year--and then, when I questioned their timeframe, didn't so much as apologize for costing me at least two full-time positions--all at a time when the public hears: "There aren't enough qualified teachers!")
Bullocks!

I am a heartsick teacher who substitutes, still, (though fully licensed and with three decades of experience in both inner cities and rural areas on both coasts...)and listens to kids whose teachers belittle them, pull them aside and tell them they will "never get into college", or worse, ignore them because they are of a certain sociological group.

Not all teachers are good teachers. Not all teachers should teach. Not all teachers even like students. This is not a hidden fact. But, there ARE teachers who have jumped through the jungle of hoops, who have committed their adult lives to these kids, and who want to teach. I am lamenting those of us who are being held back by a system that is about making money; printing certificates they can charge for; and not evaluating what is really going on for the majority of kids in American schools.


I am a heartbroken educator who watches kids who are homeless, in a town with room to spare; in a city that used to pride itself on families going back generations; in a suburb just forty minutes out of the middle of Boston, where it snows like Siberia for three or four months of the year. I tutor these kids when they get in trouble and are not allowed back in the High School for a certain bit of time. I tutor them where we can come in from the cold and wet and have heat, electric lights and no rodents facing off with us as we try to power through U.S. history or Steinbeck's Okie sagas.

"My teachers don't want me in class, Ms. Minns...why should I even try to get this homework finished?"

"You know that the other kids hate me...they say I smell...how can I go back there?"

"Got any food, Ms. Minns?  I haven't had breakfast...since Wednesday..."

"I'm not going to get my diploma...I'm failing every class...I just go in cause it's warm at school...and sometimes I get a free lunch..."

I'm teaching Environmental Science and World poetry to this. We are sitting in the set of "Les Miserables" and discussing Jean Valjean while the smell of woodsmoke and cigarettes surrounds this fourteen year old. It is different from the hot concrete edges of downtown L.A. or the cockroaches coming up from the sewers in East L.A. at night or the scents of beans and eucalyptus on the air...but some of the laments are the same. Different accents, similar pain.

I am a broken-hearted emptied chakraed teacher who knows not only how to teach but how to reach these kids--who respects and cares in a very specific way--who can help some of them (some of them some of them some of them) out of the cold and back to school--if only the school will listen. If only the school will hire a teacher based on her experience, her success rate, her record, her coursework, her degrees and her desire to reach out to these kids. But the schools and the state system are all about money. Grants. Votes. About order and numbers and documents in print, on file. They are not about teachers who are still passionate about teaching. They are not about teachers who make it their business to see beyond the butts in the chairs--the attendance forms--the numbers of kids who show up for suspension duty. It is a far, far cry from education. It is simply and shockingly about forms and middle management and political careers beyond the walls of the schools.

We talk school systems and we are talking about votes and candidates and committees. We aren't talking about kids. We aren't talking about teachers, either--at least not about teachers who are still willing to take on that sherpa duty and become guides up the mountain. About teachers who are willing to change lessons plans and styles and update and refine and re-invent so that every learner who comes to them has a chance to become more fully human...we are talking budgets and tax spending and which community looks good on paper. Any community can look good on paper--until it explodes.

I have to tell you, regardless of the photos of the smiling ten percent of the senior class who do service related volunteer work to look good to the colleges they are applying to, there is a far richer, deeper and murkier society filling our schools. It is a place of germination and chaos and random acts of heroism. It is where real evolution can occur. It is between the lines and between the students and the few remaining adults who honestly believe in them. Not as cattle to be managed or product to be shot out, packaged and ready to consume, but as leaders, thinkers, creators of a new society. It is in this intellectual soup that I hope to find a wave to ride.

As people scratch their heads, debating teachers carrying guns or armed guards roving the halls of high schools, or mental illness and poor parenting, I think of what I know about the students that I get assigned to--where their real lives take place. I have some answers and some insights to share,after thirty-five years as an educator. However, it seems, the state of Massachusetts doesn't want me to speak up. Or out. It isn't an opinion that shakes a finger at some specific person--it is an opinion which involves communities willing to look at the diversity, the richness and the problems hidden between the lines--it is communities willing to stop talking at each other and simply watch for a while--listen to the people on the front lines, with the kids who "don't fit".

After proving myself for over a year and three quarters, including tracking down where the clog in the licensure pipe was backed  up, getting the flow moving, losing yet another position where it came down to one week waiting for a license promised but slow-moving and arriving too late for the job, I find myself still bobbing in that dark current. Amid the kids who are waiting...to be saved...to be seen...I know why people shoot. I think I have some ideas how to stop the violence.

My heart is broken, in this home town I've tried to return to, because it seems, nobody really wants to hear.

REFLECTING SANDY

Every blog on the East Coast must have a "Sandy" post by now. This is no exception. (One of the amazing results of the Blogverse is that we have eyewitness/earwitness views of our world, as it occurs, that go more in-depth than the evening news, or even YouTube.) So, from this part of north central MA, reflections on "Sandy":

Gardner is surrounded, like a bulls-eye, with the radiating towns of Ashburnham, Winchendon, Hubbardston, Templeton, and Westminister. Beyond that wooded New England circle lies Ashby, Fitchburg, Leominster, Princeton, Rutland, Barre, Petersham, Phillipston, Athol and Royalston. Still, mostly wooded towns with lots of freshwater ponds and mid-sized lakes fed by shallow brooks. Mountains are part of the wilder landscape--some easily climbed--others ski-worthy. More citified cities fall below and towards the east--Worcester being the second largest in the state. For the most part, however, it was the factories that provided industry in this part of central and north Massachusetts--along with family farms (vegetables and dairy). Shoes, clothing, furniture were the core industries. Woolen mills, shoe shops, wood working factories all buzzed while I grew up. (In fact, I spent a coughing-out-loud summer, before college, working in the paint department of Simplex Time Recorder--glad for the college spending funds but hating every aspect of factory life and what it did to the workers.)

My family grew up with almost every member of my parents' generation, in Gardner, working for one of the factories,their entire lives, happy for it. Now, except for my parents and my "uncle" Bob, all of them are dead. (You do the math.) Today, the mill buildings are being re-vitalized as upscale or assisted- living condos. Hardly a small New England town has escaped the trend. You drive through, and you are as apt to see a red brick refurbished "factory", with a "for rent" sign out front, as you are to find the grassy common and the white sided Protestant Church in the middle of town.

 What hasn't changed is New England still smells the same, in autumn, as I remember. The trees flame-on for a week or so, then cold rain and colder breezes send the colored flags into the gutters, replacing the brilliant tints with factory colors: rust and brown and mossy gray. It is as if Nature, Herself, reflects the heritage of our industrial follies.

This year, however, the brilliant display was barely underway when a strange, yellowish cast filled the sky above Gardner.

 Sunday night, I had a dinner date with an old high-school friend, followed by a late night run to the drugstore for a prescription. The restaurant was jaunty and everyone seemed unperturbed about the weather forcasts. We were far from the ocean--at least far enough not to worry about storm surges and sea-wall breach. Besides, Gardnerites had withstood the ice-storm of a few years back. Most of the at-risk older trees (some hundreds of years old) had already succumbed. We knew our neighbors--for the most part--and even strangers had pitched in to help each other in that big, bad, multi-weeked black-out and ice-cover. A hurricane was second-string weather, for Gardner. So, the restaurant was jumping.

It had begun to rain--not freezing rain, but a weird, temperate-for-autumn pour-down. I was hatless. My spikey haircut mashed flat against my brain by the time I entered the drugstore--I was shocked to find it as packed as the restaurant!
"Storm supplies?" I asked, wiping my face and glasses, making small-talk to the first cashier by the door.
"Some...we're almost out of batteries and water...but tonight, people are coming in for snacks, soda, chips, ice cream, toilet paper...and prescriptions. I think some people just wanted to do something before the weather really hits..." The cashier goes back to filing her nails.

I walk to the back, threading my way through the thin aisles, excusing myself as I wend between old and young. Little kids are agog at the Halloweenie decorations filling the spaces near the ceiling, and begging for early treats. Parents look raggedy--more worried than the restaurant goers--perhaps just more tired. Kids sensed "something was about to happen". Their wiring kept them hyper and demanding. Parents didn't have the words to explain, so let them just bounce.

My prescription wouldn't be ready for twenty minutes--or I could come back, tomorrow. The pharmacist giggled. (We both knew "Sandy" was predicted to hit Gardner precisely at that point. I wouldn't be returning in the a.m.) I chose to become a drugstore zombie. I shuffled amid the crowd, headed to the dog toys and t.v. special sales items. (Always comforting to find new ways to remove body hair or lose weight fast.)

Outside, the wind began to really pick up. Inside, we could see the swinging telephone wires and beginning-to-bend utility poles. A sudden crash on the roof made everyone gasp. But the power remained. The phones in the pharmacy all lit up. The two young women pharmacists gritted their teeth--literally--and tersely kept their heads down as they filled prescriptions, fielded questions and kept moving between the computers and phones. Two more crashes and a lashing of rain against the front doors were all that it took to empty the store.

I watched little kids herded into rain-washed vans in the parking lot. I stood by the "Niquil" stand as the pharmacists grimaced, but kept filling platic bottles.The front cashier smiled nervously, but put down her nail file.
"Just a couple more hours..." she signaled to her friend, in the chocolate aisle.
I checked on my prescription.

The downtown area was deserted and very, very water-logged as I drove home. The dependable Subaru, Tortuga, got me back to Maple Street, in the same dogged way she had propelled me home in the middle of a tornado that first summer I was going back and forth to Worcester State U to finish my MA credential--the night Helayne prayed Catholic prayers all the way home, believing, as she later admitted, we both were going to die that night. Gardner was full of capering fools, downtown and along the side streets, when we got back from school. The Tornado had touched down all around, but had, for whatever reason, allowed us grace. Escape. Freedom. This night, though, "Sandy" was blowing all around us and everyone was wisely tucked away. (Or so I hoped.)

At home, Dad had several tiny flashlights in strategic spots, downstairs: on top of the microwave; his bedstand; the t.v.; the bookcase; the fireplace; the kitchen table; the coffee-maker; the windowsill in the mud entry in the back. Upstairs, we were on our own.(However, my own L.A. paranoia about earthquake preparedness has extended here. I have several pairs of complete clothes--from undies to boots and med supplies--stashed in Tortuga and in my room.) I have eyeglasses everywhere Dad has a flashlight: without my glasses, I am blind. Let's be real! I bought my own flashlight and batteries. I also have forbidden candles and matches and lighters by my bed. My sister Ann has given me enough Swiss Army Knives (in my stockings at Christmas) that I am well armed if we are invaded or I need to slice and dice my way off the second floor...I also have emergency, battery operated lanterns--some given me by other members of our family, some by Ann--we all love disaster films and adventure t.v. Ann's travels all around the world have also made survival something she takes seriously--well, that and her addiction to "The Walking Dead" t.v. series. (I put on my Celtic cross that also has attached a cross of St. Benedict, the real excorcist, attached--my worries tend to be more metaphysical...)

Mom and Dad were fine. They had a case of bottled water ("The water is never a problem here," they laugh at me.) and matches and dry wood down cellar. (When I pleaded for them to allow Ann to invest in a generator before winter, they had scoffed. Then, when I pressed, Dad had out-right forbidden the purchase. I was confused. He didn't have to pay for it. We both knew how to work it. It would take up almost no space in the dirt cellar near the Christmas wreaths. But, it was "his house" and he would have no generator. The end.) "We survived the ice storm with no friggin' generator!" was the battle cry.

My friend from L.A., Terry, suggested I make the purchase and apologize later. (Obviously, she doesn't know this family...)We have no generator. (I think Dad and Mom actually like the idea of no computer access, no cell-phone re-charge, no t.v., no radio once the batteries die. They are pushing ninety. The world is faster and fading for them...perhaps the quiet of a hurricane is just what they long for--and to prove how tough they are, while we are all wimps around them. I don't know but if there was a power outage, we were back to Pilgrims.)

I had laid out my storm clothes, including heavy boots, socks, a winter parka, hat and gloves, strongest jeans, warmest undies, a scarf, a rain-poncho, extra glasses and keys. My meds were lined up. (Mom and Dad got ruffled when I attempted to question them about having extra prescriptions in case of emergency--that, like the gas-in-the-car discussion--and the generator, somehow angered them. I had "been away all these years and we've survived just fine" was the thinking- stream and I wasn't invited to add any "suggestions" to the flow.) So, I made my own survival strategy and tried to keep focused on what I could.

The ceiling- ring waterstain, which had appeared the first winter I arrived, didn't grow. There were no leaks--anywhere--except the usual wet cellar floor. But it is cement and there is a storm drain and Dad has rigged up heaters and fans and that is his domain. So, not to worry. The windows are all blizzard proof--and screens had long been taken down for the season. The roof is fairly new. Some few tar-paper roof tiles might blow, but they would easily be replaced. Again: not to worry.

(I did the laundry.We had towels and blankets and sheets. We were prepared with bedclothes.)Though the canned food supplies seemed small, there were lots of frozen things that would stay frozen, even in the power- out times.We had propane and propane stoves and lanterns in the garage. And if the sixty year old sugar maple in the back didn't come down on the garage, we had access to all of those supplies, the gardening equipment, the snowplow, miles of duct tape and the family car. Ann's being at 88 Maple most of the time also insured plenty of first aid supplies and extra food in the pantry--including dog food. (And since I'd just recently gone to the pharmacy to procure insulin for Maeve, we even were covered in dog diabetes territory.) Again: not to worry.

So, while the lights dimmed, twice, then returned, and the blasting wall- to- wall coverage from Dad's humongous wrap-around-sound television kept us up to the minute with the storm's course, I crouched in different corners, with the dog, listening to the screaming wind and blasting rain.
I kept assuring Maeve: "We aren't supposed to worry."

The trees in back and in front and along the entire street, bent and moaned. Only the ocassional "snap" and "thud" gave us cause for suspension of breath. (But only a few times.) The house is an ark and survived like an ark should. We, the crew and animals, also survived.Twelve hours after the worst of it, we knew we were safe. Both rain and wind gusts (some close to 85) continued for two more days, but the grizzly soul of the storm had passed us by.

Outside, all of the hundreds of birds, skunks, squirrels, possums, chipmunks, mice and other living things, hunkered down, someplace. I didn't catch a glimpse of any of them the entire three days we were lashed. All of the foodstuffs Ann had filled the yard with were either eaten, hidden away or blown to another state. Or, they were buried: about five hundred pounds of wet leaves had been caught in the yard by our seven foot fence. Everything that had been still clinging to the maple tree in the back was now on the ground--much of it bright green; hardly turned. (I had spent the week before, raking, scraping and bagging about a hundred pounds of leaves. Dad found this leaf vacuum and we had an old-time factory assembly-line going between the scoop, bagging; emptying; sealing and hauling of leaves.) Now, some of the bags were emptied again--this time, in the soggy yard. Others were flung all over the street. Instead of shoveling snow, as we had last Halloween, we would begin shoveling sodden leaves.

Maeve weathered the storm by making little whining noises--not to be confused by her begging baby-alligator noises. She couldn't find a comfortable place, anywhere. Upstairs, down, front room, her bed in the kitchen, her mother's bed on the second floor, my room, even her usual "hiding place", in the bathroom, (next to the tub) was unfit. Finally, at the worst of it, while Dad was wrapped in a fleece blanket, in his lounge chair, sipping Ensure, eating peanut butter crackers and watching the huge flatscreen t.v. for storm coverage, Maeve curled, her head on his slippers,tail tucked around her, whimpering faintly, sure the wind outside was coming to get her. But, she made it. We made it.

Outside, Tortuga-the-Subaru looked newly washed. Not even leaves were left plastered to her green sides. She was watertight. No branches had crushed her. No stones pecked her glass. Her tires were shiny. Her interior secure. And since we were not a flooded plain. (Maple Street is on top of a small hill--in fact, most of Gardner is atop a series of hills.) no running water came inside my street-parked turtlecar. (For that, I am officially thankful.)

The trees that remained after the ice-storm, remain still. Some are thinner or shorter, but they are there. Everything is "bald" now. Gardner is usually ugly before the snow--the trees skeletal and threatening. But we are all here.Yes, there were casulties. South Gardner had power losses up until Friday of this week. The ring of towns around us had further damage. But this time, Gardner was spared.

I am still wondering about friends in other localities: a long ago "important person" in my younger life who lives in MA, and shares the hurricane's name; a Gypsy who stole my heart and never returned it thirty five years ago- whose last sighting was in NYC/NJ; more friends than I can list who live along the eastern seaboard and who have not returned either cell calls nor e-mails...All the pets and wild things who are lost out there...I send prayers up and out...but that's something I do for all of us, every day, anyway.

Halloweenie wasn't cancelled. (The New York marathon was.) The presidential election circus lumbers on. And we pick up the pieces, as always, everywhere.

"I told you we didn't need a generator!" Dad grins.

(Not this time.)    
     

MALALA

It was Wednesday, October 10, that I first read about Malala Yousufzai. The 14 year old girl from Pakistan who believed in the absolute right of every human being to be educated, began a blog, at age 11, under the pseudonym Gul Makai, for the BBC. Her blog was about life under the Taliban. In 2009, she began publically speaking out about girls' education in Pakistan--which marked her not only as a female activist, but as a target to religious extremists.

Malala was riding home with other schoolmates, on a bus, in the northern Swat Valley, when a gunman walked up to the vehicle and shot her in the head. (A second girl was also shot.) The Taliban quickly took credit for the attack--clearly stating it was an example to other females in the country.
Incensed, I wanted to write a full blog about the situation on Wednesday, when I read about it. However, at the time, Malala had been airlifted, by helicopter, to the frontier city of Peshawar. A military hospital had just taken her in...the story was still unfolding. I decided to wait. To pray. To see.

Yesterday, I was e-mailed a beautifully moving piece by my friend, the writer Malcolm Boyd. It is a "love letter to Malala". I want anyone who needs a complete perspective on the situation, (and the young woman), to track down this piece. After reading it, I realized, anything I could have said about her, and the situation, was better said by Malcolm. So, I will send out this notice and those of you interested in world activism, or heroism by even the youngest among us, will do your own research.
His perspective is far more eloquent than mine.

As I post blogs about everyday life in this part of the world, reflecting the changing anxieties, tragedies and triumphs of middle class America, I am reminded, constantly, in other places in the world, women are still property. Women are murdered for attempts at education, let alone attempts to gain the vote. Women are mutilated, raped, destroyed--not for who they are, as individuals, but as "lessons" for others--lessons in power, war and genocide. This is not "new". Unfortunately, in the West, it is seldom even "news".

As I check in on FaceBook and see the joy of friends celebrating milestones with their families; or the requests for prayers or advice ; or even recent triumphs of new undertakings--be they college graduations, new jobs, relocation successes or signing the papers for a house--I can't help but think of other places on the planet where social networking is a lifeline. Issues such as "will I make it home from school, today",  or "will my family still be alive when I get there", are the subjects of other Tweets, posts and blogs.

Somehow, this makes me a little sick, and decidedly sad.

I hope we can learn to extend our humanity, even as we stay in touch.
Like it or not, as Malala has proven, we are citizens of the world; what matters in Pakistan, should matter here.  

INTERNET DATING

Call me a Luddite, but it seems to be an oxymoron: Internet Dating.  I mean, isn't a date a social interaction, in the flesh, where you and someone physically go someplace and engage in an activity? If Internet connections count as a "date", then, every e-mail I send, or any type of game interface I do, would be a technical "date" in cyberspace, right? (Extending that thought, would animated characters I engage with, in a game, be considered "dates"--at least in digital worlds? (I won't even get into sexual politics...).

My friends, all well-meaning, (every time I've been single, or between relationships), suggest cyber hook-ups as a cure-all to the blues.

"Minns, if not just eye-candy, go for a service that matches you according to your interests and a psychological profile! There's six or seven billion people on the planet--there's got to be someone you are attracted to!"

How often have I had this argument tossed at me?  Okay,I will admit, I did fall into the trap, at least once (or twice...). Always, in the end, it seemed that I'd wake up one morning and feel sick to my stomach--without ever having been in the same room, at least the same physical room, as the person I was "dating". Too many unanswered questions would arise--was the person lying? That was always number one. (Is the photo really them? If it is, WHEN was it taken? What has transpired in their lives since that photo took place? WHO took the photo? Which one of the people in the group is really the person I'm communicating with?)

I mean, since Cyreno started writing letters for his friends, people have attempted to hoodwink others into falling for them. How many Shakespearean characters use this ruse? Even the Greeks are dishonest--whether it is the number of enemies vanquished, the number of slaves owned, the size of the palace (or anything esle, for that matter), the laurels accumulated--fibs are ways we manipulate each other. Cyber-connections are rife for that. (I'm not even talking about stalkers and pedophiles...)
Masking who we really are seems to be a historical keystone of the human race.

There is also Photo-shop, make-up, prosethetics, lighting and camera angles, etc. to consider. (I have a Californian friend who showed up for a date after corresponding with a guy for months, only to find a paraplegic in a wheel-chair, who needed a  nurse's aide for his oxygen, waiting for her on the edge of Santa Monica pier. Never once had he mentioned his physical challenges--or that they would always need a "chaperone" in attendance--or that he couldn't feed himself solid food. Would it have changed her response when he asked her out to the beach? Perhaps. The point is, however, that we deserve to make these dating choices for ourselves, based on reality. By manipulating reality, he took away her choice. (He also squashed his date: she saw him waiting for her, rose in his lap, nurse by his side, on the appointed hour, and she crossed the street, running...) Neither ever contacted the other, again.

Then, there is the endless parade of people who send in pet photos instead of head shots. What does that mean? "I am a dog."  (That's my first interpretation.) "I am looking for a person who resembles my dog." (That's my second choice.) "I can only relate to canines...if you are a cat lover, don't contact me." Or, how about the message that: "You will have to also date my dog."  "I am already in a relationship--with my dog--you will take second place, always." I could go on and on. What are folks thinking? (The same misunderstanding, on my part, is attached to head shots of horses, cats, motorcycles, cartoon characters and tattoos.) Body parts are also weird. (I don't date parts of human bodies...ever...)

When it comes to match sites that seek to pair you up according to your interests and values...how many Liberals are there in the world?  How many fans of "The Hunger"?  How many people pray?  Or kayak?  Or listen to "Annie Lennox"? These are hardly in-depth, profile points...(How many people stretch the truth on those questions, anyway? I mean, who is going to answer "yes" to a question that asks if you steal? Or hoard? Or lie?)

Of course, the biggest question in America is the question we all face as we log into a dating site, looking for "love": who is desperate enough to go on these sites? Why aren't they already in a real relationship? This is question we are asking ourselves, about ourselves, as we zoom through a thousand "profiles" with Annie Lennox blaring in the background...Who are WE? Why aren't WE paired up? (Who would ever choose Me??)

There are success stories. Or, sort- of- success stories. (Or, they started out successfully...) But, like fifty-one percent of all American marriages, most end up re-posting, down the line. When friends tell me they've found "The One", and then add the tag: "We met on-line", I can't help but freeze my best smile into place; reminding myself that I must not judge; I am working on becoming a non-judgmental human being; only God judges; "judge not lest you be judged"; etc. I take lots of tiny sips of whatever I'm drinking; or lots of tiny bites of whatever I'm munching. I chant in my head, and wish for the best, and send angels and elementals and Light to surround my friend. But, honestly, my heart sinks.

We are  human. We are flesh. It is written in almost every holy book: we aren't meant to be alone. I think that means we are meant to interact in physical reality. Perhaps we are really just energy and light. But, on this plane, in this dimension, that energy and light has taken a concrete form. However painful (at times) or complex and unknowable it is. We are. Cyberspace is another way to connect for a while; it can offer a path toward or a bridge to, but it isn't a real meeting for a fully realized human romance. Not really. For that, we need touch. Face to fleshly face. That's scary.

So, what's a body to do?

Keep the heart open wide. Be prepared to take a plunge, if the person enters one's real-life. Date in the third dimension; spend time in the same place; the same room. Share more than video-games and e-mail. Feed each other; take in each other's scents. Take a walk or a drive or a sail. Visit the woods or the beach or the mountains. (Stay out of the desert...) Sing to each other. Tell stories. Hold hands. Really kiss. Explore dislikes as well as likes. Be honest. Talk. Listen. Argue. Share. Be kind. Get to know the whole human before taking the long-term plunge.

Save Skype for when you are apart.

         

BLOGTOWN, U.S.A.

When I read the "New Yorker" or "Time" or "The Village Voice", there are certain sections that are like road maps for my mind. (I won't share which as I don't want to bias anyone...) I know, in choosing those publications, whether it be on-line or in my hands, I won't read the entire issue--however I WILL read my favorite bits. It is almost a religious vow. (At least, obsessive.) Always, it comes down to these details: information I must have for my life at this time; entertainment I must have for my life at this time; delicious stylings by the writer.

When I read "The New York Times" or "The Boston Globe" or "The Washington Post",  I seem to need to read everything--even the ads. (All the ads...) Sure, there are favorite columnists and sections in each where I know I'll glean more information that is useful than from others. But the total experience of reading the particular publication over-rides the bits and pieces therein. I have only a certain amount of allocated time to get through my reading, each day. I want to know where I will spend it. Upfront. This gives me more choice and a better quality of life.

 So too, would we benefit, if it were so in the Blogosphere.

Why people, who merely want to announce family events, choose to create what they label as "our blog", do so is a pet peeve of mine. FaceBook, MySpace , Twitter,and other social media outlets (including family websites) exist for this purpose. Anyone who knows your family, or has reason to become familiar with your family, will be able to  find the information, visuals, etc. on those sites. Those places were created for just this purpose: to keep people informed about the daily details of your whereabouts; the banal and dramatic moments of your blood kin and friends! But it doesn't mean those details are blogs!

I admit it: I'm a writer who follows the lives and work of others of my ilk. Given the fact that print media is still relegated to those "in the power spots", or those whose ideas reflect the tastes of the majority, it became exciting when blogs emerged. Suddenly, the voices of the voiceless would be given a platform--a platform easily accessed--and best, unedited by powerbrokers or mainstream interests. Blogs seemed to be the underground columns of the freepress that used to pepper city sidewalks in the sixties and seventies. Checking the numerous sites created (for free) that allowed excellent writing to emerge, my fanship grew. I could follow writers I didn't agree with, as well as writers whose styles illuminated my life. I could follow student writers, noting how they grew; using the growth as examples to my own students, in class. If a particular favorite blogger wrote something boring, I could go on to the next blogger, and find something much more interesting or enlightening, for that day. It was a readers' (and a writers') Paradise. (Well, almost.)

 The Blogosphere had been born, with a house promised for every  head.

Then, perhaps like any human endeavor, it became populated with those just out to sell something. Or to toot their own narrow horn. Or to get a few minutes of public notice. It began to resemble those holiday tomes. I wanted freedom of expression to reign, (I also needed some kind of index--where could I spend time away from the "family Circus notes" and get to writers who were practicing their crafts? To writers who showed style, content and concern with a wider world?) While I might adore little Tina's new kitten, I don't need a blog post about it--unless there is something deeper happening--a lesson or a theme or a product that revolutionizes the cat (or the kid)! A blog post should be a mini-drama in a few columns. It should contain something that jars us, or changes our thinking, or challenges a response.

This is MY post, and this is my thinking. It is what I'm trying to do here--and what I want to read from others. It is what I look forward to and spend my lifeforce on. Please help define the boundaries in Blogtown. Think before you create. Re-read before you publish. Save the "we did this on vacation" prose/information for the holiday cards. Or FaceBook. Or MySpace. Or Twitter--social media outlets that cry out for exactly those tidbits and visuals.

Let's create a BlogTown where there is real writing; abstract thinking; debate; style; exciting information; transformative culture and open ended questions.

(If you disagree, well, here's the great part: start your own blog!)   

OCTOBER RAIN

Where do the jays hide? The sparrows and robins and mourning doves? Do the wet leaves make cool blankets for the squirrels or merely plaster their furry hides against the backs of chimney posts and abandoned eaves? Does the chipmunk roll into a striped ball, napping...dreams of deep winter slumber around the edges of the dripping nest?

My kayak's orange hull peeks from under the blue cover, drinking in the only water it has encountered this fall. Around it, like flattened children, the orange leaves skim the ground, easily as slick. "Before November, Before November!" I send mindwaves to the dry-docked boat. I mean it. The lake has filled my consciousness each morning--only to be pushed away by cries of students or parents or the ping of rain.

Upstairs in the haunted attic recesses, the rain swells the wood another season. I know there are splintered holes that will need repair. But not before the passing of the parents. Not before my own decisions about New England promises and four seasoned future. A brown-tinted ripple the size of a penny has decorated the ceiling since I arrived. It doesn't grow, but is constant. A shadow of what is to come. A reminder of  pebbles carelessly flung into ponds, sending out secrets to the farthest shore.

Does my heart still hold any secrets?

The light splashes against the garage; the roof; the windows of my neighborhood. Clouds drop down upon our heads.(Blessings in a country of thirst, as we have become.) The summer's long past. Autumn rages, just outside. The back yard smells like New England cemeteries-- dank moisture rising from the lawn; the soil singing a final chorus, before the deafening frost.

This is what I remember. This is what I've come home to.

This is my inheritence and my legacy, so far from the Pacific shore.