Sleeping With the Beast – a book review

From someone I don't know, out of the blue, I was asked to write a book review.  Here it is:

For those of you who know me, you will know that I have a bumper sticker for just about everything.   The one that applies to this book reads:  “667  Neighbor of the Beast”.

I am a veterinarian.  From my earliest days, I have loved the beast.  That is why I was delighted when I saw the book Sleeping With the Beast. 

Sleeping With the Beast is not only written by Dale Ryan, but beautifully photographed by her as well.  Each page is lush with photos of her dogs, her house, her garden and glimpses of the two-leggeds with whom she shares her life.   She gives us an intimate peek into her life with the beasts.

Dale is an artist, not only with the enchanting portrayals of her dogs, but also with creating a space that blends form, function and beauty into a warm, dog-friendly home.  She shares her tips for using flooring, fabric and décor to ease life for the dog-loving homemaker.    

Dale’s love for all creatures shines through the whole book.  She does not shirk from the hard topics of canine aggression or the brutal fact of the death of a pet.   And her general comments on the care and feeding of our beloved companions are well founded and clear.   Her underlying advice is music to my ears.   For any dietary or medical questions, consult your veterinarian.

Sleeping With the Beast is a charming book and an enjoyable read.

More to do…NOW

I try to remain calm and clear these days, in the midst of the many things I am flooded with.  Still, things crop up that need immediate attention.

There are two things this month (besides work stuff) that are under a deadline.  One is this coming week.  The Leonard Peltier Defense Committee is organizing an email zap to the White House to extend clemency to Leonard.  President Obama has the power to extend clemency to Leonard Peltier, and now the time is ripe to

The event in question is explained in the 1992 film, Incident at Oglala.   It outlines how the government orchestrated the evidence against Peltier to destroy the American Indian Movement.

Here is more information on his case:

http://www.freeleonard.org/case/index.html

And here is the place to email the White House:

http://www.whitehouse.gov/contact

Or call:  202-456-1111; 202-456-1112

There is also a push to get a state initiative on the ballot to make producers label Genetically Modified Organisms in our food.

Forty-nine countries have mandatory labeling laws, including China, Australia, New Zealand, Chile, Colombia, Brazil, South Africa, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand, Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, Russia, Norway, Switzerland, Denmark, the UK, Ireland, Spain, Portugal, Greece, Croatia, Sweden and other nations in the European Union. Many have bans or other restrictions against GMO crops and foods.

The U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) does not require safety assessments and does not review all GMO products entering the market.  The developers of GMOs determine themselves whether their products are safe or "warrant analytical or toxicological tests."

The deadline for signatures is Dec. 31, 2012, and we need about 40,000 more.  So far, I have eleven.

For more info and to find where to sign:

http://www.labelitwa.org/resources

Oh, yes, there is a third issue coming right up.  The Tacoma City Council may bring up a vote on a resolution to the State calling for a constitutional amendment saying that corporations are not people.  That may happen on Tuesday, 12/11, if enough people call or email the council. 

Here is the link:

http://www.cityoftacoma.org/page.aspx?nid=54

How does it feel to be an activist?

Too Tired to Jump

OK.  So, I haven’t jumped.  Yet.

It is a cliché, of course, but the re-election of Obama has given me hope.   Hope enough not to start planning to leave the country.  But, my energy has not kept up with my hope. 

Maybe it’s the time of year.  The waning of the light, passing to solstice.  The time of pulling in and reflecting.  I barely want to leave the house if I don’t need to.  Yet I am asked to do many things.  I have been asked to take over as coordinator for the Pierce County election observers.  I have been asked to consider being PCO for the local Democrats. I have been asked to become involved in the Green Party.   The local chapter of Washington Public Campaigns is looking for a new chairperson.   Occupy Tacoma is having regular meetings now.   Via email alerts, I have been asked to go to meetings on amending the constitution, trying to stop the coal train from coming to Cherry Point and freeing Leonard Peltier.  I’ve been asked to sign petitions to stop the Keystone XL Pipeline, fix the filibuster, stop indefinite detention, stop media consolidation and save the wolves.

Just writing it all down makes me tired.

I’ll think about it tomorrow….

This Friend Speaks My Mind

Starhawk says it much better than I can.  Please read.

http://starhawksblog.org/?p=768

Post-election Blues

I awoke to the election results, and gave a heavy sigh.  Part of me really wanted to jump off the ledge.  Now, I am committed to remaining, not only on the ledge, but maybe even moving back into the sweaty, frantic, crazed room filled with people desperately trying to save the Earth.

I realize I have been holding off on doing anything or making any decisions until after the election.  Well, here it is and it is time to decide.  Now what?  What do I put my limited time and energy toward?  What is important?

There are a lot of causes out there.  There are a lot of good things that need help.  What I need to examine is what is important to me.   Why do I engage in this struggle?   Why do I continue to beat my head against the wall?  Why don’t I go sit in a tree and learn to play the flute?

When I get right down to the nitty gritty, it isn’t because I am enthralled with the Democrats.  It isn’t because I ache for the suffering masses.   It isn’t the economy.  It isn’t even for freedom, whatever that might mean.  Freedom to do something, like travel?  Freedom from something, like religious oppression?  Not really.

I suppose, deep down, my biggest motivation to change things is a love for nature.  I was an avid reader in junior high school and I remember reading about the extinction of the passenger pigeon, the great auk and the dodo.  I remember feeling a deep pain in my heart when I thought of this and how it was done at the hands of men.  Yes, I mean men.  With guns.  Women weren’t allowed to participate, even if they wanted to. 

I remember reading Silent Spring by Rachel Carson, finally understanding the concept of connectedness and what our everyday actions do in the big picture.  And now, I understand that environmental protection is a political issue.  One person or even one city or state cannot protect itself.  The extent of pollution is one thing.  The consequence of global warming is another.   To really make a difference, it will require fast and concerted efforts by all nations to lower the CO₂ in the atmosphere.  And as we have seen in Rio, Kyoto and Copenhagen, this is not an easy thing to do.   Powerful corporate interests are protecting the continued use of fossil fuels.  Corporations are the ones that back the deniers of global warming or those who say it is not caused by human activity.  It is short-term profits that take precedence over the preservation of this planet, as we know it.  And the push is always for more.  More jobs, more manufacturing, more GDP.  More, more, more.

But the truth is that the planet will survive.  It will go on for several more billion years.  It is the human race that is in peril.  And in the short–term, meaning my lifetime, there will be great changes in the way we live.  We are already seeing record-setting temperatures and massive storm systems.   I saw a cartoon many years ago that showed Saturn with the rings in the form of a physician’s loupe.  He was looking at Earth and frowning.  He said, “Well, your Ice Age has cleared up, but now you have a bad case of people.”

So, maybe we do need to clear the petri dish we call home and knock back the infestation.  Maybe feeding and sheltering people is just prolonging the inevitable.  Maybe I will go sit in that tree and play the flute.  Might be a nicer place to hang out than on the ledge.

Voting in Pierce County

I dropped my ballot off at the election center last Monday, a week ahead of the election.  In the past, I would often wait until the last minute so that I could see if there was any more information coming out about any of the candidates or issues.  This time, I knew I wouldn’t be changing my mind.

I was already on my way to the election center to observe the counting of the ballots.  Pierce County is all mail-in paper ballots.  It is really good to observe the process.  I think everyone should sign up to do this at least once.  Where does your vote go?  How do you know it is counted?  The rub is that Pierce County only recognizes two political parties, so you have to say you are a Republican or a Democrat.  Independents need not apply.

This is what you will see if you are an election observer.

Ballots are brought in, either by mail for from the drop boxes, always by teams of two.   The ballots are placed in flat boxes and the flaps are removed, revealing the signature of the voter.  They are placed in the sorting machine that takes a picture of the envelope and signature.   The signatures go into a computer program to be recorded in the voter registration system.  This is how they know that my mother-in-law has voted in every election in the past 50 years.  They even have her name on a plaque in the election center.

The computerized signatures go to about a dozen signature verifiers, who sit at a computer and compare the signature on the envelope with the signature on file.   Signatures that do not match are flagged and receive a second review by a different verifier.   If a ballot is unsigned, the signature does not match, the wrong signer, a stamped signature, no signature on file or signed by Power of Attorney, then a letter is sent to that voter.  If there is no response, then an automated phone call is sent.  The voter must respond by the day prior to the certification, which is 21 days after Election Day.  This is one of the reasons to vote early. 

The sorter also separates the ballots into legislative districts.  (Quick quiz!  Does everyone know which Legislative district they are in?  Do you know your precinct number?  Who is your PCO?)  The unchallenged ballots are then sent in batches to human hands to be opened and separated from the secrecy envelope.   This step is important, since they don’t want anyone to see how a particular person voted.  Once they are separated, the person then opens the secrecy envelope and removes the ballot.  The stack of oath envelopes is zip tied together and archived.  Even the secrecy envelopes, with no distinguishing features, are zipped together and archived.  The length of time they are archived depends on if it is a Federal election.  Materials in Federal elections are archived for 22 months.  They save every scrap of evidence.

Once the ballots are in a nice pile, they are visually scanned by a human to see if there is anything that would not be read by the tabulating machine.   These are done in small batches of about 200, so that they can be easily retrieved if needed.  Any ballots with corrections, torn bits, Post-it notes, stray marks or write in candidates are sent to a reviewer to double check.  If there is something the machines can’t read, those ballots will be remade.  This is to insure voter intent.  For example, if a person circled a name rather than connecting the arrow, a new ballot would be made with the arrow drawn in at that spot.  This remake process is always done with two people in the room where the observers can watch.  A second team of two double checks the ballots to make sure they match.  About 7% of ballots need to be remade.  Any ballots that cannot be easily determined as to voter intent are sent to the canvassing board. 

Sometimes, the tabulating machine will spit out a ballot it is unable to read.  After trying once or twice more, that ballot is sent back to be remade.   They double check to make sure the number of ballots tabulated matches the number of ballots counted by humans.  Counted ballots are sealed and placed in a locked room. 

The Canvassing Board meets 21 days after the general election and consists of the County Auditor, the Prosecuting Attorney and the chair of the County Council.  They rule on questioned ballots and then certify the election.  This meeting is open to the public. 

This is what I know.  Well, I know some other stuff, but I signed a secrecy oath.

Still on the Ledge (and building a deck?)

In a moment of negligence, I answered my cell phone.  It was Organizing for America, asking if I would help them with their canvassing efforts.  I haven’t been phone banking.  I haven’t gone door to door.  I put up a yard sign and that’s about it.  So, although they didn’t push, my guilty conscience said ‘Yes’.  

Saturday morning, I got up, had my coffee, briefly thought about backing out, and then put on my good pants and went to the coffee shop where they were meeting.  There were only about five people who showed up to go canvassing.   I was relieved to know that the houses had been selected for voters who had voted sporadically democratic in the past.  At least I wouldn’t have to confront any Republicans.  I don’t like confrontation.

I elected to go out by myself.  I was given an area very close to where I live.  Maybe I would get to meet some of my neighbors.  Well, I met five of my neighbors.   Briefly.   “I’m here with Organizing for America to encourage people to vote.  Will you vote?” 

“Yes.”

“Will you support the Democrats?”

“Yes.”

“Will you mail in your ballot early?” 

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

I went to about 25 houses.  Most people weren’t home, or weren’t answering their door that Saturday morning.   A lovely Saturday morning, and a nice day for a walk.   That is, until my bladder rebelled.  You don’t want to know the details.

I went back to the coffee shop to turn in my clipboard.  One of the men there asked me if I had been at the district caucus last April.  I nodded, and we discussed which precincts we were in.  He said, “Can I put you down for PCO for your district?”  PCO is Precinct Committee Officer.

It sounds really boring, but this is something that I have been thinking about.  Thom Hartmann says we need to be PCOs because that is the position that helps to decide who will run for office.  I considered it, since I was the only one from my precinct who showed up, but discounted it, since I teach on Thursday evenings, when most meetings happen.  I said this to the man who was talking to me and he said a lot of meetings are on Saturdays. 

So, I am still considering it.  A lot depends on the outcome of the November elections.  If Romney wins, will I continue to beat my head against the wall?  If Obama wins, but doesn’t get a House and Senate majority , will I still work for the Democrats?  If McKenna gets the governorship, how will that affect what I do at a local level?

Not sure.  Still teetering on the ledge.  But the view is interesting.

Why We Need to Re-elect Barack Obama

Why We Need to Re-elect Barack Obama

…and give him a majority House and 61 Senators.

http://www.thenation.com/article/170345/re-elect-president#

Excerpt:

“Progressive opinions on Barack Obama’s first term are as conflicted as his record. These differences are a sign of a diverse and spirited left, and we welcome continued debate in our pages about the president’s record and policies. But that discussion should not obscure what is at stake in this election. A victory for Mitt Romney and Paul Ryan in November would validate the reactionary extremists who have captured the Republican Party. It would represent the triumph of social Darwinism, the religious right, corporate power and the big money donors who thrive in a new Gilded Age of inequality. It would strike a devastating blow to progressive values and movements, locking us in rear-guard actions on a range of issues—from the rights of women, minorities, immigrants and LGBT people to the preservation of social insurance programs and a progressive tax structure. Inside the Democratic Party, Obama’s defeat would embolden the Blue Dogs and New Dems, who have greased the party’s slide to the right.

Whatever disappointments we have with Obama’s first term—and there are many—progressives have a profound interest in the popular rejection of the Romney/Ryan ticket.”

This editorial outlines the disappointments of the Obama Administration, but reiterates the real need to push back against the continued push to privatize our commons. 

In Washington State, we might have the luxury of some people not voting or voting third party.  Personally, I am not going to take that chance.  My hope is that we can get a Democratically controlled Congress.  And I mean a truly Democratically controlled Congress. That means a majority in the House and at least 61 Senators, who will listen to us.  Then, the real work begins.  Then we need to band together and push for real reforms.  My concern is that progressives have rarely banded together.  The metaphor of herding cats is a good one.  Although, from personal experience, I know that it can be done.

The recent Occupy movement has had some success and I hope it/we will continue to be on the forefront of this struggle.  But I have to admit, if the R-R duo takes the White House or Congress remains as obstructive as it is, my hopes are dimmed and I edge closer to the ledge.

To Vote or Not to Vote…

As I mentioned before in an earlier post, the question on my trip shifted from “Who will you vote for?” to “Do you vote?”  I have tried to ask this after explaining some of the other answers I got, just so people don’t feel like I am putting them on the spot or trying to change their minds.  I am just curious.

Each person is different, of course, but of those who answered ‘no’, here are some of the answers I have received.

“No, I don’t have the time”

“No, I don’t know enough”

“No, I don’t want to encourage a corrupt system”

“No, I am an anarchist”

“No, my vote doesn’t count”

“Only in local elections”

“Yes, but for a third party”

On election day, 2004, I was in Cincinnati working as a poll monitor for Election Protection.  I knew Ohio would be critical and wanted to do my bit to help people vote.  At one point, I took a break and walked around the schoolyard, where the polling place was.  As I came back, I was stopped by a police car. The officer asked me who we were and what we were doing. I explained that we were non-partisan volunteers handing out information on voting rights. Apparently, someone had called the police complain. I let the officer know that he could get more information from our legal representative, and pointed to the lawyer in our group. The officer seemed satisfied and drove away without further ado.

After that, we discovered three police cars parked around the corner in the driveway entrance to the polling place. Being a predominately black precinct, we were worried that it would be intimidating to some voters. Our legal member went to talk to them and by the time I got my camera, they were gone.

Another thing I saw was a black man, coming out of a house and shouting to someone in a nearby car.  He was yelling, “I’m voting for Bush!  I’m voting for Bush!”

The person in the car said something I couldn’t hear, but the other man shouted, “I’m not voting.  My vote doesn’t count.”

I couldn’t resist.  I went up to the chain link fence that surrounded the school and shook it for attention.  I shouted back, “Don’t you realize that voting is your right?  Remember, there are many who died for your right to vote.”  I could see the passenger of the car. He looked at me and rolled his eyes as if to say, I’m not with this nutjob.  The nutjob started in again. “My vote doesn’t count. Not in this electoral thing! Maybe for a mayor or something, but not here. My vote doesn’t count!”  He went on and on for about 5 minutes.

I couldn’t stand it. As he stopped for breath, I stepped closer to the fence and addressed him. “You know, Ohio is a critical state. Your vote does count. And remember, people died so you can vote and so I can vote.”
This made him stop.  In a quieter voice, he said, “Well, yeah”, then walked away.

None of us involved in that little exchange had the right to vote when this country was founded.  Voting qualifications were left up to the individual states.  Voting was mostly reserved for white men with property, and it wasn’t until 1913 that anyone could vote for a Senator.  Since the states called the shots on who could vote, it took Constitutional amendments for non-landed males, blacks, Native Americans, 18 year olds and women to be able to vote.   Even now, you cannot vote in some states if you are a convicted felon or homeless.  You cannot vote in federal elections if you live in Washington DC.

And now, states are trying to go back to disenfranchising some people by enacting Voter ID laws.  People who don’t drive, students who have temporary residency, or anyone who cannot access their birth certificate may not be able to vote.  So, the young, the old and the inner city residents are all targets.

So, not enough time or knowledge to vote?  Excuses.  Don’t like the system?  Vote to change it.  Think your vote doesn’t count?  Some elections are won by a dozen votes.

Not voting or even voting third party is giving up.  It is giving up on ever changing the system that we have.

Eastwind

I want to backtrack a bit and give some impressions about Eastwind.  The people at Terra Nova in Columbia MO, are ex-Eastwinders.   They left because they wanted to start their own housing on property that Eastwind had acquired.  Thus the name Terra Nova.  But the Eastwind community couldn’t come to consensus on that, so these people moved away.  They told me that Eastwind looks like paradise, but look closely.

I wasn’t sure of what to think, but I tried not to let that color my view of the community.  I got to Eastwind early afternoon.  Sabrina showed me around.  The first place she showed me was ‘Fillmore’.  This is the little room named after Millard Fillmore, who was the last president to have an outhouse.  There was the five gallon bucket, with a toilet seat (much appreciated) and the bucket of sawdust to put on top of the doings.  Sabrina had not heard of SPERMFLOW, which is the Society for the Preservation and Enhancement of the Recognition of Millard Fillmore, Last Of the Whigs.  Of course, not many people have.

You aren’t supposed to pee in the poop bucket.  The ammonia in the urine makes the stench even worse.  But Sabrina said that old ladies, like us, have dispensation to use the bucket or pee in the shower.  Peeing in the woods can be a challenge for those of us whose knees don’t work as they should.

The other room she showed me was where I would stay.  But she wasn’t sure if someone was staying there, since there was a back pack in the room.  As she showed me around, she asked different people if ‘Sunburst’ was vacant and whose back pack that might be.  No one knew.   I would just have to find out later.

There is a long walk from the office area to RB, which is the kitchen/hangout area that they call Rock Bottom.  Along the path, I met a young man and introduced myself.  I asked him, “What brought you here?” 

He answered, “My mother.”  So, he grew up here. 

“Do you think you will stay?” 

“Oh, yeah.”

I mentioned that I heard there was a lot of turnover in the population, but that things seemed to work.

“Thing work.  Not well, sometimes, but I don’t want to go into that.”

I understood.   You don’t share your dirty laundry with strangers.  Just like any family.

I heard people talking about work assignments.  I think that people sign up for what they want to do, but I’m not absolutely sure how it works.  I do know that they have a list of HTA duties.  Sabrina defined it as “Hard to Assign”.  Stuff like cleaning the Fillmore. 

RB is one of the hangout spots for folks to talk.  It has a fan overhead, so is one of the cooler places to sit.  I mostly just listened, although some folks were interested in who I was and where I came from.   That’s where the guy who had been there since the 80’s asked me to summarize Tocqueville in one sentence.   The others were all under 30, I think.  At least they all looked very young to me.  Even Sabrina seemed young to me, even though she claimed to be 50.

Some say you are only as young as you feel.  Some say you are as young as who you feel.  Well, I didn’t do that, but I did feel like I shed some years there.  That evening a resident put up a notice for a karaoke party to celebrate his return.  I don’t know where he went, but I’m glad he came back, because I do love a karaoke party.  Sabrina brought some of her homemade mead and filled up our mason jars.  It was a strange feeling of being old and young.  There were about 8 or 10 of us, with some coming and going.  To do what, I’m not sure. 

A lot of songs were from the 80s.  “I Love Rock ‘n Roll”, “Walking on Sunshine” It was odd, since I thought of them as new songs and everyone else there thought of them as oldies.  Sigh… 

However, I felt vindicated when “Born to Be Wild” came on and they handed me the microphone.  No one else knew the lyrics.  Woo Hoo!!  Return to the 60s!!

I’ll deal with my knees tomorrow.

Steppin' Out

Well, I am still on the ledge and will be until at least after the general election.  That’s in November, in case you don’t follow that.

To show my involvement, here is my latest attempt to remain engaged in the political system.

I am, however, dangling one foot off the ledge.  I am now officially a member of an intentional community.  We just purchased 19 acres of forest on the southern edge of the Olympic National Forest and are in the process of watching the land before placing any structures on it.   Not that I intend to live there. 

I think I was the only one at the communities conference who did not intend to live in an intentional community.  This drew a question from one of the men I slept with (in Aurora Group House.)  He asked ‘Why I was putting money and energy into community when I wasn’t going to live there?’  Good question.  I thought about it and came back the next night with an analogy.  I don’t have children.  I have never wanted children.  I don’t really like to be around children.  But I feel that education is vital and will give my time and energy to support it.

The same with intentional communities.  I am learning more and more about how vital these communities are to our nation and the world.  They are models of co-operation.  They bring back a lot of skills that are in danger of being lost.  I want to foster these ideals and to spread the word of their existence.  It surprises me how many people haven’t heard of intentional communities.  Or if they have, they think of hippie communes from the 60’s.  While that may apply to some, it is by no means the whole.  Intentional communities are as varied as they are in number.  Each community defines itself as intentional.  They range from the Amish to the dreadlocked ones at Eastwind.  They range from young people looking for a home to elders sharing their retirement. 

We all live in community of one sort or another.  We have places we shop, we have families we visit and we may even have neighbors that we wave to.  But to take that a step further and say, “Yes, we intend to share our time, resources, meals and/or lives” is to form an intentional community.

Am I ready?  Not yet.  But I am glad I have that freedom to choose.

Push Me Off the Ledge

I am home now, but still on the ledge.  I told the women we stayed with in Albuquerque that I had a blog called Talk Me Off The Ledge.  Later, she asked me for more information about it and referred to it as Push Me Off The Ledge.  It got me thinking.

There are two things that put me on the ledge.  To refresh, the ledge is whether I want to stay involved in politics and this toxic culture or to drop out and go tend my garden, as Candide did. 

About a year ago, I read a study, which showed that when people are confronted with facts that disprove a closely held belief, then they will cling to that belief even tighter.  This was disturbing to me, since I work with facts, examine facts and, often, will rely on facts.  What other tools do I have to convince someone? 

I teach a logic section to my students and study the fallacies that have to do with the appeal to emotions and the appeal to pity.  These appeals to emotion run rampant in the political ads, especially in an election year.   Appeals to fear, mostly, but not entirely. 

There is also a huge misuse of facts and statistics.  Again, I teach a section on statistics and use, as a reference, Huff’s How to Lie with Statistics.  A neat little book, even if it is over 50 years old.  Understand simple things like the difference between mean, median and mode can go a long way to help interpret facts that are thrown at us.

My mother had a post card that we used to laugh about.  It said, “My mind’s made up.  Don’t confuse me with facts.”  I am heartbroken and discourage to find out how true that is.  If I can’t convince people with facts, well, why not just give up?

The other thing that has nudged me toward the ledge is the Law of Unintended Consequences.  I know a lot of people who vote their conscience.  Voting for a third party helps them make a statement and register their dislike of either candidate.  The consequence is that the candidate they like least is the one to get elected.  Another example is just what The Suz talked about with ranked choice voting.  It is a mechanism to be able to vote your conscience, but the consequence of that was to have someone elected that no one really wanted because people didn’t understand that they didn’t have to mark his name at all.

So, what would be the consequence of achieving the current political aim that I have?  I am active in the Move To Amend – Tacoma affiliate.  We want to amend the Constitution to say that corporations are not people and money is not speech.  It sounds good to me.  So far, I can’t see any downside to it.  It would allow corporations to be regulated so that we can make some environmental changes as well as allow us to get corporate money out of our elections. 

But you never know, do you?  Maybe some are right when they say let it all go to hell, tear it down and start over.  You never know. 

Is it time for me to jump?  Or will I get pushed?

New Things

Since I got home, people have asked, “How was your trip?”  A fair question.  I could just say ‘fine’ and leave it there.  For those who really don’t want details, that would be OK.  But the answer I have come up with is “It was like visiting another planet.” 

There were a number of things I learned.  Some of them you may have heard of.  Some, I’m sure you haven’t.

Gritonese:  This is the language spoken by someone raised on grits.  You have to listen very hard to understand and sometimes, that doesn’t help.  Asking them to repeat it doesn’t help, either.  For example, Ananda wanted some local food in the middle of Arkansas.  So, we stopped at Craig’s BBQ.  That place was held together with plywood and duct tape.  And not new plywood, either.  The door to the kitchen had a hole burned into it.  The tables were shimmed with old newspapers that had been mopped over until they were a gray wad under the table leg.  But the place was packed.  It only had 4 tables, but still, it was jumpin’.  Lots of people there for take out  So, we ordered.  I am a real wuss when it comes to spicy food, so I always tell the waitress I can’t eat much spicy stuff.  I asked if there was something not too spicy.  She answered, “Ah lahke uh mawel.”  I wasn’t sure what a mawel was, but I figured, what they hey, so I said, “I’ll have that.”  She replied, “An’ wha’ you wan’?”  Still unsure of what she was saying or even what was on the menu, I chose something that I knew would have bones that I could identify the species it came from.  I said, “Ribs.”  It wasn’t until Ananda ordered that I figured out what was going on.  The waitress asked her,  “You wan’ uh mawel, too?”  Ananda answered, “No, I’ll have it medium.”  Ananda is much better at Gritonese than I am.

It isn’t just roadside waitresses that I have difficulty understanding.  Going through Missouri, listening to the radio, I heard a news item that said some woman was being prosecuted under the Arkansas Hot Chick Law.  OMG!  I didn’t know that was illegal.  I was worried that I might be breaking some laws, so the next time I was on the internet, I googled the Arkansas Hot Chick Law.  Whew!  It was only about passing bad checks.

Rolling Roadblock:  This is where two vehicles drive side by side and neither of them is going the speed limit.  Either one of them is trying to pass and can’t quite make it, or they are having a nice conversation with the windows down.  I ticked a motorcyclist off by doing this.  I was passing a vehicle, but not fast enough.  Even though I was going 5 mph over the speed limit, the biker passed me on the right, pulled in front of me, and pointed with his thumb to the right lane.  At first, I thought he was giving a thumbs up to my van, as many people did during this trip.  But, no.  He thought that if I wasn’t speeding, I should be poking along.  At least he gestured with his thumb and not a different digit.

Dreads:  I had heard of dreadlocks, so this wasn’t too much of a surprise.  I just hadn’t heard the shortened version, which seemed to be filled with trepedation.  Wren worked on Colin’s dreads as we traveled from Missouri to Virginia.  She would roll his loose hair between the palms of her hands, like making clay snakes.  She would take scissors and split a big mat into two or three strands.  I heard her say once “What’s this?” as she did something to his hair.  I didn’t ask what she had found in there.

BBQ Gluten:  I almost don’t want to describe this, since it brings back things I would rather not remember.  Just think of wallpaper paste in the form of a slug covered with some red stuff.

Couch-Surfing:  I knew this by the term ‘crash pad’ in the 60’s.  But now, with the internet, you go online and look up who has a place to crash in the city you want to be in.  Ananda raved about it.  I wasn’t so sure.  She talked me into couch surfing in Albuquerque, and by that time, I was just going with the flow.  We stayed the night with two lovely, intelligent women and had good food and great conversation.  They were the ones who recommended the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center.  They also had a meditation group in the tradition of Thich Nhat Hanh.  I didn’t sit with them, since I was so exhausted, I didn’t want to fall asleep and snore, as I am inclined to do.  But I did stretch out on my bed (and it wasn’t a couch), and listen to the bell and do my own form of meditation.

So, for now, couch-surfing has a thumbs up from me.

Home…and Hit the Ground Running

While I was catching up on the backload of emails, there was an invitation to a campaign BBQ for Denny Heck, candidate for Congress in the 10^th District.  As in the primary caucus, I wasn’t sure what to expect.  But I made myself presentable and dove once again into politics.

The gathering was at a private residence, so I figured there couldn’t be too many people.  I was right.  I counted about 35 in attendance and I was able to talk with Denny one-on-one.  He was excited to hear that I went to the Democratic Convention and only a bit less excited to hear about the huge numbers of people I met who will not vote.  He gave a short stump speech, focusing on the infrastructure and strengthening the middle class.  Most of the time was spent with him answering questions.  I found him to be easy to talk to and very responsive.  He will be easy for me to vote for.

What excited me even more was a chance to talk with Yoshi Wong.  She is challenging Mike Carrell for State senate in the 28^th District.  A long shot, but I like her concerns and experience with education and her stance on the rights of women.  She asked a great question about subsidies to big oil companies.  When I talked with her one-on-one, she was interested in what I do for a living.  She told me that her friends had a small dog that was ‘spoiled’.  Here was a dog that was fed all the right delicacies and carried around on a pillow, yet the dog had an ulcer.  I smiled and said that we can never know what might cause stress in a dog.  Maybe that dog was afraid of heights.

After that, she actually listened when I explained my thoughts about the parallels of canine behavior modification and politics.  There is an authoritarian model and a nurturing model.  Control through fear or guidance though love. She asked if I had a card. I said no, but I would give her my name and number, and wrote a check for her campaign.  I think she might remember me now.

Epistle from Oz

My next blog entry will be from home, sweet home.  I am so close to home, I can almost taste it.  There are a lot more things I want to write about this trip.  Should I keep it up on the blog?

As I intimated, I have developed a case of homesickness.  It started in Vegas.  When we went out walking, I had put my hair in braids to keep it out of my way.  There was a street theater person who was making a living having people take their pictures with her in her golden get-up.  She called to me, "Hey, Dorothy!"  I did a double take, then realized that I must look like I came from Kansas.

But it got me to thinking.  There's no place like home.

9-13-12 Sin City on a Shoestring

It is actually 9-14-12, but internet connection has been sketchy and I am only now able to post.  I am used to hotels providing free wifi connection.  Here, at the Flamingo, they want $13.49 per day.  So, I have been using Ananda’s 4G connection, but it keeps shutting down.  Go figure.

Ananda and I have been doing Vegas on a shoestring.  Really odd in a town that is determined to take whatever money you might have.  Our room was from a comp ticket a client of hers had and that she wasn’t going to use.  We brought some food that Ananda had bought with her food stamps.  Entertainment was walking around and looking at all the different people and, well, Vegas.

Driving in, I saw several signs that combined the sacred and the profane.  There was Kokopelli on the side of a panel truck, but rather than a flute he held two pipe wrenches.  A big billboard had the symbol of Tao, advertising a bistro.  The caption read “Always a Happy Ending”.  Nice, but the photos was of a female backside.  Lovely, yes, but with a not-so-subtle subliminal message.  Then there was the Parthenon, a symbol of Greek cultural worship, but perched high atop a skyscraper, so that it looked like a toy house.  A large (I’m talking 100’ tall) sign underneath read “Veni, Vedi, Whoopie!”

We spent the morning sitting outside the pool area in wooden chairs that rocked.  We had canned coffee and peaches and nuts from the grocery store.  We could watch the swimmers, although no one really swam.  We then walked around to some of the nearby casinos.  I liked Paris, with the Eiffel Tower rising through the throng of slot machines into a fluffy-clouded sky.  Caesars Palace had a Hindu shrine in front near one of the fountains.  The Flamingo actually had flamingos. 

We got caught by a dabchick.  For those of you that don’t know, my definition of ‘dabchick’ comes from a game of Fictionary, where you have to come up with definitions for obscure words.  Someone defined ‘dabchick’ as the woman in a store that wants to give you a dab of something.  Well, there was a dabchick at a kiosk we walked past.  She stepped in front of us and gave each of us a packet of face cream and started talking.  Ananda, social butterfly that she is, answered back and the next thing I know, this woman is putting some goo on my face.  She asked me what I used on my face and I paused.  “Soap and water?”  She was shocked, shocked, I tell you, that I didn‘t use any ‘product’ on my face.  Boy, did I get a lecture.  I knew that I wasn’t going to buy any of this stuff, and neither was Ananda, but the saleslady wouldn’t stop with her dabs and mirrors and wait-I-have-another-free-gift-if-you-buy-today.  Since I didn‘t have the 500 or so dollars that she wanted, I kept inching away and taking pictures of the ceiling.

Las Vegas bills itself as ‘Sin City’.  But from my point of view, it is not the sex, booze and gambling that is the sin.  People doing those things are, for the most part, having fun.  And fun is a good thing.  The sin, for me, is the waste.  Water for all the people and fountains is pumped in from Lake Mead, but it is dropping below the level of the intake pumps. It takes an enormous amount of electricity to power all the neon.  It is not a sustainable city.  But the worst waste is of people.  A lot of people begging.  One sign said, “Help me get drunk” and another “I won’t lie.  I want beer.”  Now there are beggars in every city, I know.  But the stark contrast between the passing stretch limos and surrounding glitz with these despairing people is a microcosm of our nation.

So, it occurred to me, that there are way too many Sin Cities in this country.

I haven’t pursued my quest to find out if someone is voting.  For one, I always hesitate to start a conversation with someone.  For two, people here are always going someplace or concentrating on their drink or a gambling machine.  And for three, it is LOUD.  Booming music inside and roaring traffic outside.  I left Ananda early to come to the room and just feel the quiet.  An intense desire to be home is building in me.

Was Columbus a terrorist or an illegal alien?

In Albuquerque, the Pueblo nations have built a beautiful Indian Pueblo Cultural Center.  A large, two-story circular building, with a large interior courtyard, made out of adobe, of course.   The first exhibit was on 100 Years of State and Federal Policy: The Impact on Pueblo Nations.  Large displays of the legislation enacted that moved them out of their homes onto reservations, that criminalized their spiritual traditions, including their dances and that took their children and forbade them from speaking their language.  It showed the progress on reversal of those laws and how the Pueblo have revived their traditions. 

But it brought back to me all of the injustices that Native Americans suffered from the invaders on their land.  Not only stealing the land, but systematically killing them off with smallpox infected blankets and forcing them to relocate.  It was only about a decade ago that I learned about the Trail of Tears.  I always thought the Cherokee were from the Dakotas or Oklahoma.  I was shocked when I learned that the Carolinas were their home.   This filled me with guilt for just being of the white race. 

I have always felt uncomfortable with what I felt was an intrusion on Native culture.  I never played cowboys and Indians.  I never wanted to adopt Native symbols or totems.  When I received all those Macaw feathers, I did not make a headdress, since it might co-opt some Native meaning.

I felt as if I were trespassing in this country, especially in the Southwest.  I wanted to leave.  I felt unholy.

Ananda pointed to a room down the hall.  “They’re going to be dancing.”

I was reluctant, since I didn’t want to intrude anymore that I already have.  I didn’t want to feel as though I was gawking at them.  But she disappeared into the room and so I went after her.  The leader of the program was wonderful.  He spoke about the meanings of the dances we were about to see and explained that it was not just their cultural tradition.  Their culture and their spirit are inseparable.  I sat there, listening, but still feeling out of place. The costumes and dances were nice, but even though he explained what the dances were for, I knew that I could never understand all the symbolism underlying meaning.  I was not Pueblo. 

But the best thing he talked about was what he termed “Indian industries”.  Mostly the casinos.  This has become the basis for the re-emergence of their culture.  They are gaining economic and political power.  They are a large voice in stopping the uranium mine at Mount Taylor.  They have become a major employer, with 90% of their employees non-Native.  But the thing that made me sit up and go ‘Wow’, was when he said that they were proud to share their traditions with us and that these dances were a blessing from them to us.  As he spoke, I felt truly welcomed and a wave of relief washed over me.  I felt absolution.  And now, I feel much more free to explore and participate in Native culture.  I may not get it right, but it will be with a respectful heart.

Aho!  Mitakuye oyasin!  All my relations.

Back in PDT

Got into Las Vegas after dark tonight.  A long haul from…where was I?  Tennessee was my last post.  Saturday day/night was drive, sleep, trading off driving with Ananda.  Sunday night was spent in Albuquerque, NM, which I will talk about in a separate blog article.  But now, I am back in the Pacific Time Zone and feeling much closer to home, even if I am in the crazy adult Disneyland of Vegas.  Talk about Babylon!

I figured out that to post a comment to this blog without a profile, you can use the pull down ‘select profile’ menu and click ‘anonymous’.  That could make this blog a lot more interesting.

We stopped for breakfast on Sunday morning at a small family-owned café in Santa Rosa, AZ.  It was on Route 66 and had old car pictures, jukeboxes, old 45 records hanging from the ceiling, and family pictures on the wall, including a memorial to her father who passed away on 11/27/06.  As we ate, one of the waitresses was in the parking lot, reading the van.  I went to the front to pay and she said she had been looking for a sticker form the café for me, but couldn’t find one.  We chatted a bit, something that I don’t generally do, and she told me about her father and showed me his picture.  I saw a dollar bill on the wall with PEACEWALKER written across it with a Sharpie.  I asked her about it and she said this fellow came in and gave it to her and asked for a meal.  She then said, “My father told me that if anyone ever came in hungry and couldn’t pay, that I should feed them.  They might be God.”  I left her a big tip.

Whiplash

Tonight, I am in a soft bed in a clean room with a quiet air conditioner.  I am slowly coming back to civilization, as I know it.

I have slept in the seat of my van, on my air mattress, on a plastic covered mattress, on a thin mattress on the floor, on a bunk bed and in a roach motel.  The saving grace was that in each place, I had a fan. 

We (Ananda and I) left Charlotte around noon, since I couldn’t get in to see Obama’s acceptance speech.  We drove 9 hours to Fayetteville, Tennessee, where my sister lives.  But my sister’s house is, as she put it, “way too tiny and filled with crap.”  So, I am more than happy to spend the night in a decadent, capitalist motel. 

I did not listen to the radio during the drive. I have heard enough speeches and analyses of those speeches. Ananda and I have just shared stories, which make me once again, glad that I do not have children. 

It was enlightening for me to go from a world of intentional communities, where few people are engage in the political system, to the hot bed of partisan politics.  I think I got psychic whiplash.  I went from talking with people who want a whole new operating system of government, or no government, or don’t care about government, to listening to slick speeches, designed to move us to vote.  And they were good speeches.  As I mentioned, Julian Castro gave a moving story of his family, struggling to become educated in this country.  My first thought was, ‘What a slick politician.”  Then, as he continued, I felt the emotion of pride in this country that could allow his grandmother and mother to educate him and his brother to this level of national prominence.  I know he will be one to watch, but I somehow think it will be very difficult for anyone over the age of 20 to accept “President Castro”. 

The bottom line for me, is that I will vote.  And I will encourage others to vote.  And as much as I admire Jill Stein, I will encourage progressives not to vote for her.  We live in a 2 party system.  Until we can get public financing of campaigns and/or ranked choice voting, a vote for the Greens is a vote for Romney.  Of course, on the other side of the coin, a vote for Ron Paul is a vote for Obama.

Does it make a difference?  Maybe not.  But where the real difference will be is in the House and Senate races.  These are the people who represent us.  These are the people who we have half a chance to influence.  These are people I have actually seen in person.  This is where our potential power lies.

And right now, my power lies in that welcoming, cushy, soft, cool bed.

Dancing with the Weather Goddess

Back from another day at the Convention Center.  This time, I was an information booth rather than a sign post.  A step up!  And I felt that I actually helped people find their way…to the restroom.

I began today with a visit to Occupy Charlotte.  Pretty peaceful.  Talked with a few people, some mellow, some angry.  Actually, one guy was angry at some of the occupiers.  Personal space issues, I believe.

I have been talking with a lot of people here.  Some are other volunteers and some are just people on the street.  I had my first experience with using a cell phone to check my email.  Now I know I don’t want an iPhone.  Those letters and spaces are way too small for me to target accurately. 

I have stopped a two different people on the street, saying “I like your shirt” and “I like your button.”  It turns out that they were selling them.  So, I added them to my souvenirs.

Masses of people here, kind of like a more low-key Mardi Gras.  No street drinking, but feeling like a fish swimming upstream.  A few oases with fountains, statues and saxophone players.  Ahhhh....

The Weather Goddess has, up to now, looked kindly on me.  I missed the intense heat, but got enough of a taste to appreciate my home climate.  I experienced two thunderstorms, one at Twin Oaks when I really needed it.  I was on a tour of the seed-saving fields when a sudden thunderstorm caught us.  Everyone went rushing to the vans to escape the downpour.  Everyone but me.  I stood in the middle of the field, arms outstretched like Julie Andrews on a mountaintop, face to the sky, blessing every cooling drop.  The other thunderstorm was yesterday afternoon during my shift in the convention center.  I could see the lightening and hear the thunder, all while remaining dry and pointing the soggy delegates the way to the shuttle. 

Now, I’m not sure if this is the doing of the Weather Goddess, or some fearful humans, but the place for Obama’s speech tomorrow was changed due to a fearful weather report.  It was changed from the open air Bank of America Stadium to the indoor Time Warner Cable Arena which decreased the amount of seats by 50,000.  This means that none of the volunteers get to use their tickets to the event.  Which includes me.  Disappointing, yes, but the trip has been so worthwhile anyway, I can live with it.  I am already casting my eyes westward with desire.

I briefly mentioned Ananda earlier.  I met her on the phone on my way to the communities conference.  She was giving me directions on how to get there when I mentioned that I was from Washington.  Just so happens that she is traveling and wants to go west.  So, here we are in Charlotte, packing up for the journey home.

Her blog is  http://anandaelyce.blogspot.com/