Clucky the Two-Spirit Chicken
A friend of mine told me some time ago that many tribes of Africa and Native America have the various words for people born not 100% masculine or feminine. One such word is a term of respect; the Two Spirit is respected as having great, special wisdom, and is indeed often a shaman.
I, my friends, have met a chicken-shaman.
My artist-friend Bill Christman trucks in all forms of junk. The heavier and weirder the better. He turns the junk of the world into beautiful things. His work reminds me of Howard Finster, but without all the preaching written on it. He is the guy responsible for the Museum of Mirth at the City Museum.
One of the more noticeable of his works is the giant chicken outside of his art-gallery/concert venue, Joe’s Café.
One of the less noticeable things is Clucky. On first glance, Clucky looks like any other chicken, hatched in someone’s backyard near Mr. Christman, among other, regular fowl. But hatching with both male and female characteristics soon caused Clucky trouble with the other chickens; they pecked confusedly at Clucky when normal gender protocols were not followed. Clucky retaliated, first by fighting back, then by running away.
Clucky found a home in Bill Christman’s garden of sculptural wonders, a loner, King/Queen of a fabulous, noncompetitive paradise, where no one except the squirrels or pigeons competed for the food the humans provided.
I have never met a more well-adjusted, calm-looking chicken in my life.
With all the brouhaha about gender-neutral bathrooms, and about transgender people in the military, it seems like a good time to bring up Clucky. This bird has a brain the size of a peanut; this means that there is no room for idle deliberations about gender expression. Clucky knows about not being a regular chicken, and not being accepted by the other chickens. Clucky had no choice about hatching with both heel-spurs and egg-laying apparatus. Nonetheless, Clucky has found a place to live in peace.
In the Gospel of Thomas 22, Jesus, upon seeing some babies nursing, remarks; “What these little ones who are nursing resemble is those who enter the kingdom.” They said to him “So shall we enter the kingdom by being little ones?” Jesus said to them “when you make the two one, and make the inside like the outside and the outside like the inside and the above like the below, and that you might make the male and the female be one and the same, so that the male might not be male nor the female be female… an image in place of an image— then you will enter the kingdom”
Matthew 8:3 says, relatedly, “Assuredly I say to you, unless you change and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven.”
My interpretation of Jesus’ words is that our souls are what matter, and that the form of our bodies has nothing to say about the state of our souls. The things that disgust certain cultures about the body have nothing to do with what is inside us. Our bodies are temples, but they are also dust; just vehicles for our souls. So why do we fight so hard against believing in those who have “atypical” bodies? They had no choice in the matter any more than Clucky did. I have always been drawn to people who are “atypical” (I prefer a term like “less common”) whether they were gay, bi, trans, effeminate, extra-masculine, gender dysphoric, etc. I have never felt the disgust towards them that other people seemed to feel… I felt only awe and respect for their strength and wisdom in dealing with the cruelty rained on them by others. I am involved with the gay-straight alliance at my school and the kids know I am safe to talk to; I have had a great number of students who did not fall into rigid gender roles. They appreciate that I work to make my classroom a safe space for them to be whatever they are.
The Gay Men’s Health crisis of the 80s was a horrible, horrible, horrible thing. But it had exactly one good outcome. People could no longer deny the existence of gay men, as they died by the thousands. They were real and they deserved human kindness; no one could claim that they didn’t exist. I think that Trump’s calling attention to transgender people is similar. The immediate outcome of these issues may be for good or ill, but at least now no one can deny that two-spirit people exist; they are not figments of the imagination. They are not crazy, and they are not “making it up”. They are real. I know quite a few, and all those I know are beautiful inside and out. Many cultures, including the Greeks (think of Sophocles’ Tiresias) acknowledged that twin-spirits not only existed, but had special wisdom to impart. Clucky taught me something. Let us have ears to hear all those we can learn from.
Our peach tree was laden with hard green peaches when my friends and I circled around the firepit earlier this summer. It happened to be the last day it was cool enough to abide a fire. The kids ran around playing with shaving cream and the water hose as we watched the fire and chatted. Peaches are among the tenderest of fruits; they do not travel well, so one usually sees them only in season.
Then my friends’ little girl Razmi stopped playing and came over to us. She had noticed the fallen green peaches lying all around us on the ground. She surveyed the situation and did the best she could. She selected four battered fruits. She then solemnly presented me with one. Looking me in the eyes, she said “This one is yours. You have to take good care of it, okay?”
Faced with such sincerity, what could one do but agree to take care of the half-gnawed fallen fruit? I nodded, and rubbed my fingers across the prickly velvet of the busted little peach. She then repeated the ceremony. She proceeded to my husband, and then to her parents, presenting them each with their misbegotten-looking peach, and extracting the oath to care for it.
I was dumbfounded by the wisdom of this. Razmi’s parable tells so much about how to heal what is broken. Our culture throws people away because they fall from the tree too soon. Or because they were gnawed by sharp teeth. Or because they have lain awhile,overripe in the hot sun. Our culture assumes that these people have nothing to give. We are taught to think that if the outside is damaged, that the seed is also damaged and the person is beyond hope. So we take away their supports and shame them in the classroom and in the courtroom, which makes it very difficult for them accept nourishment and grow in their best direction. The hard gnawed fruits that looked like trash to anyone else were clearly valuable to Razmi; she could see the viable seed inside each one, ready, if nurtured, to grow into a beautiful tree.
We had been living in St. Louis only a year or two, and, having come from the public-transport-free rural south, I was still leery of buses. Because of my indoctrination from my hometown, I still thought of public transportation as full of dangerous people. I sat nervously on the edge of the seat, gripping the loop handle protruding from the ceiling. The woman beside me had a number of children. She was getting frustrated because several of them needed something at once. She glanced over at me, glanced again, and said, “ You mind holding him a second?” I reached out my arms for the fat, sticky 10 month old. His diaper was wet. He was drooling on me. He had sticky crumbs on his face. And he was utterly beautiful. The fact that this woman trusted me, a random chick on a bus, with one of her most precious treasures, tore my heart open. I jogged him on my lap and he was content. He smelled like happy animals. I was a happy animal too. I had to hand him back when her stop came. She felt no need to thank me, and there was none. Her trust was thanks enough.
Earlier this summer at a hotel, I was swimming with Wolf in an almost hallucinatorily chemicaled pool (i am sensitive to chlorine). I had to escape, but Wolf needed to play and swim some more. He is a good swimmer now, but I still can’t let him play in the water alone. Desperate, I knew I had to get out of my chemical-soaked suit and wash my chemical-soaked hair. I spotted a mom sitting by the side of the pool, fully dressed to the shoes, nervously watching her clutch of boys playing loudly in the pool. I walked up to her saying excuse me. She looked up, surprised and a little suspicious. I explained, and asked if she would watch my boy, and if she would instruct her boys to help him if need be. Her face broke into an extraordinarily beautiful smile and she agreed.
I took my shower, which was freezing because the hot water faucet was broken, then sat in the sauna for a few minutes (never a thing I envisioned myself doing in 100 degree heat) and I was utterly unworried, because I knew that Wolf was fine.
When I came back with my hair in a towel, she smiled, explaining. “Well, I made him promise me not to put his head underwater til you got back. I am scared of the water; I never learned to swim!” I told her she reminded me of my sweet mama, who won’t go in past her knees for terror of the water. So I knew she would make the best watchwoman. I shook her hand and thanked her, but I knew to her, my trust was thanks enough.
Then Wolf abruptly got out of the pool and ran to me, chlorine in his eyes, putting his face in my clothes, his freezing, chemical-covered little body using me as a towel. We waved to our friend as we left.
TURTLES AND CHICKS
Later in the summer I was blessed to attend Wade Blevins’ Ignite Native American Teacher’s Conference. I met so many amazing people, so many native men and women with their souls nesting quietly inside them like serene birds, rather than like clawing predatory animals.
On the last night of the conference, we were at the Cherokee Nation Cultural Grounds for a meal prepared by the community. Little Nonni moved between Wade and a number of women in her family with anxiety-free grace. I could honestly not tell who was mother, father, grandmother, cousin, aunt. It did not matter to Nonni. They were all her family and they all loved her, and her face just beamed with it.
After dinner we began assembling around the fire for the stomp dances. Because I was the only one of the teacher-trainer group who had driven my own car, I took the more exhausted teacher trainers back to the hotel before returning for the dance.
One of the dancers was suiting up at her car, which was near mine. She was putting on what looked like heavy casts. Confused, I asked if she was hurt, and she explained that she was dressing for the dance. It takes a lot of padding to go under the heavy turtle-shell shakers, which she strapped to her calves beneath the rainbow patchwork skirt her friend had made for her. The turtle-shells are filled with river-stones, and the dancers shake them to create the perfect rhythm for the songs as they circle the fire. It is hot, heavy, and difficult art. To be a turtle dancer is a sacred call.
We talked only a bit, but I learned a lot from her. “Turtles” can refer to any woman who cares for others. If there is a baby whose mother dies or is ill, auntscousinsgrandmothers close a circle of love, so that there is no gap of love for that child. Turtles carry the world on their backs. I later found out that this beautiful person had made a harder choice than becoming a turtle dancer. Given a boy’s name at birth, she chose to change that not-fitting name as an adult, thus taking the weight of the world on her shoulders. I am in awe of her.
She chose the name Ahyoka. The best-known Ahyoka is the daughter of Sequoyah, who helped him create the Cherokee syllabary. Before that, the Cherokee language was an oral language, not a written one. The world was never the same again. Ahyoka means “she brought happiness”. She sure did bring happiness to me by sharing her story with me.
When I got back to the fire, I felt ready jump in and dance with them even though I am normally shy, am an awful dancer, and had no idea what I was doing. They welcomed me seamlessly into the circle, counterclockwise around the fire. I cannot do justice by describing this honor, but I will try. The longer I stomped with them, the more the rhythm of the turtles got us all into sync. Wade, out of breath and sweating, somehow led it all, his strong voice singing the calls, dancing while Nonni clung to his chest like a heavy, comfortable monkey. Round and round we went, golden light building, and I was in awe of strength of these souls who let me see into their sacred truth.
Then it was over. I felt like I’d gotten off a boat, or off roller skates. We were milling around, hugging goodbyes, friending each other on facebook, staring at stars, Nonni decided she had to give each of the teachers one more blessing, and I was first. Riding on Wade’s shoulders as usual, she leaned down and placed a golden, perfect peach of a kiss on my right cheek. I can still feel it there. The blessing of a child who is certain she is loved by many.
Driving my friends back to the hotel, I was thinking trying to process it all. I thought back to a conversation we’d had over our frybread. Nonni had lost a batch of chicks to predators. When the next batch of chicks hatched, Nonni carefully selected a chick for each adult. She then presented the chick to its protector, demanding a solemn vow to be responsible for that one chick’s progress. One adult, one chick; she entrusted one to each. These chicks would not be devoured by predators.
Chicks, dances, peaches. They deliver the same message. Show love and trust to whoever is in your path. Love is responsibility, but a sacred, happy responsibility manifested, not only in obligation, but in in daily small actions of trust, play, and laughter. Thank you, girls.
We blue-violet girls floating above the earth
Goitered, bipolar, hysterical, vestibular
Torn open and sewn back together too tight
silent when we talk
divided against ourselves
Mud v/s light hidden under flowery print sheaths our mothers made us
Like Venus, we are morning star and evening star both.
Over the years we built dense structures of neurons
to protect our golden star-essence
which grew darkly resinous, then
spiky, defending against outside light
the applejack retreating farther, constricting into a dense point of light
For protection, we curve our bodies down and in.
Look up, my blue-violet sister!
Sirius leaves for her moontime
But rises with the sun in dog days,
She was a blazing blue star before she went white dwarf
Still she scintillates red white blue yellow.
Polaris, Stella del Mar, Yildiz, the leader star
By luck she is aligned with the earth’s north pole
Yet she too is inconstant
For a time, her brightness decreased and she sadly lagged
Yet now, like no other star we know, she waxes
continually increasing her gold-white light
Twice as bright
As when the Greeks observed her
Sirius and Polaris are not single stars, but star systems, multiplicitous.
Like you, my sister, they are made up of seen and unseen parts.
That black hole you feel is not you, sister.
That gaping wound of fear is the gulf between you and your unseen siamese twin
Separated too far from you, crying alone in the darkness
Look. You are the large one. Look at your blue little sister and hug her, don’t fear her
She is just a scared little girl, neglected and ravenous
There is no black hole
Blue stars burn the hottest
But white dwarf stars, conserving energy, burn slower and longer
Let’s help our blue sisters to burn slow and now
If we work together, our energy is greater than their mass.
We can shine clear and golden.
We are more beautiful than our carbon,
Even densely compressed diamonds
We are more.
We are star-energy .
We are golden oud.
BIBLIOGRAPHY for OUD AND STARS
1.The fragrance of Oud itself. Sniffing it I mean. https://www.facebook.com/AftelierPerfumes/?pnref=lhc
Thank you to Mandy Aftel for finding real oud and selling it in quantities small enough for me to afford!
If you didn’t read the post about Oud, here it is.
2. Iodine by Haven Kimmel. This novel is about a blue girl, a damaged dissociative girl learning to exist in the world. I have read this book dozens of times, and it is my favorite book on earth, which is really saying something, coming from a person who is unable to make decisions. I would like to thank Haven, who is in fact a dog-star, for my writing is greatly affected by hers. I had a writing workshop with her and the lovely Barry Yeoman, who taught me a decade’s worth about writing in a single week. I am so grateful for what they had to teach me.
3. The Stranger in the Mirror by Marlene Steinberg This book provides clear information about the widespread phenomenon of dissociation. She estimates that it affects up to 30 million people. We are looking at a widespread phenomenon. People seem to always be lying. They aren’t . You are getting a different view from a different alter at a different time. That’s why their lies seem so convincing; they believe the lies themselves. Like Trump believes his own lies.
4 Getting Past Your Past: Take Control of Your Life with Self-Help Techniques from EMDR Therapy by Francine Shapiro
This is the only method that has been proven to help with PTSD. It trains you to reconnect your dots. I greatly admire Francine. Her ideas have been appropriated for moneymaking workshops, and she herself has been ostracized from this group, choosing instead to publish her own books so anyone can learn from her at low cost. Bravo Francine.
4. Polaris. The Finnish singer Chisu taught me about trusting my star. Listen here. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p6pm-dLctVE
5. Hans my Hedgehog, as interpreted by Jim Henson in The Storyteller. This story slays me with its beauty and healing.
6.The Story of your Life; Becoming the Author of Your Experience
Thank you Mandy Aftel, again, for writing this book. https://www.amazon.com/Story-Your-Life-Becoming-Experience/dp/0684826968/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8
She taught me the following truth about narrative-building. Our lives are dots made up of events and emotions. We make a rational effort to connect them throughout our lives. She taught me that although it may be duplicitous, it is not LYING to remove the faulty connections you built, strip down to the dots, and rebuild a narrative of your liking. This is a humanities way to think of EMDR therapy.
7. Re-Visioning Psychology by James Hillman. This book taught me about the many ways that modern psychology poisons the wells it should be tapping.
8. Cuts you Up. This Peter Murphy song illustrates what it feels like to be running away from your own self. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrfFHzqGBZI
Photo Credit Candice Fee and Stephen Fee.
Oud is one of the most expensive, beautiful perfume ingredients in the world. It has been used in religious rituals for anointing since recorded history.
Oud comes from a resin extracted from the heartwood of an Aquilaria tree. These trees grow mainly in India, China, Malaysia, Cambodia. The transcendent, long-lasting scent is prized and well-known as perfume in east.
Aquilaria wood and sap are normally light in color, and oud is only formed in trunk and roots of trees that have been penetrated, often by an insect called the Ambrosia beetle. This often results in an infection by a certain type of mold.
A life-long infection may occur, and in response, the tree produces a salutary self defense material to conceal damages or infection. The production of this oleo-resin, which acts as a chemical barrier to attacks by fungi, insects, and so forth, is apparently a tree’s response to injury if its primary defence mechanism is inhibited. The resin dramatically increases the mass and density of the affected wood, changing its color gradually from pale beige to yellow, orange, red, dark brown, or black.
High-quality Oud oil can be distilled from agarwood only after the tree has been defending itself from infection for two, three, or even four decades.
Il faut souffrir pour être belle. One must suffer to be beautiful.
Meeting Philip Glass
(painting by Chuck Close)
This summer I was unexpectedly able to apprehend Phillip Glass on his way from the St. Louis opera house to the reception, I rudely stopped him for a moment and grabbed Phillip Glass’s hand. He is eighty now, a little frail but still traveling. His entourage saw that I had neither camera nor sharpie, so they paused curiously and allowed me my three seconds.
My carefully rehearsed spiel failed, and I managed to blather mainly “thank you for your work” and breathless gibbered something philosophical about how his circular forms could convey both enlightenment in Satyagraha and entrapment in the Trial. Amid the crowd and the noise he gave me that moment. He grasped my hand, and said kindly, “isn’t it the other way around?” and then he was whisked away.
At first I felt sad and confused that my seemingly insightful comment had been thus discarded. But I kept thinking about it. The look on his face said “you’re getting there; keep on seeking truth; never sit down and think you have it all figured out. Don’t take your own insights so seriously.”
The Trial is about being trapped in meaningless, ridiculous authoritarian prescriptivism. It is also about being trapped in self and bound by shame. I read Kafka’s Metamorphosis in college and struggled with it. So he turns into a bug, and gets an apple stuck in his back, and basically dies of his own disgustingness? WHAT?
Glass’s musical embellishment of Kafka’s ruminative circles of entrapment obsessive self-doubt helped me see that the Trial and the Metamorphosis both illustrate toxic self-shaming.
I think that shame is pandemic in western culture, and it causes a lot of people to either project their feelings onto others, causing contempt and bullying, or to direct their shame inward, causing depression, anxiety, addiction, and lack of autonomy.
But the other piece of it, the part I didn’t get until I after held his hand, was the role that the absurdity can play in helping you escape the wheel. Shocked by absurdity, you realize that you are taking yourself too seriously. Smush that ego already. Don’t ruminate about how great you are OR about how bad you are, and go about your life’s work.
I felt some of his wisdom, his kindness, pass to me, with the injunction that I pass it on and not hoard it. Thank you, Phillip Glass.
Today is my brother’s birthday, and I am 616 miles away from him. I wanted to share some of my fondest memories of us growing up. We were a non-yelling, quiet family, so no one really talked unless it was necessary. I was an odd little girl who had trouble playing normal-kid games; I was alone a lot, because my parents and much-older brothers had work to do. I preferred finding blueberries, climbing trees, and making up stories about the fringe of woods at the edge of our four acres. (I dared not go deep into the woods).
We moved from our large-yarded house around 1987, into a “nicer” suburban house with a postage stamp yard. It was closer to the bait shop that my father had bought using pennies saved from 25 years of working at Kroger and doing taxidermy on the side. The house had two upstairs bedrooms connected with a crawl-space,which was SO COOL, and I looked forward to being connected to my brother’s room. But Russ never really lived in that room, because he was grown and gone by then.
I just wanted to tell you, Russ, thank you for listening to me and valuing my opinion, even though I was so much younger than you. I love you.
My little birdies cheep so soft that no one else can hear them. They live in a box under my dresser, and when I get them out sometimes there are four but today there are five. I am holding them so carefully so nothing can hurt them while I am checking on them. Rusty comes in and sees me sitting on the carpet by my dresser so he knows what I am doing and he grabs my hands and claps them together hard and says “ you smooshed them!” But I said “Those are the ROBOT birdies you squooshed, not the real ones!” and we laugh.
I was bouncing on Darren’s bed because it is cooler down there in his room and he isn’t home much since he got old enough to drive. But then he comes in and yells at me! But he isn’t really mad I don’t think and then Russ comes in and I scream “SHARK!” I am so excited because it WORKS ! Keith gets on the boat with me and rows the boat and PROTECTS me while Rusty swims on the carpet and makes “JAWS” sounds and I scream and I am so happy because I am scared but it is the all-fake kind of scared. Rusty don’t wanna be the shark but somebody’s gotta be him.
I picked blueberries for mama to put in the pancakes. I only ate three. The small bushes down by the playhouse had a handful of ripe ones and a bunch of purply ones. They are beautiful and tiny. You have to check them every day so the birds don’t get them. The one behind the prickly cedar had only a few ripe ones, but my favorite big bush up by the road had a bunch. I like the woods so much better than helping mama in the garden, even if she lets me play with the hosepipe. The okra and tomato plants itch me and the sun cooks me redder than dirt. The blueberry bushes like the shade and so do I.
Daddy took me fishing today. I was good at keeping quiet so the the fish wouldn’t hear us. I poked the hook through the worm’s guts all by myself. We ate Vienna Sausages out of the can and saltine crackers and drank Grapico. We fished all day and I never wanted to leave. I caught a golden perch and I was sad about how little it was but daddy told me how rare golden perches are. When we were speeding back I stuck my hand out of the boat and the water felt like a sharp edge. The wind was so fast it pulled my eyelids back and the water felt like hail and I had to curl up and put my head on daddy’s knee and I was safe then.
My brother can make anything. I got to stand in his room and watch Russ finish the tiny skeleton model, surrounded by little square bottles of shiny paint. He used that one-haired brush to paint eyes on the green snake coming out of that skeleton’s eye socket. I know I get to stay longer if I don’t say anything so I just smelled the paint and glue and listened to his Thomas Dolby tape and I love Europa and the Pirate Twins and I was so happy I felt like crying.The song is sad though and Thomas Dolby keeps saying “we’ll be the Pirate Twins again” over and over but they never are and the song ends that way.
I want a cat. Most of the books I make are about cats. I found an old one where I drew the cat marrying a DOG. Can you imagine?? In the next one the girlcat marries boycat and has a bunch of kittens. Last week I went to my friend’s house and laid down on the ground next to the kittens drinking from their mama, and she looked bored but patient and kind of sleepy, even when they pricked her soft parts with their little teeth and claws. When they were done eating, the mama cat let me touch them. They crawled all over me, and I felt their tiny claws prick my skin just enough to itch. I put my nose in their fuzzy fur and breathed their smell. I let them tangle in my hair even. It made me feel warm and sleepy like the mama cat. I want a cat but no one else in my family likes them.
There was a wild kitten on the playground but we didn’t see it until it was time to come in. Mrs. Wilkinson said I could stay out longer so I could rescue the kitten. But she let this kid Billy stay out too. We chased the kitten and got closer and then Billy got too close with his big shoe and all then all I could see was the soft, shiny pink of its skull-skin, its fur was torn off and smeared into the ground. After I threw up I couldn’t feel it anymore but I could still see it.
The deer was already hanging up by its back feet when me and mama got back from church. Daddy was about to skin it. Its eyes were cloudy, its fur kinda crumpled, its nose dried out. I thought about how different it would look once the skin was on the smooth fiberglass form, the glass eyes perfectly in place, mascara on its eyelashes, the fur combed, the nose painted a shiny black. It would be beautiful.
I wanted to write a story about what I saw but I am still shaky so I will just write in my journal so no one will see it. I was walking in the woods like usual but I went too far. I wasn’t lost exactly. There were weird soft noises, and when I looked up there were all these big dark shapes in the branches hanging like some weird fruit and they were monkeys. So many, dozens or hundreds, and they smelled like dead things. I felt really crazy because I know there are no monkeys in Georgia. I got dizzy. Monkeys??? I moved closer to them and they suddenly turned into big black buzzards with naked heads. Then I saw the pile of deer bones and flies. This is where daddy brings taxidermy leftovers. I felt a little better. But I was still smooshing down the fear that things would change into other things.
One day when I had to go to school anyway even though I was sick, I wrote a sign to pin to my shirt that said “I don’t feel good today, please do not ask me things.” Mama thought it was funny and cute and she loves me but just doesn’t get it. I just want to go to my treehouse and read. At least Rusty understands what it is like when everybody is always trying to get the answers off you. Sometimes you just don’t have the energy.
I don’t know where he got this carcass of a jeep but Russ has almost got this thing running after only a month of summer. The windows and the top are down but it still looks like a tank. The paint job will have to come later, but the Commando is almost ready to command. Russ is buried somewhere in the engine and I just got him more sweet tea and my job now is to sit sweating in the driver’s seat in case he needs me to turn something on or get something. I sit smelling the cracked old leather seats and gasoline, waiting for instructions. Then all of a sudden he is scooting me over getting in and he cranks it up for real and it is RUNNING. We drive all the way down the driveway and I can feel mama worrying by the window only a little and we turn the radio up louder than the wind and the Cars on the radio are singing “You might think I’m crazy, to hang around with you, or maybe you think I’m lucky, to have something to do” and we both sing ALL THE WORDS even louder than the Cars and the wind, going faster all the way to the end of the road to the paperbox, the wind flying in our hair.
Bored Bored Bored. I sold a fishing license to Dale Murphy and cocolas to all his loud little boys today, but I didn’t know he was anybody special until daddy told me. So I guess I am a little famous now. After Dale Murphy left the store there was hardly anybody coming in. It’s just too hot to do anything this time of year, so the fish get sleepy and go way low down in the water where it is cool. Business will pick up when deer season starts, right on my birthday of course, and daddy will be in the taxidermy shop all the time. I wanted to go over to the baitshop and talk to Russ but I had to wrap up before closing. I faced the cigarettes, candy, crackers and Spam and stuff up to the front of the shelves, then filled the drinkboxes. I was too embarrassed to touch the personal care items so I started the chore I hated most; mopping. I saved the men’s room for last, hoping it would be closing time before I got to it. Why is the men’s room so much more disgusting than the women’s?
I hate fifth grade. I like my nice new room but I liked my old room too and I don’t understand why we had to move across town when daddy retired from Kroger and bought the store. Why couldn’t we just drive the extra way instead of switching schools? I told the teacher I am supposed to be in the highest reading group. But it doesn’t matter, because my old school had a different reading book. And I know literally NO ONE… I have no friends. I miss Russ and I am trying not to be jealous of Tonya. I am listening to my little purple boombox that I saved up for, but I feel a little ashamed because I think daddy paid me for more hours than I actually worked, and when it is slow I mostly just sit there. At least when it isn’t busy I can go to the baitshop to talk to Russ. I want to show him my new cartoons today. I want to be the next Gary Larson and I hope the thinks they are funny. Ugh, this Rod Stewart song is old, why is it on? “Oh Maggie I couldn’t have tried…any more…”
September 19, 1988
My friends came over for a sleepover and we had fun but the WEIRDEST THING EVER just happened. Holly had given me an Ouija Board! We waited until it was really late so my mom would be in bed and wouldn’t worry. Jennifer wouldn’t play. She sat there in the papasan chair, holding onto the Bible and praying for us. Thank GOD.
So anyway we were figuring out the Ouija board and me and Christy had our fingers just barely touching it not even really touching it, like the directions said. And it started moving ON ITS OWN. It started to spell out a name. It moved all by itself, seriously, and it went right to O. I swear I wasn’t touching it. But then, we could feel something cold in the room with us. It was COLD. And we all got really scared . We all were too scared to scream and it was moving towards the next letter but the AIR CONDITIONER SOUND broke the spell.
WHAT HAPPENED??? I knew we all had to be objective. So I handed out pencils and paper and made everyone write their own account of it before we talked about it. (insert original account from notebook here)
EVERYBODY WROTE THE SAME THING. We all felt the cold thing. And if it was really cold, then why did the air conditioner kick on??? That doesn’t make logical sense, right?
I am so freaked out I don’t know if I will ever sleep.
At school they are making us listen to all this news about the war stuff in Iraq and it is so boring. I just want to go home and work on my novel. I am up to 300 pages now. I guess it is weird for a 9th grader to write novels but that’s me, Weird Shalay. Yep. I have friends now at least and I try not to talk about my novel too much with them because no normal 9th graders write novels. I hoped that Russ would want to hear about it though. So after school business was pretty dead and I went over to the baitshop to talk to him while he was fixing reels and listening to the radio. Not music anymore though just a bunch of blathering about politics. The only music part was that opening part to Talking Heads “Take me to the River”. I wished they would play the rest of the song instead of just the first few seconds of it over and over.
“ It’s Rush Limbaugh, the music is perfect for him, see, it sounds like this turtle plodding along, funny and slow and reliable. He says it like it is. He makes so much sense! Everything makes so much more sense to me now.“ said my brother.
“Ok!” I said, trying to listen, but my brain just can’t take all that boring politics; I had to leave.
I gave Russ a little hug and went back into the store where I had my novel manuscript stashed under the counter.
Once in a Lifetime
By Shalay for Russ
are we comfortably numb
singing the practical song?
are you Tom Sawyer?
or a brick in the wall?
Am I a spirit in the material world,
Or am I a material girl?
We were moving in stereo
Then they blinded me with science,
and I ran
Now one of our submarines is missing.
There is radio silence on the airwaves.
You might think I am crazy
This is not a road to nowhere.
Take me to the river,
Switch off the mind and let the heart decide
Water flowing underground
Once in a lifetime
As Pharrell Williams’ infectious “Yellow Light” thrums into ebb and the theater turns the house lights on, my son looks at me and says “Hey! I exist again!”
His words exemplify the reason we need and love art in the first place. Through story, music, or any sort of art that touches us, we can live for a while in another world where we are NOT the central character, and we can learn large, important things by getting temporarily outside ourselves.
Some people, (I have been one of these people) underestimate the possibilities of a blockbuster kids’ film, accusing it of being moneymaking fluff. I have altered my view on this. I think that people can find the truths they need in almost any art, even art that has been diluted by the moneymaking apparatus. If the artists’ vision is true, the beauty of the product will shine through whatever it gets covered up with.
On that note, here are my thoughts on what is truly beautiful about the latest Minion movie.
For those who aren’t familiar with Despicable Me, its hero is the black-clad golden-hearted erstwhile criminal Gru. In the first movie, Gru steals the moon, gives it back, and learns love from three orphaned little girls. The ridiculously cute youngest, Agnes, is completely in love with unicorns. Early in Despicable Me 3, when she finds out that Gru and Lucy have lost their jobs, she voluntarily sells her belongings to help out. She actually sells her beloved stuffed unicorn, handing the money to Gru, saying cheerfully “I got two whole dollars for it!” Her innocence and purity of heart are evident in everything she does.
Enter the Unigoat. Gru and the family are in Fredonia for a yin-yang-tastic meeting with his sunny long lost twin brother Dru. In town, Agnes sees a bar marked by a unicorn sign. She goes in fearlessly, spots the taxidermed horn of a unicorn on a high dusty shelf. She asks the gruff-looking bartender about the horn. The stubbly barkeep leans close and whispers to her about a maiden pure in heart who goes to the crooked forest and waits. When she has waited long enough, unicorn will come to her, and will be hers. FOREVER.
Agnes’ love for unicorns percolates up through her little body, culminating in a glass-shattering scream of happiness.
She talks her skeptical sister Edith into going with her to the Crooked Forest, where they wait. ((Linus and his Great Pumpkin come to mind here) After waiting FOR EVER, there is a crackle in the forest, and sure enough, the unicorn appears in its appointed location.
The one-horned creature turns out to be an uncoordinated little goat with one of its horns broken off. Agnes doesn’t care. It is her unicorn, and she loves it. Edith sighs, telling herself she’ll just leave it to someone else to break the news to Agnes.
When Gru is forced to be the one to lovingly “break the news” to Agnes, she doesn’t care that her unicorn is just a goat with a broken horn. She loves the unicorn, and it is hers. Technically, uni-corn means nothing more than “one horn.” So who cares if the horn isn’t in the middle of its head? It is real to Agnes because her LOVE summoned the goat and transfigured it into a meaningful thing of beauty. That is what love does.
Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. To Agnes, the unigoat is a unicorn, worthy of all the love she lavishes on it. Why do we feel the need to take that away from her by insisting that her love is not real? The world “believe” was never supposed to mean “ know intellectually that something is proven fact”. It meant “decide what is the treasure of your heart, and point your efforts towards that”. The etymology is below; you may skim it. The gist of this word’s evolution is that it used to mean love, as a VERB. Then it meant “to hold something dear or esteem it” Then it meant ”to have confidence in”. Only in the 1500s did it start to mean “alleged fact without total proof.”
Why not let Agnes believe that her unigoat is a unicorn? Love transfigures.
belief (n.) Dictionary.com
late 12c., bileave, “confidence reposed in a person or thing; faith in a religion,” replacing Old English geleafa “belief, faith,” from West Germanic *ga-laubon “to hold dear, esteem, trust” (source also of Old Saxon gilobo, Middle Dutch gelove, Old High German giloubo, German Glaube), from *galaub-“dear, esteemed,” from intensive prefix *ga- + PIE root *leubh- “to care, desire, love.” The prefix was altered on analogy of the verb believe. The distinction of the final consonant from that of believe developed 15c.
The be-, which is not a natural prefix of nouns, was prefixed on the analogy of the vb. (where it is naturally an intensive) …. [OED]
Meaning “conviction of the truth of a proposition or alleged fact without knowledge” is by 1530s; it is also “sometimes used to include the absolute conviction or certainty which accompanies knowledge” [Century Dictionary]. From c. 1200 as “a creed, essential doctrines of a religion or church, things held to be true as a matter of religious doctrine;” the general sense of “That which is believed” is by 1714.
This is the first of my posts about how the deep meanings of words have gotten skewed and taxidermed in modern English. Stay tuned for more.
Now officially seven and two-thirds, my son can jump into the deep end. With this newfound confidence, he decided he should teach me something as I was sitting on the edge of the pool. He said “Mama, put your hands in. Can you feel the water?” I did so, and confirmed that I could feel the water. He said “No, do you FEEL it? Let me show you. When you do it like this (he glided his hand gently) , it is smooth. But when you do it like this (he spread his palm and flapped it fast) it is hard.”
I did what he showed me. He watched me until he was satisfied that I finally understood what he meant. My small Genius of Water was telling me how much easier it is to work with the elements than to force your will upon them.
My father was the best taxidermist in Troup County, Georgia. I grew up wandering in the woods, going to church, and smelling dead animals in various states of undress. And writing.
Writing is my form of taxidermy. I write in an attempt to make living, writhing ideas hold still and hold together. A friend recently lost her sister to bipolar disorder, and she quoted her sister as saying “when I am manic, everything is significant and connected in a sacred way. When I am down, nothing is meaningful or connected.” This is how I feel too. I am not bipolar, (or maybe I am?) but I am certainly some brand of non-neurotypical, and I guess this explains why so many of my favorite people are also non-neurotypical.
I am a bit skeptical of my diagnosis of ADD. A stereotypical sufferer of ADD acts without thinking. I generally think without acting, because I am paralyzed by choice. I lack normal pruning skills. Chess is impossible for me; when other people see the next logical move, I see 300 billion possible moves, and become paralyzed by indecision. Some categories that are obvious to others are invisible to me, and yet I constantly observe connections and categories that are indispensible to some and invisible to others. My viewpoint is inconstant; it sort of shifts to meet whoever is around. Growing up I beat myself up for being gullible and wishy-washy. If a person is explaining his or her viewpoint, no matter how crazy it seems, I cannot dismiss it. If it doesn’t make sense, I have to keep asking questions until I understand the place that person is standing that makes it seem sensical to him or her. This is not by choice; I am not tooting any kind of horn. I am simply unable to throw anybody’s point of view into a trash can marked unnecessary, as other people seem to have no trouble doing. As you may imagine, this makes life rather difficult at times. It also makes my perspective rather unusual.
I have maintained two facebook pages for nearly a decade. I created this situation to avoid conflict between my conservative family and my liberal friends. Regularly reading the same news items presented radically differently on my two facebook pages has shown me how large the gulf between the left and the right is perceived to be. The volume of demonizing, fearmongering click-based revenue-driven “news” I saw on the conservative page during Obama’s presidency abruptly migrated to the liberal page after November 2016, leaving mostly babies, dogs, dinners, and chirping crickets on my conservative page. Having grown up in the red, religious rural south, and having spent most of my adult life with blue academics, I know beautiful, broken, loving, imperfect, moral people in both of these worlds. The hatred slung between the two groups is eating me alive, and much of it is due to root level misunderstanding, as well as the negative caricaturing based on the most extreme examples on either side. My main hope for this blog is to illustrate how decent most humans can be if there is an environment of safety and trust for them to exist in.
I feel that the pattern of existence is as wide and limitless as the heavens, and that each person has their own small, special lens he or she uses to interpret pieces of the tapestry. I feel that we must share our lenses as much as possible so that we may see more of the big picture. Without many lenses to help us understand, the cognitive dissonances become scary and divisive. My blog is an attempt to share my lens with whoever is interested in my perspective, and an invitation to share yours.
The band Over The Rhine puts it beautifully in their song “All my favorite people are broken”;
Orphaned believers, skeptical dreamers
You can stay right here
You don’t have to go